illustration: tintagel.] a west country pilgrimage by eden phillpotts author of "dance of the months," "a shadow passes," etc. _illustrated by a. t. benthall_ london leonard parsons portugal street _first published, may 1920_ _leonard parsons, ltd._ contents hayes barton the sad heath dawlish warren the old grey house berry pomeroy berry head the quarry and the bridge bagtor okehampton castle the gorge the glen a devon cross coombe old delabole tintagel a cornish cross hayes barton [illustration: hayes barton.] east of exe river and south of those rolling heaths crowned by the encampment of woodberry, there lies a green valley surrounded by forest and hill. beyond it rise great bluffs that break in precipices upon the sea. they are dimmed to sky colour by a gentle wind from the east, for eurus, however fierce his message, sweeps a fair garment about him. out of the blue mists that hide distance the definition brightens and lesser hills range themselves, their knolls dark with pine, their bosoms rounded under forest of golden green oak and beech; while beneath them a mosaic of meadow and tilth spreads in pure sunshine. one field is brushed with crimson clover; another with dull red of sorrel through the green meadow grass; another shines daisy-clad and drops to the green of wheat. some crofts glow with the good red earth of devon, and no growing things sprout as yet upon them; but they hold seed of roots and their hidden wealth will soon answer the rain. in the heart of the vale a brook twinkles and buttercups lie in pools of gold, where lambs are playing together. elms set bossy signets on the land and throng the hedgerows, their round tops full of sunshine; under them the hawthorns sparkle very white against the riot of the green. from the lifted spinneys and coverts, where bluebells fling their amethyst at the woodland edge, pheasants are croaking, and silver-bright against the blue aloft, wheel gulls, to link the lush valley with the invisible and not far distant sea. they cry and musically mew from their high place; and beneath them the cuckoo answers. nestling now upon the very heart of this wide vale a homestead lies, where the fields make a dimple and the burn comes flashing. byres and granaries light gracious colour here, for their slate roofs are mellow with lichen of red gold, and they stand as a bright knot round which the valley opens and blossoms with many-coloured petals. the very buttercups shine pale by contrast, and the apple-blooth, its blushes hidden from this distance, masses in pure, cold grey beneath the glow of these great roofs. cob walls stretch from the outbuildings, and their summits are protected against weather by a little penthouse of thatch. in their arms the walls hold a garden of many flowers, rich in promise of small fruits. gooseberries and raspberries flourish amid old gnarled apple trees; there are strawberries, too, and the borders are bright with may tulips and peonies. stocks and wallflowers blow flagrant by the pathway, murmured over by honey bees; while where the farmhouse itself stands, deep of eave under old thatch, twin yew trees make a dark splash on either side of the entrance, and a wistaria showers its mauve ringlets upon the grey and ancient front. the dormer windows are all open, and there is a glimpse of a cool darkness through the open door. within the solid walls of this dwelling neither sunshine nor cold can penetrate, and hayes barton is warm in winter, in summer cool. the house is shaped in the form of a great e, and it has been patched and tinkered through the centuries; but still stands, complete and sturdy in harmony of design, with unspoiled dignity from a far past. only the colours round about it change with the painting of the seasons, for the forms of hill and valley, the modelling of the roof-tree, the walls and the great square pond outside the walls, change not. enter, and above the dwelling-rooms you shall find a chamber with wagon roof and window facing south. it is, on tradition meet to be credited, the birthplace of walter ralegh. proof rests with sir walter's own assertion, and at one time the manor house of fardel, under dartmoor, claimed the honour; but ralegh himself declares that he was born at hayes, and speaks of his "natural disposition to the place" for that reason. he desired, indeed, to purchase his childhood's home and make his devonshire seat there; but this never happened, though the old, three-gabled, tudor dwelling has passed through many hands and many notable families. "probably no conceivable growth of democracy," says a writer on ralegh's genealogy, "will make the extraction of a famous man other than a point of general interest." ralegh's family, at least, won more lustre from him than he from them, though his mother, of the race of the champernownes, was a mother of heroes indeed. by her first marriage she had borne sir walter's great half-brother, humphrey gilbert; and when otho gilbert passed, the widow wedded walter ralegh, and gave birth to another prodigy. the family of the raleghs must have been a large and scattered one; but our western historian, prince, stoutly declares that sir walter was descended from an ancient and noble folk, "and could have produced a much fairer pedigree than some of those who traduc'd him." the tale of his manifold labours has been inadequately told, though fame will blow her trumpet above his grave for ever; but among the lesser histories prince's brief chronicle is delightful reading, and we may quote a passage or two for the pleasure of those who pursue this note. "a new country was discovered by him in 1584," says the historian, "called in honour of the queen, virginia: a country that hath been since of no inconsiderable profit to our nation, it being so agreeable to our english bodies, so profitable to the exchequer, and so fruitful in itself; an acre there yielding over forty bushels of corn; and, which is more strange, there being three harvests in a year: for their corn is sow'd, ripe and cut down in little more than two months." i fear virginia to-day will not corroborate these agricultural wonders. we may quote again, for prince, on sir walter's distinction, is instructive at this moment:-"for this and other beneficial expeditions and designs, her majesty was pleased to confer on him the honour of knighthood; which in her reign was more esteemed; the queen keeping the temple of honour close shut, and never open'd but to vertue and desert." well may democracy call for the destruction of that temple when contemplating those that are permitted entrance to-day. then vanished elizabeth, and a coward king took her place. "fourteen years sir walter spent in the tower, of whom prince henry would say that no king but his father would keep such a bird in a cage." but freedom followed, and the scholar turned into the soldier again. ultimately spain had her way with her scourge and terror. james ministered to her revenge, and ralegh perished; "the only man left alive, of note, that had helped to beat the spaniards in the year 1588." the favour of the axe was his last, and being asked which way he would dispose himself upon the block, he answered, "so the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lieth." "authors," adds old prince, "are perplexed under what topick to place him, whether of statesman, seaman, soldier, chymist, or chronologer; for in all these he did excel. he could make everything he read or heard his own, and his own he would easily improve to the greatest advantage. he seemed to be born to that only which he went about, so dextrous was he in all his undertakings, in court, camp, by sea, by land, with sword, with pen. and no wonder, for he slept but five hours; four he spent in reading and mastering the best authors; two in a select conversation and an inquisitive discourse; the rest in business." we may say of him that not only did he write _the history of the world_, but helped to make it; we may hold of all devon's mighty sons, this man the mightiest. fair works have been inspired by his existence, but one ever regrets that gibbon, who designed a life of ralegh, was called to relinquish the idea before the immensity of his greater theme. in the western meadow without the boundary of hayes barton there lies a great pool, where a cup has been hollowed to hold the brook. here, under oak trees, one may sit, mark a clean reflection of the farmhouse upon the water, and regard the window of the birth chamber opening on the western gable of the homestead. thence the august infant's eyes first drew light, his lungs, the air. he has told us that dear to memory was that snug nook, and many times, while he wandered the world and wrote his name upon the golden scroll, we may guess that the hero turned his thought to these happy valleys and, in the mind, mirrored this haunt of peace. the sad heath [illustration: the sad heath.] through the sad heath white roads wandered, trickling hither and thither helplessly. there was no set purpose in them; they meandered up the great hill and sometimes ran together to support each other. then, fortified by the contact, they climbed on across the dusky upland, where it rolled and fell and lifted steadily to the crown of the land: a flat-headed clump of beech and oak with a fosse round about it. only the roads twisting through this waste and a pool or two scattered upon it brought any light to earth; but there were flowers also, for the whins dragged a spatter of dull gold through the sere and a blackthorn hedge shivered cold and white, where fallow crept to the edge of the moors. for the rest, from the sad-coloured sky to the sentinel pines that rose in little detached clusters on every side, all was restrained and almost melancholy. the pines specially distinguished this rolling heath. they lifted their darkness in clumps, ascending to the hill-tops, spattered every acre of the land, and sprang as infant plants under the foot of the wanderer. scarcely a hundred yards lacked them; and they ranged from the least seedling to full-grown trees that rose together and thrust with dim red branch and bough through their own darkness. there was no wind on the heath, and few signs of spring. she had passed, as it seemed, lighted the furzes, waked a thousand catkins on the dwarf sallows in the bogs, and then departed elsewhere. one felt that the deserted heath desired her return and regarded its obstinate winter robes with impatience. it was an uplifted place, and seemed to shoulder darkly out of the milder, mellower world beneath. far below, an estuary shone through the valley welter and ran a streak of dull silver from south to north; while easterly rose up the grey horizons of the sea. in the murk of that silent hour, a spirit of thirst seemed to animate the heather and the marshes that oozed out beneath. the secret impressed upon my conscious intelligence was one of suspense, a watchful and alert attitude--an emotion shared by the trees and the thickets, the heath and the hills. it ascended higher and higher to the frowning crest of the land, where round woods made a crown for the wilderness and marked castramentations of old time. so unchanging appeared this place that little imagination was needed to bring back the past and revive a vanished century when the legions flashed where now the great trees frowned and a hive of men, loosed from a hundred galleys, swarmed hither to dig the ditches and pile these venerable earthworks for a stronghold. thus the place lay in the lap of that tenebrous hour and waited for the warm rain to loose its fountains of sap and brush the loneliness with waking and welcoming green. it endured and hoped and seemed to turn blind eyes from the pond and bog upward to question the gathering clouds. nigh me, a persistent and inquiring thrush clamoured from a pine. i could see his amber, speckled bosom shaking with his song. "why did he do it? why did he do it? why did he?" he had asked the question a thousand times; and then a dark bird, that flapped high and heavy through the grey air, answered him. "god knows! god knows!" croaked the carrion crow. dawlish warren [illustration: dawlish warren.] there is a spit of land that runs across the estuary of the exe, and as the centuries pass, the sea plays pranks with it. a few hundred years ago the tideway opened to the west, not far from the red cliffs that tower there, and then exmouth and the warren were one; but now it is at exmouth that the long sands are separated from the shore and, past that little port, the ships go up the river, while the eastern end of the warren joins the mainland. so it has stood within man's memory; but now, as though tired of this arrangement, wind and sea are modifying the place again, for the one has found a new path in the midst, and the other has blown at the sand dunes until their heads are reduced by many feet from their old altitude. these sands are many-coloured, for over the yellow staple prevails a delicate and changing harmony of various tones, now rose, now blue, as though a million minute shining particles were reflecting the light of the sky and bringing it to earth on their tiny surfaces. but in truth these tender shades show where the sand is weathered, for if we walk upon it and break the thin crust created by the last rain, the dream tints depart, and a brighter corn colour breaks through. coarse mat-grass binds the dunes and helps to hold them together against the forces of wind and water; but their tendency is to decrease. perhaps observation would prove that their masses shift and vanish more quickly than we guess, for the sand is the sea's toy, and she makes and unmakes her castles at will. as a lad, i very well remember the silvery hills towering to little mountains above my head; and again i can hear the gentle tinkle of the sand for ever rustling about me where i basked like a lizard in some sun-baked nook. i remember the horrent couch grass that waved its ragged tresses above me, and how i told myself that the range of the sand dunes were great lions with bristling manes marching along to exmouth. presently they would swim across to the shore and eat up everybody, as soon as they had landed and shaken themselves. and the mud-flats i loved well also, where the sea-lavender spread its purple on sound land above the network of mud. i flushed summer snipe there and often lay motionless to watch sea-birds fishing. many wild flowers flourished and the glass-wort made the flats as red as blood in autumn. it was a dreamland of wonders for me, and now i was seeking mermaids' purses in the tide-fringe and sorrowing to find them empty; now i was after treasure-trove flung overboard from pirate ships, now hunting for the secret hiding-places of buccaneers in the dunes. the ships go by still; but not the ships i knew; the flowers still sparkle in the hollows and brakes; but their wonder has waned a little. no more shall i weave the soldanella and sea-rocket and grey-green wheat grass into crowns for the sea-nymphs to find when they come up from the waves in the moonlight. it is a place of sweet air and wonderful sunshine. on a sunny day, with the sand ablaze against the blue sky, one might think oneself in some desert region of the east; but then green spaces, scarlet flags and a warning "fore!" tell a different story. for golfers have found the warren now. where once i roamed with only the gulls above and rabbits below for company, and for music the sigh of the wind in the bents and the song of the sea, half a hundred little houses have sprung up, and bungalows, red and white and green, throng the warren. at hand is a railway-station, whence hundreds descend to take their pleasure, while easterly this once peaceful region is most populous and the exmouth boats cross the estuary and land their passengers. one does not grudge the joy of the place to townsfolk or golfers; one only remembers the old haunt of peace, now peaceful no more, the old beauties that have vanished under the little dwellings and little flagstaffs, the former fine distinction that has departed. dawlish warren now gives pleasure to hundreds, where once only the dreamer or sportsman wandered through its mazes; and that is well; but we of the old brigade, who remember its far-flung loneliness, its rare wild flowers, its unique contours, its isolation and peculiar charm, may be forgiven if we forget the twentieth century for a season and conjure back the old time before us. topsham, in the estuary, wakens thoughts of the danes and their sword and fire, when hungar and hubba brought their viking ships up the river, destroyed the busy little port, and, pushing on, defeated st. edmond, king of the east angles. the pagans scourged this christian monarch with whips, then bound him to a tree and slew him. tho' no place was left for wounds, yet arrows did not fail. these furious wretches still let fly thicker than winter's hail. so writes the old poet quoted by risdon, who adds that the danes, cutting off st. edmond's head, "contumeliously threw it in a bush." but topsham in tudor times was a place of importance, a naval port, a mart and road for ships. thanks to weirs built across the waterway by the earls of devon, exeter began to lose its old-time trade, when the tide was wont to ascend to the city. therefore exeter fought the earls, and in the reign of henry viii. the city obtained a grant to cut a canal from topsham. thus vessels of fifteen tons burthen could ascend to the capital, and topsham sank under the blow and lost its old importance. exmouth also figures in the reign of edward i. as a naval port. in 1298 she contributed a fighting ship to the fleet, and in 1347 sent ten vessels to aid the third edward's expedition against calais. from exmouth, too, edward iv. and warwick, "the king maker," embarked for the continent. risdon also makes mention of lympston, another village in the estuary, aforetime in the lordship of the dynhams, "of which family john dynham, a valiant esquire siding with the earl of march, took the lord rivers and sir anthony his son at sandwich in their beds, when he was hurt in the leg, the 37th henry 6." the villages are worth a visit still, but exmouth is best known to those who visit dawlish warren now. for the open sea welcomes all who come hither, and the little holiday homes that stand on either side of the tidal stream are too few for those who would dwell here in july and august if they could. i have seen dawn upon the exe, and watched the mists rise upon these heron-haunted flats to meet the morning. then the villages twinkle out over the water, and a land breeze wakens the sleepy dunes, ruffles the still waters and fills the red sails of little fishers that come down to the sea. the old grey house [illustration: the old grey house.] among the ancient, fortified manors of the west country there is a pleasant ruin whose history is innocent of event, yet glorified with a noble name or two that rings down through the centuries harmoniously. you shall find compton castle where the hamlet of lower marldon straggles through a deep and fertile valley not many miles from torbay. compton's time-stained face and crown of ivy rise now above a plat of flowers. trim borders of familiar things blossom within their box-hedges before the entrance, and at this autumn hour fat dahlias, spiring hollyhocks, and rainbows of asters and pansies wind a girdle beneath the walls. it is a ruin of wide roofs and noble frontage. above its windows sinister bartizans frown grimly; the portals yawn vast and deep; only the chapel-windows open frankly upon the face of the dwelling; but above, all apertures are narrow, up to the embattled towers. in the lap of many an enfolding hill compton huddles its aged fabric, and, despite certain warlike additions, can have risen for no purpose of offence, for the land rakes it on every side; it stands at the bottom of a great green cup, whose slopes are crowned with fir and beech, whose sides now glimmer under stubble of corn, green of roots, and wealth of wide orchards, bright with the ripening harvest. close at hand men make ready the cider-presses again, and the cooper's mallet echoes among his barrels. much of the castle still stands, and the entrance hall, chapel, priest's chamber, and kitchen, with its gigantic hearth and double chimney, are almost intact. a mouldering roof of lichened slates still covers more than half of the ruin; but the banqueting hall has vanished, and many a tower and turret, under their weight of ivy, lift ragged and broken to the sky. where now jackdaws chiefly dwell and bats sidle through the naked windows at call of dusk; where wind and rain find free entrance and pellitory-of-the-wall hangs its foliage for tapestry, with toadflax and blue speedwell; where nature labours unceasing from fern-crowned battlement to mossy plinth, there dwelt of old the family of gilbert. one joan compton conveyed the manor for her partage in the second edward's reign; and of their posterity are justly remembered and revered the sons of otho gilbert, whose lady--a maiden of the champernownes--bore not only humphrey, the adventurer, who discovered gilbert's straits and founded the first british settlement of newfoundland; but also his more famous uterine brother, walter ralegh. for upon otho gilbert's passing, his dame mated with walter ralegh of fardel, and by him brought into the world the poet, statesman, soldier, courtier, explorer, and master-jewel of elizabeth's court. a noble matron surely must have been that katherine, mother of two such sons; and less only in honour to these knights were sir humphrey's brothers, of whom sir john, his senior, rendered himself acceptable to god and man by manifold charities and virtues; while adrian gilbert is declared a gentleman very eminent for his skill in mines and matters of engineering and science. within these walls tradition brings sir walter and sir humphrey together. we may reasonably see them here discussing their far-reaching projects, while still the world smiled and both basked in the sunshine of royal favour. yet, at the end of their triumphs, from our standpoint in time, we can mark, stealing along the avenue of years, the shadow, hideous in one case and violent in both, destined presently to put a period to each great life. when the little _squirrel_, a vessel of but ten tons burthen, was bearing sir humphrey upon his last voyage from newfoundland, before his vision there took shape the spectre of a mighty lion gliding over the sea, "yawning and gaping wide as he went." upon which portent there rose the storm whereby he perished. yet the knight's memory is green, and his golden anchor, with pearl at peak, badge of a sovereign's grace, is not forgot; nor his crest of a squirrel, whose living prototype still haunts the fir trees beside the castle; nor his motto, worthy of so righteous a genius and steadfast a man: "_malem mori, quam mutare_." the navigator passed to his restless resting-place in 1584; his half-brother, still busy with the colonisation of virginia, did not kneel at westminster and brush his grey hair from the path of the axe until fate had juggled with him for further four-and-thirty years. then his sword and pen were laid down; his wise head fell low; and the portion of the great: well-doing, ill report, was won. at gloaming time, when the jackdaws make an end; when the owl glides out from his tower to the trees and the beetles boom, twilight shadows begin to move and the old grey house broods, like a sentient thing, upon the past; but no unhappy spirits haunt its desolation, and the mighty dead, despite their taking off, revisit these glimpses of the moon to clasp pale hands no more. abundant life flows to the gate and circles the walls. arable land ascends the hills, and the clank of plough and cry of man to his horses will soon be heard in the stubble of the corn. the orchards flash ruddy and gold; to-morrow they will be naked and grey; and then again they will foam with flowers and roll in a white sea to the castle walls. time rings his rounds and forgets not this sequestered hollow. today, beside the entrance-gate of compton, the husbandman mounts his nag from that same "upping-stock" whence a gilbert and a ralegh leapt to horse in england's age of gold. berry pomeroy [illustration: berry pomeroy.] hither, a thousand years and more ago, rode radulphus de la pomerio, lord of the norman castle of the orchard; for william i. was generous to those who helped his conquests. radulphus, as the result of a hero's achievements at hastings, won eight-and-fifty devon lordships, and of these he chose beri, "the walled town," for his barony, or honour. forward we may imagine him pressing with his cavalcade, through the wooded hills and dales, until this limestone crag and plateau in the forest suddenly opened upon his view, and the norman eagle, judging the strength of such a position, quickly determined that here should his eyrie be built. for it was a stronghold impregnable before the days of gunpowder. so the banner with the pomeroy lion upon it was set aloft on the bluff, and soon the sleep of the woods departed to the strenuous labour of a thousand men. there is a great gap in the hill close at hand that shows whence came these time-worn stones, when a feudal multitude of workers were set upon their task. then, grim, squat and stern, with a hundred eyes from which the cross-bow's bolts might leap, arose another norman castle, its watch-towers and great ramparts wedged into the woods and beetling over the valley beneath. it sprang from the solid rock, dominated a gorge, and so stood for many hundred years, during which time the descendants of ralph exercised baronial rights and enjoyed the favour of their princes. the family, indeed, continued to prosper until 1549, but then disaster overtook them and they disappeared, disgraced. it was during this year that devon opposed the "act for reforming the church service." tooth and nail she resented the proposed changes; and among the malcontents there figured a soldier pomeroy, now head of his house, who had fought with distinction in france during the reign of henry viii. like many another military veteran since his time, he assumed an exceedingly definite attitude on matters of religion, and held tolerance a doubtful virtue where dogma was involved. him, therefore, the discontented gentlemen of the west elected their leader, and, after preliminary successes, the baron lost the day at clist heath, nigh exeter. he was captured, and only escaped with his life. he kept his head on his shoulders, but berry pomeroy became sequestrated to the crown. by purchase, the old castle now owned new masters, for the seymours followed the founders in their heritage, and the great elizabethan ruin, that lies in the midst of the norman work and towers above it, is of their creation. sir edward--a descendant of the protector--it was who, when william iii. remarked to him, "i believe you are of the family of the duke of somerset?" made instant reply, "pardon, sir; the duke of somerset is of my family." this haughty gentleman was the last of his race to dwell at berry pomeroy; but to his descendants the castle still belongs, and it can utter this unique boast: that since the conquest it has changed hands but once. the fabric of seymour's mansion was, it is said, never completed, but enough still stands to make an imposing ruin; while the earlier fragments of the original fortress, including the southern gateway, the pillared chamber above it and the north wing of the quadrangle, complete a spectacle sufficiently splendid in its habiliments of grey and green. nature had played with it and rendered it beautiful. ivy crowns every turret and shattered wall; its limbs writhe like hydras in and out of the ruined windows, and twist their fingers into the rotting mortar; while along the tattered battlements and archways, grass and wild flowers grow rankly together and many saplings of oak and ash and thorn find foothold aloft. over all the jackdaws chime and chatter, for it is their home now, and they share it with the owl and the flittermouse. seen from beyond the stew ponds in the valley below, the ruins of berry still present a noble vision piled among the tree-tops into the sky, and never can it more attract than at autumn time, when the wealth of the woods is scattered and only spruce and pine trail their green upon the grey and amber of the naked forest. then, against the low, lemon light of a clear sunset, berry's ragged crown ascends like a haunted castle in a fairy story; while beneath the evening glow, the still water casts many a crooked reflection from the overhanging branches, and the last leaves hanging on the osiers splash gold against the gloom of the banks. the hour is very still after wind and rain; twilight broods under gathering vapours, while another night gently obscures detail and renders all formless and vast as the darkness falls. the castle is swallowed up in the woods; the first owl hoots; then there is a rush overhead and a splash and scutter below, as the wild duck come down from above, and, for a little while, break the peace with their noise. their flurry on the water sets up wavelets, that catch the last of the light and run to bank with a little sigh. then all is silent and stars begin to twinkle through the network of boughs at forest edge. berry head [illustration: berry head.] upon this seaward-facing headland the great cliffs slope outward like the sides of an old "three-decker." they bulge upon the sea, and the flower-clad scales of the limestone are full of lustrous light and colour, shining radiantly upon the still tide that flows at their feet. for, on this breathless august day, the very sea is weary; not a ripple of foam marks juncture of rock and water. the cliffs are spattered with green, where scurvy-grass and samphire, thrift and stonecrop find foothold in every cleft; but the flowers are nearly gone; the rare, white rock rose which haunts these crags has shed her last petal and the little cathartic flax and centaury; the snowy dropwort, storks-bill and carline thistles have all been scorched away by days of sunshine and dewless nights. only the sea lavender still brushes the great, glaring planes of stone with cool colour, and a wild mallow lolls here and there out of a crevice. by the coastguard path holiday folk tramp with hot faces, but, save for the gulls, there is little sound or movement, for land and sea are swooning in the heavy noontide hour. the birds are everywhere--cresting the finials of the rocks, swooping over the sea, busy teaching the little grey "squabs" to use their wings and trust the air. now and then a coney thrusts his ears from a burrow, likes not the heat, and pops back again to his cool, dark parlour. brown hawks hang above the brown sward. life seems to be retreating before the pitiless sun, yet the sear, scorched grasses will be green again in a few weeks when the cisterns of the autumn rains open upon them. already tiny, blue _scilla autumnalis_ is pressing her head through the turf. islets lie off-shore, so full of light that they glow like bubbles blown of air and seem to float on the surface of the sea. their shadows fall in delicious purple on the aquamarine waters and warm hues percolate their ragged, silver faces, while the gulls cluster in myriads upon them, and, black and silent among the noisy sea-fowl, stand dusky cormorants with long necks lifted. like pale blue silk, shot and streamed over with pure light, the channel rises to the mists of the horizon. light penetrates air and water and earth, so that the weight of land and water are lifted off them and lost; indeed the scene appears to be composed of imponderable hazes and vapours merging into each other; it is wrought in planes of light--a gorgeous, unsubstantial illumination as though the clouds were come to earth. the eternal melody of the gulls pierces the picture with sound, hard and metallic, until their din and racket seem of heavier substance and reality than the mighty cliffs and sea from which it pours. yet the birds themselves, in their floatings and their wheelings, are lighter than feathers. they make the only movement save for fisher craft with tan-red sails now streaming in line round the head to sea. for the scruff they are bound--a great, sandy bottom where sole and turbot dwell ten sea-miles off-shore. inland gleam cornfields of heavy grain ripe for harvest--pale yellow of oats and golden brown of wheat, where the poppies stir with the gipsy rose; and flung up upon the cliff-edge rise lofty ramparts, ribbed with granite and bored by portholes for cannon. a modern gun a league out at sea would crumble these masonries like sponge-cake; but they were lifted in haste a hundred years ago, when england quaked at the threatened advent of "boney," whose ordnance could not have destroyed them. the great fortresses were piled by many thousands of busy hands, yet time sped quicker than the engineers, and before the forts were completed, napoleon, from the deck of the _bellerophon_ in the bay beneath, had looked his last on europe. still the unfinished work sprawls over the cliffs, and whence cannon were meant to stare, now thrust the blackberry, brier and eagle-fern through the embrasures, and stunted black-thorns and white-thorns shine green against the grey. one clambers among them to seek the gift of a patch of shade, and wonders what the first napoleon would have thought of the hydroplane purring out to sea half a mile overhead. the quarry and the bridge [illustration: the quarry and the bridge.] lastrea and athyrium, their foliage gone, cling in silky russet knobs under the granite ledges, warm the iron-grey stone with brown and agate brightness, and promise many a beauty of unfolding frond when spring shall come again. for their jewels will be unfolding presently, to soften the cleft granite with misty green and bring the vernal time to these silent cliffs. the quarry lies like a gash in the slope of the hills. to the dizzy edges of it creep heather and the bracken; beneath, upon its precipices, a stout rowan or two rises, and everywhere nature has fought and laboured to hide this wound driven so deep into her mountain-side by man. a cicatrix of moss and fern and many grasses conceal the scars of pick and gunpowder; time has weathered the harsh edges of the riven stone; the depths of the quarry are covered by pools of clear water, for it is nearly a hundred years since the place yielded its stores. one great silence is the quarry now--an amphitheatre of peace and quiet hemmed by the broken abutments of granite, and opening upon the hillside. the heather extends over wide, dun spaces to a blue distance, where evening lies dim upon the plains beneath; round about a minor music of dripping water tinkles from the sides of the quarry; a current of air brushes the pools and for a moment frets their pale surfaces; the dead rushes murmur and then are silent; here and there, along the steps and steep places flash the white scuts of the rabbits. a pebble is dislodged by one of them, and, falling to the water beneath, sets rings of light widening out upon it and raises a little sound. in the midst, casting its jagged shadow upon the water, springs a great, ancient crane from which long threads of iron still stretch round about to the cliffs. it stands stoutly yet and marks the meaning of all around it. at time of twilight it is good to be here, for then one may measure the profundity of such peace and contrast this matrix of vanished granite with the scene of its present disposal; one may drink from this cup all the mystery that fills a deserted theatre of man's work and feel that loneliness which only human ruins tell; and then one may open the eye of the mind upon another vision, and suffer the ear of imagination to throb with its full-toned roar. for hence came london bridge; the mighty masses of granite riven from this solitude span thames. away in the heath and winding onward by many a curve may yet be traced the first railroad in the west country. it started here, upon the frontier hills of dartmoor, and sank mile upon mile to the valleys beneath. but of granite were wrought the lines, and over them ran ponderous wagons. many thousand feet of stone were first cut for the railway, before those greater masses destined for london set forth upon it to their destination. like the empty quarry this deserted railway now lies silent, and the place of its passing on the hills and through the forest beneath is at peace again. from the moor the tramway drops into the woods of yarner, and here, between a heathery hillside and the fringes of the forest, the broken track may still be found, its semi-grooved lengths of granite scattered and clad in emerald moss, where once the great wheels were wont to grind it. the line passes under interlacing boughs of beeches and winds this way and that, like a grey snake, through the copper brightness of the fallen leaves; it turns and twists, dropping ever, and ceases at last at the mouth of a little canal in the valley, where barges waited of old to carry the stone to the sea. here also is stagnation now, but picturesque wrecks of the ancient boats may still be seen at teigngrace in the forgotten waterway. they lie foundered upon the canal with bulging sides and broken ribs. their shapes are outlined in grasses and flowers; sallows leap silvery from the old bulwarks and alders find foothold there; briar and kingcups flourish upon their decay; moss and ferns conceal their wounds; in summer purple spires of loosestrife man their water-logged decks, and the vole swims to and from his hidden nest therein. here came the hey tor granite, after dropping twelve hundred feet from the moor above. leaving the great wains, it was shipped upon the stover canal and despatched down the estuary of teign to teignmouth, whence larger vessels bore it away to london for its final purpose. it came to supersede that bridge of houses familiar in the old pictures, the bridge that was a street; the bridge that in its turn had taken the place of older bridges built with wood: those mediã¦val structures that perished each in turn by flood or fire. it was in 1756 that the corporation of london obtained an order to rebuild london bridge; but things must have moved slowly, for not until fifty years later was the announcement made of a new bridge to pass from bankside, southwark, to queen street, cheapside. the public was invited to invest in the enterprise, and doubtless proved willing enough to do so. the ancient structure, long a danger to the navigation of the river, vanished, and in 1825, with great pomp and ceremony, the foundation-stone of the "new london bridge" sank to its place. a recent writer in _the academy_ has given a graphic picture of the event, and described the immense significance attached to the occasion. from the earliest dawn of that june morning, london flocked to waterside and thronged each point of vantage. before noon the roofs of fishmongers' hall, of st. saviour's church, and every building that offered a glimpse of the ceremony were crowded; the river was alive with craft of all descriptions; the cofferdam for the erection of the first pier served the purpose of a private enclosure, where notable folk sat in four tiers of galleries under flags and awnings. at four o'clock, by which time the great company must have been weary of waiting, two six-pounder guns at the old swan stairs announced the approach of the civic and state authorities. the city marshal, the bargemasters, the watermen, the members of the royal society, the goldsmiths, the under-sheriffs, the lord mayor and the duke of york appeared. "his lordship, who was in full robes," so says an eye-witness of the event, "offered the chair to his royal highness, which was positively declined on his part. the mayor, therefore, seated himself; the lady mayoress, with her daughters in elegant dresses, sat near his lordship, accompanied by two fine-looking, intelligent boys, her sons; near them were the two lovely daughters of lord suffolk, and many other fashionable ladies." then followed the ceremony. coins in a cut-glass bottle were placed beneath a copper plate, and upon them descended a mighty block of dartmoor granite. "the city sword and mace were placed upon it crossways, the foundation of the new bridge was declared to be laid, the music struck up 'god save the king,' and three times three excessive cheers broke forth from the company, the guns of the honourable artillery company on the old swan wharf fired a salute, and every face wore smiles of gratulation. three cheers were afterwards given for the duke of york, three for old england, and three for the architect, mr. rennie." then did a journalist with imagination dance a hornpipe upon the foundation-stone--for england would not take its pleasure sadly on that great day--and subsequently many ladies stood upon it, and "departed with the satisfaction of being enabled to relate an achievement honourable to their feelings!" and still the noble bridge remains, though the delicate feet that rested on its foundation-stone have all tripped to the shades. the bridge remains, and its five simple spans--the central one of a hundred and fifty-two feet--make a startling contrast with the nineteen little arches and huge pedestals of the ancient structure. new london bridge is more than a thousand feet long; its width is fifty-six feet; its height, above low water, sixty feet. the central piers are twenty-four feet thick, and the voussoirs of the central arch four feet nine inches deep at the crown and nine feet at the springing. the foundations lie twenty-nine feet, six inches beneath low water; the exterior stones are all of granite; while the interior mass of the fabric came half from bramley fall and half from derbyshire. more than seven years did london bridge take a-building, and it was opened in 1831. the total costs were something under a million and a half of money--less than is needed for a modern battleship. and already, before it is one hundred years old, there comes a cry that london's heart finds this great artery too small for the stream of life that flows for ever upon it. one may hope, however, that when the necessity arrives, this notable bridge will not be spoiled, but another created hard by, if needs must, to fulfil the demands of traffic. perhaps a second tunnel may solve the problem, since metropolitan man is turning so rapidly into a mole. from quarry to bridge is a far cry, yet he who has seen both may dream sometimes among the dripping ferns, silent cliff-faces and unruffled pools, of the city's roar and riot and the ceaseless thunder of man's march from dawn till even; while there--in the full throb and hurtle of london town, swept this way and that amid the multitudes that traverse thames--it is pleasant to glimpse, through the reek and storm, the cradle of this city-stained granite, lying silent at peace in the far-away west country. bagtor [illustration: bagtor.] from the little southern salient of bagtor at dartmoor edge, there falls a slope to the "in country" beneath. thereon bagtor woods extend in many a shining plane--from wind-swept hill-crowns of beech and fir, to dingles and snug coombs in the valley bottom a thousand feet beneath. on a summer day one loiters in the dappled wood, for here is welcome shade after miles of hot sunshine on the heather above. music of water splashes pleasantly through the trees, where a streamlet falls from step to step; the last of the bluebells still linger by the way, and above them great beech-boles rise, all chequered with sun splashes. on the earth dead leaves make a russet warmth, brighter by contrast with the young green round about, and brilliant where sunlight winnows through. there, in the direct beam, flash little flies, which hang suspended upon the light like golden beads; while through the glades, young fern is spread for pleasant resting-places. pigeons murmur aloft unseen, and many a grey-bird and black-bird sing beside their hidden homes. at last the woodlands make an end, old orchards spread in a clearing, and the sun, now turning west, has left the apple trees, so that their blossom hangs cool and shaded on the boughs. behind--a background for the orchard--there rise the walls of an ancient house, weathered and worn--a mass of picturesque gables and tar-pitched roofs with red-brick chimneys ascending above them. no great dignity or style marks this dwelling. it is a thing of patches and additions. here the sun still burns radiantly, makes the roof golden, and flashes on the snow-white "fan-tails" that strut up and down upon it. great scotch firs tower to the south, and the light burns redly in their boughs against the blue sky above them. a farmhouse nestles beside the old mansion under a roof of ancient thatch, that falls low over the dawn-facing front, and makes ragged eyelashes for the little windows. the face of the farm is nearly hidden in green things, and a colour note of mauve dominates the foliage where wistaria showers. there are climbing roses too, a japanese quince, and wallflowers and columbines in the garden plot that subtends the dwelling. mossy walls enclose the garden, and beneath them spreads the farmyard--a dust-dry place to-day wherein a litter of black piglets gambol round their mother. poultry cluck and scratch everywhere, and a company of red calves cluster together in one corner. a ploughman brings in his horses. from a byre comes the purr of milk falling into a pail. on still evenings bell music trickles up to this holt of ancient peace from a church tower three miles away; for we stand in the parish of ilsington on the shoulder of dartmoor, and the home of the silver "fan-tails" is bagtor house--a spot sanctified to all book-lovers. here, a very mighty personage first saw the light and began his pilgrimage; at bagtor was john ford born, the first great decadent of english letters, the tragedian whose sombre works belong to the sunset time of the spacious days. in april of 1586 the infant john received baptism at ilsington church; while, sixteen years later, he was apprenticed to his profession and became a member of the middle temple. at eighteen john ford, who wrote out of his own desire and under an artist's compulsion only, first tempted fortune; and over his earliest effort, _fame's memorial_, a veil may be drawn; while of subsequent collaborations with webster and decker, part perished unprinted and mr. warburton's cook "used up" his comedies. probably they are no great loss, for a master with less sense of humour never lived. but _the witch of edmonton_ in swinburne's judgment embodies much of ford's best, and his greatest plays all endure. the man who wrote _the lover's melancholy_, _'tis pity she's a whore_, _the broken heart_ and _love's sacrifice_ was born in this sylvan scene and his cradle rocked to the murmur of wood doves. true he vanished early from devonshire, and though uncertain tradition declares his return, asserting that, while still in prime and vigour, he laid by his gown and pen and came back to bagtor, to end his days where he was born, and mellow his stormy heart before he died, no proof that he did so exists. his life's history has been obliterated and contemporary records of him have yet to appear. as an artist he must surely have loved horror for horror's sake, and, too often, our terror arouses not that pity to which tragedy should lift man's heart, but rather generates disgust before his extraordinary plots and the unattractive and inhuman characters which unravel them. one salutes the intellectual power of him, but merely shudders, without being enchained or uplifted by the nature of his themes. it has been well said of ford that he "abhorred vice and admired virtue; but ordinary vice or modern virtue were to him as light wine to a dram drinker.... passion must be incestuous or adulterous; grief must be something more than martyrdom, before he could make them big enough to be seen." there is a little of michaelangelo about ford--something excruciating, tortured. the tormented marble of the one is reflected in the wracked and writhing characters of the other; but whether ford felt for the sorrow of earth as the florentine; whether he shared that mightier man's fiery patriotism, enthusiasm of humanity and tragic griefs before the suffering of mankind, we know not. one picture we have of him from old time, and it offers a gloomy, aloof figure, little caring to win friendship, or court understanding from his fellows:- deep in a dump john ford was alone got, with folded arms and melancholy hat. so depicted the gloomy artist might serve for tragedy's self--arms crossed, brows drawn, eyes darkling under the broad-brimmed beaver, with the plotter's night-black cloak swept round his person. or to a vision of michaelangelo's "il penseroso" we may exalt the poet, and see him in that solemn and stately stone, finally at peace, his last word written and the finger of silence upon his gloomy lips. hazlitt finds john ford finical and fastidious. he certainly is so, and one often wonders how this mind and pen should have welcomed such appalling subjects. he plays with edged tools and too well knows the use of poisoned weapons, says hazlitt; and the criticism is just in the opinion of those who, with him, account it an artist's glory that he shall not tamper with foul and "unfair" subjects, or sink his genius to the kennel and gutter. that, however, is the old-world, vanished attitude, for artists recognise no "unfair" subjects to-day. indeed, ford can be not seldom beautiful and tender and touched to emotion of pity; but by the time of charles, the golden galaxies were gone; their forces were spent; their inspiration had perished; england, merry no more, began to shiver in the shadow of coming puritan eclipse; and that twilight seems to have cast by anticipation its penumbra about ford. there is in him little of the rollicking, superficial coarseness of the elizabethans; the stain is in web and woof. his great moments are few; he is mostly ferocious, or absurdly sentimental, and one confesses that the bulk of his best work, judged against the highest of ancient or modern tragedy, rings feebly with a note of too transparent artifice. he is moved by intellectual interest rather than creative inspiration; there is far more brain than heart in his writings. perhaps he knew it and convinced himself, while still at the noon of intelligence, that he was no creator. perhaps he abandoned art, through failure to satisfy his own ideals. at any rate it would seem that he stopped writing at a time when most men have still much to give. one would like at least to believe that he found in his birthplace the distinguished privacy he desired and an abode of physical and mental peace. he may, indeed, have come home again to devon when his work was ended; he may have passed the uncertain residue of life in seclusion with wife and family at this estate of his ancestors; his dust may lie unhonoured and unrecorded at ilsington, as herrick's amid the green graves not far distant at dean prior. it is all guesswork, and the truth of john ford's life, as of his death, may be forever hidden. one sees him a notable, silent, subtle man, prone to pessimism as a gift of heredity--a man disappointed in his achievement, soured by inner criticism and comparison with those who were greater than he. so, weary of cities and the company of wits and poets, he came back to the country, that he might heal his disappointments and soothe his pains. his life, to the unseeing eyes around him, doubtless loomed prosperous and complete; to himself, perchance, all was dust and ashes of thwarted ambition. again he roamed the woods where he had learned to walk; won to the love of nature; underwent the thousand new experiences and fancied discoveries of a townsman fresh in the country; and, through these channels, came to contentment and sunshine of mind, bright enough to pierce the night of his thoughts and sweeten the dark currents of his imagination. it may be so. okehampton castle [illustration: okehampton castle.] a high wind roared over the tree-tops and sent the leaf flying--blood-red from the cherry, russet from the oak, and yellow from the elm. rain and sunshine followed swiftly upon each other, and the storms hurtled over the forest, hissed in the river below and took fire through their falling sheets, as the november sun scattered the rear-guard of the rain and the cloud purple broke to blue. a great wind struck the larches, where they misted in fading brightness against the inner gloom of the woods, and at each buffet, their needles were scattered like golden smoke. only the ash trees had lost all their leaves, for a starry sparkle of foliage still clung to every other deciduous thing. the low light, striking upon a knoll and falling on dripping surfaces of stone and tree trunk, made a mighty flash and glitter of it, so that the trees and the scattered masonry, that ascended in crooked crags above their highest boughs, were lighted with rare colour and blazed against the cloud masses now lumbering storm-laden from the west. the mediã¦val ruin, that these woods had almost concealed in summer, now loomed amid them well defined. viewed from aloft the ground plan of the castle might be distinctly traced, and it needed no great knowledge to follow the architectural design of it. the sockets of the pillars that sprang to a groined entrance still remained, and within, to right and left of the courtyard, there towered the roofless walls of a state chamber, or banqueting hall, on the one hand, a chapel, oratory and guard-room on the other. the chapel had a piscina in the southern wall; the main hall was remarkable for its mighty chimney. without, the ruins of the kitchens were revealed, and they embraced an oven large enough to bake bread for a village. round about there gaped the foundations of other apartments, and opened deep eyelet windows in the thickness of the walls. the mass was so linked up and knit together that of old it must have presented one great congeries of chambers fortified by a circlet of masonry; but now the keep towered on a separate hillock to the south-west of the ruin, and stood alone. it faced foursquare, dominated the valley, and presented a front impregnable to all approach. this is the keep that turner drew, and set behind it a sky of mottled white and azure specially beloved by ruskin; but the wizard took large liberties with his subject, flung up his castle on a lofty scarp, and from his vantage point at stream-side beneath, suggested a nobler and a mightier ruin than in reality exists. one may suppose that steps or secret passages communicated with the keep, and that in tudor times no trees sprang to smother the little hill and obscure the views of the distant approaches--from dartmoor above and the valleys beneath. now they throng close, where oak and ash cling to the sides of the hillock and circle the stones that tower to ragged turrets in their midst. far below bright okement loops the mount with a brown girdle of foaming waters that threads the meadows; and beyond, now dark, now wanly streaked with sunshine, ascends dartmoor to her border heights of yes tor and high willhayes. westerly the land climbs again and the last fires of autumn flicker over a forest. i saw the place happily between wild storms, at a moment when the walls, warmed by a shaft of sunlight, took on most delicious colour and, chiming with the gold of the flying leaves, towered bright as a dream upon the november blue. at the conquest, baldwin de redvers received no fewer than one hundred and eighty-one manors in devon alone, for william rewarded his strong men according to their strength. we may take it, therefore, that this baldwin de redvers, or baldwin de brionys, was a powerful lieutenant to the conqueror--a man of his hands and stout enough to hold the west country for his master. from his new possessions the baron chose ochementone[1] for his perch; indeed, he may be said to have created the township. with military eye he marked a little spur of the hills that commanded the passes of the moor and the highway to cornwall and the severn sea; and there built his stronghold,--the sole castle in devon named in domesday. but of this edifice no stone now stands upon another. it has vanished into the night of time past, and its squat, square, norman keep scowls down upon the valleys no more. [1] "okehampton" is a word which has no historic or philological excuse. the present ruins belong to the perpendicular period of later centuries, and until a recent date the second castle threatened swiftly to pass after the first; but a new lease of life has lately been given to these fragments; they have been cleaned and excavated, the conquering ivy has been stripped from their walls, and a certain measure of work accomplished to weld and strengthen the crumbling masonry. thus a lengthened existence has been assured to the castle. "time, which antiquates antiquities," is challenged, and will need reinforcement of many years wherein again to lift his scaling ladders of ivy, loose his lightnings from the cloud, and marshal his fighting legions of rain and tempest, frost and snow. the gorge [illustration: the gorge.] reflection swiftly reveals the significance of a river gorge, for it is upon such a point that the interest of early man is seen to centre. the shallow, too, attracts him, though its value varies; it must ever be a doubtful thing, because the shallow depends upon the moods of a river, and a ford is not always fordable. but to the gorge no flood can reach. there the river's banks are highest, the aperture between them most trifling; there man from olden time has found the obvious place of crossing and thrown his permanent bridge to span the waterway. at a gorge is the natural point of passage, and pontifex, the bridge-builder, seeking that site, bends road to river where his work may be most easily performed, most securely founded. but while the bridge, its arch springing from the live rock, is safe enough, the waters beneath are like to be dangerous, and if a river is navigable at all, at her gorges, where the restricted volume races and deepens, do the greatest dangers lie. in italy this fact gave birth to a tutelary genius, or shadowy saint, whose special care was the raft-men of arno and other rivers. their dangerous business took these _foderatore_ amid strange hazards, and one may imagine them on semi-submerged timbers, swirling and crashing over many a rocky rapid, in the throats of the hills, where twilight homed and death was ever ready to snatch them from return to smooth waters and sunshine. so a new guardian arose to meet these perils, and the boldest navigator lifted his thoughts to heaven and commended his soul to the keeping of san gorgone. sublimity haunts these places; be they great as the grand caã±on of arizona and the mountain rifts of italy and france, or trifling as this dimple on devon's face of which i tell to-day, they reveal similar characteristics and alike challenge the mind of the intelligent being who may enter them. here, under the roof of devon, through the measures that press up to the dartmoor granite and are changed by the vanished heat thereof, a little dartmoor stream, in her age-long battle with earth, has cut a right gorge, and so rendered herself immortal. there came a region in her downward progress when she found barriers of stone uplifted between her and her goal; whereupon, without avoiding the encounter, she cast herself boldly upon the work and set out to cleave and to carve. now this glyptic business, begun long before the first palã¦olithic man trod earth, is far advanced; the river has sunk a gulley of near two hundred feet through the solid rock, and still pursues her way in the nether darkness, gnawing ceaselessly at the stone and leaving the marks of her earlier labours high up on either side of the present channel. there, written on the dark devonian rock, is a record of erosion set down ages before human eye can have marked it; for fifty feet above the present bed are clean-scooped pot-holes, round and true, left by those prehistoric waters. but the sides of the gorge are mostly broken and sloping; and upon the shelves of it dwell trees that fling their branches together with amazing intricacies of foliage in summer-time and lace-like ramage in winter. now bright sunshine flashes down the pillars of them and falls from ledge to ledge of each steep precipice; it brightens great ivy banks and illuminates a thousand ferns, that stud each little separate knoll in the great declivities, or loll from clefts and crannies to break the purple shadows with their fronds. the buckler and the shield fern leap spritely where there is most light; the polypody loves the limb of the oak; the hart's tongue haunts the coolest, darkest crevices and hides the beauty of silvery mosses and filmy ferns under cover of each crinkled leaf. and secret waters twinkle out by many a hidden channel to them, bedewing their foliage with grey moisture. on a cloudy day night never departs from the deepest caverns of this gorge, and only the foam-light reveals each polished rib and buttress. the air is full of mist from a waterfall that thunders through the darkness, and chance of season and weather seldom permit the westering sun to thrust a red-gold shaft into the gloom. but that rare moment is worth pilgrimage, for then the place awakens and a thousand magic passages of brightness pierce the gorge to reveal its secrets. in such moments shall be seen the glittering concavities, the fair pillars and arches carved by the water, and the hidden forms of delicate life that thrive upon them, dwelling in darkness and drinking of the foam. most notable is a crimson fungus that clings to the dripping precipices like a robe, so that they seem made of polished bloodstone, and hint the horror of some tragedy in these loud shouting caves. below the mass of the river, very dark under its creaming veil of foam, shouts and hastens; above, there slope upwards the cliff-masses to a mere ribbon of golden-green, high aloft where the trees admit rare flashes from the azure above them. beech and ash spring horizontally from the precipices, and great must be the bedded strength of the roots that hold their trunks hanging there. with the dark forces of the gorge dragging them downward and the sunshine drawing them triumphantly up--between gravitation and light--they poise, destruction beneath and life beckoning from above. they nourish thus above their ultimate graves, since they, too, must fall at last and join those dead tree skeletons whose bones are glimmering amid the rocks below. here light and darkness so cunningly blend that size is forgotten, as always happens before a thing inherently fine. the small gorge wrought of a little river grows great and bulks large to imagination. the soaring sides of it, the shadow-loving things beneath, the torture of the trees above, and the living water, busy as of yore in levelling its ancient bed to the sea, waken wonder at such conquest over these fire-baked rocks. the heart goes out to the river and takes pleasure to follow her from the darkness of her battle into the light again, where, flower-crowned, she emerges between green banks that shelve gently, hung with wood-rush and meadow-sweet, angelica and golden saxifrage. here through a great canopy of translucent foliage shines the noon sunlight, celebrating peace. into the river, where she spreads upon a smooth pool, and trout dart shadowy through the crystal, the brightness burns, until the stream bed sparkles with amber and agate and flashes up in sweet reflections beneath each brier and arched fern-frond bending at the brink. nor does the rivulet lack correspondence with greater streams in its human relation; she is complete in every particular, for man has found her also; and dimly seen, amid the very tree-tops, where the gorge opens, and great rocks come kissing close, an arch of stone carries his little road from hamlet to hamlet. the glen [illustration: the glen.] there is a glen above west dart whence a lesser stream after brief journeying comes down to join the river. by many reaches, broken with little falls, the waters descend upon the glen from the moor; but barriers of granite first confront them, and before the lands break up and hollow, a mass of boulders, piled in splendid disorder and crowned with willow and rowan, crosses the pathway of the torrent. therefore the little river divides and leaps and tumbles foaming over the mossy granite, or creeps beneath the boulders by invisible ways. into fingers and tresses the running waters dislimn, and then, that great obstacle passed, their hundred rillets run together again and go on their way with music. by a descent that becomes swiftly steeper, the burn falls upon fresh rocks, is led into fresh channels and broken to the right and left where mossy islets stand knee-deep in fern and bilberry. here spring up the beginnings of the wood, for the glen is full of trees. beech and alder, with scrub of dwarf willow at their feet, cluster on the islets and climb the deepening valley westward; but in the glen stand aged trees, and on the crest of the slope haggard spruce firs still fight for life and mark, in their twisted and decaying timbers and perishing boughs, the torment of the unsleeping wind. great is the contrast between these stricken ruins with death in their high tops, and the sylva beneath sheltered by the granite hill. there beech and pine are prosperous and sleek compared with the unhappy, time-foundered wights above them; but if the spruces perish, they rule. the lesser things are at their feet and the sublimity of their struggle--their mournful but magnificent protest against destiny--makes one ignore the sequestered woodland, where there is neither battle nor victory, but comfortable, ignoble shelter and repose. the river kisses the feet of these happy nonentities; they make many a stately arch and pillar along the water; in spring the pigeon and the storm-thrush nest among their branches; and they gleam with newly-opened foliage and shower their silky shards upon the earth; in autumn they fling a harvest of sweet beech mast around their feet. the seed germinates and thousands of cotyledon leaves appear like fairy umbrellas, from the waste of the dead leaves. the larger number of these seedlings perish, but some survive to take their places in fulness of time. by falls and rapids, by flashing stickles and reaches of stillness, the little river sinks to the heart of the glen; but first there is a water-meadow under the hills where an old clapper-bridge flings its rough span from side to side. this is of ancient date and has been more than once restored against the ravages of flood since pack-horses tramped that way in tudor times. here the streamlet rests awhile before plunging down the steeps beyond and entering the true glen--a place of shelving banks and many trees. in summer the dingle is a golden-green vision of tender light that filters through the beeches. here and there a sungleam, escaping the net of the leaf, wins down to fall on mossy boulder and bole, or plunge its shaft of brightness into a dark pool. then the amber beam quivers through the crystal to paint each pebble at the bottom and reveal the dim, swift shades of the trout, that dart through it from darkness back to darkness again. in autumn the freshets come and the winds awaken until a storm of foliage hurtles through the glen, now pattering with shrill whispers from above and taking the water gently; now whirling in mad myriads, swirling and eddying, driven hither and thither by storm until they bank upon some hillock, find harbour among holes and the elbows of great roots, or plunge down into the turmoil of the stream. the ways of the falling leaf are manifold, and as the rock delays the river, so the trees, with trunk and bough, arrest the flying foliage, bar its hurrying volume and deflect its tide. in winter the glen is good, for then a man may escape the north wind here and, finding some snug holt among the river rocks, mark the beauty about him while snow begins to touch the tree-tops and the boughs are sighing. then can be contrasted the purple masses of sodden leaves with the splendour of the mosses among which they lie; for now the minor vegetation gleams at this, its hour of prime. it sheets every bank in a silver-green fabric fretted with liquid jewels or ice diamonds; it builds plump knobs and cushions on the granite, and some of the mosses, now in fruit, brush their lustrous green with a wash of orange or crimson, where tiny filaments rise densely to bear the seed. here, also, dwelling among them, flourishes that treasure of such secret nooks by stream-side, the filmy fern, with transparent green vesture pressed to the moisture-laden rocks. man's handiwork is also manifested here; not only in the felled trees and the clapper-bridge, but uniquely and delightfully; for where the river quickens over a granite apron and hastens in a torrent of foam away, the rocks have tongues and speak. he who planted this grove and added beauty to a spot already beautiful, was followed by his son, who caused to be carved inscriptions on the boulders. you may trace them through the moss, or lichen, where the records, grown dim after nearly a hundred years, still stand. it was a minister of the church who amused himself after this fashion; but in no religious spirit did he compose; and the scattered poetry has a pleasant, pagan ring about it proper to this haunt of pan. upon one great rock in the open, with its grey face to the south-west and its feet deeply bedded in grass and sand, you shall with care decipher these words:- sweet poesy! fair fancy's child! thy smiles imparadise the wild. beside the boulder a willow stands, its finials budding with silver; upon the north-western face of the stone is another inscription whose legend startles a wayfarer on beholding the bulk of the huge mass. "this stone was removed by a flood 17--." on the islets and by the pathway below, sharp eyes may discover other inscribed stones, and upon one island, which the bygone poet called "the isle of mona," there still exist inscriptions in "bardic characters." these he derived from the _celtic researches_ of davies. furnished with the english letters corresponding to these symbols, one may, if sufficiently curious, translate each distich as one finds it. elsewhere, beside the glen path, a sharp-eyed, little lover of nature, tore the coat of moss from another phrase that beat us both as we hunted through the early dusk:- ye naiads! venera this was the complete passage, and we puzzled not a little to solve its meaning. on dipping into the past, however, i discovered that the inscription was intended to have read as follows:- ye naiads! venerate the swain who joined the dryads to your train. the rhyme was designed to honour the poet's father, who set the forest here; but accident must have stayed the stone-cutter's hand and left the distich incomplete. and now a sudden flash of red aloft above the tree-tops told that the sun was setting. night thickened quickly, though the lamp of a great red snow-cloud still hung above the glen long after i had left it. beneath, the mass of the beech wood took on wonderful colour and the streamlet, emerging into meadows, flashed back the last glow of the sky. a devon cross [illustration: a devon cross.] there are two orders of ancient human monuments on dartmoor--the prehistoric evidences of man's earliest occupation and the mediã¦val remains that date from tudor times, or earlier. the neolith has left his cairns and pounds and hut circles, where once his lodges clustered upon the hills. the other memorials are of a different character and chiefly mark the time of the stannators, when alluvial tin abounded and the moor supported a larger population than it does to-day. ruins of the smelting houses and the piled debris of old tin-streaming works may be seen on every hand, and the moulds into which molten tin was poured still lie in hollows and ruins half hidden by the herbage. here also, scattered irregularly, the christian symbol occurs, on wild heaths and lonely hillsides, to mark some sacred place, indicate an ancient path, or guide the wayfaring monk and friar of old on their journey by the abbot's way. of these the most notable is that venerable fragment known as siward's cross--a place of pilgrimage these many years. now, on this day of march, snow-clouds swept the desert intermittently with their grey veils and often blotted every landmark. at such times one sought the little hillocks thrown up by vanished men and hid in some hollow of the tin-streamers' digging to escape the pelt of the snow and avoid the buffet of the squall that brought it. then the sun broke up the welter of hurrying grey and for a time the wind lulled and the brief white shroud of the snow melted, save where it had banked against some obstacle. the lonely hillock where stands siward's cross, or "nun's cross," as moormen call it, lies at a point a little above the western end of fox tor mire. the land slopes gently to it and from it; the great hills roll round about. to the east a far distance opens very blue after the last snow has fallen; to the south tower the featureless ridges of cator's beam with the twin turrets of fox tor on their proper mount beneath them. the beginnings of the famous mire are at hand--a region of shattered peat-hags and morasses--where, torn to pieces, the earth gapes in ruins and a thousand watercourses riddle it. all is dark and sere at this season, for the dead grasses make the peat blacker by contrast. it is a chaos of rent and riven earth ploughed and tunnelled by bogs and waterways; while beyond this savage wilderness the planes of the hills wind round in a semicircle and hem the cradle of the great marshes below with firm ground and good "strolls" for cattle, when spring shall send them in their thousands to the grazing lands of the moor again. the sky shone blue by the time i reached the old cross and weak sunlight brightened its familiar face. the relic stands seven feet high, and now it held a vanishing patch of snow on each stumpy arm. its weathered front had made a home for flat and clinging lichens, grey as the granite for the most part, yet warming to a pale gold sometimes. once the cross was broken and thrown in two pieces on the heath; but the wall-builders spared it, for the monument had long been famous. antiquarian interest existed for the old relic, and it was mended with clamps of iron, and lifted upon a boulder to occupy again its ancient site. for many a year experts puzzled to learn the meaning of the inscriptions upon its face, and various conjectures concerning them had their day; but it was left for our first dartmoor authority, william crossing, who has said the last word on these remains, to decipher the worn inscription and indicate its significance. he finds the word "siward," or "syward," on the eastern side, and the word "boc-lond," for "buckland," on the other, set in two lines under the incised cross that distinguishes the western face of the monument. "siward's cross" is mentioned in the perambulation of 1240. "it is named," says mr. crossing, "in a deed of amicia, countess of devon, confirming the grant of certain lands for building and supporting the abbey of buckland, among which were the manors of buckland, bickleigh and walkhampton. the latter manor abuts on dartmoor forest, and the boundary line, which siward's cross marks at one of the points, is drawn from mistor to the plym. the cross, therefore, in addition to being considered a forest boundary mark, also became one to the lands of buckland abbey, and i am convinced that the letters on it which have been so variously interpreted simply represent the word 'bocland.' the name, as already stated, is engraved on the western face of the cross--the side on which the monks' possessions lay." elsewhere he observes that siward's cross, "standing as it does on the line of the abbot's way, would seem not improbably to have been set up by the monks of tavistock as a mark to point out the direction of the track across the moor; and were it not for the fact that it has been supposed to have obtained its name from siward, earl of northumberland, who, it is said, held property near this part of the moor in the confessor's reign, i should have no hesitation in believing such to be the case." no matter who first lifted it, still it stands--the largest cross on dartmoor--like a sentinel to guard the path that extended between the religious houses of plympton, buckland and tavistock. and other crosses there are beyond the mire, where an old road descended over ter hill. but the abbot's way is tramped no more, and the princes of the church, with their men-at-arms and their mules and pack-horses, have passed into forgotten time. few now but the antiquary and holiday-maker wander to siward's cross; or the fox-hunter gallops past it; or the folk, when they tramp to the heights for purple harvest of "hurts" in summer-time. the stone that won the blessings of pious men, only comforts a heifer to-day; she rubs her side against it and leaves a strand of her red hair caught in the lichens. the snow began to fall more heavily and the wind increased. therefore i turned north and left that local sanctity from olden time, well pleased to have seen it once again in the stern theatre of winter. it soon shrank to a grey smudge on the waste; then snow-wreaths whirled their arms about it and the emblem vanished. coombe [illustration: coombe.] life comes laden still with good days that whisper of romance, when in some haunt of old legend, our feet loiter for a little before we pass forward again. i indeed seek these places, and confess an incurable affection for romance in my thoughts if not my deeds. i would not banish her from art, or life; and though most artists of to-day will have none of her, spurn romantic and classic alike, and take only realism to their bosoms; yet who shall declare that realism is the last word, or that reality belongs to her drab categories alone? "there is no 'reality' for us--nor for you either, ye sober ones, and we are far from being so alien to one another as ye suppose, and perhaps our goodwill to get beyond drunkenness is just as respectable as your belief that ye are altogether _incapable_ of drunkenness." a return to romance most surely awaits literature, when our artists have digested the new conditions and discovered the magic and mystery that belong to newly created things--whether nature or her human child has made them; but for the moment, those changes that to-day build revolution, stone on stone, demand great seers to record the romantic splendour of their promise, sing justly of all that science is doing, write the epic of our widening view and show man leading the lightning chained in his latest triumph. for us, who cannot measure such visions, there remains nature--the incurable romantic--who retains her early methods, loves the sword better than the pruning-hook, and still sometimes strikes jealously at her sophisticated child, who has learned to substitute a thousand wants for the simple needs that she could gratify. at coombe, on the coast of north cornwall, there yet lies a nest of old romance, wherein move, for dream-loving folk, the shadows of an old-time tale. nature reigns unchanged in the valley and her processions and pageants keep their punctual time and place; but once a story-teller came hither, and the direct, genial art of a brave spirit found inspiration here. from this secluded theatre sprang _westward ho!_ and none denies willing tribute to him who made that book. seen on this stormy december day with a north-wester raging off the sea and the wind turning the forest music to "a hurricane of harps," coombe valley lives with music and movement. far away in the gap eastward rises a blue mound with kilkhampton church-tower perched thereon, and thence, by winding woods, the way opens to the historic mill. full of tender colour are the tree-clad hills--a robe of grey and amber and amethyst, jewelled here and there, where the last of the leaves still hang. wind-beaten oak and larch, beech and ash twine their arms together and make a great commotion where the woven texture of their boughs is swaying and bending. their yield and swing challenge the grey daylight, and it plays upon them and flings a tracery of swift brightness over the forest. the light is never still, but trembles upon the transparent woods, so that every movement of their great mass wins an answering movement from the illumination that reveals them. beneath, under the tremulous curtain and visible through its throbbing, lies the earth's bosom, all brown with fallen leaves. it swells firm and solid under restless branch and bough, and listens to the great song of the trees. sometimes a sunburst from the sky touches the woodland, and the ramage aloft sparkles like a gauze of silver over the russet and gold beneath. in the heart of the valley there runs a river, and, freed from her work, the mill-stream leaps to join it. the mill-wheel thunders, as it did when little rose salterne set stout hearts beating and dreamed dreams, wherein no sorrow homed or horror whispered. but time has not forgotten coombe mill, and, to one who may love flowers, the evidence of progress chiefly lies among them. there is a garden here and many a plant, that had not yet faced the buffets of an english winter when kingsley's heroine tended her clove-pinks and violets, now thrives contented in this little garth. beside the mill-pond, flogged by the december storm, kaffir lilies wave their crimson and the red fuchsia flourishes. a bush of golden eleagnus is happy, and a shrubby speedwell thrives beside it; honeysuckles climb to the thatch of the white-washed homestead; a rambler rose hangs out its last blossoms; and a yellow jasmine also blooms upon the wall. marigolds and lavender and blue periwinkles trail together in a bright wreath against the darkness of the water-wheel; there are stocks and michaelmas daisies, too, with the silver discs of honesty and the fading green of tamarisk. many suchlike things flourish in this cradle of low hills, for winter is a light matter here, and great cold never comes to them. they push forth and creep into the lanes and hedges; they find the water-meadows and love the shelter of the apple trees and the brink of the stream. beside the mill there towers a great ivy-tod in fruit, and rises the weathered mill-house, stoutly built to bear the strain within. once granite mill-wheels ground the corn, but now their day is over and they repose, flower crowned, in the hedges outside. the eternal splashing of water has painted a dark stain here, and ferns have found foothold. one great hart's tongue lolls fifty wet green leaves out from the gloom of the wheel-chamber. all is movement and bustle; the mill-stream races away to the river, and the river to the sea. the tree-tops bend and cry; the clouds tell of the gale overhead, now thinning to let the sunshine out, now darkening under a sudden squall and dropping a hurtle of hail. from the mill-pool to the west opened another vision of meadows with a little grey bridge in the midst of them. hither winds the stream, trout in every hover, and the brown hills rise on either side, barren and storm-beaten. then, at the mouth of the land between them, a great welter of white foam fills the gap, for the storm has beaten the sea mad, and the roar of it ascends in unbroken thunder over the meadows. behind the meeting-place of land and ocean, there roll the lashed and stricken seas, all dim and grey; and their herds are brightened with sunshine or darkened by cloud, as the wind heaves them to shore. but there is no horizon from which we can trace them. they emerge wildly out of the flying scud of cloud that presses down upon the waters. old delabole [illustration: old delabole.] where low and treeless hills roll out to the cliffs, and the gulls cry their sea message over farms and fields, a mighty mouth opens upon the midst of the land and gapes five hundred feet into the earth. in shape of a crater it yawns, and its many-coloured cliffs slope from the surface inwards. the great cup is chased and jewelled. round it run many galleries, some deserted, some alive with workers. like threads of light they circle it, now opening upon the sides of the rounded cliffs, now suspended in air under perpendicular precipices. in the midst is the quarter-mile incline that descends to the heart of the cup and connects the works above with the works below; and elsewhere are other gentle acclivities, where moraines of fallen stone ooze out in great cones beneath the cliffs. under them stand square black objects, dwarfed to the size of match-boxes, which wrestle with this huge accumulation of over-burden. steam puffs from the machines; they thrust their scoops into the fallen mass; at each dig they pick up a ton and a half of rubbish and then deposit it in a trolley that waits for the load hard by. a network of tram-lines branches every way in the bottom of the cup, and extends its fingers to the points of attack; and where they end--at smudges of silver-grey scattered about the bottom of the quarry--there creep little atoms, like mites on a cheese. centuries have bedecked and adorned the sides of this stupendous pit; and while naked sheets and planes of colour, the work of recent years, still gleam starkly, all innocent of blade and leaf, elsewhere in deserted galleries and among cliff-faces torn bare by vanished generations of men, green things have made their home and flourished with luxuriance, to the eternal drip of surface water. ferns and foxgloves and a thousand lesser plants thrive in niches and crevices of the stone; and there is a splendid passage of flame, where the mimulus has found its way by some rivulet into the quarry, and sheets a precipice with gold. by steps and scarps the sides fall, narrowing always to the bottom; but the cliff planes are huge enough for sunshine and shadow to paint wonderful pictures upon them and find the colours--the olive and blue and mossy green, or the great splashes and patches of rose and russet that make harmony there. they melt together brokenly; and sometimes they are fretted with darkness and spotted with caverns, or mottled and zigzagged by rusty percolations of iron. one noble cliff falls sheer five hundred feet to a wilderness of rock, and across its huge front there hang aerial threads, like gossamers, while at its crown black wheels and chimneys tower into the sky. below, upon the bluff of a crag, there turns a wheel, and a great pump, with intermittent jolt and grunt, sucks the water from the bottom of the quarry and sends it to tanks up aloft. this machine, with its network of arms and wheels, hangs very black on the cliff-side, and a note of black is also carried into the midst of the grey and rosy cliff-faces by little wheels that hang from the gossamers and tiny threads depending from them. they drop to the mites in the silver-grey cheese beneath, and from time to time masses and wedges of nearly two tons weight are hoisted upward and float through the air to the surface, like thistle-down. the quarry is full of noises--the clank of the pumps, the rattle of the trucks, the hiss of pneumatic and steam drills, the clink of tampers and the rumble and rattle of the great rocks dislodged by crowbars from the cliffs. men shout, too, and their voices are as the drone of little gnats; but sometimes, at the hour of blasting, an immense volume of sound is liberated, and the thunder of the explosion crashes round and round the cup and wakes a war of echoes thrown from cliff to cliff. once there were dwellings within the cup; but the needs of the quarry caused their destruction, and now but two cottages remain. the ragged cliff-edges creep towards them, and they will soon vanish, after standing for a hundred years. everywhere the precious stone, now silver-green, now silver-grey, is being dragged up the great incline, or wafted through air to the workers above; and once aloft, another army of men and boys set to work upon it and split and hack and chop and square it into usefulness. on all sides the midgets are burrowing below and wrestling with the stone above; thousands of tons leave the works weekly, and yet such is the immensity of the mass, that the sides of the quarry seem hardly changed from year to year. for more than three hundred and fifty years has man delved at old delabole. elizabethans worked its rare slate; and since their time, labouring ceaselessly, we have scratched out this stupendous hole and covered our habitations therefrom, through the length and breadth of the united kingdom. cathedrals and cottages alike send to delabole for their slates; there are extant buildings with roofs two hundred years old, that show no crack or flaw; while more ancient than the stones that cover man's home must be those that mark his grave, and delabole slates in churchyards, or on church walls, might doubtless be found dating from tudor times. five hundred men and boys are employed at old delabole, and their homes cluster in the little village without the works. their type is celtic, but many very blonde, high-coloured men labour here. all are polite, easy, and kindly; all appear to find their work interesting and take pleasure in explaining its nature to those who may be interested. the slate fills countless uses besides that of roofing, and the methods of cleaving and cutting it cannot easily be described. steam plays its part, and the masses are reduced to manageable size by steel saws which slip swiftly through them; then workmen tackle the imperishable stuff, and with chisel and mallet split the sections thinner and thinner. it comes away wonderfully true, and a mass of stone gives off flake after flake until the solid rock has turned into a pile of dark grey slates, clean and bright of cleavage and ready for the roof. green-grey or "abbey-grey" is the mass of the quarry output; but a generous production of "green" is also claimed. this fine stuff runs in certain veins, and offers a tone very beautiful and pleasant to the eye. lastly, there are the reds--jewels among slates--that shine with russet and purple. this stone is rare, and can only be quarried in small quantities. all varieties have the slightest porosity, and take their places among the most distinguished slates in the world. tintagel ragged curtains of castellated stone climb up the northern side of a promontory and stretch their worn and fretted grey across the sea and sky. they are pierced with a norman door, and beyond them there spreads a blue sea to the horizon; above it shines a summer sky, against whose blue and silver the ruin sparkles brightly. beneath, a little bay opens, and the dark cliffs about it are fringed with foam; while beyond, "by bude and bos," the grand coastline is flung out hugely, cliff on cliff and ness on ness, until hartland lies like a cloud on the sea and little lundy peeps above the waters. direct sunshine penetrates the haze from point to point, now bringing this headland out from among its neighbours, now accentuating the rocky islands, or flashing on some sea-bird's wing. shadow, too, plays its own sleight; the cliff that was sun-kissed fades and glooms, while the scarps and planes before shaded, shine out again and spread their splendour along the sea. light and darkness race over the waves also, and now the fringes of foam flash far off in the sunshine and streak the distant bases of earth; now they are no more seen, when the cloud shadows dim their whiteness and spread purple on the blue. a ewe and her lamb come through the gateway in the castle wall. they share the green slopes with me and browse along together. overhead the gulls glide and a robber gull chases a jackdaw, who carries a lump of bread or fat in his beak. the gull presses hard upon the smaller bird, and jack at last, after many a turn and twist, drops his treasure. whereupon the gull dives downward and catches it in mid-air before it has fallen a dozen yards. the flora on these crags is interesting, though of little diversity. familiar grasses there are, with plantain and sheep's sorrel, the silene and cushion pink, the pennywort and blue jasione, the lotus and eye-bright; but unsleeping winds from the west affect them as altitude dwarfs the alpines, and these things, though perfect and healthy and fair to see, are reduced to exquisite miniatures, where they nestle in the crannies of the rocks and flash their pink and white, or blue and gold, against the grey and orange lichens that wash the stones with colour and climb the ruin in the midst. in sheltered nooks the foxglove nods, but he, too, is dwarfed, yet seems to win a solid splendour of bells and intensity of tint from his environment. other castle fragments there are--scattered here and on the neighbour cliff to the east; but they are of small account--no more than the stumps of vanished ramparts and walls. even so, they stood before any word was printed concerning them, or pictures made. an ancient etching of more than two hundred years old shows that their fragments were then as now, and only doubtful tradition furnishes the historian with any data. but the castle is perched on a noble crag, whose strata of marble and slate and silver quartz slope from east to west downward until they round into sea-worn bosses and dip under the blue. the story of gigantic upheavals is written here, and the weathered rocks are cleft and serrated and full of wonderful convolutions for dawn and dusk to play upon. here more wild flowers find foothold, and the wild bird makes her home. the cliffs are crested with samphire, and the white umbels of the carrot; they are brushed with the pale lemon of anthyllis, and the starry whiteness of the campion; they are honeycombed beneath by caverns, where the sea growls on calm days and thunders in time of storm. westward of the mount, guarding the only spot where boat can land from these perilous waters, a fragment of the ruin still holds up above the little bay, within bow-shot of any adventurous bark that would brave a landing. here is all that is left of the last castle on this famous headland. of the so-called "arthurian" localities, the most interesting and richest in tradition is that of north cornwall, and at its centre lie these ancient strongholds. in addition to the castle of tintagel one finds king arthur's hall and hunting seat, his bed and his cups and saucers, his tomb and his grave. it is a long and intricate story, and none may say what fragment of reality homes behind the accumulated masses of myth and legend. with the bards of the sixth century and those that followed them we find the english beginnings of arthur and his celebration as a first-class fighting man. then it would seem he disappeared for a while, and takes no place, either in history or romance, until the ninth century. in 858, however, one nennius, a briton, made a history of the hero, some three centuries after his supposed death in 542. the "magnanimous arthur" of nennius fought against the saxons, and, amid many more noble than himself, was twelve times chosen commander of his race. the britons, we learn, conquered as often as he led them to war; and in his final and mightiest battle--that of badon hill--we are to believe that 940 of the enemy fell by arthur's hand alone--a homeric achievement, unassisted save by the watching lord. thereafter his activities ranged over other of the arthurian theatres and campaigns before he died at camlan. but alas for song! from geoffrey of monmouth to tennyson, that last prodigious battle on the camel has been the joy of poetry, and the mighty adventure between arthur and mordred has been told and retold a thousand times; yet if those warriors ever did meet, it was certainly in scotland, and not cornwall, that the encounter took place. camlan is camelon in the valley of the forth, and here a tolerably safe tradition tells that the king of the picts, with his scots and saxons, defeated the britons and slew their king. leland reported to henry vii. that "this castle hath been a marvellous strong fortress and almost _situ in loco_ inexpugnabile, especially from the dungeon that is on a great and terrabil crag environed with the se, but having a drawbridge from the residue of the castel on to it. shepe now feed within the dungeon." that arthur was begotten at tintagel we may please to believe; but that he died far from the land of his birth seems sure. as for the existing ruin, it springs from that of the castle which saw the meeting of arthur's parents, uther pendragon and the fair igraine; but the original british building has long since vanished, and the present remains, dating from the norman conquest, did not rise until six hundred years later than the hero's death. an old cornish tradition declares that arthur's mighty spirit passed into a cornish chough, and in the guise of that beautiful crow with the scarlet beak, still haunts the ruins of his birthplace. a cornish cross [illustration: a cornish cross.] kerning corn waved to the walls of the little churchyard and spread a golden foreground for the squat grey mass of the church that rose behind it. the building stood out brightly, ringed with oak and sycamore, and the turrets of the tower barely surmounted the foliage wrapped about it. rayed in summer green the trees encircled church and burying-ground with shade so dense that the sun could scarce throw a gleam upon the graves. they lay close and girdled the building with mounds of grass and slabs of slate and marble. the dripping of the trees had stained the stones and cushions of moss flourished upon them. here was the life of the hamlet written in customary records of triumphant age, failures of youth, death of children--all huddled together with that implicit pathos of dates that every churchyard holds. but more ancient than any recorded grave, more venerable than the church itself, a granite cross ascended among the tombs. centuries had weathered the stone so that every angle of its rounded head and four-sided shaft was softened. time had wrought on the granite mass, as well as man, and fingering the relic through the ages, had blurred every line of the form, set grey lichens on the little head of the christ that hung there and splashed the shaft with living russet and silver and jade-green. the old cross rose nine feet high, its simple form clothed in a harmony of colours beautiful and delicate. the arms were filled with a carved figure of primitive type and a carmine vegetation washed the rough surfaces and outlined the human shape set in its small tunic stiffly there. green moss covered the head of the cross and incised patterns decorated its sides to within a foot or two of the grass by a churchyard path from which it sprang. the design was of great distinction and i stood before one of the finest monuments in cornwall. on the north side ran a zigzag; while to the south a more elaborate key-pattern was struck into the stone--a design of triangles enfolding each other. the back held the outline of a square filled with a cross and a shut semicircle carved beneath; while upon the face, under the head which contained the figure, there occurred another square with a cross. the shaft upon this side was adorned with the outline of a tall jug, or ewer, from which sprang the conventional symbol for a lily flower. there was another detail upon the southern side which seemed to lift this aged stone back into the mists of a past still more remote, for there, just above the ground, might be read the fragment of an inscription in debased latin capitals. they were no longer decipherable save for the solitary word "filius" which was easily to be distinguished, and this fragment of an obliterated inscription spoke concerning a period earlier by centuries than the carving and decoration. indeed it indicated that the memorial was a palimpsest--a pre-christian pillar-stone transformed at a later age to its present significance. there are above three hundred old crosses still standing in cornwall, and not a few of these, dating from time beyond the roman period, originally marked the burying-places of the pagan dead. at a later period, long after their original erection, they were mutilated. but the greater number of these grand stones belong to christianity, and by their varied decorations the age of them may approximately be learned. some bear the _chi rho_ monogram, which stands for the first two letters of the greek "christos," and these belong to the seventh century; but the more numerous appear to date from that later period when the sacred figure of the christ began to be substituted in religious architecture for the symbolic lamb that always preceded it. the eastern church authorised this innovation, after a.d. 683, and pronounced that "the lamb of christ, our lord, be set up in human shape on images henceforth, instead of the lamb formerly used." the earliest type is not particularly human, however, and the little, archaic, shirted doll of byzantine pattern, which ornaments so many of these cornish crosses, has not much save archã¦ological interest to commend it. until gothic times this was the conventional pattern, and it is assumed that these early crucifixes dated from the eighth century and onward until a more naturalistic figure began to appear. scattered over the far-flung landscape of the west our cornish crosses stand; by meadow and tilth and copse, among the little hamlets of the peninsula, in lonely heaths and waste places overrun by wild growing things, they shall be found. sometimes the atlantic is their background and sometimes the waters of the channel. they were set on the roads that led to the churches, and served not only as places for prayer, but also as sign-posts on the church-ways. now many of the more splendid specimens have been rescued, as in the case of this great cross, and stand in churchyards, or under the shadow of sanctified buildings. their fragments are also scattered over the land, here set in walls, here at cross-roads, now as a gate-post, or a stepping-stone, or foot-bridge. sometimes they serve for boundary stones, and are yearly beaten; occasionally they support a sundial; not seldom the ordnance surveyors have outraged them with bench marks. often only the stunted head and limbs of the wheel-crosses remain, their shafts vanished forever; still more frequently the cross-bases or pedestals alone have been chronicled and the stones that surmounted them exist no longer. none can say how numerous they were of old time; and it may happen, while many have been destroyed past recovery or restoration, that others still exist in obscure places, or sheltered by the saving earth, for a future race of antiquaries to discover and reclaim. the blizzard in the west: being a record and story of the disastrous storm which raged throughout devon and cornwall, and west somerset, on the night of march 9th, 1891. with illustrations. copyright. _the right of reproduction is reserved._ london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., limited, paternoster row. devonport: a. h. swiss, printer and stationer, 111 & 112 fore street. the largest floral and fruit establishment west of london. w.g. hodge, f.r.h.s. florist and fruit & vegetable purveyor, 49 george street, 17 union street, 90 old town street, plymouth. and _76 george street, devonport_. telegrams, "florist," plymouth. telephone no., 80. nurseries: crown hill. specialities: wedding & other bouquets. funeral wreaths, crosses, &c. from 5/to two guineas, per parcels post to all parts of the kingdom. contents. chapter i. indications and observations. ii. the blizzard. iii. on the railways. iv. at sea. v. in town and country. vi. in park and forest. vii. after the storm.--the water famine in the three towns. viii. some strange experiences. spooner & company. floor coverings. s. & co. beg to draw the attention of their customers to the large portion of their premises reserved for the exclusive sale of the above, ever increasing variety of british & oriental floor coverings, and for the development of which spooner & co. have given their special attention, resulting in their having always on sale an unrivalled selection of axminsters, wiltons, brussels, tapestry carpets, kidderminster carpets, floor cloths, linoleums, cork carpets. fully maintaining their reputation for superior designs, durability, and excellence of material. spooner & company, complete house furnishers and art decorators, =plymouth=. preface. the record of the blizzard of 1891 was undertaken in response to a generally expressed desire on the part of a large number of residents in the western counties. it would have been impossible to compile the work, imperfect as it is, without the assistance and co-operation of the editor and staff of the _western morning news_, who have been most active in its promotion. assistance has also been kindly rendered by the editor and staff of the _western daily mercury_. thanks are also largely due to many others, who, besides furnishing us with interesting details and views, have offered us every facility for obtaining information. valuable particulars in some instances have been afforded by dr. merrifield, of plymouth, and mr. rowe, public librarian, of devonport, who has also sent some of the views appearing in this book. to the artistic photographic skill of messrs. heath and son, of george street, plymouth, messrs. denney and co., of exeter and teignmouth, and messrs. valentine and son, of teignmouth, we are indebted for several of our illustrations. to the amateur photographers in various parts of the west who so kindly sent photographic views we tender our best thanks, and regret that space did not permit us to use a larger number. much necessarily remains untold, but we have endeavoured to depict a very remarkable event as fully as the pages at our disposal permitted. _devonport, april, 1891._ nestlé's food a complete and perfect substitute for mothers' milk. ***** obtained the gold medal at the paris exhibition, 1889. the blizzard in the west chapter i. indications and observations. on the morning of the 9th of march, 1891, when inhabitants of the three westernmost counties in england set about preparing for the routine duties of daily life, nothing seemed to indicate that, with the approach of nightfall, the gravest atmospheric disturbance of the century--in that part of the world, at all events--would come to spread terror and destruction throughout town and country. the month, so far, had not been a gentle one. following in the footsteps of a memorably genial february, march had been somewhat harsh and cold, without yielding the rain that was by this time greatly needed. there were rumours of "a change of some sort," of an approaching "fall of something," and other vaticinations of the same familiar character floating about, but in the west country these wise sayings fall so thick and fast and frequently as to possess little more significance than the most oft-repeated household words. when the day drew on, and signs of a rising gale were uncomfortably apparent on every hand, recollections of a promised storm from the observatories of the united states began to be awakened, but it was found on sifting the matter, that if this were the disturbance indicated, it had come about a fortnight too soon. students of "old moore's almanack" were better informed, and it is probable that if this ill wind blew good to anybody, it was in the shape of discovery that by virtue of the truth of his forecast, a favourite and venerable prophet was deserving of honour at the hands of the people of his own country. unhappily, however, there is nothing to show that advantage had been taken of this warning, in any practical sense. on the contrary, the blast came down swiftly upon a community that was almost wholly unprepared to receive it, and one of the saddest parts of the story of its fury will be the account of the devastation wrought among the unprotected flocks and herds. on referring to the remarks on the subject of the weather published in the local press, and obtained from official scientific authorities, it will be found that at an early hour on the morning of march 9th the barometer had been rising slightly, and that the day "promised to be fine." other accounts hinted at the probability of some snow showers, and snow was reported as falling heavily in north wales, but north and north-easterly winds, light and moderate, were anticipated. nothing was said about a great fall of snow, accompanied by a hurricane fierce enough to send it down in powder, without even allowing time for the formation of snow-flakes. according to one plymouth correspondent, whose observations are both reliable and valuable, the only intimation of the coming storm was by the barometer falling to 29·69 on the evening of the 9th, with an e.n.e. wind. the hygrometer was thick and heavy--a sign of rough weather. during the night the glass fell to 29·39. on tuesday it fell to 29·180. another account says that it has not, perhaps, occurred in the experience of many, except those who have known tropical storms, that the movement in an ordinary column barometer might be seen during the progress of a gale. such, however, was possible in the case under notice. though the glass had been falling during the day, yet there were no indications of any serious disturbance of the weather. on many occasions there have been greater falls in the barometer than on this occasion. when this storm was at its height, the barometer at devonport was observed to be at 29·27, but in the course of half an hour pressure was indicated by 29·20, the rise being, of course, a considerable and sudden one. within an hour of this register being made, a fall had again occurred to 29·25, and even a little below this was marked, at which point the column remained until the early hours of the morning. it is clear that during the whole progress of the storm the temperature was never very low. the great cold came from the strength of the wind. during the storm, and in the course of the severe days that followed, not more than five or six degrees of frost were registered, and on one day of the week, when there was snow on every hand, the thermometer never rose higher than freezing point. the wind, however, was terrific, its maximum force during the night being 10, and 12 is the highest possible. to this extraordinary velocity is due the fact that the visitation is best describable by the term "blizzard." with a less violent wind, there would have been a great fall of snow, as great probably as that of january, 1881, when difficulties and disasters painfully comparable with those of the present year were spread broadcast over not only the western portion, but the whole of england, but it would have been a snowstorm and not a blizzard, and many of the phenomenal aspects of the visitation under notice would have been absent. in the course of the present narrative many remarkable effects due to the powdery nature of the snow will have to be recorded. before concluding the meteorological portion of the subject, and getting on with the story, it may be well to observe that according to the best authorities a blizzard is caused by the fierceness of the wind, which blows the cold into the vapour in the atmosphere and consolidates it into fine snow without allowing time for the formation of a snow-flake. we are accustomed to associate ideas of gentleness and beauty and stillness with the fall of snow. the blizzard, which is apparently--but, of course, only in name--a new acquaintance, shews us the reverse side of the picture, and suggests nothing beyond merciless fury and destructiveness. as to the quantity of snow that fell, accounts differ. there were huge drifts in most places; in others there was a comparatively level covering of many feet in thickness. the condition of a part of george street, plymouth, which received a very fair quantity, is artistically portrayed in the accompanying illustration, copied from a photograph taken on the morning of tuesday by mr. heath, photographer, of plymouth. according to observations made by dr. merrifield, of plymouth, the value of whose scientific researches into the mysteries of matters meteorological are beyond question, the quantity of snow and rain that fell between monday evening and early on wednesday morning was ·68. this was registered at the doctor's residence, which stands 125 feet above the level of the sea, and faces s.s.e. with the depth of snow in other places, this record will deal in due course. [illustration: george street, plymouth.] during the whole time the blizzard was raging, the wind varied from n.e. to s.e. the changes were very rapid, but this was the widest range. along the coast the greatest severity appears to have been experienced from a point or two eastward of teignmouth to falmouth bay, many towns exposed to the sea having to bear their share of the burden, and unhappily many valuable lives being lost through disastrous wrecks. if a map of the three counties of devon, cornwall, and somerset be consulted, it will be found that, taking this portion of the coast as an opening through which the broad shaft of a hurricane entered, now sweeping in a north-easterly, and now in a south-easterly direction, the area of country that has sustained the heaviest damage will be embraced, the intensity of the violence inflicted gradually diminishing the further one travels towards the east, north, and west. dartmoor forms a kind of centre of the chief scene of desolation, and plymouth, being well within the range, has suffered far more severely than any other large town in the three counties. to the eastward, in particular, it is clear that the effects of the gale are not nearly so serious, though the fall of snow was pretty abundant all over the southern part of england. outside of devon and west cornwall there are no great lots of timber down, though here and there a fallen tree is observable. unhappily the departure of the storm was not so sudden as its advent. the tuesday following the night of tempest was an indescribably wretched day, and the barometer fell to 29·180. wednesday brought sunshine and hope with it, and afforded the one bright spot in this gloomy record by showing up many effects of wonderful beauty in the snow-covered landscapes. still the wind was never at rest, though the thermometer went up to 120° in the sun. thursday followed with more snow, and occasional sharp and ominous squalls, and some apprehension was felt that a repetition of monday's experience was in the air, but fortunately the week wore away without further calamity, and the work of repairing to some extent the damage done, and thereby making existence for man and beast possible, a task hitherto carried on under tremendous difficulties, was vigorously pushed forward. a letter, which will be found interesting, was, on the day after the storm, written to the editor of the _western morning news_, and published in that paper, by captain andrew haggard, of the king's own scottish borderers, now stationed at devonport. the writer is a brother of mr. rider haggard, and himself a novelist of repute. this letter was as follows:- "sir,--the cyclonic nature of the blizzard that has been annoying us all so much, and causing such a frightful amount of damage during the last two days, may be judged by the following observations taken by several officers in the south raglan barracks on the evening of the 9th instant. from these observations it would seem as if for a time the south raglan barracks were in the exact centre of the storm, being left for varying periods in a complete calm in consequence. here are the notes we made:--at 8·12 p.m. the storm was raging so furiously that the solid old raglan was shaken to its foundations, the fire was roaring up the chimney as if in a blast furnace, and the noise made by the blizzard generally was such that it was difficult to hear one's neighbour speak. but at 8·13 suddenly came a complete lull. the elements ceased to wage war, the fire assumed its normal demeanour, and an officer who went out to see what had happened came in and reported that it was so calm he was able to light matches outside. for thirteen minutes did this calm last. at 8·26 with a roar like thunder, the wind returned, and once more we were dreading that the armies of the chimney pots would fall upon us in their fury. only for twenty minutes, though, did the hurricane scream and yell, and as before make itself generally obnoxious. at 8·46 there was another absolute cessation of wind until 8·53, when it 'blizzed' worse than before. and shortly afterward everyone started forth to put out fires, when all the amateur meteorologists discovered to their grief that whatever the cyclone might do in the way of lulling occasionally down at the raglan, on the top of stoke hill it blizzed all night with perfect impartiality. yours truly, "andrew haggard. "devonport, _march 10th_." chapter ii. the blizzard. soon after daylight, on the morning of monday, march 9th, over the whole of the west of england, the fine weather that had prevailed for several weeks past gave place to a most unpleasant condition of affairs. the temperature fell, almost suddenly, and in the neighbourhood of plymouth, devonport, and stonehouse, snow was falling fitfully from about an hour before noon. there was a gradually rising wind, that assumed menacing proportions as the afternoon wore on, while the snow that had, for the first few hours, thawed as soon as it fell upon the yet warm ground, was rapidly forming a white covering on every position exposed to the sky. at six o'clock, in the three towns some four or five inches of snow lay upon the ground, and the wind had increased to a hurricane. slates began to start from the roofs of houses, and chimneys to fall, and in a very short time the streets assumed a deserted appearance, and all vehicular traffic was stopped. advertisement hoardings were hurled from their positions with some terrible crashes, and in many instances the splinters were promptly seized by a thrifty populace and taken away for firewood. many trees were blown down in the early part of the night. in buckland street, plymouth, a tree of sufficient size to block the roadway fell at about eight o'clock, and not long after another heavy tree fell from athenæum garden across athenæum street, the main road to the great western railway station, completely closing the thoroughfare. our illustration, reproduced from a photograph taken by mr. heath of george street, plymouth, on the morning after the storm, gives a realistic idea of the condition of plymouth streets, and of the quantity of snow that was blown about during the night. on plymouth hoe, iron seats were blown from their fastenings and rolled over and over, the ironwork in many instances being curiously bent. the statue of drake, the armada memorial, and the smeaton tower looked, however, none the worse for the wild night. perhaps, when the sun shone upon them on wednesday they may be described as having looked better for the patches of glistening snow that clung to them in most picturesque form. strange to say, the pavilion pier sustained no damage beyond a smashed pane or two of glass. exposed as it must have been to the full fury of the gale, it stood the turmoil gallantly, and this fact speaks well for the soundness of the structure, and for the good workmanship and material used in its erection. trees were uprooted or snapped short off at woodside, the residence of mr. bewes, at portland square, and in many other parts of plymouth. of these irreparable losses much more will be said in the course of this record. concerning the damage wrought among houses and homesteads, and the marvellous escapes from injury to life and limb, our limited pages would not permit of the chronicling of one hundredth part of those that were met with in the three towns alone during that night. at clifton place, plymouth, a chimney fell through the roof into a bedroom occupied by three little girls, and completely buried them, two being so badly injured as to necessitate their removal to the hospital. in this instance the staircase was blocked by the débris, and access to the terrified children could only be obtained by means of ladders, and with the greatest difficulty. [illustration: athenæum street, plymouth.] on mutley plain, one of the most exposed situations in plymouth, the storm raged with terrific fury, women and children being blown off their feet and half-suffocated with the rush of snow-laden wind, while such cabmen as had ventured abroad with their cabs, made their way back to more sheltered quarters with great difficulty. numerous instances in this locality of strong men receiving severe contusions through being blown against walls and railings are recorded. at alexandra place, mutley, a terrific gust of wind caught one of the chimneys of the house, sending it through the roof, and the only means of rendering the house habitable for the time was by stretching tarpaulins over the breach. there is no statement accessible of the number of fallen chimneys and damaged roofs that might have been discovered in the three towns alone during that night, and even if there were, to recount them all would only be to tell one sad story over and over again with wearisome monotony; but it is probably safe to say that scarcely one street in the whole of the district escaped without some house receiving injury. fortunately the storm was at its height at about 8 o'clock in the evening, an hour when bedrooms are usually unoccupied. had the chief fury of the gale been spent some hours later, it is more than likely that numerous fatalities would have had to be recounted. at a shop in fore street, devonport, a similar accident occurred, two children while lying in bed being badly crushed through a chimney falling. at the main guard, at the top of devonport hill, the windows were blown in, but the soldiers on duty fortunately escaped without injury, and were removed into the barracks. the roofs of the "crown and column," and of the wine and spirit store in the occupation of messrs. chubb & co., both in devonport, were seriously injured, while at wingfield villa, stoke, the residence of the rector of stoke damerel, soon after 8 o'clock, a terrific squall burst upon the house and sent a large chimney stack crashing through the roof into the drawing room, doing great damage to some valuable furniture. altogether, a lengthy chapter of accidents might be recorded as the result of the gale on monday evening in devonport. in a few instances personal injuries of a more or less serious nature were sustained, but it is not a little remarkable, that here, as elsewhere in the immediate neighbourhood, while there were many narrow escapes no case of a fatal character occurred. among other narrow escapes at devonport may be instanced that of a gentleman living in albert road, morice town. he went to a back bedroom on the top storey to nail up a board to prevent smoke from blowing down the chimney, when a sudden gust struck the stack and precipitated it on to the roof, which fell through the ceiling into the bedroom, burying him and carrying a portion of the floor into the back drawing-room below. the gentleman in question managed to extricate himself from the débris, and escaped with a severe shaking. in another case, a family occupying two rooms at the top of an old house in cannon street, nearly lost their lives. the occupier, his wife, and mother-in-law, were sitting around the bedroom fire when the roof fell on them. their injuries were not of a serious character, but considerable damage was done to their furniture. it is estimated that about £50 worth of damage was done to the buildings at the back of hope (baptist) chapel in fore street; a chimney falling bodily crashed through the roof, and carried one of the class-rooms and the gallery of the sunday-school into the vestry. a chimney stack falling from no. 7, chapel street, destroyed a conservatory, and did considerable damage to the roof of the adjoining house, no. 6. a large portion of the roof of the south devon sanitary laundry, cornwall street, was blown away, and the work of the establishment was temporarily disarranged in consequence. extensive damage was also done to property at 10, stopford-place, stoke. one of the most miraculous escapes that occurred was that at the residence of mr. perkins (lord mount-edgecumbe's surveyor) in emma place, stonehouse. during the hurricane mrs. perkins heard the windows and doors rattling, and rushed up to the nursery to see that the windows were closed and doors fastened. the servant was closing the window, her mistress standing near the chimney breast, when there was a sudden crash. the servant clung to the framework of the window, but mrs. perkins immediately found herself buried in bricks and mortar. she was sitting on a portion of the floor near the window, with her legs dangling over an abyss; the floors having been carried away, with the exception of two floor boards, upon which, happily, she had been deposited. the snow found its way into the house, and although no one could distinguish her or the servant, she seems to have grasped the situation and called to her husband to bring a ladder to release her and the girl. this eventually was done, but the intense excitement of the moment may be well imagined. mr. perkins, having obtained a ladder and a light had the greatest difficulty in discovering the position of those above, but having done so, he released both from their perilous position, little thinking that the ladder was resting on fallen rubbish, the slightest shock to which would have precipitated all to the basement. during this night of disaster, probably the most calamitous incident that occurred on land, was a fire which broke out at about 8 o'clock at 4, wingfield villas, stoke, the residence of mr. venning, town clerk of devonport, and which resulted in the total destruction of the house and its contents, as well as in material damage to the adjoining villa. a chimney-stack facing the direction from which the wind blew gave way and, crashing through the roof of the nursery, carried with it a quantity of débris through the floor of the nursery into the drawing-room below. through the aperture thus made the fire from the nursery grate, and it is supposed also a lamp, were carried, and speedily ignited the contents of the drawing-room. the fire, being fanned by the fierce gale, just then at its height, increased rapidly, and the premises were soon in a blaze. owing to the elevated position in which the house stood the conflagration was visible at a great distance, and in spite of the weather, large numbers of people visited the spot, although the journey thither, under the circumstances, was one of the most difficult it is possible to conceive. to those who ventured on the walk, however, the sight presented was an extraordinarily impressive one. the flames raged like the blast of a furnace, and the mingling of smoke, sparks and snow-dust produced an effect that was as novel as it was terrible. sparks from the burning building were carried immense distances, and beaten, with the snow-powder, against the windows of houses that faced the burning villa. standing at a distance of nearly a mile, with eyes fixed on the blaze, it was impossible to believe that the roar of the fire could not be heard, so nearly did the howling and surging of the wind resemble the roar caused by a great volume of rushing flame. in connection with the fire several narrow escapes are recorded. mr. venning's daughter, about six years of age, had a perilous experience. she had been put to bed by her nurse, and, during the absence of the latter from the room for a few minutes, the chimney clashed through the roof into the drawing-room. fortunately mr. venning's daughter received nothing worse than a severe fright, and she was quickly removed to a neighbouring house. the ladies who were in the drawing-room at the time of the crash were also greatly alarmed, and made a hasty exit from the building, being hospitably sheltered at wingfield house by colonel goodeve, r.a., and also at the house of a relative, in godolphin terrace. the efforts of the firemen to prevent the spread of the flames, under circumstances of great difficulty, were crowned with a well-merited success. water was not readily available, and when obtained was not abundant, but notwithstanding this a gallant fight was made, and although to save the one dwelling was impossible, the contents of the adjoining one were safely removed, and the structure itself was snatched from total demolition. in addition to the west of england and devonport fire brigades, and a large staff of constables under the charge of mr. evans, the chief constable of devonport, there were present colonel liardet, r.m.l.i., the field officer of the day, and a detachment of men belonging to the king's own scottish borderers, under captain haggard. several manual engines from the troops in garrison were taken to the scene of the fire, but, with one exception, they were not brought into use. a number of civilians were conspicuous for their energy in performing voluntary salvage duty. the damage resulting from this fire has been estimated at something like £7,000. on their way to and from the scene of the fire by way of millbridge, many pedestrians from plymouth had narrow escapes from being blown over the parapet of the bridge into the deadlake. about half-past eight, when the fire had somewhat abated, the majority of the plymouth spectators moved back with the intention of re-crossing the bridge, but the wind had increased in violence, and the water in the lake was so disturbed that the waves could be heard lashing against the bridge and on the shores. some who ventured on the bridge were driven back, and consternation began to spread among the crowd, many women screaming loudly. to proceed to plymouth by way of pennycomequick was also a matter of difficulty, as the full fury of the gale blowing down the valley had to be faced. many waited on the devonport side until there was a lull, when some of them linked their arms in those of their friends for safety's sake and so crossed to plymouth. during the whole of monday night her majesty's vessels in the hamoaze were in positions of great peril, and those holding responsible posts in connection with them underwent great anxiety. the _lion_ and _implacable_, anchored just above torpoint, which form an establishment for training boys, under the command of commander morrison, dragged their moorings during the evening. the vessels were moored stern to stern, and connected by a covered gangway. the cause of the mishap was the parting of the starboard bridle of the _implacable_. at about half-past nine signals of distress were made to the shore, and it was stated that the two ships had been driven ashore, and were in the mud off thanckes. this, however, proved not to be the case, as the vessels never even touched the ground. as soon as the danger was known all available tugs at devonport dockyard were despatched with a view to taking off, if necessary, the hundreds of boys who were on board. at midnight, however, all apprehension for the safety of the vessels had been practically removed, although as the storm had by no means abated, the tugs were ordered to stand by all night in order to give any assistance that might be required. in the meantime there was great excitement in sutton harbour. between eight and nine o'clock several of the trading vessels, trawlers, and fishing craft lying at anchor began to drag, and extra warps had to be got out, and the vessels secured. the sea in the harbour was very heavy, and at one time some fear was felt for the buildings along the quay, but no damage of this nature occurred. some of the stores along the north quay were roughly handled by the wind, the roof of the new coal store of messrs. hill and co. was blown off, and a similar accident occurred to the premises in the occupation of messrs. vodden and johns, but generally speaking the damage on the quays was satisfactorily light. a good deal of anxiety was expressed as to the welfare of trawlers who were known to be in the channel, and, as a subsequent chapter will show, these fears were by no means groundless. the cutter of the harbourmaster, lying in plymouth sound was reported to be in a sinking condition during the night, and a tug was sent to her assistance. she had four men on board, who were removed for safety, but ultimately the cutter weathered the storm, and is still afloat. under conditions like these the night of the ninth of march wore away in the three towns. to many the night was a long one, and crowded with all sorts of apprehensions. the wind, never for a moment silent, rose again and again to hurricane force, and the fine snow so swiftly covered the window panes that to look out upon the night soon became a matter of difficulty. there was no great feeling of security indoors, but to remain out for long was a matter of impossibility, and the imperfect and disconnected rumours of disaster that were disseminated created all the more alarm from the fact that they could not be investigated. hundreds of households did not go to bed at all, while very many sat up all night because their bedrooms were in a state of hopeless confusion, or of absolute wreck. some were without fire, through a defect having been brought about in the chimney, or through the chimney having fallen in altogether; and in those localities where the buildings were of the dilapidated or frail order the wretchedness for the night, and, indeed, for the week throughout, was very great. not the least serious part of the gale was the number of friends missing from the plymouth district. quite early there was a breakdown of the telegraph wires, which made all telegraphic communication with other parts of the country impossible, and the late arrival of many trains into the west, and the non-arrival of others, led to much anxious conjecture as to the fate of those whose appearance in plymouth during the night had been confidently expected. the first indications of telegraphic interruption were observed as early as half-past four on monday afternoon, when communication with tavistock was suspended. following this, the reports of breakdowns from all parts of the two counties became very frequent until about seven o'clock, when communication with london and all places above plymouth ceased. penzance, and one or two cornish towns could be communicated with for some time longer, but soon all operations were suspended, and no messages were received at the plymouth office after eight o'clock. as a general rule the breakdown was caused by trees falling across the wires, or by the telegraph posts having been brought bodily to the ground. as will be subsequently seen, this condition of things prevailed to a great extent, and in some cases the telegraph wires and posts got upon the railway lines and prevented the progress of the trains. the interruption of the local train service commenced early on monday. trains due at north road station, plymouth, between mid-day and eight o'clock in the evening were all considerably behind time, and the telegraphic and telephonic instruments being rendered useless, thus making communication with other stations impossible, the officials had an anxious period of waiting for information of belated trains. at about nine o'clock the "jubilee," which left london at one o'clock, and should have reached north road, plymouth, at 7·30, came into the station. with the remarkable experiences of passengers by this, one of the last trains that reached plymouth by either the london and south western or great western lines from monday night to saturday, and other trains that failed to reach plymouth at all, a subsequent chapter will deal, should space permit. a train from tavistock, due at 8·40, did not appear until eleven o'clock, and the eight o'clock train from launceston did not come at all. the "alexandra," a train that left waterloo station at 2·40 arrived at nine o'clock, the driver stating that near okehampton he had to drive through three feet of snow. these, however, are the trains that did arrive. there were many that did not, and in many scores of instances a member of a family was not heard of for days, although, happily, in the majority of cases, the missing one ultimately turned up with nothing worse than a severe cold and a great distaste for winter life in small devonshire or cornish towns. so far the state of affairs in the three towns only has been dealt with, but it will be readily surmised that adjacent towns, and more especially those in the neighbourhood of dartmoor, and the more open parts of cornwall, suffered very considerably. generally speaking, the damage to house property was nowhere so great as in plymouth and devonport. in the country districts, as a matter of course, calamities of a most serious and special character were met with, and trees were felled, sheep buried, and oxen frozen in enormous quantities,--in some instances, also, human life was sacrificed, but in none of the other larger towns was the devastation so widespread as in the three towns. at exeter, the fall of snow was said to be the heaviest for years, and by reason of its suddenness, even more severe than the storm of 1881. the drifts of snow in some places were of great depth. as at plymouth, traffic as well as business was suspended, but there were no serious mishaps, the force of the wind, though great, being evidently not so fierce as was the case further west. railway communication between exeter and plymouth was of course impossible, but there were on tuesday four trains trying to run between exeter and taunton. the north of england mail, which should have arrived at exeter at half-past eight was four hours late, but it did put in an appearance. the trains of the london and south western railway ran to exeter from the north just as usual, throughout the week. at torquay the storm was the severest experienced there for many years. there was a heavy fall of snow on the night of monday, and on the following morning the ground was covered to the depth of a foot. a strong easterly wind was also blowing, and trees were uprooted in every part of the district. at the recreation grounds the roof was blown off the grand stand, and a huge tree blew across the railway at lowes bridge, near torre station. an engine of the up-train cut through this and traffic was suspended until the line was cleared by a breakdown gang on tuesday. the trains from london and plymouth failing to run, torquay soon became isolated, and telegraph and telephone communication was early interfered with in consequence of the poles being blown down and the wires broken by the burden of snow. considerable damage was done to the new pier works by the heavy gale. plant for moulding the concrete was washed away, as was also a portion of the masonry, while parts of the sea-wall were damaged, and a flight of stone steps leading to the sea-wall were swept completely away. street traffic was so much impeded by the snow that on the tuesday after the storm the town surveyor constructed a wooden snow-plough, and with this, drawn by two horses, the roads were cleared. all the public clocks in the town were stopped by the snow. tavistock was one of the towns that had the severest experiences. the barometer fell rapidly on monday morning, and at about eleven o'clock snow began to fall; while, as the day advanced, it was accompanied by a high wind, that, towards seven o'clock in the evening, increased to a hurricane. in tavistock, and all along the tavy valley, the full force of the storm was felt, large trees being uprooted, houses unroofed, and chimney-stacks blown down in every direction. one of the latter instances occurred in west street, where the occupant, a lady, had been suffering from a serious illness. the chimney-stack being blown over, the débris fell through the roof into the bedroom where the invalid was lying. her attendant received some cuts on the head, but the invalid escaped the falling masonry, although she received a severe shock to the system through the incident. a waggoner employed at the phoenix mills, horrabridge, was returning to tavistock from lifton on monday night, in charge of an empty waggon and three horses, and when within two miles of his destination, found that through the violence of the storm he was unable to continue his journey. he took the horses out of the waggon, and made an ineffectual attempt to drive them home. failing in this the waggoner walked into tavistock, and at about ten o'clock returned to the spot where he had left his horses. by this time the snow was so deep that the horses could not be seen, and it was necessary to leave them until the following morning. eventually they were dug out, and driven home, not much the worse, to all appearance, for their night in the snow. tavistock being an important market town, and the centre of a large district, experienced great inconvenience through the interruption in railway traffic, and the impassable state of the roads. wednesday, march 11th, was the monthly cattle fair day, but not a single animal was brought in. at the fitzford church the window was blown in. like many other towns in the dartmoor vicinity, tavistock received more than one disastrous visitation during this memorable week, and its record of lost sheep and cattle, to which more extended reference will be made further on, is a very serious one. at bideford, and in the surrounding country, the weather was more severe than any experienced since the winter of 1881. the barometer had been steadily going back all day on sunday, and on monday a cutting east wind blew with considerable force. snow commenced falling at noon, and continued until the evening, when the streets and roads were covered to some depth. then the wind rose to half a gale, whirling the snow into little clouds, which filled both doors and windows. all through the night the wind increased in force, until it blew a perfect hurricane. icicles hung inches long from windowsills and launders of the houses. in the country, traffic was completely suspended, the snowdrifts being as high as the hedges. farmers were consequently unable to get into market, and provisions went up considerably in price. the mail coach started for clovelly and hartland as usual on tuesday morning, and managed to reach clovelly. there, however, the horses had to be taken out, and the driver rode through the deep drifts to hartland on horseback. the return journey was performed by another man in a similar way. all the mails were delayed, and rural postmen's districts were mostly impassable. at teignmouth, exmouth, dawlish, and most other seaside places from the estuary of the exe to the start, the effects of the gale were severely felt on monday night. at the former place the sea ran high, and the breakers fell with great force close to the landwash and over the promenade. opposite den house the roadway was undermined and washed away, and had it not been for the fact that an hitherto existing stone wall lay buried beneath the surface, which acted as a breakwater against the heavy sea, it is almost certain that den house and bella vista would have been washed away. as soon as the tide ebbed, the wind veered towards the northward, and the sea went down. a gang of men were at once set to work to shore up the embankment, and fill in the cavity made by the sea. the promenade towards the east cliff was also washed up in several places. in the exeter road and at brimley a large number of trees were blown down, and traffic was generally suspended. an illustration from a photograph by messrs. g. denney & co., photographers, of exeter and teignmouth, portrays one of the scenes in exeter road, which was impassable for a day or two. at totnes, brent, and in fact every town in devonshire, damage of a more or less severe character was sustained. space will not allow of a separate reference to each locality in the present chapter, but in dealing with occurrences that took place after the early force of the blizzard had been exhausted on that memorable monday night and tuesday morning, there will be found few districts that necessity will not compel us to bring under notice. [illustration: exeter road, teignmouth.] reference has already been made to some towns in the north of devon. throughout the whole of this district the storm raged furiously, rendering communication with many parts impossible. although snow did not commence to fall until monday afternoon, by the evening of that day the drifts had reached a depth of several feet. the train which left barnstaple for ilfracombe at about half-past eight on monday evening became embedded just below morthoe station. at ilfracombe a strong gale raged throughout monday night, and the brigantine _ethel_, of salcombe, 180 tons went ashore at combemartin, but in this instance no lives were lost, the crew having taken to their boats. in north cornwall, a terrible snowstorm raged for twenty-four hours, resembling in many respects the great storm of the 18th and 19th january, 1881. the atmospheric pressure was about the same as then, and the storm burst from the same point. on the first day of the great storm in 1881, the temperature varied from 26 to 30 and on the second from 25 to 30. on the 9th of march in the present year it varied from 29 to 31½. the roads were soon blocked in all directions, trains on the lines ceased running, and no mails could be sent or received. bude was cut off from the outside world, except by telegraphic communication. in the roads around bude the snow was quickly as high as the hedges, so that traffic, even on foot, was rendered impracticable. falmouth, liskeard, camborne, and indeed all other cornish towns, had a rough night, and before our story is finished, like many towns in devonshire, they will be found to have suffered severely. to approach them with any hope of successfully relating how they all fared on the night of monday and on the tuesday following, we must deal with the railways, for from railway travellers who were detained in certain places on the course of their journeys, and from the energetic officials who after heavy and anxious toil succeeded in releasing them, many of the most thrilling narratives have been obtained. chapter iii. on the railways. some incidents in connection with the suspension of the railway service on every line connecting plymouth with the rest of the world have already been related. it is unnecessary to dwell at further length on the terrible mental and physical suffering entailed by this state of things. facts need no comment that tell of passengers being snowed up in a train for thirty-six hours on a stretch, and others being unable to communicate with their friends for nearly a week, to say nothing of all that the engine-drivers and other officials had to endure. one of the first expeditions that set out into the dreary night in search of the cause of delay was undertaken by mr. c. e. compton, the divisional superintendent of the great western railway co., and other gentlemen, who went out on a pilot engine as far as camel's head bridge between eight and nine o'clock on monday night. the cause of the interruption in the telegraph system was here ascertained, the poles being blown down and lying across the line. later in the evening mr. compton pushed on as far as hemerdon, on the main line, where a similar state of things was encountered, and it was learned that at kingsbridge road and at brent station the snow had drifted to such an extent as to block the line. a train due from penzance was known to be somewhere on the plymouth side of truro, but its exact whereabouts could not be discovered. there was some anxious looking out for the "zulu" express from paddington, due at plymouth early in the evening, but the train was at brent, with about ten feet of snow on the line, between it and plymouth, and, as will be presently seen, the passengers were meeting with some novel and undesirable experiences. the mail train from plymouth for london left millbay station at the usual time, 8·20, and hemerdon junction was reached with much difficulty. here the first deep cutting had to be encountered, and the driver, approaching it at a reduced speed, observed that the drifting snow had practically blocked the entrance. the seriousness of the situation was realized by one and all of the passengers, and, although there was an anxiety on their part to get to their destination as soon as possible, they agreed that there was no alternative but to either remain where they were or return to plymouth. the latter course was decided upon, and shunting was at once proceeded with. the drifts of snow rendered this work very difficult, and the frequent jerkings caused the passengers much inconvenience. eventually the driver, after most skilful handling of the locomotive, succeeded in reversing the position of the engine, and a start was made for plymouth. much to the relief of the passengers, the latter place was reached, after a slow but sure journey, about half-past one next morning. the utmost consideration was shown the passengers by the station officials, and accommodation was found them for the night at the "duke of cornwall" hotel and in the station waiting-room. all traffic on the london and south western railway below okehampton ceased soon after eight o'clock on monday night. one of the slow passenger trains from okehampton was snowed up in a deep cutting between meldon viaduct and bridestowe, one of the bleakest spots on the south western system. the express due at north road station at 11·4 on the same night was stopped at okehampton. the ordinary seven o'clock up-train was despatched on tuesday morning from mutley station, and was drawn by three engines. considerable danger attended railway travelling in consequence of the jolting and straining that occurred when the numerous obstructions were met with. all the points at the tavistock station were completely choked, and though for some hours a number of men were employed in an effort to keep them clear, the task was found impossible, and as a result the train that might have proceeded in the direction of plymouth remained where it was as the engine could not be shunted to the plymouth end of the train. the last up south western train on monday night was snowed up at lidford, but the passengers were released. one of the vans of a goods train proceeding to tavistock early on monday evening was blown away. serious as was the condition of things on all the railways on monday night, on tuesday matters became worse. during that day only two trains reached millbay station, plymouth, and these, which came from cornwall, should have arrived on monday night. one account, of experiences as unique as they were unpleasant, is thus given by the _western daily mercury_:--"the mail train from cornwall, due at plymouth at 8·10 on monday night, reached millbay at 9·30 a.m., bringing some eighty passengers; amongst whom were mr. bolitho, banker, of penzance, and mrs. bolitho, who were wishful of getting to ivybridge to attend the hunt, and mr. j. h. hamblyn, of buckfastleigh, who was _en route_ from liskeard to bristol fair. all went well with the mail until st. germans was reached at about 8 p.m. it was found that no further progress was possible, and that there was no help for it but to pass the night in the carriages under the shelter of the station. mr. gibbons, one of the assistant-engineers of the line, and inspector scantlebury, who were travelling in the train, resolved to walk to saltash. the snow was not so very deep at this time, and the block was due principally to the wholesale destruction of telegraph poles. after a rough time of it the two officials reached saltash, and afterwards pushed on to camel's head, where was the biggest block of all, fir trees and telegraph poles and wires being scattered about broadcast. meanwhile at st. germans the station-master (mr. priest) was doing his best to make the passengers as comfortable as possible. in fact, all of those who reached plymouth after the night's adventure are loud in their praises of mr. priest. messengers were despatched by him to the village, and loaves, butter, tea, and coffee were speedily bought up. at the station fires were lit in all the available grates, and very soon the passengers were in possession of hot tea and coffee, as well as bread and butter. this modest fare was repeated at intervals during the night, and it goes without saying was most welcome. "after spending something like ten hours at st. germans the mail was able to leave at eight o'clock on tuesday morning for saltash, but here another delay of nearly two hours took place, in consequence of the block on the devonport side of the camel's head bridge. to remove this a breakdown train had been sent out from plymouth at 6 a.m. in charge of mr. h. quigley, the assistant divisional-superintendent. this train got as far as keyham viaduct without much interruption. here an array of prostrate poles and fir-trees required removing, and then the breakdown train forged ahead slowly to the weston mills viaduct, where there was a confused mass of poles and wires stretching from one side of the creek to the other. this accomplished, a move was made to saltash, where the mail was met and safely escorted to plymouth, which all were glad to reach, after a novel but most unpleasant night's adventure." [illustration: road between st. cleer and liskeard.] the difficulty that beset those that attempted to travel by road the above view indicates, and is from a photograph by a. leamon, esq., of liskeard. one of the passengers in the train snowed up between princetown and plymouth in the evening mail has related the following experiences:--"we left princetown at 6·30 p.m. on monday--the regular time--with five bags of mails. the snow beat in our compartment through closed doors, ventilators, and windows so much, that in a few minutes i had two inches of snow on my umbrella. we stuffed paper, handkerchiefs, and cloth into every hole or crevice we could find, and this remedied matters a little. the coach we were in was a composite one--of four third-class compartments, one second class, one first class, and one guard's, and we were all in one compartment. well, the wind was blowing great guns, and we passed through two large drifts just after leaving princetown, but it required some heavy pulling. we had just been congratulating ourselves on having been lucky in getting so nicely through the storm, when we suddenly stopped, and we knew we had stuck in the snow. the engine driver came and said, 'i was afraid of it; we have got over a bar, and we cannot go on. we ought not to have started.' the ladies became alarmed, and with that the driver, fireman, and guard went to the front of the train with shovels to try and dig a way for her, but it was no good. it is true that the place where we stopped is on a bit of decline, but the engine was choked with snow. the guard, having told us that we could not get on without assistance, proceeded in the direction of dousland to get help. he had been gone about an hour, when he returned with the mournful intelligence that he had lost his way, and that it was no use for him to attempt to reach dousland, as the snow blinded him. we decided to make ourselves as comfortable as we possibly could under the painful conditions to which we were subjected--six men and two ladies huddled together in one compartment--the cold being most bitter, and none of us having anything to eat or drink. we lived the night through, but in what way i can hardly tell. "in the morning the wind was blowing as strong as ever, and the snow as it fell melted on the window panes, and the lamp--our only light--was extinguished at 7 a.m. just at this time the guard and fireman left us, saying they were going to try and reach dousland with the 'staff,' so as to let them know of the disaster, and see what help could be rendered. it is true that the fireman was lame, but i understand they had fearful trouble, as he was sadly knocked up and his foot badly lacerated. some little time afterwards the driver, who has, i believe, been seriously ill, announced his intention of going to dousland. we then felt in a particularly sad condition, feeling our only hope was gone now that the driver had abandoned us. the storm was raging as fiercely as on the previous night, but at 3 p.m. we were agreeably surprised to find three packers, who had tramped up from dousland with refreshments for us, knock at our door. we were heartily glad to receive the refreshments, which, i believe, were sent from the railway company to us in our forlorn position--although it only consisted of cocoa, bread and butter, and cake, with a bottle of well-watered brandy to follow. we found there was enough for us to have one piece of bread and butter and one piece of cake each. this was not a very substantial bill of fare for people who had had nothing to eat for over twenty hours, but we were thankful for small mercies. there is one thing i forgot: the packers were very kind, and brought us out the guard's lamp from his van, which we afterwards lit. one of the party, i think palk, asked if the packer thought we could weather the journey back. the packer replied, 'it will take you about two hours.' this was enough for palk, who said he thought he was better where he was. besides, we asked him to stay and not desert us in the time of trouble. "we then awaited the result of events. the wind was fearful, and we were all bitterly cold. we were nearly dead in the afternoon, and drank all the brandy by eight o'clock. if it had not been for that some of us would have given way. the weather was milder after midnight. about seven o'clock this morning one of us looking out of the window saw mr. hilson, of horsford, farmer, whose farm is only about 250 yards from where our train was lying, picking sheep out of the snow. we whistled to him, and on his coming to us he was told of our predicament. he expressed his astonishment that he knew nothing of the accident. we do not see how he could have, because the snow had been so blinding in character until that day that it was impossible to see anyone ahead. he offered us the use of his farm, and we joyfully accepted the same, leaving the train after being in her for 36 hours. poor mrs. watts was much distressed and we had to assist her down. we had breakfast at mr. hilson's, and then four of us--hancock, viggers, palk and worth--started to walk to dousland, which we could see ahead of us. we got on fairly well over the snow, which was very deep in some places. we could not keep our eyes open owing to the snow when we left princetown, and when we asked the station-master for tickets he said, 'you can have them, but i cannot promise you will get there.' it did not strike me at the time, but if a station-master had any doubts as to the safety or otherwise of a train he should not allow the train to travel. it is true the wind was in our favour when we started. mrs. watts is very bad indeed, and also the engine-driver and stoker. the engine of the train when we left was completely covered with snow, and the snow had drifted as high as the carriage, with a blank space between the body and the wheels. all the compartments into which i looked before i left her--although the windows and ventilators were closed and doors locked--were full of snow above the hat-racks. it was the most horrible experience of my life." [illustration: express train, g. w. ry., teignmouth.] great anxiety was felt in exeter and plymouth on account of the sea wall which carries the line of the great western railway company from dawlish to teignmouth. in past years this piece of line has suffered very severely, and rumours were in circulation that it had been washed away in some places. happily, however, it was found, as soon as communication became opened up once more, that the line remained intact, the damaged portion of the sea wall being a carriage-drive close to the town. one of our views, from a photograph by messrs. denney & co., photographers, of exeter and teignmouth, gives an admirable idea of the force of the sea in this district, during the progress of a gale from the south-east. difficulties and dangers on all the lines of railway multiplied as time went on, and the horrors of the monday night, of which the foregoing narratives present only a partial view, were succeeded by some sad instances of loss of life, besides great damage to the property of the respective companies, and as a matter of course, a heavy falling off in their traffic returns. the returns for the week, following march 9th, on the great western system, showed a decrease of £12,980 as compared with the corresponding week of the previous year, and the south-western railway's decrease amounted to £3,662--all but £650 of which was lost from the non-conveyance of passengers and parcels. this was regarded as especially unfortunate in the case of the south-western railway, as its traffic returns had previously been going up week by week, and in the eleven weeks of the year had increased by £12,120, as compared with the first eleven weeks of 1890. in addition to these losses heavy expenses were incurred by all the companies by the efforts made to clear away the snow, by means of snow ploughs, and the employment of large gangs of men. the inadequacy of the snow ploughs, which dated in england from the time of the heavy snow-fall in the early part of 1881, for clearing away heavy drifts, has been generally admitted. the ploughs are quite competent to get rid of from 4 to 5 feet of snow, but their capacity is not equal to depths ranging as high as 18 feet, such as were dealt with in some places between newton abbott and plymouth, on the great western system, to say nothing of other sections and branches. the ploughs, which are kept at swindon, have an iron ram in front, projecting like that of an ironclad, with a "cutter." the attention of engineers has, however, been now directed to a new kind of machine, with a revolving, spade-like apparatus, having a powerful shaft, and a propeller that is designed to scatter the snow with which it is brought into contact, and throw it clear of the rails on which the engine is travelling. the work of cutting out engines that had been absolutely embedded was very arduous, and in one case, lamentable loss of life accompanied the other misfortunes brought about by the storm. one or two instances of striking and unprecedented experiences of the night of monday must be recorded before this part of the subject, which is, in itself, enough to fill a volume, is dismissed. passengers by the train which left queen street station, exeter, on monday evening at 6·38, and was in connection with the 2·20 from waterloo, had an exceptionally rough time. the train, a slow one, had to make its way across dartmoor from okehampton to tavistock, and on starting, the guard, mr. moore, had orders to proceed as far as he could. after cutting through the snow for some miles the train reached okehampton, and then attempted to brave the force of the storm that was sweeping down from the dartmoor hills. it got over the meldon viaduct safely, and then it was attempted to go on over sourton down, but in going through youlditch cutting it ran into a snow-drift, and about three miles to the west of okehampton it was brought to a stop. efforts were made to run back to okehampton, but the rapid drifts of snow, which were from ten to twenty feet in height, prevented this being done, and it was soon seen that there was nothing left but to remain until help of some kind could be obtained. there were only eleven passengers, including two ladies and two children. the ladies and children, who were well supplied with wraps, were bestowed as comfortably as circumstances would permit in a first-class carriage, the male portion of the party, with the guard, mr. moore, the driver, mr. bennett, and the fireman, mr. oates, trying to find some warmth in the guard's van. this, however, was a matter of impossibility, the bitter wind and the fine snow finding its way into the compartment, to the great discomfort of the occupants. the engine fire was kept alight, but was useless to impart warmth to the unfortunate party. it was only on the following day, and just before relief arrived, that mr. bennett had succeeded in getting a fire in the van by means of boring holes in one of the engine-buckets, filling the bucket with coal and, after much difficulty, kindling a flame, which the draught obtained through the holes soon increased into a most welcome blaze. mr. john powlesland, auctioneer, of bow, was one of the belated travellers, and was especially assiduous in his efforts to do all he could for his fellow-sufferers. when the train first showed signs of becoming embedded, a telegram was sent from the nearest signal-box to exeter for assistance, and two engines were sent down. these approached within three-quarters of a mile of the snowed-up train, but could not be taken nearer on that line. they were then, with some difficulty, shunted on the up-line, with the view of pushing their way to the carriages in that manner, but the only result was that they became snowed-up in their turn. as day approached mr. moore and mr. oates made their way to the sourton inn, which stood at no great distance, for the purpose of obtaining food, but their endeavour met with but slight success, the inn being also snowed-up, and the occupants having but little in the way of provisions that they could spare. no help arrived until tuesday, at mid-day, when a search-party, headed by mr. prickman, the mayor of okehampton, and consisting of some half-a-dozen gentlemen of that locality, succeeded, after a difficult journey, in reaching the train. they took with them food and liquid refreshment, and were most heartily welcomed by the imprisoned travellers. by this time the train was entirely buried on one side, the engine having forced the snow on the left side up to a height of fully twenty feet. only a small portion of the engine and carriages was visible, and the scene is described as a remarkable one. the travellers were at once conducted by their rescuers to youlditch farm, where mr. gard treated them with much kindness, and took care of the ladies and children. the gentlemen subsequently made their way on to okehampton, where they were detained for several days. the guard, engine-driver, and fireman were not able to leave the train until the following day, when a breakdown gang was employed to cut a passage for the train through the snow--a task that occupied nearly the whole of the week. [illustration: snow drift, roborough down, dartmoor.] on the launceston branch of the great western railway, the down-train, which left tavistock at seven o'clock on monday evening, remained embedded in the snow outside horrabridge for several days. between the walkham viaduct and grenofen tunnel very heavy work had to be done, a deep cutting being not only choked by the snow, but quite a score of trees having been blown across the rails. the accompanying illustration, depicting a snow-drift in this locality, from a photograph by mr. sheath, of george-street, plymouth, conveys an excellent picture of the heavy masses of snow that had accumulated on this part of dartmoor. a passenger by the train which left penzance at 6·25 p.m. on monday and arrived at plymouth at 3 p.m. on tuesday, has supplied an interesting account of the blockage near grampound road. the train, containing about a dozen passengers, was only a quarter of a mile above grampound road station when it encountered a drift of snow fully twenty feet high. it was impossible to proceed or to retreat, for the blinding storm had drifted more snow on to the line behind, so that passengers left the train and crossed some fields back to the village, and found shelter at the grampound road hotel. it was then about 10·30 p.m. the guard kelly remained on the train, and the under-guard hammett walked back to grampound road and wired to liskeard for a relief engine. he then walked on to meet an engine which had been sent for from truro, and returned to the train on it. a relief gang arrived from lostwithiel under engine-driver harris, and the men dug at the drift until eleven a.m. on tuesday, when the train was able to proceed. one of the workers described the cold as so intense that the snow froze on the men's clothes, practically encasing them in ice, and the under-guard hammett, who had been at the work for over twenty years, said he never had such an experience, and even in the terrific storm of 1881 the snow was not so blinding. another passenger who travelled by the 6·50 great western up-train from plymouth on monday returned by a somewhat roundabout route, and he thus described his experiences: hemerdon was reached without any delay on the journey, but at that point the train was drawn up for about three-quarters of an hour, to allow a down-train to pass. it then proceeded slowly in face of a terrific gale, accompanied by blinding snow. after leaving cornwood, a grating sound on the roof of the carriage suggested broken wires, and this was followed by a jerk and a stoppage, and the interesting announcement that one coach and the engine were off the rails, and embedded in a snowdrift. there was nothing for it but to wait, and the "wait" lasted the whole night. there was nothing to eat for anybody, and the forty or more passengers (amongst whom were several ladies) had to make their night watches as comfortably as was possible under the circumstances in the langham cutting! it seems that the driver and one of the guards succeeded in reaching ivybridge, about a mile away, in the late evening, but no notice of the proximity of the village was given to the passengers. on tuesday morning a small party from ivybridge, under messrs. brown and greenhough, two engineers superintending the alterations to the line in the neighbourhood, came to the rescue of all who were willing to face the blinding storm. only four consented to go, and they were very thankful to exchange the cold comfort of the railway carriage for the hearty hospitality offered by these gentlemen in ivybridge. the officials here do not seem generally to have been equal to the exigencies of the situation, no notice of their whereabouts being given to the passengers, nor any organised attempt made at rescue or provisioning, but a porter and a packer from ivybridge station arrived about daybreak with whisky and brandy. when the four passengers referred to were leaving at about 9·30 on the tuesday morning, bread and butter and tea were being dispensed. many of the remaining passengers were hospitably accommodated by miss glanville at her house close to the half-buried train, the ladies being assisted thither by the engineers and their party. another train was detained at ivybridge station, and the passengers from it were lodged in the village. in west cornwall three trains were snowed up. the train which left plymouth at five o'clock on monday night and should have reached penzance at 8·45, arrived there at eleven. the "dutchman" which should have, in the ordinary course of things, followed within fifteen minutes of this train, did not arrive at all, and news soon reached penzance that the fast train was snowed up, but in what spot was only ascertained with much difficulty. a train was at once got ready, and on it mr. blair, the station-master, mr. ivey, the superintendent of the locomotive department, mr. glover, and a breakdown gang, proceeded to camborne, which was reached about noon on tuesday, it having taken about nine hours to accomplish a journey of thirteen miles. all the way along huge drifts of snow were met with, completely blocking the passage, and at frequent intervals the way had to be literally cut through the drifts by the men of the breakdown gang. thus, with great difficulty, hayle was reached, and from thence to camborne the task became almost overpowering. here the open country favoured the accumulation of snow, and the drifts were immense. in a deep cutting, close to gwinear station, was encountered a drift of about eighty yards long and nine feet deep. on at length reaching camborne it was discovered that the missing 8·45 train had left redruth at about ten o'clock on monday night--an hour and a half late. the storm was then at its height, and the snow was driving with such force that only very slight progress could be made. the train passed carn brea safely, but when within sight of camborne station, close to stray park, the engine left the metals, running on the south side, and finally bringing up at a hedge against which it lay on its side. fortunately, at the time of the occurrence, speed was slow, and nothing more serious than some damage to the rolling stock, and the inconvenient detention of the twenty or thirty passengers occurred. these included five ladies, who were taken to the house of mr. maurice reed, the station master at camborne, the gentlemen of the party having good opportunities of finding comfortable quarters in the hotels of the town. another train was embedded in fifteen feet of snow on the helston branch line from gwinear road to helston, and the guard, engine-driver, and stoker, with their one passenger, were compelled to abandon the train and seek shelter in a neighbouring farm-house. while great inconvenience and discomfort was caused by the blizzard on the cornish railways as a whole, no fatalities were reported, and the work of clearing the lines, great and arduous as it was, was accomplished in less time than in the districts above plymouth, and in the vicinity of dartmoor. communication between plymouth and cornwall was opened up some days earlier than that with totnes, exeter, and other towns. the scene here depicted shows the depth of snow in this neighbourhood, and is from a photograph by a. leamon, esq., of liskeard. [illustration: main road between liskeard and torpoint.] above exeter things were not so bad. in the tiverton district the effects of the blizzard were rather severely felt, and communication between some towns was for the time cut off. the railway authorities were very active, and gangs of men were sent up from exeter on tuesday to clear the lines, but they could do little more than keep the points clear for shunting, watch the signals, and fix detonators where required, the driving snow being so blinding, and the coldness of the bitter wind so intense. the difficulties of the neighbourhood commenced on monday evening at the whitehall tunnel, when the pilot, in front of the express, got off the line. daylight came before a gang of packers sent from taunton could effect a clearance, and instead of passing at ten o'clock on monday night, the express only struggled into tiverton junction, with two engines attached, at half-past six on tuesday morning. the night mail, and the north mail followed some hours after, and managed to get through to exeter, but after that, until wednesday morning at eleven o'clock, no train could leave the junction. after being snowed up for some hours at burlescombe, the first part of the newspaper train reached tiverton at half-past ten on tuesday night. the train was stopped at the home signal, and so intense was the cold that the machinery was, in a few minutes, frozen, and the train could not enter the station. the ladies--mostly for plymouth--who were in the train, were carried on chairs by porters and packers to the adjacent railway hotel, where they, and some of the male passengers, were able to obtain beds for the night. the train remained in the same position until wednesday morning. in a siding also stood a slow train, which should have reached tiverton on tuesday at ten in the morning, but which did not get in until the afternoon. the passengers by this train were transferred to the first down-train that was got out from tiverton on wednesday. the second part of the newspaper train remained at burlescombe all monday night. the store of provisions in the hamlet was already exhausted, and although as much as a guinea was offered for a bed by some of the passengers, neither food nor sleeping accommodation could be obtained. a very uncomfortable night was passed in consequence, and many of the ladies suffered severely from hunger and exposure. h.r.h. the duke of edinburgh, on his way to devonport, was snow-bound at taunton on tuesday night, but with about two hundred other passengers, was able to proceed on his journey at the end of the week. his royal highness afterwards conveyed to the directors of the company his appreciation of the courtesy and attention he received from the officials and servants of the great western railway, on his journey during the gale and snowstorm, and during his detention at taunton, on march 11th and 12th, and particularly thanked the taunton station-master for his services. at brent, one of the most exposed railway towns on dartmoor, the zulu, from london, which was due at plymouth at 8·55 on monday night, came to grief, and a number of passengers spent several days of that week in this very bleak locality. especial discomfort appears to have prevailed here, probably on account of the difficulty of obtaining assistance or information from any neighbouring town, and from the limited resources for personal comfort that the town afforded. there can be no doubt that the experiences of the first two days and nights must have been wretched in the extreme. after two hours waiting in the carriages, in a state of considerable doubt as to what was to happen, the travellers found themselves at length at the brent station. here there was neither refreshment nor accommodation, but the hotels of the town were made for. quarters were difficult to obtain, however, as a large number of contractors men working on the new line of railway were residing in the place. on monday night many passengers lay upon the floor, using their overcoats for pillows, and their rugs for coverings. a mr. stumbles, a commercial traveller, who was one of the brent unfortunates, gave an account of his experiences to a representative of the _western morning news_, which has led to much subsequent controversy, and to a shower of letters, conveying many diverse opinions, being sent in to the editor of that paper. it appears that there were about forty passengers in the train, and that many of these remained at the station all night, either in the train or in the waiting-room. next day brent was visited, and refreshments were bought at, as mr. stumbles says, famine prices. the account referred to goes on to say:--"one gentleman bought a bottle of brandy, for which he had to pay 6_s._, the inns charged us double price for ordinary meals, and some establishments refused to supply us at all, probably thinking that a famine was impending. we returned to the station as best we could, through the great drifts of snow, and, with such provisions as we could buy, did the best we could, cooking such things as bloaters in the station waiting-room. our scanty supply, i must say, was most generously supplemented from the small stores which the railway officials, such as signalmen and others, had with them. there were a number of sailors and soldiers amongst the passengers, and most of them were without means. one gentleman gave them a sovereign, and ladies from brent also brought them money, tobacco, and provisions during our stay. on the following monotonous days we spent our time in smoking and in conversation, and also in 'chaffing' the station-master, whom we christened 'dr. parr.' on wednesday an enterprising amateur photographer from brent took several views of our snowed-up train, with the eighteen or twenty passengers who stuck by it perched in various prominent positions upon it. we all united in praising the minor officials, and the men in charge of the train, for remaining faithful to us, and excused the want of sympathy of 'dr. parr' on account of his age. the driver kept the fires of his engine going all the time, but his boilers had to be filled with water by hand, and in this work valuable assistance was readily given by the soldiers and marines in the train. just before we were enabled to leave brent, we were visited for the first time by the clergyman of the parish, and our final leave-taking was celebrated by three sarcastic cheers for 'dr. parr' and for 'brent.' the passengers in this train included lieutenant rice, of the essex regiment; mr. r. bayly, j.p., of plymouth (who succeeded in getting through to his home on wednesday) miss sykes, and a nurse who was travelling from scarborough to the south devon and east cornwall hospital, plymouth." it is only fair to the station-master at brent, and to the residents of the town generally, to repeat that this description has been extensively contradicted, and among others, by mr. robert bayly, of plymouth, who was another of the detained passengers. mr. stumbles, however, has adhered to his description, and in more than one instance his version has been supported. among other interesting details of the week in brent, is the account of the arrival of the first newspaper, a copy of the _western morning news_, which was brought over from totnes on the thursday morning by an adventurous policeman, who successfully undertook the dangerous walk. this paper was eagerly sought after, it having been the first account of the doings in the outer world seen since monday, and one of the enforced sojourners in brent is said to have paid five shillings for the use of the paper for one hour. the fortunate possessor of the journal declared that he had been offered two pounds for it, and had declined to trade. at totnes a number of passengers were detained, among them being a reporter of the _western morning news_, who went to the town on monday to report a meeting, and was only released on the following friday night. a number of passengers who left friary station, plymouth, by the 3·47 p.m. south western train on thursday, were taken into tavistock on the following day, after having spent the night at lydford. instances innumerable of the same character occurring on the launceston and other lines could be related, but as their points of interest bear such a strong resemblance to each other, it is unnecessary to proceed further with them. thursday, march 12th, was a day of very severe weather, and the efforts of the hundreds of men working on the various lines to clear the snow and also to release some of the buried trains were seriously retarded. by the end of the week, however, things were beginning to assume their normal aspect, and the trains were running with tolerable punctuality. the telegraph service, in a deplorable condition of collapse throughout the week, was restored, and the masses of accumulated correspondence in the post offices were sent on to their destinations. the labour of clearing the lines was as dangerous as it was arduous, and unhappily an accident, proving fatal to one man, occurred during the operations on the great western railway at ivybridge. work was being carried on at this spot under the superintendence of mr. c. e. compton, and a number of men were engaged in getting an engine on to the line, when a train dashed round a curve among the workmen killing one, named william stentiford, of plymouth, and seriously injuring two others. the lamentable occurrence was purely accidental, and that this was the only fatal occurrence during the whole of the operations of this most trying week indicates the care that was taken by all those engaged on the railways from the highest officials downwards. such an experience was never before met with, and it was a matter of congratulation that those in power were able to cope with the difficulties as well as they did. no doubt some practical lessons were learnt during the operations, and should such a visitation unhappily occur in the west of england on any future occasion, the experience gained during this terrible week will not be without value. chapter iv. at sea. sad and disastrous as were the effects of the blizzard on land on the night of monday, march 9th, they were in most cases of a nature more or less reparable. at sea, however, the case was different, and from the afternoon of the day on which the storm commenced to the end of the week wrecks, resulting in the loss of over fifty lives, were strewn along the coast from start point to falmouth. in most cases, such was the fury of the gale, but little help could be afforded from the shore. generally, to launch a boat or to use a rocket apparatus was out of the question, and those on the shore, anxious to send help to the doomed vessels, had great difficulty in escaping from being blown into the sea. in many instances gallant services were rendered, and all that courage and self-sacrifice could do with the hope of saving life was accomplished; but the time was one of no common peril, and on the tuesday lives were lost in full view of the cliffs upon the rocky fringes of which the vessels had been driven. in plymouth sound, and the hamoaze, well protected as they are from the gales of winter, much damage was done on monday night. in addition to the accident to the _lion_ and _implacable_, and the critical position of the queen's harbour-master's cutter already briefly described, the _julia_, a small coastguard cutter, moored inside drake's island, parted her moorings during the early hours of tuesday morning, and went ashore on bottle nose, a point eastward of devil's point. she was badly knocked about, but there were no men on board at the time. whilst the heavy squalls were on tuesday morning the _impregnable_, training-ship for boys, captain harris; the _cambridge_, gunnery school ship, captain carr, and the _achilles_, battle ship, all dragged their moorings, but not to any alarming extent. staff-captain burniston, who, with the dockyard tugs under his command, was afloat during the whole of monday night, and on tuesday, under very trying circumstances, succeeded in getting out fresh anchors and hawsers to make the vessels secure for the night, a course which was wisely adopted, as the hurricane showed no signs of abating, there being, on the contrary, another great fall in the barometer. the men who were on board the tugs on monday night, speak of the weather as being the worst that they ever experienced, and the manner in which they did their work under such trying circumstances was, as was the case so frequently throughout that, and several succeeding days, most praiseworthy. considerable damage was done during monday night to many of the hookers belonging to the fishermen of kingsand and cawsand. the full force of the blizzard was experienced in cawsand bay, and ten of the hookers which had been moored up for the night were driven ashore and sunk. the only boat which rode out the storm was a craft owned by mr. andrews of cawsand. a pilot boat went ashore in one of the little coves just south of the coastguard station, and a small fishing vessel was wrecked close under lady emma's cottage, at mount edgcumbe. the captain of the norwegian galliot _falken_, from shields, with coal for portugal which was found on tuesday off fowey, by the tug _belle of plymouth_, half full of water, and with her sails blown away, stated at the time that on monday his vessel was caught in a kind of small cyclone, and that whilst about twenty miles south-west of start point he had a strange experience. the vessel was being driven along at a furious rate by a north-easterly gale, whilst ahead, within sight, a westerly wind was blowing. this bears out the theory of the cyclone to some extent, as on other parts of the coast the gale was found to blow only from the north-east or south-east, in rapid changes. the channel was very rough at the time, and the vessel was greatly endangered. on tuesday the boats were smashed, and the sails carried away. pumps were manned, and kept working so long as the crew could hold out, the endeavour being to reach one of the ports. it was while the _falken_ was in this condition that the _belle_ came opportunely to her assistance, and towed her into plymouth harbour, where she was laid up alongside bulteel's wharf, in the cattewater, to discharge her cargo and be repaired. several of the lowestoft boats, and other fishing vessels which had been out in the channel on the monday night, returned to plymouth on tuesday, and reported having experienced very bad weather. the sudden squalls encountered were terrific, and the oldest fishermen on board declared that they had never experienced such violent weather on the devonshire coast. during the height of the storm the schooner _alice brookall_, from swansea to jersey with coals, ran ashore at mutton cove, near godevy hayle. she ran so far in that the crew--five in number--managed to drop from the bowsprit on to the rocks. the poor fellows had to pass the night exposed to the fury of the storm, with no other protection than they could mutually afford each other by huddling together. at daybreak they climbed the cliffs, and managed to reach the shelter of a farm-house. the vessel soon went to pieces. the schooner _perseverance_, of preston, dandy, master, from swansea to salcombe, with coals, ran ashore a mile east of hayle bar. the crew of four remained by her during the night, and landed at daybreak. both vessels experienced fearful weather on the way down channel, the sea running mountains high. no one knew of their position until twenty-four hours after they struck. at exmouth, dawlish, and teignmouth, although the force of the wind was great, and all three towns sustained damage, there were no calamities at sea. great injury was done to the pleasure and fishing boats at both of the latter places, but teignmouth was not so unfortunate as dawlish in this respect. its harbour is almost land-locked, and from the beach where the boats are moored, as well as from the quays, the eye glances north-west and south-west upon a beautiful picture of river scenery, of which the distant dartmoor hills and the haldon heights form the background. the accompanying illustration, from a photograph by messrs. valentine & son, of teignmouth, taken during the week of the blizzard, depicts one part of this scene in as wintry a garb as any it has worn during the last half century. the village of shaldon, on the opposite side of the teign, lies exposed to a s.e. gale blowing across the low-lying sands of the teignmouth "point," and here the owners of fishing and other craft had much to lament in the way of destruction to their floating property. [illustration: teignmouth jetty, with haldon heights.] in torbay a french brig, the _emilie_, of cherbourg, was driven ashore at hogg's cove, under berry head, at about four o'clock on tuesday afternoon. the coastguards and royal naval reserve, under the direction of mr. drayton, chief officer of coastguard, and assisted by a large number of fishermen, got out the rocket apparatus, and the crew, eight in number, were quickly landed. they were at once invited to the house of the misses hogg, at berry head, and provided with refreshments. the vessel was badly injured, and became a total wreck. the ketch _sunshine_, of faversham, from london to exmouth, with manure, was fallen in with on thursday at noon, by the brixham fishing ketch _inter-nos_, berry head bearing north-west, and distant twenty-five miles. she had her mainsail blown away, and her boats and water-casks washed overboard. when fallen in with, the crew were without water to drink, and their vessel was labouring heavily in the trough of the sea. the _sunshine_ was taken in tow by the _inter-nos_, £250 being agreed upon for the service, and both vessels arrived at brixham on the same night. the fishing ketch _gertrude_ arrived in brixham on thursday, having on her deck the boat of the _crusader_, of aberystwith, which she had picked up in the channel with eight hands on her, and landed at falmouth on friday. the ketch _annie_ also arrived, with sails blown away, and her ballast shifted. the _olive & mary_ and the _pickwick_, ketches, had their sails blown away and their bulwarks damaged. all the crews described the gale as the heaviest they had ever been out in, and one skipper stated that he had seen four vessels founder without being able to render assistance. later news has not, however, verified this story. some trawlers were reported during the week as missing from brixham, but in course of time anxiety on their account was removed, and they either reached home or news of their safety was received from other ports to which they had run for shelter. some plymouth trawlers were also in difficulties, and it was feared that they had been wrecked, but in a few days their whereabouts was ascertained, and it was discovered that they had escaped with somewhat severe damage. start point was on monday night and again on the succeeding tuesday a scene of some heartrending disasters. many vessels, including the iron steamer _marana_, 1,682 tons register, belonging to messrs. george bell and co. of liverpool; and the full-rigged ship _dryad_, 1,035 tons register, owned by j. b. walmsley, of water street, liverpool, were totally wrecked within a short distance of each other, resulting, it is calculated, in an aggregate loss of over fifty lives. the _marana_ left victoria dock, london, at 11 a.m. on sunday, march 1st, with a crew of twenty-eight. she was bound for colombo with a cargo of sleepers, but was proceeding first to swansea for coal. whilst going down channel on monday night she encountered the gale which, charged with blinding snow, was blowing heavily from the s.e., and struck on the blackstone rock, at start point. seeing that the vessel must go to pieces very shortly, the officers and crew took to the boats, most of them having life-belts on. the starboard lifeboat, in charge of the boatswain and with twenty-two men on board, proceeded in the direction of prawle point, and was almost immediately followed by a smaller boat in which were the captain, the chief engineer, the mess-room steward, and three seamen. the latter boat was soon separated from the lifeboat, and was never seen again. the lifeboat got under the coastguard station at prawle, but the appearance of the coast was threatening, and the crew pushed off again. almost immediately a sea struck the boat and capsized her. a bitter struggle for life on the part of the twenty immersed seamen succeeded, and those who had clung to the boat managed to get her righted, and clambered on board, but soon after she was again turned over. once more she righted, and eventually drifted on to the mal rock to the east of prawle point, where the four occupants--all that remained of the crew of the vessel--contrived to get on to the rocks. after a while they climbed the cliff, three of them carrying the fourth survivor, who was suffering from exhaustion and injuries, and after heavy toil they managed to get near to prawle. here two of the men agreed to remain with the shipmate, who to all appearance was fast succumbing to exhaustion, while the other went into the village for help. the man, like his three surviving comrades, was a swede, and consequently unable to make himself understood, but mr. perry, lloyd's signalman at prawle, and the coastguardsman on duty, supplied him with food and clothing, and then went to search for traces of the wreck which had clearly taken place not far off. it was not until long past midnight that the mates of the swede were discovered, and then it was too late to save the exhausted man, who died almost immediately after their arrival. the remaining survivors were taken into prawle, and under kind treatment soon recovered. mrs. briggs, wife of one of the lighthouse keepers at the start, says that she was looking out of her window a little after half-past five o'clock on monday evening, when she saw the steamer pass very close to the east side of start point as if she had come out from the bay. seeing her great danger, and thinking it was impossible for her to clear the rocks running off from the point, she hastened to another window, from which she had a view of the blackstone rocks. she then saw the steamer broadside on to the rocks. she at once gave an alarm to mr. jones, the head-keeper, who hurried out to give any assistance in his power, but within a very few minutes the vessel parted in two, the stern part sinking near the rocks, while the fore part washed away and sank a short distance to the west of the start. mr. crickett, chief officer of coastguards at hallsands, has stated that he received intelligence of the casualty at 6·40 p.m. by a messenger sent by mr. jones, of the start lighthouse, who said the vessel had struck the rocks about 500 yards south-east of the start. he immediately despatched a messenger to prawle, a distance of nearly five miles, for the life-saving apparatus. another messenger he sent to torcross to mr. ridge, the chief officer of coastguards there, and mr. crickett then proceeded to the scene of the wreck, but on arriving, nothing could be seen of the vessel, as she had totally disappeared, and she was supposed to have gone to pieces five minutes after she struck. the coastguard at hallsands say that they saw the _marana_ fully an hour before she struck, and she was then near the skerries bank, off the start, acting in such a manner that they considered her steering gear was out of order. they saw her come into the bay and afterwards go out again, and watched her very closely, but they thought she had gone clear of the start until they heard otherwise from the lighthouse-keepers. john nelson, one of the survivors, said in the course of his evidence at the inquest held on the first eight bodies recovered from the wreck:--"on monday, 9th inst., i had tea at five o'clock, and went to my bunk. it was the first mate's watch. as i was turning into my bunk i heard someone shout out, 'land right ahead.' it was blowing a bit stiff in the afternoon at three o'clock, and as the gale increased the canvas was taken in. the vessel struck almost immediately after i heard the shout, and the engines were going full-speed at the time. i came out and stood in the forecastle door. the captain was then on the bridge. the vessel struck first at the bow. when i came on deck she struck aft as well, knocking her propeller and rudder away. the captain then gave the order to get the starboard lifeboat ready for launching. all the three officers were on the bridge. the wind was blowing hard, and the waves were dashing all over the ship. it was daylight, but the start light was lit. we could see the land plainly enough, although it was thick with heavy rain. there were two lifeboats, one on each side of the ship, and two smaller boats. we lowered the lifeboat and got into it, some 20 or 22 being in it, and got away from the ship on the starboard side. the boat was in charge of the boatswain, and the second and third engineers and the chief steward were in the boat. we left on board the captain, the three mates, the chief engineer, and the mess-room steward. just as we were turning to get clear of the rocks, we looked at the ship, and saw the captain and the others leave in the other boat on the starboard side. they got safely away from the ship. after the vessel struck we hoisted a red pennant with a white ball as a signal of distress. when we got away it was getting dark, and we saw nothing of the other boat afterwards, but supposed they were following us. we pulled in shore to a kind of bay, but not thinking it safe to land, we went out of that. we could see nothing but rocks on our coming down, and in getting out of the bay our boat capsized. there was a very heavy sea running up against the rocks. we got hold of the keel of the boat, some twelve or fourteen of us that remained, and then the boat turned over again. after that only four or five of us remained sticking to the boat. we stuck to the boat until she broke up on the rocks. when i let go the boat i could feel the rocks with my feet, and i then walked on shore. there were four of us that came on shore, but i could see nothing of any others. when we got on shore we walked to a brake and got shelter. we had to help rasmossen up, as he had no boots on. he was living half an hour before the coastguards found us, but we had been on shore a long time before they found us--about five or six hours." many of the bodies of the unfortunate men were washed ashore within a few days, and not far from the spot where the vessel went down. all of them were not identified, as the survivors had joined the ship too recently to be acquainted with all the officers and crew. another serious calamity in start bay occurred during monday night, and not many hours later than the wreck of the _marana_, when the ship _dryad_, bound for valparaiso, with a crew of 22 hands all told, went ashore about a mile to the eastward of start point. when the ship went on shore mr. hewett, with the life-saving apparatus, had left hallsands for prawle, from whence rumours of disaster had been brought, and he had got as far as chevilstone cross when he was overtaken by a mounted messenger despatched by the chief officer of the coastguard at torcross, who desired him to return to the start to the assistance of the _dryad_. he got to the scene of the wreck at half-past two in the morning. by that time the vessel had broken up, all her masts having gone overboard, and but little of her could be discerned in the darkness. the place where she struck was right under the high land of the start where the cliffs are very precipitous. with regard to this vessel, the coastguardsmen say that they saw no signals of distress whatever, and it has been considered probable that she was proceeding with a fair wind down channel, and no land being visible in the snow-filled gloom of the night, those on board were unconscious of their proximity to the land until they found themselves on the rocks. in this case there was, perhaps, no time to show distress signals, and the ship may have been some time ashore before she was discovered by the coastguards. about midnight on the ninth, the storm was at its height, and all men of start bay agree that they never remember such a violent storm, the water of the bay being one mass of foam, it being almost impossible to look to the windward. mr. jones, the head keeper of the star lighthouse, says he was standing in the yard by his home a little after midnight, looking in the direction of the bay, when he saw right under the headland, and close to the start, what he considered to be a ship's lights. he called the other keepers, and as well as they were able they got down to the place where they saw the lights. it was at the risk of their lives that they went down the cliffs, and it was only by holding on to each other they were prevented from being blown away. when they got down they could not discover a vestige of anything, neither did they hear a cry of any sort. the coastguards at hallsands also saw lights, and fired off a rocket and burned a blue light to warn the ship of her danger, but the vessel's lights were only seen a few minutes before they disappeared. in spite of all the efforts of those on shore no trace of a ship could be seen, and it was not until daybreak the next morning that a man was discovered lying on a low rock, known as john hatherley's nose, some 500 yards from the spot where the _dryad_ ultimately proved to have struck. help was at once sought for, and mr. briggs, one of the keepers, and mr. pollyblank, the coastguard, then returned to the rock with ropes. they threw the rope on to the rocks, which fell only about a foot away from the sailor. he saw it and then slid down, evidently with the intention to secure the rope, but he seemed to be afraid, and instead of slipping on the lower ledge of the rock where the rope was, he climbed on the top of the rock again, and laid himself flat on it on his face and hands. he then seemed to lose his hold, and slid down, holding on to the rocks for several seconds, when he fell head over heels, and was washed away and drowned. those trying to rescue him, seeing how exhausted he was, had fetched a ladder to get to him, and mr. briggs fastened a rope to himself to swim out to him, but in the meantime he was washed away. he was a young man. grave doubts were expressed as to what vessel he came from, for it seems almost impossible he could have got to the rocks from the _dryad_; and there was some wreckage visible near the rocks that did not appear to have belonged to the _dryad_. the coastguards at hallsands said distinctly that the lights they saw were a steamer's lights, whilst there is no doubt that the lights the lighthouse-keepers saw were those of the _dryad_. only a piece of the bow of the _dryad_ was discovered in the morning, but a large mass of broken wreckage was discovered along the coast, and tons of it were washed out to sea by the next tide. eight bodies were recovered, and friends of those composing the crew of the _dryad_ journeyed to hallsands for the purpose of identifying their friends or relatives. there were no survivors, and consequently no details are known, but a statement has been made that the channel pilot had warned the captain that the ship's compass was two points out. whilst mr. crickett and some of the coastguards under his charge at hallsands were at the start point on the night of the 9th, trying to render assistance to the stranded steamship _marana_, they saw a light in the bay, and they answered it by burning a blue light, and one of the coastguards was sent back to try and discover the place the light proceeded from. on the remainder of the coastguards returning to hallsands shortly after, a light was seen near beesands, and on reaching that place they found the schooner _lunesdale_ stranded. mr. ridge, the chief officer of coastguards stationed at torcross, had arrived with some of his men, and they, with the assistance of the beesands fishermen, were trying to effect a communication with the vessel. the captain was in the fore starboard rigging, and the remainder of the crew, four in number, were in the starboard mizen rigging. all these men were thus on the weather side of the ship, and the captain not being so exposed from his position as the others, succeeded with the utmost difficulty in getting round to the other, or shore side of the vessel. a fisherman named roper, of beesands, then at the risk of his own life, made a desperate effort to save the captain. he got a line with a lead attached to it, and threw it close to the captain's feet, the latter succeeding, after a frantic effort, to fasten the line to a lifebuoy, and attached himself to it, and was then safely hauled on shore. the other seamen were not so successful in changing their positions, and in their endeavours they were washed away and drowned. all this time the seas were breaking right over the vessel. the coastguards and fishermen remained by the vessel for nearly an hour afterwards, shouting to see if they could get any response from the crew, but getting none, all hope of saving them was given up. when it was found that the prawle life-saving apparatus, in charge of mr. hewett, could be of no service to the _marana_, a message was left at start farm for it to be brought on to beesands to the help of the _lunesdale_, but it arrived too late to be of any service. the _lunesdale_ was a three-masted schooner of 141 tons register, owned by messrs. james fisher & sons, of barrow, and was bound from london to a lancashire port. while efforts were being made at beesands to save the crew of the _lunesdale_, a schooner named _lizzie ellen_, 73 tons register, and belonging to mr. samuel coppack, of chester, with a cargo of clay from charlestown for london, went on shore just opposite hallsands. in spite of the tremendous force of the wind and the blinding spray and snow six fishermen, named t. trout, george stone, robert trout, james lynn, william mitchell, and john patey, at the imminent peril of their lives, made a gallant effort to rescue the crew of the vessel, which consisted of four hands. with great difficulty, and by the aid of ropes, these men succeeded in lowering themselves to the bottom of the cliff. by throwing lines on board the schooner the mate and the third hand were saved, but the captain and the boy were lost. the captain, robert dood, urged the boy, who was crying bitterly, to jump over into the sea, with the chance of being drawn on shore, but he could not persuade him to take the leap. at length the captain jumped himself, but at the wrong time, and he was carried out by a receding wave. the boy, frank davis, also perished. for some time after this week of tempest, all along the coast from prawle to the start, could be seen broken wreckage. such was the fury of the gale that everything seemed split to matchwood. it is supposed that other wrecks than those of which some knowledge has been obtained occurred on this eventful night. mr. crickett, a coastguardsman, picked up on the following saturday a board bearing the words "nymph of t----," it being broken off at the letter t, and it is conjectured that this may belong to one of the vessels referred to. a painful sequel to the wreck of the _marana_ occurred on wednesday, march 18th, nine days after the catastrophe. a molecatcher of prawle found at about half-past eleven, in a field half a mile from a village named furze brake, and about a quarter of a mile from the sea, the body of a man. the corpse was lying flat upon its face, and was clothed in an oil-skin coat in addition to the ordinary kind of seaman's dress. a life-belt was lying close by, and the locality was not more than a hundred yards from the spot where the two survivors from the _marana_ had been found supporting to the best of their power their dying comrade. unknown to the other survivors this man must have succeeded in reaching the shore, but only to die. undoubtedly he walked in search of help and shelter until he sank from exhaustion, and was covered with a fall of snow thick enough to screen his body from view until a thaw had set in. the inquests held on the bodies of those unfortunate seamen who lost their lives in the vicinity of the start have had the effect of a communication being made to the board of trade as to the necessity of life-saving apparatus being placed at hallsands. in the face of a hurricane of almost unprecedented force, many gallant and eager attempts were made to save life, but with only a very limited measure of success, owing as much to the want of suitable appliances as to the rugged character of the coast, and the merciless fury of the gale. along the coast, in the neighbourhood of falmouth, which from its exposed position was fully open to the strength of the blizzard, there were more disastrous wrecks, and here also the loss of life was great. the most serious calamity occurred at about half-past one on tuesday morning, and was that which, at penare point, near helford river, befell the four-masted steel ship _bay of panama_, of london, 2,282 tons register. this vessel, owned by the bullock's bay line, was from calcutta, with a cargo of 17,000 bales of jute for dundee. the captain, david wright, of liverpool, his wife, all but one of the six officers, four apprentices, and six of the crew, were either frozen to death in the rigging or drowned. this made a loss of eighteen lives out of a company of about forty all told. at the village of st. keverne, not far from penare point, it became known at about noon on tuesday that a wreck had occurred at the mouth of the helford river, and from there the first news of what had occurred was conveyed into falmouth, with great courage, and in the face of tremendous difficulties, by mr. j. h. james, of old vicarage, st. keverne. at one o'clock, mr. james started on his pony for helston in the midst of a terrible snowstorm. his intention was to telegraph to falmouth, but all the wires were down, and communication was impossible except on foot. this he undertook, and by dauntless perseverance at length accomplished; but his experiences during the journey are among the most thrilling personal incidents connected with the gale. after proceeding for about two miles, he could only get along by crawling on his hands and knees through the snow, and his face had become coated with snow, and icicles hung from his ears. he at last found shelter at a wayside cottage, and at daybreak next morning again set out, reaching falmouth at 9 o'clock, and giving information to messrs. broad and sons, who sent out steamers to the scene of the wreck. the _bay of panama_ was discovered with her head to the north, broadside on to the sea, and jammed under the nare head, close against the cliff. her mainmast was gone, and the sea was making clean breaches right over her. fortunately for the survivors clinging to the stranded ship, before mr. james had started on his adventurous journey to falmouth, on tuesday morning, the rocket apparatus, in charge of the coastguard, who were aroused by mr. nicholls, of penare, had reached the scene from helford. the first rocket fired threw a line right over the ship, and within fifteen minutes the whole of the survivors were safely on shore. chief boatman fisher, of the coastguard, went on board the vessel after the hands taken off to see if any one was left alive, but his self-sacrifice was without result. accounts of survivors, including those of mr. fred evans, boatswain's mate, mr. charles higgins, quartermaster, and mr. beresford, apprentice, relate that the _bay of panama_ was 111 days from calcutta when she struck. there had been forty-two days of severe weather before reaching the western end of the english channel, and here severe snowstorms and heavy squalls were encountered. at half-past eleven on sunday night they sighted a light, and being in a position of danger they burned several blue lights, the captain thinking the light came from a steamer. the vessel was now drifting to leeward without a stitch of canvas on her, and the captain soon expressed the opinion that they were to leeward of the lizard and clear of all land. at half-past twelve the watch went below, put on some clean clothes, and got into their bunks. the captain remained on deck, his wife being in her cabin. within an hour from this time the ship struck and began rapidly to fill. most of those who had been below went forward, though the forecastle had been burst in, and was flooded. seas were breaking over the vessel, and nearly all the officers were early swept away. the second officer went to fetch a rocket, and was never seen again. attempts were made to get a line on shore, and one seaman is said to have volunteered to swim the distance, but the former was found impracticable, and in the latter case the other seamen held their comrade back. some of the crew took refuge in the rigging, and at daybreak the second quartermaster died there, the mate died an hour after, and the boatswain, in a state of delirium, jumped from the mizzen-top into the sea and was drowned. just before six o'clock in the morning, the after-end of the ship broke in two, the mainmast having previously fallen. it is said that, at the time the rescuing party arrived on the scene, six men were frozen in the rigging. the survivors were taken to st. keverne farm, which they reached at half-past ten on tuesday morning, and where they were kindly treated. they remained there until four in the afternoon, when they were conveyed to gweek in a 'bus. from here it was absolutely necessary for them to walk to falmouth through the snow, and as many of them were thinly clad, and had no boots, their trials were not over until falmouth was reached, where messrs. jewell and burton, and mr. and mrs. weir, of the royal cornwall sailors' home, treated them with all the kindness and attention they so much needed. most of the bodies from the _bay of panama_ were recovered, that of the captain's wife having been found lying on the shore early on the morning of the wreck. though this was the most serious wreck near falmouth, it was far from being the only one. reports of wrecks and loss of life continued to be received for many days following the beginning of the gale on monday. near porthoustock, on monday night, the sloop _dove_, of topsham, was lost, but in this case the crew were saved. the _dove_ left exmouth bight on march 8th, arriving at plymouth breakwater early on monday morning. just after daybreak, in company with several other vessels, she left for falmouth. there was a strong wind blowing, which, as time went on, increased with much violence, and was followed by a blinding snowstorm. the captain and mate of the _dove_, who were both at the helm, could, they said afterwards, scarcely see their hands before them. at about three o'clock in the afternoon the vessel was near the manacle rocks, and off porthoustock cove, and here, while in a most critical situation, the tremendous sea lifted the little craft clean over the rocks, and she was washed up on the beach. the skipper threw his little boy overboard, he and his mate following in the same way, and all were rescued by those persons on shore. near the same spot, the ketch _aquilon_, of jersey, and the ketch _edwin_, were reported lost with all hands. the steamer _stannington_, from newport to exeter with a cargo of potatoes, broke her shaft on monday off the longships, and was towed into falmouth on wednesday afternoon. the barque _frith_, of lorne, 333 tons, from hamburg to glasgow, in ballast, was in a critical condition on tuesday, about ten miles south of the lizard. she slipped from the tug towing her, and was on her beam ends, and fast making water, when she was picked up by the s.s. _anglesea_, of liverpool, and towed into falmouth. a german steamer, the _carl hirschberg_, from hamburg to cardiff in ballast, drove ashore at portscatho. the schooner _agnes and helen_, of beaumaris, went ashore on tuesday morning in bream bay. a steamship named the _dundela_, from st. michael for hull, with fruit, was totally wrecked at portloe, near falmouth, on monday night. all the crew, except a boy named taylor, who was lost, were brought ashore over the rocks by the aid of the fishermen and coastguard, who contrived to get a line from the shore to the vessel. the brig _crusader_, of aberystwith, from carnarvon, with slate for hamburg, was abandoned at one o'clock on tuesday off trevose head, with seven feet of water in her hold. the _crusader_ left carnarvon at nine o'clock on monday morning, in fine weather. it remained fine up to six o'clock the same evening, when severe weather was encountered. at nine o'clock, off the bishop, it was blowing a gale, and the brig was fast making water. the pumps were kept going until one o'clock on tuesday afternoon, when it was found impossible to keep the water under. the brig was therefore abandoned, having seven feet of water in her hold. the captain and crew, seven all told, took to the boat, in which they were tossed about for nineteen hours, enduring great privation. the weather was bitterly cold, and the men were almost frozen. one of the crew, thomas owen, succumbed to his sufferings at four o'clock on wednesday morning. "another two hours in the boat," remarked captain williams, "and we should have all perished." to keep the boat from being swamped, she rode with sea-anchor out, and everything was thrown overboard, including spare clothes. at eight o'clock on wednesday morning, when thoroughly exhausted, they were fortunately picked up by the fishing smack _gertrude_, about thirty miles off the land, and arrived at falmouth on the same day. the crew were received at the sailors' home. the crew of the netherlands barque _magellan_ were taken into falmouth on the evening of sunday, march 16th, the vessel having foundered on the previous thursday in the channel, in lat. 47·48 n., long. 6·53 w. a large number of minor accidents at sea occurred on this part of the coast, and while the channel outside contained numerous traces of floating wreckage, disabled vessels of all descriptions were either being towed or making their way into falmouth. rumours of missing vessels were being continually received, and the time was one of great anxiety. all the help that could be given was needed for those who had escaped with their lives, and others who were known to be still at sea, probably in situations of peril, and this assistance was very willingly afforded. most efficient and welcome aid was rendered by the local branch of the shipwrecked mariners' aid society to the distressed crews. the captain and crew of the _crusader_ (six men), the crew of the _agnes and helen_, the crew of the _dungella_ (eleven men), and the survivors of the crew of the _bay of panama_ (sixteen men) were provided with free railway passes to their several homes, and each man supplied with food for the journey, by the hon. agent of the society at that port (mr. f. h. earle), who also boarded, lodged, and otherwise provided for the crews of the two first-named vessels, the men being more or less destitute. the homes of the men were bangor, aberystwith, and other places in wales, and london, liverpool, hull, and great yarmouth. at a public meeting held in the public hall on tuesday evening, many promises for subscriptions towards a fund in aid of the boatmen were received. some dissatisfaction was expressed that during the wrecks at porthoustock and porthalla, on march 9th, when about thirty lives were lost, no life-boat had been launched, and the national lifeboat institution sent to st. keverne, about a fortnight after the occurrence, commander biddors, r.n., who made inquiries into the matter. it appeared on investigation that some of the life-boat crew did not readily respond to the call signals, their explanation being that they did not hear or see them. when they arrived at the life-boat station the storm had increased, and it was dangerous to put to sea. a proposal for the provision of a smaller life-boat, requiring fewer oars, has been submitted to the life-boat committee. off scilly, several accidents occurred, but they were neither so numerous nor attended with the same fatal results as those on the coast further east. the ketch _aunt_, bude, was taken into plymouth in a disabled condition, and with only two of the crew that remained severely ill from frostbites. on saturday morning, 14th march, when in latitude 7·20 w., and longitude 48·7 w., about 233 miles s.sw. of scilly, the _astrea_, captain burton, sighted the _aunt_ some miles off with her sails down and flying a signal of distress. she bore down upon her, and captain burton sent alongside a boat's crew, who found the captain, h. hines, and a sailor named jewett wrapped in the mainsail in a shocking state, and scarcely able to speak. their hands and legs were also so much swollen from frostbites and exposure that they could not handle anything or lift themselves up or stand. brandy and medicine were administered to them, and after a time they sufficiently recovered to be able to inform their rescuers that the _aunt_ was ten days out from sandersfoot with coals. four days before a lad named stapleton had died from exposure, and his body was thrown overboard. a serious collision, resulting in the loss of twenty-two lives, happened during the week of the gale about 140 miles south-west of scilly, at 9 o'clock on the evening of friday the 13th march. two vessels, the _roxburg castle_, of newcastle, a steamship of 1,222 tons register, and the _british peer_, ship, 1428 tons, came into collision just as the gale that had been blowing all the week was moderating, and the steamer was struck with considerable force by the _british peer_ a little abaft the funnel. she was almost cut in two, and filled so rapidly that in about ten minutes she sank, losing twenty-two out of a total of twenty-four hands. as a further result of the collision, the _british peer_ had her bows stove in, and carried away her bowsprit, jibboom, and head gear. the forward bulkhead held good, and kept the vessel afloat. after the collision nothing could be done to save the lives of the crew of the _roxburg castle_, although their piteous cries for help were plainly heard on the _british peer_. captain tyrer, a splendid swimmer, whilst in the water combated the waves, took his clothes off in the water, and was picked up by the _british peer_, as was also one of the seamen, an a.b. the drowned men are reported to be principally from newport. after the _roxburg castle_ had sunk, the _british peer_ was fallen in with, about ninety miles south-west of the wolf rock, by the steamship _morglay_, of southampton, captain hughes, from cardiff to marseilles, and towed to off the manacles, where she was transferred to the tug _triton_, and taken into falmouth harbour. captain tyrer was very much knocked about during his swim to the _british peer_. the hamburg american company's steamship _suevia_, 2,440 tons, had a narrow escape in the channel on monday night. the _suevia_ passed the lizard on monday morning, and there were then evident indications of a coming storm. at 11 a.m. the wind began to blow heavily from the north-east, and at 2·30 p.m. it raged with hurricane fury, accompanied by a blinding snowstorm. the seas ran very high, and the ship laboured heavily. at about three o'clock, when eight miles east of the start point, the engineer reported that the lower pressure piston rod had given out, and that in consequence the machinery was disabled. an endeavour was then made to work the other engine, but unsuccessfully, and sail was then put on the vessel. by this means she was prevented from driving ashore during the terrific squalls that were blowing dead on the land. after a night and day of great danger, a schooner was sighted on tuesday afternoon, which the captain of the _suevia_ considered went down in one of the squalls. on wednesday the steamer _acme_ was fallen in with, and on her the chief officer proceeded to falmouth for assistance. during wednesday, thursday, and friday, efforts were made to repair the machinery, and these meeting at last with some success, by early on friday the vessel was headed up channel, and proceeded at a slow pace until the eddystone was sighted. the passengers of the _suevia_ were landed at plymouth, from whence they were sent on to hamburg. the distance the _suevia_ drifted from the scene of the accident until friday at noon was 125 miles, and it was very fortunate that they were able to keep clear of the coast. steamers from plymouth, london, and falmouth, the latter with the officer of the _suevia_ who had gone on shore for help, were looking for the vessel, but happily their services were not required. but for the excellent seamanship and mechanical skill of those on board, another dreadful calamity would doubtless have been added to the long list already recorded. chapter v. in town and country. ashburton.--enormous drifts fell at ashburton during the blizzard, and most of the roads were completely blocked. at holne turn, half a mile from the town, there was an enormous drift a quarter of a mile in extent, and varying in height from eight to twenty feet. railway and postal arrangements were pretty well adjusted by the end of the week, and business began to proceed as usual. there were some serious losses of stock by farmers in the neighbourhood, and apple-orchards were greatly injured. masses of snow lodged in the branches of the trees, and broke them down, many of the younger trees having every branch broken off close to the stump. in sheltered valleys the drifts of snow were so great that scarcely a tree escaped injury. bakers who supplied country residents were unable to go out to them with their supplies. barnstaple.--the chief town of north devon had a very harsh experience. traffic was for some time suspended, but the inconvenience in this respect was not nearly so great as in the south of devon and in cornwall. in the districts around barnstaple there were very heavy losses of sheep and lambs. farmers near morthoe were particularly unfortunate, nearly two hundred sheep and lambs belonging to them having perished. through roads and railways being blocked the markets were greatly interfered with, and this, besides cutting off from many of the country people their weekly supplies, was a great loss to the tradespeople of the town. bideford, which has already been referred to, did not suffer so severely as many other north devon towns. railway communication with ilfracombe was entirely suspended throughout tuesday, the 10th, but as the weather moderated the line was cleared without any very great amount of inconvenience having been experienced. bodmin.--in this important western town there was an almost entire cessation of traffic from monday afternoon until the closing days of the week. the telegraphic and train services were suspended, causing the usual amount of loss and distress. business on the tuesday was entirely suspended, snow falling heavily all day, and a large quantity of snow in the street stopped all vehicular traffic. the drifts were so high that residents who had driven from the town on monday could not return, and great anxiety was naturally felt for their safety. it was found on the following day, however, that in all cases, the travellers were safe. not infrequently they had been obliged to take the horses out of their vehicles, leave traps or carriages in the roads--often under the snow--and seek shelter in the nearest farm-house. there were very serious losses of sheep in this district. among others, losses of this description were sustained by mr. rowse, of llancarpe, mr. glanville, of pen bugle, and mr. g. spear, of bodmin. many sheep were rescued, but only after great difficulty. on thursday night there was again a heavy snowstorm, accompanied by a gale of wind, but it was neither so severe nor of such long duration as the blizzard of monday and tuesday. brent.--this moorland town has grown famous through the snowing up at its gates of the "zulu" express, from london, on the memorable monday night. snow fell there from monday afternoon to wednesday morning. a snow-plough with three engines arrived from newton abbott on thursday morning, but for some time it was not very effective, the snow being so high on either side of the line that as soon as the way was fairly clear the banks in the rear of the plough toppled over, and the line was once more blocked. the depth of the snow in the town was so great as to be frequently above the windows and doors of the houses. a road cutting scene was photographed at the time by mr. rowe, of devonport, to whom we are indebted for the view. the loss of cattle here was very great, nearly every farmer having suffered. a large number of cattle, sheep and ponies in the possession of residents of the neighbourhood grazed upon the adjacent moor, and many of the former, at all events, perished. mr. linerdon, of yelland, lost cattle to the value of over £100; mr. pinney, of diptfort, dug out 100 sheep from the snow; while mr. heath, of brent mills, mr. vooght, of lutton, and mr. s. northmore were heavy losers. mr. luscombe, of hall, harford, had on the moor 600 scotch cattle and 1,200 sheep, a large proportion of which he has not yet recovered. mr. j. smerdon, of brent, and mr. hurrell, of bradridge, lost sheep; and miss maunder, mr. b. hingston, and mr. j. hard lost ponies. until saturday the residents of binnicknowle, a village about two miles from brent, and largely dependent upon it for supplies of food, were unable to obtain provisions. on that day, however, a party of labourers succeeded in cutting a footway and thus communication was opened up. [illustration: cutting a road at brent.] brixham.--this historic fishing town, which has before now witnessed some dreadful instances of the disaster to life and property that furious gales with blinding snowstorms can bring about, was not on the occasion of the blizzard of 1891 allowed to pass off very lightly. there was no loss of life, but some rather serious injuries happened to the trawlers at their moorings. at daylight on tuesday it was seen that many of these had fouled each other, by dragging their anchors. in the inner harbour most of the craft had broken adrift, running against the quays and other places, and doing themselves all kinds of damage. one trawler, named the _alice_, which broke adrift at high tide, was carried up to the head of the harbour with her bowsprit eight feet in over the strand, close alongside the prince of orange statue. about 200 feet of the breakwater was washed away, and its pedestal was lost. timber in large quantities was washed away from the yards of the principal shipbuilders, and in addition to the wreck of the french brig, and others before mentioned, a boat was driven on the rocks at fishcombe, and the seamen's orphan home lifeboat went ashore, and was badly knocked about. in the town many houses were unroofed, and slates flew about, serious damage being also done to a wall and embankment in higher street. large quantities of glass-roofing were smashed in, and a good deal of glass was destroyed at newmarket hall. many farmers lost sheep and lambs in the snow-drifts. bude.--the outside world and bude were not so thoroughly estranged during the days succeeding the storm as was the case in some other instances, telegraphic communication remaining unbroken. all the other inconveniences of the blizzard--absence of mails, presence of immense drifts of snow, and similar discomforts--were freely experienced. there was an anxious time among the shipping interest in the port, many of the coasting vessels being at sea at the time the hurricane was raging. these vessels did not all escape without calamity, but, on the whole, the damage wrought to the shipping of bude was not great. calstock.--the mining town of calstock received some rough treatment during the monday and tuesday of the storm, and damage was here and there done to house property, but as far as the town was concerned it may be safely said to have escaped marvellously well. bearing in mind its exposed position on the river bank, and the many tall chimneys that rear their heads from the hillside, it is singular that no smash of any magnitude has to be recorded. this is all the more remarkable when the tremendous destruction that occurred in the district, and even close to the town, is considered. on the opposite side of the river, the tracks leading through the woods to buralston station were rendered nearly impassable by the number of trees that fell, and the whole wood through which the path runs was a complete wreck. mr. james, at the passage inn, from which the ferry leaves to cross to calstock, was very unfortunate, his loss being a severe one. in addition to great damage to his rose-trees, for which his house has for many years been famous, the well-known blossom-covered wicker bower, standing to the left of the house, was blown bodily away into the orchard, and almost simultaneously his cherry and apple trees began to fall. of these he lost fifty-six. one curious incident happened at the grounds of mr. james, in the apparently narrow escape of a couple of geese. the geese were sitting behind a barn, with twenty-two eggs under them. during the storm of monday, the barn having been badly knocked about, and the whole orchard in a state of wreck, the fate of the geese was not held in much doubt, and the depth of the snow in the place making salvage operations very difficult, their place of concealment was not reached until thursday after the storm. the snow being cleared from the back of the barn, however, the geese were found still sitting in the same position as that in which they had last been seen. with the exception that they had evidently worked their heads about, keeping the cavities large enough to give them breathing room, it was quite clear that they had not attempted to move. warm food and hay were at once given to them, and they were made as comfortable as possible, and in due course, eleven goslings were hatched from the twenty-two eggs upon which the parent geese had sat through such a trying time. the young geese are now as sturdy as could be desired, and mr. james is naturally very proud of them for having seen the light in spite of such difficulties. the mother geese will also, in all probability, be preserved as curiosities for some time to come. on the other side of the river a shed belonging to mr. goss's shipbuilding yards was blown down, and cattle-sheds were unroofed and carried great distances by the force of the gale. at danescombe bottom, at the foot of kelly rock, an iron schooner, the _naïad_, 250 tons, owned by captain samuels of calstock, was blown over on her beam ends. the river banks, against which the masts of the vessel struck, only prevented her being turned completely over. after considerable labour she was righted, but was found to have sustained some damage. at the rumleigh brick-works, and at the yards of mr. roskelly, builder, of albaston, much injury was occasioned. the mineral and goods line, the property of the east cornwall mineral railway company, running from calstock to kelly bray, near callington was blocked with a drift of snow some eight feet deep, and work was stopped for two days. at the end of that time it was cleared by a gang of the company's own men acting under the direction of captain w. sowden. on the same property about fifty yards of fencing were completely levelled. honeycomb house, about two miles from calstock, was damaged to the extent of about £100; mr. gill, of tray hill, lost over 100 apple trees, and mr. german 250 fruit trees. the heaviest damage to trees was at cotehele woods, the property of the earl of mount edgcumbe, and overlooking calstock, which would appear to have received the full fury of the blast. the terrible night passed here, and the extent of the destruction to timber, will be found dealt with at length in the chapter on parks and forests. camborne.--the change at camborne would appear to have been an unusually startling one, since a few days before monday, butterflies were to be seen flying about. snow commenced to fall in the district at two o'clock on monday afternoon, and this soon developed into the blizzard. the storm is described as the greatest and the most severe known by the oldest residents in the parish. the telegraph wires were blown down, and, lying across the streets, threw several horses down. the houses were so covered with snow as to be almost unrecognizable, and in many places the drifts were over six feet deep. ornamental, and other trees in the town were completely spoiled, and traffic was suspended. anxiety was at one time felt in the town for the safety of four young girls, dressmakers, of beacon village, who left the town on the monday evening, but it was afterwards learned that they were all in safety. in burse-road and pendarmes-road the shrubs and trees were broken down, and lay overhanging and obstructing the footpaths. passages had to be cut to get to the houses, half as high as the houses themselves. a 'bus running between camborne and truro was snowed up near pool, and left in the road; and near it was an abandoned organ, the peripatetic performer on which had been unable to bear it with him to a place of safety. at a village about a mile and a half from camborne drifts of snow were observed thirty feet deep. in the town the board schools were closed for the week. all communication with surrounding towns was, as a matter of course, cut off for several days. at beacon and troon, adjoining villages, people were taken from their bedroom windows by means of ladders; and in one case, at a funeral, the coffin had to be slid down over a snowdrift. at breage a woman was found dead in the snow. farmers were busy in every direction rescuing their cattle and sheep from the exposed positions, but the losses in the neighbourhood were very great, hundreds of sheep being buried. among others who suffered in this way were mr. carter, of troon, who lost nearly twenty sheep and lambs; mr. hickens, of tregear; mr. glasson, of crowan; mr. josiah thomas, of roskear, tuckingmill; and mr. p. thomas, of camborne. several donkies and ponies in the district perished. the little villages of penponds, kehelland, and pengegon, presented a wretched appearance, and at penponds especially it was impossible to distinguish any hedges. mr. e. rogers, who had undertaken to carry out some funeral arrangements at this village, was obliged to take the coffin over hedges and ditches in order to get it to the house. at pengegon, where the water-supply is solely obtained from wells and springs, it was found necessary to use melted snow for domestic purposes. the old thatched farmhouse of pengegon, on the wednesday, when the sun shone, presented a strikingly beautiful appearance, and was a prominent feature of the landscape. the village of treslothan also shared the effect of the storm. trees were damaged and blown down in large numbers, and even as late as good friday snow nearly a foot deep lay on some of the paths. a large amount of damage was also done to trees and shrubs at reskadirmick, the abode of captain w. c. vivian, the beautiful carriage drive to the house being terribly disfigured. at the factories and mines business operations were, for some time, entirely suspended, and it is calculated that during the week quite a thousand persons of both sexes were enforcedly idle. work might have gone on at the factories, but in many cases the operatives were unable to leave their homes. at the mines there was great anxiety, it being feared that the engines would stop for want of coals. passages were, however, in time cut through, and not more than two or three engines actually ceased working. cuttings were made from the railway station to south condurrow and wheal grenville mines, a distance of more than a mile. so urgent was the need for coal at west seaton mine on saturday, the 14th, that forty miners were sent to help the labourers from portreath to make a road from the railway to the mine. the wheal grenville and newton mines were stopped for want of coal for some days. at dolcoath, however, considerable difficulty was experienced on the floors in getting a sufficient supply of water to work the stamps, owing to the leats being blocked. at the fire stamps, in particular, both engines for a time ceased work, and operations were not again renewed until late on tuesday afternoon. the openworks suffered considerably, as it took nearly the whole of the week to clear away the snow from the frames and huddles. the miners themselves were greatly inconvenienced owing to some of their homes being situated at a distance from the mines, and their being unable to get to their work; while many who had been working underground during the afternoon, found, on coming to the surface, that they could not reach their residences. at crowan, the rev. h. molesworth st. aubyn, organized and worked hard with a body of men to help in opening up communication with camborne. camelford.--at this place experience, for almost the entire week, was very bitter. the residents were absolutely shut in from monday to friday. the last sign of the outer world was when the north cornwall coach, notwithstanding the snow already accumulated on the moors, passed through on its way from launceston to wadebridge. the market on thursday was a dead failure, no live stock being obtainable, and carcases very scarce. there were many narrow escapes met with, but no actual loss of life occurred. as the week passed away provisions became very scarce, and there was a growing alarm. on friday, however, four persons on horseback, unrecognizable from the quantity of snow that covered them, entered the town in single file. the party consisted of mr. george martyn, late of trewen, manager of the north cornwall coach company, mr. hicks, one of the clerks at wadebridge, and the coachman and guard of the coach which had gone through on monday. the party, who brought with them a very welcome copy of the _western morning news_, held an interview with mr. evelyn, the town clerk of camelford, and subsequently, under the direction of the road-surveyor, a body of men was organized to cut through the three miles of snow-covered road between camelford and wadebridge, for the purpose of opening up a means of obtaining provisions from the latter place. this was ultimately accomplished, and by tuesday, march 17th, the north cornwall coach was once more able to run to launceston, and the mail, from camelford to boscastle, also ran. hundreds of sheep were lost, the drifts of snow being so high that much time was lost in getting at those that were buried beneath, and they were taken out dead in large numbers. mr. pethick, mr. inch, mr. lobb, and mr. greenwood, in addition to many farmers, suffered severely in this respect. cargreen.--at this riverside village, situated on the banks of the tamar, the gale of monday and tuesday caused great havoc among the fruit-trees. mr. e. elliott, of landulph, lost about three hundred apple-trees, many of which had been planted by himself thirty years before. dartmouth.--at dartmouth the storm was severe, and all telegraphic communication was cut off during the week of the gale, but by the following sunday a staff of telegraphic engineers had restored communication with exeter by a single wire, and also with brixham. on one night during the week a wall gave way at the castle churchyard and fell on to the rocks beneath, carrying with it several tombstones, and disturbing the coffins in the graves. at the market on friday morning buyers arrived in the town by train, from all parts, for the purpose of buying provisions, but their journey was fruitless, as the farmers had not been able to get into the town, the roads being impassable for vehicles. railway traffic was only partially suspended, but the first through communication to kingsbridge was not effected until monday the 16th, when mr. sanders, driver of the dartmouth coach, managed, with the assistance of mr. cross, of strete, mr. watson, of chillington, and a number of volunteers, to get a conveyance through from dartmouth. they had to cut their way through about two miles of snowdrifts, which in many places, were upwards of six feet deep. when mr. sanders and his party got to frogmore they invited the co-operation of the villagers, offering money and beer for help. this, however, was declined, but the party arrived in kingsbridge shortly before three o'clock, about two hours later than the usual time of the arrival of the dartmouth coach. messrs. cross and watson rendered admirable service. the only papers delivered between dartmouth and kingsbridge since monday the 9th, were the copies of the _western morning news_ and _western daily mercury_ distributed by sanders along the line of route on thursday and saturday. among other damage enormous destruction was done to the plantation at blackpool, almost the whole of the young trees being spoiled. dawlish.--during the progress of the storm at dawlish on tuesday, the ladies' bathing pavilion, which stood on the beach in front of the marine parade, was carried away by the sea, and almost entirely destroyed. the pavilion was erected by a limited liability company in 1880, and the annual income accruing from it had reached between £70 and £80. the fishermen and others of this attractive watering-place sustained great losses by the destruction of fishing and pleasure boats. at the coastguard station the boathouse was partially unroofed, and large blocks of granite were hurled a great distance. as on plymouth hoe, the iron seats on the sea-wall were rolled over and broken. houses in various parts of the town lost chimney-tops and slates, and some large trees, standing in the grounds of the manor house, were stripped of their branches. at dawlish water, a cow, belonging to mr. dufty, was killed by a falling tree. discomfort was experienced by the few passengers who travelled from exeter to dawlish on the night of tuesday, by the train which should have reached the latter town by about eight o'clock. on reaching the boathouse, near powderham castle, a block in the shape of a snow-drift was encountered, and the passengers made for a hut which was found not far off, and a fire being got alight, they remained there until five o'clock on wednesday morning, when a relief engine and snow-plough, with a carriage, arriving, they were conveyed to their destination. ermington.--roads everywhere here were completely blocked for a week, and neither supplies of provisions, letters, nor newspapers were received. the farmers were great sufferers, scores of sheep having been buried in the snow, which in some places was fifteen feet deep. the work of digging out the sheep commenced during the bright weather of wednesday, when many ewes were found to be dead, the lambs, in some cases, being found alive by the side of the dead mothers. instances were met with as late as saturday where sheep got out of the snow fresh and vigorous, after having been buried since the monday. at kingston, near ermington, nearly thirty sheep belonging to one farm were blown into the sea, and from ringmore, another village in the same district, 350 sheep were lost. exeter.--in addition to the interference with railway traffic, and the collapse of telegraphic communication between the capital of the county and the other portions of devon and of cornwall that has been already briefly described, great inconveniences were experienced in the city and all the surrounding villages through the violence of the wind and the depth of the drifts of snow. several accidents to house property, in the way of falling chimneys and walls, occurred, but nothing of a particularly serious nature was heard of. business was partially suspended, and the streets were almost entirely deserted. great interest was felt in connection with the railway blocks further west, and various exciting rumours were circulated from time to time, many of them being, fortunately, without foundation. exmouth.--in the outlying districts in the neighbourhood of exmouth, a peculiarity in connection with the late blizzard that also struck observers in many other parts of devon and cornwall, was very noticeable. this singularity was that localities, commonly regarded as the most sheltered, suffered most severely. in such situations the drifts became impassable, and the cottagers were without fresh supplies of provisions until footways were cleared across fields. the narrow lanes were filled with snow. near the littleham church the drift was so deep, that a tunnel was made sufficiently wide and high for carts to pass through. at one part of the road leading from lympstone to withycombe, a lane had to be cut for a considerable distance, the drift being five or six feet deep. by the end of the week the exmouth streets were all clear, and business was going on much as usual. falmouth.--some of the disastrous effects of the blizzard at this sea-port have already been recounted, but falmouth was unfortunate in other respects, besides being the scene of so many wrecks with attendant loss of life. the weather has been described by residents as the heaviest experienced in the district since 1853. scarcely a house exposed to the gale escaped injury, and in many cases property suffered severely. were there space to record them, innumerable instances could be given of roofs being blown off, chimneys having fallen, and marvellous escapes of residents having occurred during these accidents. at the well-known "curiosity shop" of mr. burton, a slate from some opposite premises went through a large window, and two vases within, valued at £85, narrowly escaped destruction. the back premises of mr. webber, jeweller, which overlooked the harbour, were completely washed away, and all the fowls in the fowl-house were drowned. in the rope-walk several fine cornish elms were uprooted, one of them cutting through a neighbouring roof. telegraph wires also were broken by the falling timber, and many huge limbs of trees were blown down outside grove hill. between monday night and noon on wednesday no train arrived at or left falmouth, and telegraphic communication being cut off the inhabitants knew nothing of what was transpiring in other parts. it was not until the saturday evening that telegraphic communication was re-established with truro, and two hours later a wire was got through to london. messrs. fox & co., shipping agents, having urgent telegrams to send to london, despatched them via france and spain. the london morning papers despatched on tuesday reached falmouth on saturday night, by which time postal affairs were commencing to be put in order. all along the quays the damage to small craft of every kind was immense, and the shore was strewn with wreckage and crowded with damaged boats. at one spot on the market-strand, between the king's arms and the establishment of mr. grose, a big sail boat was driven ashore, followed by a coal hulk belonging to messrs. vivian & sons, the latter knocking down a wall. the s.s. _carbon_, belonging to the falmouth coal company, sank at her moorings in the harbour, and the harbour board's steamer, _armenack_, had a narrow escape of being wrecked. about a dozen well-known residents had trawlers, sailing-boats, and punts damaged or totally wrecked, but these form only a small proportion of the losses by the gale. among the fishermen distress was great, and, as already stated on another page, a fund for their relief was inaugurated without loss of time. fowey.--at this sea-port very severe weather was experienced. the whole country round was covered with snow, and communication by telegraph, except to lostwithiel and st. austell, was impossible. fowey does not appear to have experienced much of the effects of the gale on monday night and tuesday, but a strong wind with snow showers, visited the town on the following thursday. there were no casualties, and no great loss of sheep, as, though many were buried in the snow, nearly all were recovered. grampound road.--here snow commenced falling at about noon on monday, and continued with only a few minutes' cessation for twenty-four hours. the blizzard nature of the storm was most severely felt, and among other distressing events hundreds of sheep were lost. all telegraphic communication was completely stopped. the last up-train from penzance, due at grampound road at about twenty minutes past eight in the evening, was blocked by the snow a quarter of a mile west of the station. the passengers were got out, and, under the guidance of some of the villagers, made their way across the fields, and took shelter in the hotels. strenuous efforts were made to extricate the train, but it was not until half-past four on the following morning that the difficult task was accomplished, and that the passengers were enabled to proceed on their journey. the loss of sheep in this district was very great. gunnislake.--throughout the whole of monday night the blizzard raged in gunnislake, and only slightly abated its force on tuesday. havoc was spread on every hand, and in one case a very serious accident, that narrowly escaped fatal consequences, occurred. this was at the house of mr. bowhay, surgeon, where a neighbouring chimney crashed through the roof and fell into the kitchen. two servants and an infant child were in the kitchen at the time, and one of the former was knocked to the floor, and on being extricated was found to have had her leg broken. the other servant girl and mr. bowhay's child received cuts. on the opposite side of the road a chimney fell upon a house named east view, crushing in the end roof of a house in which, soon after, and in a room immediately below that into which the rubbish fell, a child was born. large trees, over fifty years' old, were rooted up and thrown across the main thoroughfares. at drakewell's mine serious damage was done to the roofs, and at heath cottage, adjoining the mine, nine tall scotch firs, which stood within fifteen feet of each other, were rooted up, and left lying in all directions. helston.--at helston, every road leading to other towns was blocked up. no newspaper arrived, nor were any mails sent off until saturday. telegraph wires and poles, and innumerable trees were blown down, the plantations in the district suffering severely. hemerdon.--no less than six engines were snowed up on monday night in the neighbourhood of hemerdon, many of them containing parties despatched from plymouth by the great western railway to the relief of the train that left millbay station at 6·50 on monday night, and was snowed up on a bridge some distance beyond the ivybridge viaduct. in two cases timely rescues of drivers were effected by mr. harold s. williams, of torridge, the story of which will be found related in a subsequent chapter. one very sad fatality occurred to the wife of a miner, named ann farley. she left plympton on monday afternoon to visit her father at hemerdon village, and setting out for her home in the evening would appear to have lost her way, as her body was found on thursday evening in a field at lobb farm, in about three feet of snow. honiton.--in a path field leading from offwell to land wood, in the honiton district, on the sunday morning following the monday and tuesday of the blizzard, the body of a man named bidgood was discovered. it transpired at an inquest subsequently held that the man was a labourer, who had left work at gittisham hill on tuesday evening to proceed to his home at offwell. after calling at the new inn, honiton hill, he was not again seen alive. the body was found, lying flat upon its face, by mr. f. j. harford, who was looking for some sheep. in many places near honiton the snow drifts reached to a height of twenty feet, and it was almost impossible to find the main road. sheep were buried in the snow in many parts of the district, and large trees were rooted up and thrown across the road. ilfracombe.--at ilfracombe, during monday night, a strong gale raged, and the brigantine _ethel_, of salcombe, went ashore at combemartin early on tuesday morning, and became a total wreck, but the crew were all saved. the schooner _pride of the west_, of padstow, had her bowsprit carried away, under hillsborough, and was towed into ilfracombe harbour. considerable damage was done to property, and business for a day or two was suspended. five large trees were blown down in the churchyard. the last train from barnstaple to ilfracombe on monday night was brought to a standstill in the burrow cutting, where the snow had reached a great height. the passengers were got safely out, and proceeded to the fortescue hotel at morthoe. ivybridge.--a full share of destruction of every kind was experienced at ivybridge during the storm. trees fell in all directions, a large one breaking in the roof of the newly constructed navvy mission room. the navvy missioner, mr. maclean, was in the room at the time, and had a very narrow escape. over a dozen trees fell between the station and the village, most of them being uprooted. for some time provisions in the town showed serious signs of running short, but by a laudable system of mutual accommodation between the residents and tradespeople any actual privation was averted. several of the passengers by the 6·50 p.m. snowed-up train from plymouth on monday night, and the down night train due at plymouth about 8 p.m. on monday night, also blocked at ivybridge station, were located in the village, but some of the passengers, as late as thursday evening, were still in search of lodgings. the railway guards and drivers were also in dire straits, and mr. bohn (the proprietor of the london hotel), promptly and generously came to the rescue with free dinners to the railway servants. many hundreds of people visited the scene of the principal block at langham bridge, where the unfortunate train from plymouth on monday night became embedded in a deep snow-drift. kingsbridge.--this neighbourhood underwent some wretched experiences, not only during the blizzard of monday and tuesday, but for fully a fortnight subsequent to the storm. the roads leading to surrounding towns were in a terrible condition through the fall of snow that appears to have exceeded here the fall in any other part of devon, and the losses of farm-stock were very great. the first episode occurred at seven o'clock on monday evening, when the mail-cart for totnes was snowed up after having proceeded a mile out of kingsbridge, and the driver was compelled to return with his pair of horses, leaving the van in the road. the mail-bags were brought back to the town on the following morning. in another case, mr. waymouth, of woolston, four miles from kingsbridge, started from the latter place in his carriage for home on the same evening, but was stopped by a fallen tree, and he and his coachman were compelled to take shelter at coombe royal, and to remain there until the following thursday. there were the usual instances of damage to house property, and there was also tremendous destruction to trees, and to the shrubberies of the various residences in the vicinity of the town. all communication was cut off from outside by the destruction of telegraph wires and posts. the telegraph wires have been described as presenting a very singular appearance, the coating of hardened snow in many instances extending to a thickness as great as six inches in diameter. no communication with any other town was received or sent for four whole days, and the post-office was closed for three days, as no mails could be received or despatched. several commercial travellers who got into the town on monday were compelled to remain till friday, when they escaped from confinement by going to plymouth by steamer. the hardships endured in neighbouring villages for a week were severe, some of the villagers having been without coals, and, the bakers having run out of flour, bread in sufficient quantities could not be obtained. there was considerable injury to some of the crops, and almost every farmer lost sheep in the snow. mr. hooppell, of bigbury, lost between three and four hundred, the greater number of which were probably blown into the sea. mr. j. langworthy, of east allington, lost about seventy sheep and lambs, computed to be worth £300. mr. s. square, of thurlestone, also lost over 100 valuable sheep and lambs. one gentleman had the task imposed upon him of endeavouring to keep alive forty young lambs which had lost their mothers. great havoc was wrought in the grounds of coombe royal, the american garden being laid almost bare. in the vicarage grounds many of the trees and shrubs were blown down. improvised sledges were used during the second week by residents as well as the local carriers, these being, indeed, the only vehicles that could be used with any safety. [illustration: st. cleer road, liskeard.] launceston.--considerable inconvenience was experienced in launceston throughout the week of storm, but scarcely anything more serious. from tuesday to thursday there was a complete cessation of intercourse with other parts of the country, no mails being despatched, or papers or news of any kind being received, and no telegraphic service was available throughout the week. some damage was inflicted by the wind to both glass and trees, and the roofs of houses were more or less damaged, but altogether launceston was much more fortunate than the majority of west-country towns. [illustration: coldstile lane, liskeard.] liskeard.--the greatest discomforts experienced at liskeard were those brought about by the impassable condition of the roads, and by the blocking of the leat on bulland down, which supplies the town with water. the reservoirs on st. cleer downs were nearly empty on wednesday morning, when mr. sampson, the inspector of the water, visited it, and found that an immense snow-drift was blocking it on the north side of the down. for nearly twelve hours a gang of men dug at the drift, and succeeded in freeing the leat and saving the town from a water famine. the leat was on a very exposed part of the down, and the height of the snow-drifts in the locality may be judged from the view we give of one of these. the illustration is from a photograph kindly supplied by mr. a. w. venning, solicitor, of liskeard. a horse and cart had been dug out from this drift just before the photograph was taken. the town was completely isolated for several days, and the distress among the poorer inhabitants was very great. everything possible was done to mitigate the temporary distress, relief committees being formed under the active superintendence of the mayor of liskeard--mr. t. lang. on friday, after thursday's snowfall, the rural postmen could not go their rounds, the height of snow in the roads being so great. our view of coldstile lane, near liskeard (also from a photograph contributed by mr. venning), which was impassable for days, reveals in a forcible manner the state of this part of cornwall. here, as elsewhere, hundreds of sheep were buried in the snow. lyme regis.--one of the heaviest snowstorms that ever visited the south of dorset was experienced at lyme regis on tuesday, march 10th. the town lies six miles from the nearest railway station, and the only communication is by two well-appointed three-horse 'busses. on tuesday the 'bus, with an extra horse, left the town at nine in the morning, carrying the mails. the conveyance, with great difficulty, reached the high hill known as hunter's lodge, where, notwithstanding all efforts, it was found impossible to proceed further. the one lady passenger walked to the hotel at hunter's lodge, while the driver, mr. blake, rode back to lyme regis and obtained assistance. by the time the luggage and mails had been transferred to a light waggonette the 'bus, except for the roof, was invisible, and the roof was only kept clear by the strong wind blowing at the time. later on the same night, the driver of the mail cart from illminster to lyme started to do the journey on horseback, driving being out of the question. on about the same spot as the 'bus had been buried, the driver lost his horse, and accomplished the rest of the journey on foot, arriving at lyme at one o'clock on wednesday morning. both horse and 'bus were eventually recovered, and the mail carts resumed running on march 17th. mevagissey.--the gale of monday and tuesday raged with great fury at mevagissey, blowing from e.s.e., accompanied by blinding snow. on tuesday morning the parapet of the new breakwater on the southern side of the harbour was found to have been washed off for a distance of two hundred feet, and the sea was rushing through the gap. by the end of the week the breakwater was in three parts, and it was feared that the whole structure would have to be taken down. the damage was estimated at over £10,000. the fishermen suffered greatly through the loss of herring and pilchard nets, which were shot at anchor in the bay, and swept away by the gale. modbury.--the blizzard was very destructive in the modbury district, and the town was completely isolated from the monday to the saturday. on monday evening several farmers who had attended the market and left for their homes, were driven back, and had to remain in modbury several days. the loss of sheep in the neighbourhood was unusually large, it being estimated that within the postal district of modbury nearly one thousand sheep were lost, besides several head of cattle. some of the snow-drifts were immense, and one labourer had his house completely covered. a boy, who had been sent on monday to deliver bread at some neighbouring villages, was discovered in the evening sitting in the trap almost insensible from cold, while the trap was nearly buried in the snow. the horse was released, and the boy taken to the nearest house, where he soon recovered. newquay.--at newquay there was a great fall of snow, and many sheep were buried. mr. t. cardell lost over 100, and other farmers as many as forty each. a man named ambrose matthews, a hawker of wild flowers, was found dead under three feet of snow in a field near tower lane, where he was probably trying to crawl into a shed for shelter. he was last seen selling flowers in the town at half-past eight on monday night. newton abbott.--the greater part of the railway traffic at newton abbott was suspended. the last up-train that arrived on monday was the 4·30 p.m. express from plymouth; and the monday evening's mails from paddington, and tuesday morning's bristol and newton abbott travelling post-office, which arrived several hours late, were unable to proceed further than this town, and about one hundred passengers were compelled to remain in newton. there was, in the streets, an average depth of three feet of snow, whilst in some places the drifts were from ten to twelve feet in height. considerable damage was done to the trees and shrubs in the park, and in the private gardens. padstow.--this was another town that suffered very severely. great quantities of unexpected snow fell, and the gale was terrific on monday night and all day on tuesday. people who were out of town on the monday night had great difficulty in returning to their homes, and one woman, named rebecca chapman, did not succeed, but was found buried in the snow on the following sunday. miss chapman, of about sixty-two years of age, who resided at crugmere, about a mile-and-a-half from padstow, had been in the latter town on monday, and left for home at about seven o'clock in the evening. at a place named trethillick she lost her way, and calling at one of the houses in the village was put upon the right road. she was never again seen alive. on perceiving on tuesday that the woman was not at home, the neighbours raised an alarm, and search parties were instituted, but the body was not recovered until the following week. from the position of the body when found, it would seem that the unfortunate woman had mistaken the gate of the field in which she was lying for that of her own home, and, entering the field, had fallen exhausted. her basket, containing the provisions she had bought in the town, was found lying beside her. when the storm was at its fiercest, on monday evening, the dandy _louisa_, of exeter, in entering padstow harbour, ran into the schooner _ballanheigh castle_, and damaged her galley and bulwarks. a praam, weighing nearly a ton, which was lying keel upwards on the quay, was caught during one of the squalls, and carried completely over the quay. on many farms large numbers of sheep were buried, but in most cases these were rescued alive. paignton.--great damage was done at paignton on monday night and tuesday. the roof of one wing of the house of sir thomas seccombe, k.c.s.i., on coninence, was blown in, and crashed through the building, but nobody was hurt. in the totnes-road the roof of miss scale's house was blown off, and several trees were blown down. the landing-stage of the promenade pier was washed away, and the sea-wall front of redcliff tower undermined. the artillery volunteer ammunition shed was completely wrecked. a tall elm at dr. goodridge's residence fell over and nearly crushed the roof. steam launches were much injured, and several fishermen lost their boats. penzance.--during monday night's storm, at penzance, there was such a terrific sea running that the north dock gate was unhung, and much damage was occasioned to the shipping in the port. some of the most beautiful trees in the vicinity were ruined. on the following tuesday the storm continued, and business almost entirely ceased, no shops being opened for the day. there was a good deal of anxious looking out for the return of travellers who had left the town before the commencement of the storm on monday, but by degrees they either returned or their whereabouts was ascertained. at wheal vor, breage, however, a woman, sixty years of age, perished in the snow. supplies of food were almost daily fetched by boat from penzance for little fishing villages in the district, and a small coasting steamer was chartered to take in a stock of provisions and land it on the sands at porthcurno, just within sight of logan rock. plympton.--at plympton, matters were very serious. hundreds of trees were destroyed, and large numbers of sheep died from exposure and starvation. [illustration: church, and chaplain's house, princetown, dartmoor.] princetown.--this moorland town passed through some trying experiences during the storm week. the roofs of several cattle and sheep-sheds were blown away, and every house in the neighbourhood suffered considerable damage. a part of the church roof was unslated, and the church itself, and the chaplain's house, were almost buried in the snow. an illustration shows the condition of these two buildings, for the photographic views of which, as well as for the picture of the convicts cutting a road, we have to thank mr. j. richards, clerk of works at the convict establishment, who took a great number of interesting views of extraordinary scenes to be met with after the blizzard. at the prison officers' school, some four or five of the moor children had to be detained all night, fires being lighted and hot provisions provided. the block on the princetown railway line, where the evening train had been snowed up on monday evening, was a very serious one, and it took a gang of fifty men and a snow-plough several days to work through the accumulated mass. the inhabitants were without letter, paper, or telegram from monday morning until saturday, when the postmaster, mr. w. tooker, with the rural letter-carrier, and a prison officer, mr. rodway, who accompanied the party as a volunteer, risked a walk to yelverton. there they found twenty-five bags of mails awaiting them. they succeeded in walking back to princetown, taking with them fourteen bags of mails and a small quantity of newspapers, and were received with much enthusiasm. no fear was felt that provisions would fail at the prison, as there was a large stock on hand, but it was deemed advisable to kill a number of sheep and pigs belonging to the farm. the roads were cleared after immense labour, some of this work being carried out by convicts from the prison. [illustration: convicts cutting a road at princetown, dartmoor.] redruth.--on the monday and tuesday at redruth there was such a storm as had not been known for thirty-five years in west cornwall. it snowed almost incessantly for twenty-four hours, and left drifts, in some parts, from ten to twelve feet deep. the trains could not get into redruth either from east or west for two days, and even camborne could not be reached. trees in various parts were much injured. there was little business done, and the quantity of provisions brought into the town being so small, the prices were of the most extravagant description. milk could hardly be obtained, and what butter was in the market was sold at the price of 2s. per lb., a heavy price for redruth. there was a scarcity of coals in the neighbourhood, and the stock (of coals) at the brewery was exhausted before the end of the week. most of the roads in the district were impassable, and it was found impossible as late as friday to dig out the vehicles that monday's storm embedded in the redruth highway. mining operations were greatly impeded, tunnels in the snow having in some instances to be cut to enable the miners to get to their work. there were many rumours of persons missing since the memorable monday, and fears for their safety were entertained which in one unhappy case proved to be only too well grounded. a boy named wallace left his work at the wheal basset mine on the afternoon of the storm to walk to his home. he did not reach it at the usual time, nor at all on that day, and great anxiety resulted, search parties scouring the country in all directions. at length, ten days afterwards, his body was found in a snow-drift between thirty and forty yards from his home. another lad had a very narrow escape. he was missed for some hours, and was found almost unconscious in an outhouse, where he had taken refuge under some straw. not the least serious inconvenience attending this week of disaster at redruth was the unavoidable postponement of a number of funerals, to make way to the parish church and cemetery being found impracticable. st. columb.--the advent of the blizzard at st. columb was sudden and unexpected, and the force of the wind drifted most of the snow into the roads and hedges in such a way as to completely stop all vehicular traffic. in some spots the drifts were fifteen feet high. no letters or papers arrived in the town from monday until wednesday evening, and among other inconveniences was the unavoidable postponement of a wedding which was to have taken place. as this event was not fixed for any earlier date than the last day of the week, and could not take place then, some idea of the condition of the country may be formed. the farmers were apparently taken by surprise, as most of their sheep were out, and hundreds were buried beneath the snow. many lambs and sheep were found at a depth of seven or eight feet, and instances occurred of lambs, who had been born under circumstances such as these, being found alive and healthy. buried houses were by no means an uncommon occurrence. at winnard's perch, about two miles from redruth, a woman was snowed in from monday until wednesday at noon, when she was dug out. great damage was also done to trees, and for a time business was suspended. st. ives.--a tempestuous sea was the chief cause of suffering at st. ives. the blizzard blew mainly from the e.n.e., and caused sad havoc along the coast on monday night and tuesday. ships in positions of peril were occasionally observed, and the lifeboat crew, with rocket apparatus, held themselves in readiness, and in some cases, endeavoured to get near the endangered vessels, but the tracks to the shore were impassable. the window of a cottage on the warren, overlooking the sea, was blown in, and the sea rushed in and partly filled one of the rooms. slates and chimneypots were blown about to the imminent danger of the inhabitants. a man named metters left st. ives for st. just, with a donkey cart, on monday, to sell herrings, and after nearly a week's absence his friends gave him up for lost, but he returned to his home on the following monday, having been snowed up at st. just for the entire week. sennen.--the land's end district was altogether cut off from other parts of the country from monday to friday, and even after that time communication was only effected with great difficulty. the snow-drifts were immense, and many sheep and lambs were buried. supplies having begun to fail by the end of the week, a shopkeeper inaugurated a novel expedition which, grotesque as it was in its make-up and appearance, succeeded in the object the organizer had in view. he obtained a number of donkeys, and having placed baskets upon their backs, formed them into procession, he leading the way with a shovel, with which he cleared a path to st. just. there provisions were obtained, and the adventurous tradesman, followed by his donkeys,--now laden with well-filled baskets,--returned triumphant to st. sennen. two cottages near the land's end were buried in the snow, and the cottagers had to be dug out. the rev. j. isabell, of st. sennen, by way of getting the roads clear, set an admirable example. he headed a party of some seventy men, all being armed with shovels, and effected good work in making the parish roads fit for traffic. taunton.--the train due at taunton at seven minutes past nine and the "flying dutchman" reached taunton at about the same time on monday night, and were unable to proceed further. among the passengers was the duke of edinburgh, on his way to devonport, who was detained for some few days, after which he was enabled to reach exeter, and from thence to proceed without further mishap to his destination. tavistock.--some account of the devastation caused in this district by the storm has already been given. the destruction to timber was especially heavy, but perhaps the most serious feature of all is the loss of sheep and cattle. mr. h. dingle, of taviton, had over two hundred sheep embedded in the snow, and a number of these were taken out dead. mr. perkins, of king-street, tavistock, and mr. walkem, of hartshole, also suffered heavily in this respect. on the estate of the rev. j. hall-parby there was also a great loss of sheep. out of sixteen sheep buried in a drift, nine, belonging to mr. warne, were dug out dead, while in the neighbouring parish of walkhampton the loss was still greater. mr. giles, of this parish, dug out 40 dead sheep. mr. j. squire, of the bedford hotel, had a flock of sheep and lambs buried in the snow, on his moorland farm on whitchurch down, but he succeeded in rescuing most of them. teignmouth.--the destruction wrought on the sea-front of this well-known watering-place and sea-port, which has been briefly alluded to in earlier pages, appears to have had the effect of waking up the residents to a sense of the innumerable natural beauties that belong to their town, and the advisability of preserving, and, if possible, improving them. not many months before the blizzard of 1891, a gale from the south-east was near demolishing that portion of the bank above the beach, that has since fallen before the action of the waves, and from time to time the dangerous position of the houses abutting upon it, and standing within a stone's-throw of the sea, has been pointed out by a large number of the residents themselves. nature has now taken the matter in hand, and the probabilities are that a sea-wall will be built that will extend from the "point," or lighthouse, to the hole head tunnel, a distance of over a mile and a half, and thus the finest sea promenade in the country will be secured. torquay.--the snowstorm was more severe at torquay than at any of the surrounding districts, the fall having been heavier than at either teignmouth or dawlish. few mishaps occurred, however, and there was not any really serious damage. railway communication with exeter, london, and the north, was never interrupted. some injuries to trees occurred, and a few telegraph posts were blown down, but, on the whole, torquay sustained its reputation as a desirable winter abode. totnes.--some novel incidents occurred at totnes during the week of the storm. the town was for days completely isolated, the only journey possible in search of news appearing to have been a perilous one, on foot, to brent, where ignorance of the doings of the outside world was as great, if not greater, than at totnes itself. a number of travellers, among them mr. h. s. jenkins, of the _western morning news_ (who had gone to the town on duty on the monday night), were detained until the end of the week, and all the inconveniences resulting from an enforced imprisonment of such an unusual description were experienced. the first indication of an actual block on the railway was at about nine o'clock on monday night, when the down-train, due at plymouth at ten o'clock, arrived at totnes station, and was not allowed to proceed, as no communication could be exchanged with stations further down the line. after hours of waiting, some of the passengers sheltering themselves in the carriages and others in the waiting-room (where they were made as comfortable as circumstances would allow, miss inskip keeping the refreshment-room open until four o'clock on tuesday morning), all were compelled to take up their quarters in the town for what was to them, at that time, a very indefinite period. there were, in the neighbourhood of totnes, great losses among the farming community, hundreds of sheep being buried in the snow. one farmer, of ashprington, dug out a flock of fifty, of which fifteen were dead. orchards were completely wrecked, and many fine forest trees were destroyed. in the town the damage done to property was not very great, but the glass roofs of several conservatories were broken in by the weight of snow. the snow in the streets was three feet deep, and in the adjacent country roads a depth of from six to eight feet was recorded. truro.--at the cathedral city of cornwall trade was at a complete standstill for days, owing to the heavy fall of snow. snow lay three feet deep in all the roads outside the town, and, going farther into the country, the drifts were from ten to twelve feet deep. great damage was done to property, and some accidents, none of them, however, having a fatal termination, occurred. to make matters worse for those having business matters to look after, the train service was altogether disorganised. the "dutchman" arrived on monday night forty minutes late, and then had to wait the arrival of the train from falmouth. this, due at truro at 7·25, did not arrive until ten minutes to nine. its course was blocked by fallen telegraph poles and wires, which had to be cut away before the train could proceed, the most serious obstacle being between penryn and perranwell. the "dutchman" had to pass by grampound road at full speed, or it would probably have been in danger of being embedded in the snow. it was only when the end of this memorable week had been reached that telegraphic and other communication with neighbouring towns was restored, and that the city once more returned to its usual condition of comfort and tranquillity. chapter vi. in park and forest. there is no stronger testimony to the overwhelmingly destructive character of the blizzard of march, 1891, than that afforded by the spectacle of thousands of forest trees, that had, in numerous instances, withstood the storms of centuries, lying, some with their roots above ground, others snapped short off or twisted asunder, but all mercilessly and hopelessly wrecked. many of these fallen monarchs had experienced heavier gales undoubtedly, but they had not been so rapidly laden with the heavy burden of clinging snow that caused them to sway and stagger, and rendered them helpless victims to the fury of the blast. the effects of this blizzard-like nature of the storm are apparent in the peculiar form the havoc in the parks and forests has assumed--some trees appearing as if the tops had been wrenched off, and in other instances a trunk being left standing--a mere bare pole--denuded of all its branches. many trees that were old and feeble weathered the storm best, the apparent cause being that their stronger brethren sheltered them from the fatal garment of snow as much as from the gale, and that when the protector at last fell the fury of the blast was spent. the manner in which the snow clung to, rather than fell upon, all objects that it encountered, is strikingly shown in the accompanying illustration of membland after the storm. the illustration is from a photograph of a water-colour drawing. the photograph, and the following narrative, have been courteously supplied to us by one who was a deeply interested spectator of the scene:-"at membland, lord revelstoke's place ten miles from plymouth at the mouth of the yealm, the devastation and havoc caused by the storm of the 9th of march are indescribable. "the appearance of the house on the wednesday following, the 11th, will not easily be forgotten by its inmates. that wednesday was a glorious day of sunshine. the house was entirely, to all appearance, snowed up to the top storey; the wind in its fierceness having flung the snow against the house, where it froze on the windows, giving a weird look; a pane of glass here and there coming out in relief, and prismatic colours darting across, in and out of the snow where the sun shone in full power. "where the ivy covers the north side, the effect was very beautiful: each leaf covered as it were with a bell of crystal, and festoons of crystal hanging down in every direction. outside the front door the snow was fourteen feet deep. from eight to ten on that memorable monday evening when the storm was at its height, the gardener, mr. baker, stood out and saw the trees right and left, here rooted up, there felled down with the rapidity and report of a volley of musketry. over a thousand trees are down, among them the finest trees surrounding the house, and which can ill be spared, such as the insignis, the ilex, &c. every orchard is laid low. [illustration: membland, residence of lord revelstoke, after the storm.] "the two plantations near the house present the appearance of hundreds of trees felled down for the advance of an invading and cruel enemy. on the carriage-drive you come across a huge tree torn up by the roots, leaving the whole road cracked as from an earthquake! by the side of this devastation, at every turn, you see the most curious sight of all,--a tree frail from age or extreme youth left untouched! the drift at the lodge was from fifteen to twenty feet deep. the lodge-keeper took one hour and three-quarters getting from the lodge to the house, on tuesday, the 10th; a distance under three-quarters of a mile. mr. methyrell, a tenant of lord revelstoke's, residing one mile from membland, lost fifty of his sheep. lord revelstoke was fortunate in not losing more than seventeen sheep and one black lamb. the village of noss mayo, situated in the estuary of the yealm, in the parish of revelstoke, has sadly lost in beauty and picturesqueness from the destruction of trees, these falling headlong in some instances on the boats of the inhabitants, and causing distress and ruin. "lord revelstoke was in london--lady revelstoke was alone in the house with her niece, miss bulteel: the experience of being cut off from all communication with the neighbouring villages, the impossibility of procuring the services of dr. adkins were it a matter of life or death, the cessation of all postal or telegraphic communications, being told the last portion of flour was exhausted--this lasting from monday until saturday--all the different incidents arising from this "_great unforeseen_" are recollections which will never be effaced from the memories of the inhabitants of the parish of revelstoke. the postman from plymouth to yealmpton and newton ferrers, including the parish of revelstoke, deserves praise. his return was looked for anxiously by the inhabitants of noss mayo and newton, morning after morning. he got to yealmpton, and sallied forth like the dove after the flood to try and find his way to newton, but was forced to turn back. he succeeded on the saturday, and was hailed with delight. "at flete, mr. mildmay's place, three-and-a-half miles from ivybridge, the damage is great, but the loss of trees not as irreparable as in other places. the family were away. but the snug little corner between flete and membland, at the mouth of the erme, inhabited by mr. bulteel, was a haven chosen by this merciless blast upon which to vent its worst fury. the peaceful valley strewn with trees, and the beautiful laurels shattered. "a little incident is worth recording to illustrate the friendliness and kind-heartedness of the neighbours. the town of modbury is six miles from pamflete. mr. bulteel has for years dealt with mr. coyte, the butcher. on thursday, the 12th, mr. coyte feared mr. bulteel might run short of butcher's-meat; he accordingly started three men at 8 a.m. from modbury, one man carrying a basket of meat, and the other two with shovels, for places found too impassable to ensure a footway. "these men reached pamflete (mr. bulteel's) at 6 p.m., after a struggle of ten hours to get there. it is needless to say they were welcomed by mr. bulteel, who was thoroughly grateful to mr. coyte for his kind thought." another account says:--"at mount edgcumbe park, the principal seat of the rt. hon. earl of mount edgcumbe, the wreck to the timber is enormous. so large are the gaps made in the groups and avenues of trees, that the unaccustomed open spaces are distinctly visible from plymouth hoe, and from even greater distances. altogether, the earl estimates his loss at two thousand trees (at mount edgcumbe alone), and calculates that it will take two years to sufficiently clear his park of fallen timber to enable him to again throw it open to visitors." the reproduction of a photograph by mr. heath, of george-street, plymouth, shows the entrance to mount edgcumbe park. here there are down three fine elms, each four hundred years old. one fell right across the path, the other two fell towards the lodge, which they only escaped by a few inches, the branches even sweeping off some of the slates from the roof of the building. had the trees fallen but a little more to the north, the lodge must have been crushed like cardboard. all the way up the avenue leading to the house the trees are lying in every direction. in the private garden behind the house (the favourite resort of the earl and his family), the beautiful cedars, known only to those who have had the privilege of visiting this retired spot, are all down or shivered where they stand. particularly and painfully noticeable are a fine old lime, a chestnut tree, and a beautiful turkey oak, not only rooted up but split to pieces. these the earl describes as having been his favourite trees. [illustration: the entrance, mt. edgcumbe park.] "on the hill overlooking the ruins of the old castle, all but one of the umbrella pines, so well known to all visitors to the park, are rooted up, and scattered. in the laurel walk, dozens of fine trees are down, quite obstructing the pathway, but the saddest scene of all in this portion of the park is the fall of a fine silver beech, which stood just at the end of the walk. strange to say, this tree has fallen in the opposite direction to every tree in the park, as if its sole purpose had been to crush a beautiful camellia tree that stood exactly opposite, and that has yearly yielded a thousand blooms. close by is still standing a fir, the tallest tree in all the park, looking as though, through all the stormy night and day, it had reared its proud head in defiance of the tempest. "the greatest havoc of all is in that part of the park known as beechwood, situated on a slope facing almost due east. this slope was exposed to the full fury of the gale, and quite four hundred trees were blown down. our illustration, from a photo by mr. heath, pourtrays some of this fallen grandeur. a gardener, who lives in beechwood cottage, far more familiarly known as lady emma's cottage, relates, that on monday night, when the storm was at its height, which was between half-past seven and eight o'clock, he with his wife and young family were in the house in an awful state of suspense and apprehension. momentarily they were dreading that a fallen tree would crush in their cottage, and yet they dared not venture out among the crashing timber, nor face the blast that would in all probability have blown them over the cliff into the sea. their terror can be well understood when it is stated that from time to time the branches of falling trees actually brushed the walls of the cottage. as if by a merciful dispensation of providence, a huge beech, standing almost due east to the house, remained standing, while other trees, less exposed, were blown down. if the beech had fallen, the fate of the cottage with its inmates must have been quickly determined. [illustration: beechwood, mt. edgcumbe park.] "in the english and italian gardens more disastrous wreckage meets the view. on the lawn, in the english garden, a splendid cork tree, and also a famous holly, were uprooted. the orangery in the italian garden narrowly escaped damage by a falling elm." many of the large trees, lying prostrate, and others completely wrecked, are depicted in the accompanying view, also from a photo by mr. heath. seriously as the noble owner of mount edgcumbe suffered at his principal seat, that was not, however, the extent of the calamity. the condition of the woods was described by one who visited the locality after the storm in the following terms:-"at cotehele, the devastation in the woods is beyond all description. few, indeed, except the very oldest persons, have ever been able to see cotehele house from the town of calstock. this historic mansion is now, however, in full view, and the monarchs of the wood have fallen low to the extent of thousands. it is only as one goes through the woods that the vastness of the destruction can be comprehended. in the glade that fronts the house towards the tamar, below the ornamental pond, the crash and fall has been so great as to make a tangled mass of roots, branches, and limbs. most of the trees that are down are elms, though beeches, ashes, and sycamores have also given way to the gale. oaks have held on at the roots, but the limbs have suffered, and firs have gone by the board. most of this species of tree have broken short off, rather than have been uprooted. the beautiful walk from cotehele quay to the house is a wreck that fifty years will not set in the same form as it existed before the 9th of march. trees three feet through have been blown out of the ground as though they had been saplings, and in some cases the weight of the earth and stones around the roots must have been several tons." not less than two thousand trees were blown down in cotehele woods, representing over 100,000 feet of timber. one tree alone contained over two hundred cubic feet. [illustration: fallen monarchs, mt. edgcumbe park.] mr. w. coulter, the highly respected house-steward of the earl of mount edgcumbe, at cotehele, and who resides in cotehele house, has favoured us with the following graphic account of what took place during the early part of this eventful week:-"the wind, having blown a gale the whole day, continued to increase in violence as evening approached, and from 7 till 9 o'clock p.m., accomplished, if not all, the greater part of the devastation to house and woods. the noise of the storm resembled the frantic yells and fiendish laughter of millions of liberated maniacs, broken, at frequent intervals, by what sounded like deafening and rapid volleys of heavy artillery, and, as these died away, louder and louder again rose the appalling screams of the storm, with slight intervals of lull and perfect calm, only to return with tenfold violence, which made the whole house tremble and vibrate. at 7 p.m. two heavy skylights were blown from their position on the roof of the kitchen, and from the chimney of the same building a huge metal plate was hurled into the court below, carrying the masonry through the roof and into the room underneath. "several of the windows facing the east were swept in as easily as a spider's web; lead and glass, scattered all over the room, leaving only the shattered frames, through which rushed the resistless wind and blinding snow. one window, being almost new, the hinges and fastenings were snapped asunder like joints of thread, the snow lying in heavy wreaths over beds, furniture, and floor. most of the windows on the weather-side were more or less broken evidently, in the first instance, by the scattered branches of fallen trees just in front of the house. through the joints of doors and windows the cracks and crevices, before unknown to the eye, the drifting snow penetrated and piled up in ridges, so that rooms and passages had to be cleared like the pavement in the streets. "it is absolutely impossible to picture the scene of desolation revealed at daybreak on the morning of the 10th all round the house. the ground was strewn and literally covered with fallen slates and branches of trees. the appearance of the courtyard, or quadrangle, presented that of a grave-yard, the slates in all shapes, sizes, and forms, standing on end, like grave-stones projecting above the snow. "notwithstanding the great number of huge trees levelled all round the house, neither the inmates of cotehele, nor a single individual outside, once heard the crash of falling timber above the fierce howling of the blast. "we inside the house, at much risk, and after much labour, managed to find and secure the displaced skylights, and from that time, 7 p.m. till 4 a.m., we were hard at work clearing rooms of the snow and barricading broken windows with whatever material came first to hand, such as packing-cases, door-mats, old books and cardboard, battened firmly into the granite mullions. many times during the fierce cannonade we feared the whole building would collapse, but beyond shattered windows and roof, the granite walls remain intact, and during the storm fires had to be extinguished, smoke and flames being driven into the room and the occupants driven out. "a somewhat remarkable incident in reference to this may here be recorded. perched on the extreme point of an abrupt and precipitous rock, overhanging the river tamar, stands the venerable old fane, better known as sir richard edgcumbe's chapel. right and left of the building, nearly the whole of the timber was levelled, but the chapel itself and a small clump of sturdy oaks surrounding the spot are, with the building, left intact, save one small insignificant tree whose roots and fangs were clinging to an almost barren piece of rock. [illustration: a fallen monarch, cotehele, calstock.] "on an examination of the cotehele woods, the scene presented gives one the idea of an earthquake rather than that of a storm. the majority of the hundreds of trees vary from two to three hundred years and even older, torn up by the roots, and tearing up like so much turf yards of macadamized road and huge blocks of strong stone walls, leaving their ponderous roots standing erect, to which may be seen clinging several tons of huge rock firmly clasped by root and soil, and in many instances, these giants of the forest are found lying athwart each other, shewing the storm to have practised all the antics of a whirlwind." a huge fallen tree, lying prone across a pathway in the woods, may be seen in the above illustration, which is from a photograph taken by mr. rowe, public librarian, devonport. a description of another scene of melancholy devastation, written in april, some weeks after the storm, said:-"at maristowe, the seat of the right hon. sir massey lopes, bart., the storm did irreparable damage on monday. the grounds presented on tuesday a scene of terrible desolation, and even now it can be seen that the beauties of maristowe are all destroyed. mr. merson, steward to sir massey, states that fifty thousand trees are down, and that the respected owner is much affected by his loss. nearly all the lime trees in the avenue leading from the croquet and tennis lawns to the garden, and which formed the chief attraction to visitors, are lying in hopeless confusion, and the avenue, considered the most beautiful walk in all devonshire, is now utterly impassable and destroyed for ever. in the main coach road, from the gamekeeper's lodge to the mansion, fifty beautiful beeches have fallen. "the greatest portion of the damage within the park itself, occurred in the immediate vicinity of mr. merson's house, the occupants of which expected every moment that it would be crushed by falling trees. "a strange incident occurred in connection with the sycamore trees. it appears that on the saturday previous to the storm sir massey decided that two old and decayed trees of this kind, which were somewhat in the way of contemplated improvements to the steward's residence, should be cut down, and gave mr. merson instructions accordingly. the gale came on, and hundreds of stately trees, one a monarch elm of unusual size, and another a stately macrocarphus fir, sixty feet high, and of exceptional beauty, succumbed within a short distance of the spot where the two old and despised sycamores still reared their heads. the storm could not destroy them, but they have since been sawn down. near this same spot some very choice laurels and rhododendrons were torn up by the roots and hurled fifty yards away, being discovered days afterwards buried under from twelve to twenty feet of snow. in the fir wood, facing the mansion, on the opposite side of the tavy, quite half the trees are blown down, while the plantation close to the main entrance on roborough down is almost entirely destroyed. the plantation adjoins the residence of dr. clay, of plymouth, and contained about three thousand very fine firs and pines of which only about one hundred remain. "looking towards the woods opposite maristowe house, the owner must witness such a wreck as never was before seen since the house has stood there. from the entrance of the road from beer ferris to lopwell, trees of every description lie twisted and thrown in every direction, and the road itself must, for some time, be only available for traffic with care. the great trees in falling have crashed through others, and thousands of broken limbs are visible on every hand. on the other side of the tavy towards denham bridge, the damage is great, and in the hollows, here and there, more than three weeks after the storm, were considerable quantities of snow. at denham bridge several very fine firs have gone, broken off short some five to eight feet above the ground in most cases, and in the tavy here and there are other trees. on the road from beer alston to tavistock one plantation of black firs, consisting of several hundred trees, has lost to the extent of nine trees out of every ten, and the cutoff ends of the trees jutting on the highway present a remarkable appearance. a little further away, on the road to milton abbot, another fir plantation has nearly every tree down." at buckland abbey, famous as the ancestral home of sir francis drake, the ruin is singularly disastrous. messrs. ward & chowen, of burnville, bridestowe, have kindly forwarded an interesting communication which sets forth vividly some startling results of the blizzard. they write:-"as agents to the buckland abbey property, our mr. chowen visited the abbey on the saturday after the storm, that being the first day it was possible to arrive at the nearest station, namely, horrabridge, and in getting to the abbey he had to walk over fifteen feet of snow in some parts, the average depth being about five feet. on reaching the north lodge, he was astounded at the devastation which met his view. the whole of the rookery between the north and south lodges at the back of the farm-house, commonly known as place barton, was literally levelled--scarcely a tree remained standing, and the few that were left were completely shattered, partly by the storm, and partly by the falling of the other trees in their sudden descent. "the fine old timber around the abbey, which doubtless gave character to the place in the renowned sir francis drake's time, has been more or less ruthlessly torn up by the roots by the effects of the disastrous storm, and a noble avenue of beech to the north of the abbey grounds has suffered terribly, almost every alternate tree having succumbed. in the abbey grounds, an interesting sycamore, centuries old, on the stock of which, at the point where the branches diverged, accommodation was afforded by seats and a centre table for a quiet tea-party, shared the fate of the others, and in its terrific descent crushed down another fine ornamental specimen as if it were a sapling. many of the fine old cedars have been sadly mutilated, whilst some of the tulip trees have been destroyed, but the abbey buildings have, most fortunately, escaped injury. "our mr. stevenson, at the north lodge, has recounted a marvellous incident which took place on the monday evening of the storm. it appears a neighbouring farmer and his wife paid a visit to their friends at the barton, and discovering that the storm was increasing in violence, decided to leave early. in passing through the rookery towards the north lodge, the way by the south lodge being already inaccessible, they had arrived just where the rookery terminated at this point, when down came the last tree over them without warning, and, marvellous to relate, the horse, conveyance, and occupants were imprisoned between the large branches diverging from the stock without the slightest damage whatever being done. after great difficulty in clearing the branches, the party were rescued, but could get no further than the lodge, the horse having to be put up in the kitchen or living room, whilst the owners were accommodated in the sitting room, where they remained until the following wednesday at midday. immediately after this occurrence, the whole rookery was swept down, completely covering the road which had been so recently passed over, and one of the trees was blown on the back roof of the farm-house, crushing in one of the bedrooms to within six inches of where a child was sleeping. "in tracing the ravages of the storm it is most interesting to notice the vagaries of the current, as it affected everything with which it came in contact. in some cases the force would appear to descend vertically in gusts, seizing the top or tops of trees lying together and wrenching off the same as if turnip-tops, leaving the stock intact; whilst other trees within a few feet escaped untouched. undoubtedly the force of the gale assumed a variety of forms. in some cases it could be seen that the extreme violence of the wind reached a breadth of an eighth of a mile, more or less, when in other places it was only a few yards wide, clearing everything before it. in other parts it assumed a circular or vortex form, and in its tortuous route decimated everything in its way, tearing up huge trees, as if telegraph poles, and even stripping off the thick bark of the scotch fir, leaving it as clean as a rinded pole. "so far as we know the buildings have pretty well escaped, only partial damage being done, and in some instances trees which might have smashed down dwelling-houses have been spared, whilst those immediately around the building have been stranded." the rev. frederic t. w. wintle, rector of beerferris, who, in addition to severe damage to his residence suffered considerably from loss of trees, contributes the following information which was written on the wednesday after the blizzard:-"the barometer on monday morning at 9 a.m. had risen from 29·60 on sunday to 29·70. about 12 noon slight snow began and continued, but did not lie much until towards evening; the gale freshened towards sunset, and at 7·30 was furious. one of my chimney-stacks fell at that time, wrecking the roof and three rooms, and it blew a hurricane for some hours, with blinding drifts of fine snow. i dreaded daylight, but was quite unprepared for the horrible desolation around me. i had some fine fir trees, and others, almost everyone was blown down; and oak trees either uprooted or boughs twisted and broken in a remarkable way. i have nineteen good trees all down, and twenty apple trees in an adjacent orchard. indeed, my garden, of which i was justly proud, is completely wrecked and ruined. the barometer had fallen to 29·20 yesterday (tuesday) morning, and there was a high wind and fine snow partly falling, partly drifting, till after dark. the average depth is from five to seven inches, but deep drifts all about, five feet at least. this morning (wednesday) we have a cloudless sky, calm, and barometer 29·60. great destruction is everywhere. in one orchard over 100 trees are down, in another cherry orchard they are described as lying as if they were mown with a scythe. the roads are mostly impassable with huge drifts, so that we can get no communication at all. no post, no papers. the trains are all blocked beyond tavistock, and the telegraph won't work. no doubt the accounts of the storm will reveal some curious details. although the whole of my place suffered so extensively, in a field just outside there are several fine oaks which are untouched. i imagine the storm to have swept down from dartmoor pretty well north-easterly, over a high hill and down upon us, and we must have been right in its vortex: the trees all show signs of twisting, as if there had been a circular force. i am curious to see how wide an area it grasped." at saltram house, a country seat of lord morley, four hundred trees were blown down, and damage was done to the farm buildings. the kitchen chimney at the mansion was also blown down, and crashed through the roof into that apartment. the very fine beech avenue, leading from the entrance lodge to the mansion at bickham, the residence of reginald gill, esq., banker, of tavistock, is totally destroyed. at warleigh, the residence of walter radcliffe, esq., two thousand trees were blown down, and at derriford, p. c. c. radcliffe, esq., lost sixty. in the plantations at st. german's, between two and three hundred trees were uprooted or broken off. the park covers four hundred acres, and much of the damage is in the home plantations. on the kitley estate, near yealmpton, over 1,500 trees were blown down, amongst them being some of the small leaf elm for which the property is noted, while on the blatchford estate four hundred trees fell. at woodtown, near tavistock, the residence of w. f. collier, esq., hundreds of large trees were blown down, amongst them being several exceptionally fine american conifers. at foxhams, in the same district, m. collier, esq., lost some magnificent scotch and silver firs and other trees, many of which had attained a great age. a large number of conifers and rhododendrons, planted by mr. collier himself some eighteen years ago, also perished. pentillie castle suffered very severely; the house and the gardens both escaped with but little damage, but trees of all sizes and ages were blown down in all directions, from the majestic oaks of two centuries' growth to the more recently planted pinus and other rare and ornamental trees and shrubs. so far all the strength of the woodman's establishment has been directed to the clearing of the roads and walks, which of itself is a herculean undertaking. the wreck may be cleared away in time, but restoration to its former state is impossible. at efford manor, plymouth, the blizzard struck with great force the edge of the lane on the eastern side of the house, and then recoiling, and turning right and left, uprooted about twenty trees on the northern side, and the same number on the southern side, leaving the house and grounds untouched. at greenbank, plymouth, several very fine trees were lost, and others old and withered were left standing. on pitt farm, near ottery st. mary, a magnificent scotch fir, standing alone, and measuring fifty-six feet to the lowest branch, was blown down. this had for many years been a familiar landmark, and will be greatly missed in the neighbourhood. what transpired at the elms, stoke, the residence of dr. metham, our illustration, next page, from a photograph by mr. rowe, devonport, plainly shows. to enumerate here the instances of lamentable destruction to woods, parks, and forests, all similar in character to the cases recorded above, would be an impossible task. it will be long before the extent of the damage is fully known, and where nearly every acre of ground on which trees stood, more particularly in devon and west cornwall, has been more or less rifled, anything like a comprehensive account is out of the question. the same remark applies to the loss of fruit-trees. we have hundreds of instances of farmers and fruit-growers who have to lament the destruction, in some cases, of whole orchards; others, not quite so unfortunate, having lost fruit-trees upon which for various reasons they placed an especial value. the few facts given are but typical of many scores of others, special reference to which the time at our disposal does not permit. [illustration: the elms, stoke, devonport.] generally speaking, the nurserymen have not met with any very great loss. some glass has been broken, but in the winter season nearly all the valuable stock, with the exception of choice trees and shrubs, is protected. among shrubs, many of the half-hardy specimens are destroyed, their strength permitting them to stand an ordinary western winter, but not one of the severity of that of the memorable blizzard year of 1891. chapter vii. after the storm. the water famine in plymouth. as soon as the gale of monday night and tuesday had spent its force, and it became possible for the work of clearing up to be proceeded with, movements in this direction were rapidly organized in the three towns, as well as in all other parts of the west where men were obtainable, or traffic was at all possible. in plymouth, stonehouse and devonport, the earliest opportunities had been seized of clearing the snow away from the door-ways; to free the pavements as a whole was the next important step; and finally, in the temporarily fine weather of wednesday, the congealed masses in the roadways were attacked, and that to such good purpose, that by the following sunday, while traces of the recent fall were frequent enough, in the majority of the streets pedestrians could walk about with comfort, and vehicular traffic was fully resumed. george street, plymouth, assumed before long a very different appearance from that which it bore on tuesday morning, when mr. heath took the photograph from which our illustration is reproduced, and the marvellous wintry mantles that enwrapped the other portions of the town were removed with equal despatch. hundreds of men were employed shovelling the snow into carts, from which it was subsequently tipped into the sea at sutton harbour and the great western docks. [illustration: clock tower and theatre royal, plymouth.] the railways by the end of the week had commenced to run with something like regularity, although there were one or two temporary hitches at first; and the postal telegraph services had already been partially restored. to effect the latter object, large numbers of engineers had been at work, and in the course of their labours, as may be supposed, they met with a great deal of discomfort, and some very startling adventures. bricklayers, plumbers and plasterers plied a busy trade for weeks after the storm, their services being required to some extent in every house. [illustration: devonport park.] at stonehouse, the main streets were soon freed from snow, and the usual busy throngs of people began once more to pass along this highway between plymouth and devonport. at devonport, by friday, in many parts of the town the snow had quite disappeared, though in several of the streets heaps of slush remained, and at the railway station business went on much as usual. in devonport park great quantities of snow remained for a considerable time, though the paths were cleared, and traffic for foot-passengers was made easy. mr. rowe, of devonport, has supplied a photograph of a very familiar scene in the park, which is here presented. the view of the water steps, milehouse road, is also from a photograph by the same gentleman. all over the storm-swept district, farmers were busy looking for cattle and sheep, and some marvellous instances have been told of sheep being recovered alive after being entombed for various lengthy periods, one term of snow imprisonment lasting as long as sixteen days. as early as the tuesday morning following the storm of monday night, mr. bellamy, the plymouth borough surveyor, notified to the inhabitants of that town the imminent danger of a cessation of the water supply, in consequence of the blocking by snow of the leat through which the water is brought into the town. that these warnings were needed was evident from the fact that since the monday night the only water obtainable had been from the hartley reservoir, which, when full, contains only two million gallons, or two days' supply. on wednesday the whole of the available staff of the corporation, including the men whose usual task is the repairing of the leat, were set to work, under the personal supervision of mr. bellamy, to clear away the frozen snow which completely filled the leat at the head weir, and prevented the passage through it of any water from the river. the whole leat from the head weir to roborough was found to be one mass of frozen snow. on the same day, the mayor of plymouth, mr. j. t. bond, accompanied by mr. r. monk and mr. g. r. barrett, set out to walk up to roborough, to ascertain if possible how the work was progressing. the mayor and his companions arrived safely at roborough, and were enabled to have communication by telephone with the borough surveyor who was at the weir head. they ascertained from him the condition of the leat, and received an urgent appeal for at least two hundred more workmen to be sent up immediately. the party then set out on their return journey, and again on foot. [illustration: water steps, milehouse road, devonport.] arrived in plymouth, a meeting of the water committee was hastily convened, and it was ascertained that four plymouth contractors would be able to supply about one hundred men to proceed to roborough. this force was inadequate, and consequently the mayor proceeded to devonport, and having stated the case to general sir richard harrison, k.c.b., commanding the district, at once received a promise of the services of a military force of two hundred--one hundred of the welsh regiment from the north raglan barracks, and another hundred of the royal marines, the latter by permission of colonel colwell, second colonel commandant. on wednesday the efforts of mr. bellamy, ably supplemented by those of mr. duke and mr. shadwell, to make rapid progress with clearing the leat near the well-known rock hotel at head weir, had been somewhat retarded. many of the labourers employed were ill-clad, and showed signs of weakness, and when it was found that no sufficient provision had been made to supply them with food, they threw down their shovels and returned to plymouth. others, however, worked gallantly on through the night. on thursday morning, things looked more promising. at an early hour the new contingent of workmen engaged on the previous day, and the two detachments of the military--the men of the welsh regiment under lieutenants de la chapelle and ready, and the marines commanded by captain kelly and lieutenants mullins and drake-brockman--were on the spot, and these, being divided into gangs, set vigorously to work on the leat at various points. during the morning large commissariat supplies were received from plymouth, and the men, besides having a plentiful supply of food, were served at intervals with hot coffee. some serious difficulties were encountered, and heavy labour on the part of the civilian labourers and the soldiers was entailed. there were nearly ten miles of leat to be cleared, and much of the snow was frozen into hard solid masses, against which but slow headway could be made. in some places the leat was completely buried under frozen snow of great depth, and for hundreds of yards snow rose in drifts from ten to twelve feet in height, burying the rails guarding the leat, and rendering it difficult to trace its course accurately. the young welsh soldiers worked well, and the services of the marines were found invaluable. by nightfall, when work ceased, it was found that the leat had been cleared for a mile and a half from the head weir towards yennadon. on yennadon down lieutenant de la chapelle's men had cleared the way nearly as far as dousland, and near the roborough reservoir a clearance of three miles had been made. at about six o'clock the troops and civilian labourers, numbering about 450, returned to yelverton station, and ultimately, after a vexatious, but, fortunately, not serious mishap, reached plymouth. fears were expressed during thursday night that there would be another snowstorm on dartmoor, and this proved to be the case. a violent gale raged on the moor, and three feet of snow fell, undoing much of what the heavy toil of the previous day had accomplished. much of the snow that had been removed from the leat had drifted back, and part of the work had to be done over again. on friday morning, a special train left millbay with 200 general labourers. there were also 100 marines under lieutenants sousbie and garrett; 150 men of the dorset regiment, under captain lushington and lieutenants mangles and household; and 50 men of the welsh regiment, under lieutenant woodville. the civilians were under the direction of mr. s. roberts, and the mayor of plymouth, mr. g. r. barrett (deputy-chairman of the water committee), mr. w. h. mayne, mr. r. monk, and mr. g. bellamy, junior, accompanied the party. the train had a rough time, on account of the heavy gale that was blowing, and just before bickleigh station was reached it was brought to a standstill by a snow-drift. about fifty of the labourers had to cut a way through the snow, enabling the party, after nearly an hour's delay, to proceed on their journey. on arriving at yelverton the weather was found to be so bad that, after some consultation, it was considered advisable to send the military back to plymouth, and, after clearing the rails for the return of their own train, they, with about fifty civilian labourers, started on the return journey. mr. roberts, however, with his men proceeded along the leat to a point near clearbrook, but so fierce was the storm that work could not be commenced, and an adjacent barn was used as a temporary refuge. in less than two hours work was begun, and by four o'clock in the afternoon a clear way of four feet in width was made from yelverton bridge to roborough reservoir, a distance of six miles. a contingent under the direction of messrs. t. and w. shaddock, and another directed by mr. duke had been progressing most satisfactorily, and, when night approached and success was within view, all the men expressed their readiness to work all night if needful, so that the leat might be all clear before the morning. this, however, was not necessary, and before seven o'clock a clear passage for the water had been made along the whole ten miles of leat. the water had still to be brought on, and a hundred men volunteered to remain, under mr. bellamy, and work on until a good stream was running. their services were accepted, and the other two hundred men, with the mayor and messrs. roberts and duke returned to plymouth by a special train at nine o'clock. the great piece of work thus happily accomplished had been ably assisted by the mayor of plymouth, councillors g. r. barrett, and r. a. monk, and messrs. a. r. debnam, s. roberts, duke and shaddock, contractors under the corporation. mr. bellamy, with his staff, messrs. prigg, a. g. davey, s. chapman, and g. a. picken, worked without intermission, and had an arduous and an anxious time. messrs. barrett, monk, and mayne, managed the commissariat department, which was no light task, with admirable efficiency. before the party of workers broke up the mayor thanked, in the name of the town of plymouth, all those who had assisted in the labour of averting a great calamity. thanks were also offered to the railway officials for the efficiency of the train service. it was not until sunday morning that a full supply of water began to flow into the cisterns, but after saturday night all apprehension had ceased, and within a few hours the discomforts of the previous few days, as far as want of water was concerned, were removed. although great and growing inconvenience was caused towards the latter end of the week to all the inhabitants of plymouth by the partial deprivation of water, things never reached the same pass as they did in the famine of 1881. stonehouse had plenty of water, and was able to assist in supplying the western end of plymouth. by order of the local board standpipes were on the saturday erected at the malt house, and in millbay road, union place and eldad hill, and all day long residents of plymouth were supplied from these. in some parts of plymouth families were in great difficulty, and water borrowing, where practicable, went forward on a large scale. messrs. polkinghorne, at their brewery in bedford street, messrs. denniford & son, mineral water manufacturers of russel street, and mr. lewis, aërated water manufacturer of athenæum street, supplied hundreds of the inhabitants, free of charge, from their artesian wells. at a meeting of the plymouth borough council subsequently held, formal votes of thanks were passed to a number of citizens, as well as the military authorities, for the services they had rendered, and a rate of remuneration to the soldiers for their valuable service was fixed upon. as soon as the plymouth water difficulty was satisfactorily overcome, it was discovered that the devonport leat, also on dartmoor, was blocked. mr. francis, c. e., manager to the devonport waterworks company, set out for princetown to inspect the place, and as speedily as possible gangs of men were put on to work on the different parts of the leat. some serious difficulties were encountered, most of the snow being frozen quite hard, and forming barriers fifteen feet deep, while in one spot, near lowery lane, a tree, fourteen feet in girth, had, fallen right across the leat. this tree was removed by means of lifting jacks, after having been cut in two. after many trials of patience, extending over several days, the toilers were rewarded with well-deserved success, and the water once more flowed freely. this was a fortunate result, for, besides the inhabitants of devonport and stonehouse, the regiments in garrison, the naval barracks, the engineer students, and the royal marine barracks, are dependent on the devonport water company for their supply of water. chapter viii. some strange experiences. for many years to come residents of the western counties will have tales to relate of marvellous incidents, involving both great and small consequences, that occurred in connection with this memorable blizzard. the remarkable tenacity of life exhibited by birds and animals had been probably wholly unsuspected, until this recent sudden storm supplied the opportunity for its discovery. we have already heard of lambs born under the snow; of geese hatching their young within a day or two of release from days under a heavy snow coverlid, which not only covered but enwrapped them; and of horses being dug out alive and well after a night's chilly burial. an experience of this kind, as curious as any, was that of mr. j. trant, of redlap, stoke fleming, who dug a lamb out of a snow-drift, where it had lain buried for sixteen days. to quote the words of our informant, "the little creature seemed none the worse for its long imprisonment, but began to graze as soon as it was released. i have just seen it, and it was busy making up for lost time." mr. trevethan, of beer barton farm, beerferris, also met with some instances of this kind. after he had succeeded in releasing his lambs, of which he had missed a large number, he found them generally weak, and rather drowsy, but they at once bleated for their mothers, and their call being answered, they trotted off in the direction from which the call came. a bottle of gin was kept on hand for the resuscitation of the recovered creatures, and its efficacy in imparting the needed warmth is highly spoken of. mr. trevethan's shepherd was making for his cottage on monday evening, carrying with him a basket of provisions which he had been into the village to purchase. in attempting to get over a gate, within a short distance of some outhouses that stood between him and his cottage, he was separated from his basket by a violent gust of wind. picking himself up, he reached his home in safety, and his basket was found, after a few days, empty. in the course of the following week, while clearing up his garden, he discovered, under some feet of snow, a package of tea, which had formed part of the monday's stock of provisions, lost from the basket. the package, which was unbroken, and in good condition, had evidently preceded him to his home more than a week before. "mrs. hatherley, living near bickleigh, missed a hen, which she naturally gave up as lost. after a lapse of ten days, a cackling was heard to proceed from under a heap of snow. on going to the place, mrs. hatherley was surprised to find the long-lost hen force an exit through the snow, and, flapping its wings, make its way home to the house with all speed. mrs. hatherley then examined the spot, and found on the ground two eggs which the bird had laid whilst held prisoner by the snow." mr. george sara, of plymouth, traveller for messrs. cadbury bros., was enabled during the monday night of the storm to administer comfort to his fellow-travellers. the train by which he was travelling on the great western line from penzance to plymouth became snowed up at st. german's. mr. sara, happening to have his samples with him, and hot water being available, was able to dispense cups of chocolate to his companions. some easter eggs, made of chocolate, are described by the narrator of the story as forming an excellent ingredient for a beverage of this kind. approval of the samples of messrs. cadbury bros.' wares was expressed by all the belated travellers who had the good fortune to taste them. [illustration: a room at walreddon manor, tavistock.] snow effects resulting from this storm were remarkable in many places, but perhaps none could be found more striking than the illustration we give of the result of leaving open, a few inches, a lattice window, facing north, at walreddon manor, near tavistock, on the night of monday, march 9th. the illustration is from a photograph kindly supplied by henry d. nicholson, esq. at the land's end the gale was very severe, and the snowed-up passengers on the omnibus from penzance to st. just on monday night had a dreadful time. they left penzance about six o'clock, and should have reached st. just by half-past seven, but it was nine o'clock before the 'bus reached the point where it had to remain, some three miles from st. just. the horses failed to proceed, and the driver, a young man about 20, was also very much exhausted. he unhitched the horses, and proceeded to a farmhouse near and asked for shelter. this was refused him, the people of the house saying that there was no room for the horses, as all their cattle were in the house. he begged for admittance, and offered to stand by the horses all night, but he was again refused. not knowing what else to do, he took the harness off the horses, turned their heads towards st. just, and told them to go home. the horses went off in the darkness, and he saw them no more. they did not reach home, but were recovered alive next day. the driver returned to his passengers in the omnibus, and remained with them until midday on tuesday. mr. william penrose, of bojewan, st. just, had also a terrible experience on monday night. he arrived at penzance by the half-past six down-train, intending to catch the omnibus, but, finding it gone, he walked after it. not catching it, he struggled on through the storm for several hours. some time in the night he found himself near a farmhouse. the people of the house had gone to bed, and there was no light, but he knocked vigorously at the door, succeeded in awaking the inmates, and asked to be admitted, as he was well nigh exhausted. the farmer, however, refused to admit him, and, after a long rest under the shelter of the house, he battled again with the storm, determined to make another effort for life. he finally reached the snowed-up omnibus at six in the morning more dead than alive, having been exposed to the storm for twelve hours. instances of inhospitality such as these were rare during the blizzard, and they are worth recording on that account. mr. theo h. willcocks relates as follows:-"on the memorable monday night, the storm raging furiously and showing no signs of abating, i left the molesworth arms, wadebridge, at about eight o'clock, after being persuaded to do otherwise by the worthy proprietor, mr. s. pollard, and numerous other friends, and made tracks for tregorden, some two miles distant. the town itself was desolate in the extreme, the streets being absolutely deserted except by a passing chimney-pot or tile. "the wind howled and whistled as i wended my way over the bridge, hurling the flakes in my face with almost blinding force, but at the far end i found myself greatly sheltered, and made fairly good progress over the hill until i reached ball, where i encountered the full force of the gale. it must have taken me at least ten minutes making 100 yards, at the end of which i was thoroughly exhausted, but managed to reach the cottage occupied by eliza burton, which i entered; after furiously rapping the door to wake the inmates, who had retired for the night. here i received the kindest attention, also severe ridicule from 'dick,' a person of no mean size, and the man of the house, for being obliged to seek help. he immediately volunteered to accompany me, so after lighting a lantern, and getting tied up securely, as we thought, from the tempest we closed the door behind us. "by this time the snow in the highway was several inches in depth, and the storm raged with greater fury than ever. on turning down tregorden lane, this road, though running nearly at right angles to the wind, was being rapidly filled, for the blizzard came rushing across a twelve-acre field, with nothing to impede its course, and, gathering the snow up in clouds, whirled it along until it reached this sheltered lane, where it came over the hedge and through the bushes in streams of sleet, and it was as though we were inhaling icicles, for when we turned our backs it was just the same. it pierced our clothes, freezing as it did so, and our hair and necks became saturated with the driving snow which formed into a mass of ice. the lane was rapidly becoming impassable, the snow being now even up to our waists. in this state we plodded along for a short distance, i being determined that this time 'dick' should be the first to be beaten, and i had not long to wait, for he gasped out 'let's turn back, i am done;' so round we turned and struggled back to the cottage more dead than alive, having been out for some twenty-five minutes. eliza, prophesying our return, had by this time got up a roaring fire, and at once forced some hot brandy down our throats, after which we changed our stiff clothes and made ourselves comfortable for the night before the fire, and i enjoyed a cup of tea as i did not know how to before." on the following day the narrator was able to proceed to tregorden. among other peculiar and beautiful forms taken by the blizzard snow, and seen with great effect during the sunshine of the wednesday after the storm, were the huge, shell-shaped hollows scooped out by the wind from the snow-drifts. an examination of many of our illustrations will reveal examples of this very unusual feature. in the accompanying scene, which is a view of a drift in the liskeard cricket field, the peculiarity is very marked, the hollow being apparently sufficiently deep to cause the surface of the drift to overhang for some two or three feet. brief reference has already been made in another chapter to the gallant exploits of mr. harold s. williams, of torridge, near plympton. on tuesday afternoon, at about five o'clock, he left his home and proceeded in the direction of the great western railway line. making his way in the storm, he found no. 160 engine standing in a deep drift which had formed on the bridge crossing the lane leading from the george hotel. alone on the engine was the driver, coleman, in imminent danger of being frozen to death. getting back as fast as possible to torridge, mr. williams procured stimulants. returning to the driver, he found him almost in a state of collapse. all he could say was, "i'm dying, i'm dying." mr. williams, who showed great pluck and presence of mind, got him off the engine, and conducted him towards torridge, nearing which a portion of a relief party was met, and they carried the driver into the house. by that time he had become unconscious, but restoratives having been administered, and coleman's limbs vigorously rubbed, he in about an hour was restored to partial consciousness. he remained the guest of mr. williams all night, and next day had sufficiently recovered to be removed to his home. [illustration: drift, cricket field, liskeard.] not long after coleman had been received into torridge, news was brought that another driver, rather further up the line, was dying. mr. williams, who is only nineteen years of age, again started on an errand of mercy and rescue. this time he was accompanied by mr. thornton, his tutor, and some of the relief party, who had helped to carry coleman into his hospitable home. about 150 yards beyond coleman's engine the party came across another engine completely buried in the snow, even to the funnel. lying near to it was its driver, who had evidently crawled off the footplate in the hope of reaching shelter from the bitter snowstorm. at once he was carried to torridge, apparently dead, and was laid on a mattress before a large fire. an attempt to administer restoratives failed, so tightly was the man's teeth clenched. all that could be done was to promote circulation by the warmth of fire and friction. rubbing the limbs and body was persevered in, and at length the man gave a groan. that, however, was the only sign of life he gave for three hours, during which time the rubbing was persevered in by relays of helpers. two hours afterwards--that is five hours after he had been brought in--he was sufficiently recovered to speak, but it was some time after that before it could be said that he was out of danger. when he first recovered speech he was found to be delirious, and he continued in a state of delirium, more or less, the whole of the night. when mr. c. c. compton, the divisional superintendent, called at torridge early next morning, to ascertain how the driver was, it was reported that he was making favourable recovery, but that it would not be possible to remove him for some days. the man suffered much in his legs and feet, which are believed to be considerably frostbitten. his hands appeared to be all right. he remained some time at torridge, and was most carefully tended. eventually he and the driver first rescued recovered. a plucky journey was undertaken on the wednesday after the storm by captain cowie, r.e., with a view to ascertaining the damage done between totnes and plympton to the postal telegraph wires, and being unable to proceed on the journey by rail in consequence of the blocks _en route_, he set out from the former place with a determination to cover the distance on foot. he was the first to attempt the venturesome task, and the consciousness of the difficulties that would have to be encountered did not appear to trouble him. proceeding as fast as circumstances would permit, he eventually accomplished the journey of nineteen miles, meeting with hardly a solitary individual the whole of the way. it is almost needless to say that his experiences were of a most trying and perilous character. the road being impassable at many points he mounted the hedges, and occasionally losing his footing he fell into snowdrifts many feet high, being completely buried. he succeeded in releasing himself from his dangerous predicament, but on each of the occasions he met with this misfortune there was absolutely no assistance at hand even should it have been required. he ultimately reached kingsbridge road, and notwithstanding the adventures which he had already experienced, he decided to continue the journey to plympton. having regaled himself with a little milk and some light refreshment, he started off again, and the remainder of the journey was no less perilous than the portion already accomplished had been. he had to wade through accumulations of snow almost as high as himself, and was frequently compelled to crawl along on his hands and knees. he eventually reached plympton, saturated with water and sore from the difficult and dangerous ordeal he had passed through, and here left instructions for some men to follow him, finding, however, that the wires _en route_ had suffered very little damage. the end. a. h. swiss, "bremner" printing works, fore street, devonport. transcriber's notes in the first chapter, much of the meterological data does not make sense but there was no way to correct it. obvious punctuation errors repaired. hyphen removed: bed[-]rooms (p. 141), break[-]down (pp. 23, 44, 47). hyphen added: down[-]train (pp. 46, 51, 120, 162), sea[-]port (pp. 98, 100). the following words appear both with and without hyphens and have not been changed: farm[-]house, life[-]boat(s), mid[-]day. "a.m." and "p.m." changed to small capitals (pp. 33, 103, 110). p. 57: "on on" changed to "on" (whilst the heavy squalls were on tuesday). p. 143: "thermometer" changed to "barometer" (calm, and barometer 29·60). transcriber's notes ################### this e-text is based on the 1910 edition. the following errors have been corrected. # p. 68: "standstone" --> "sandstone" # p. 71: bad print image; "south of": "of" restored # p. 131: "exent" --> "extent" italic text in the original version has been placed between underscores (_text_); bold passages have been symbolised by hash marks (#text#). the caret symbol (^) indicates a superscript letter; the symbol [oe] represents the respective ligature. [illustration: physical map of devon] cambridge county geographies general editor: f. h. h. guillemard, m.a., m.d. devonshire cambridge university press london: fetter lane, e.c. c. f. clay, manager [illustration] edinburgh: 100, princes street berlin: a. asher and co. leipzig: f. a. brockhaus new york: g. p. putnam's sons bombay and calcutta: macmillan and co., ltd. [_all rights reserved_] _cambridge county geographies_ devonshire by francis a. knight and louie m. (knight) dutton with maps, diagrams and illustrations cambridge: at the university press 1910 cambridge: printed by john clay, m.a. at the university press preface in preparing this book much use has been made of the _proceedings_ of the devonshire association and of the first volume of the _victoria history of devon_. the authors also desire to take this opportunity of recording their grateful thanks to her gracious majesty queen alexandra for her kindness in providing one of the most interesting illustrations in the volume--the beautiful photograph of the armada trophy preserved among the royal plate in windsor castle, taken for the purpose of this volume by her command. f. a. k. and l. m. d. _march, 1910._ contents page 1. county and shire. the name devonshire 1 2. general characteristics 4 3. size. shape. boundaries 8 4. surface and general features 11 5. watershed. rivers and the tracing of their courses. lakes 20 6. geology 30 7. natural history 41 8. a peregrination of the coast: 1, the bristol channel 55 9. a peregrination of the coast: 2, the english channel 65 10. coastal gains and losses. sandbanks. lighthouses 79 11. climate and rainfall 88 12. people--race. dialects. settlements. population 97 13. agriculture--main cultivations. woodlands. stock 104 14. industries and manufactures 111 15. mines and minerals 119 16. fisheries and fishing stations 124 17. shipping and trade 129 18. history of devonshire 136 19. antiquities 152 20. architecture--(_a_) ecclesiastical. cathedral, churches, abbeys and monastic houses 167 21. architecture--(_b_) military. castles 185 22. architecture--(_c_) domestic. famous seats, manor houses, farms, cottages 192 23. communications: past and present--roads, railways, canals 202 24. administration and divisions--ancient and modern 208 25. the roll of honour of the county 213 26. the chief towns and villages of devonshire 225 illustrations page devonshire in the exeter domesday book. _phot._ worth & co 3 king tor, near tavistock. _phot._ frith 5 a typical devon stream--watersmeet, lynmouth. _phot._ coates & co. 6 a devon valley--yawl bottom, uplyme. _phot._ frith 7 glen lyn, near lynmouth. _phot._ coates & co. 9 the upper dart, from the moors. _phot._ frith 12 tavy cleave, showing disintegrated granite 14 on lundy 17 the river exe at tiverton. _phot._ frith 21 on the dart; sharpham woods. _phot._ frith 24 the axe at axminster bridge. _phot._ frith 26 bideford and the torridge estuary. _phot._ frith 28 geological section across england 32 logan stone, dartmoor. phot. frith 34 a smoothly-weathered granite tor, dartmoor. _phot._ frith 36 footprints of _cheirotherium_. _phot._ h. g. herring 38 a red deer. _phot._ h. g. herring 43 otters. _phot._ h. g. herring 44 spurge hawk moth, with pupa and caterpillar. _phot._ h. g. herring 51 the castle rock, lynton. _phot._ coates & co. 56 valley of rocks, lynton. _phot._ frith 57 ilfracombe, from hillsborough. _phot._ coates & co. 59 cliffs near clovelly. _phot._ frith 63 clovelly harbour 64 church rock, clovelly. _phot._ frith 65 pinhay landslip. _phot._ frith 67 white cliff, seaton. _phot._ barrett 68 parson and clerk rocks, dawlish. _phot._ frith 70 anstis cove, near torquay. _phot._ frith 71 torquay from vane hill. _phot._ frith 72 brixham. _phot._ frith 74 "britannia" and "hindostan" in dartmouth harbour. _phot._ frith 75 a rough sea at ilfracombe. _phot._ frith 81 the eddystone lighthouse. _phot._ frith 84 the start lighthouse. _phot._ frith 87 the winter garden at torquay. _phot._ frith 90 upcott lane, bideford. _phot._ frith 94 a cockle woman, river exe. _phot._ frith 101 a honiton lace-worker. _phot._ frith 102 old ford farm, bideford. _phot._ frith 105 exmoor ponies. _phot._ sport and general illustrations co. 106 red devon cow 107 gathering cider apples 109 a water-mill at uplyme. _phot._ frith 110 devonshire lace 113 devonshire pottery from the watcombe works 115 cider-making in the 17th century 116 a modern cider press 117 ship-building yard, brixham. _phot._ frith 118 devon great consols mine. _phot._ frith 121 stone quarry, beer. _phot._ frith 123 fish market at brixham. _phot._ lake 126 brixham trawlers. _phot._ frith 128 teignmouth. phot. coates & co., bristol 133 drake's island from mt. edgcumbe. _phot._ frith 135 penny of ethelred ii, struck at exeter. _phot._ worth & co. 139 signatures of drake and hawkyns 143 flagon taken by drake from the "capitana" of the armada. from a photograph taken by the queen's command 144 drake's drum. from a photograph presented by lady eliott drake 145 the "mayflower" stone on plymouth quay. _phot._ frith 146 palaeolithic implement from kent's cavern 152 dolmen near drewsteignton. _phot._ mr john s. amery 154 palstave of the bronze age, from exeter museum. _phot._ worth & co 155 fernworthy circle, near chagford. _phot._ frith 156 hurston stone alignment. _phot._ mr john s. amery 157 triple stone row and circle near headlands, dartmoor. _phot._ mr john s. amery 158 bronze centaur forming the head of a roman standard. _phot._ worth & co 162 saxon sword-hilt 164 cyclopean bridge, dartmoor. _phot._ frith 166 norman doorway, axminster church. _phot._ miss e. k. prideaux 169 ottery st mary church. _phot._ frith 170 decorated window, exeter cathedral. _phot._ worth & co. 171 rood screen and pulpit, harberton church. _phot._ crossley, knutsford 174 the seymour tomb, berry pomeroy church. _phot._ frith. 177 exeter cathedral, west front. _phot._ worth & co. 179 the nave, exeter cathedral. _phot._ worth & co. 181 buckland abbey from a photograph presented by lady eliott drake 184 compton castle. _phot._ e. kelly 189 an old devon farmhouse chimney corner. _phot._ miss e. k. prideaux 193 hayes barton: sir walter ralegh's house. _phot._ miss e. k. prideaux 196 mol's coffee house, exeter. _phot._ s. a. moore of exeter 198 sydenham house 199 dartmouth: old houses in the high street. _phot._ frith 201 newton village. _phot._ frith 202 teignmouth: the coast line and sea-wall. _phot._ frith 206 the guildhall, exeter. _phot._ frith 211 sir francis drake 214 sir walter ralegh. _phot._ emery walker. signature. _phot._ worth & co 216 charles kingsley. _phot._ emery walker 220 blundell's school, tiverton. _phot._ frith 222 samuel taylor coleridge. _phot._ emery walker 223 clovelly. _phot._ frith 228 dartmouth, from warfleet. _phot._ frith 230 cherry bridge, near lynmouth. _phot._ frith 234 lynmouth harbour. _phot._ coates & co. 235 ogwell mill, newton abbot. _phot._ frith 237 shute manor house. _phot._ barrett 240 tiverton bridge. _phot._ frith 241 diagrams 243 maps devonshire, topographical _front cover_ devonshire, geological _back cover_ england and wales, showing annual rainfall 92 the authors are indebted to mr john s. amery for leave to reproduce the pictures on pp. 154, 157 and 158. 1. county and shire. the name devonshire. the word "shire," which is probably derived, like "shear" and "share," from an anglo-saxon root meaning "to cut," was at one time used in a wider sense than it is at present, and was formerly applied to a division of a county or even of a town. thus, there were once six small "shires" in cornwall. the word shire was in use at the time of king ina, and occurs in the code of laws which that monarch drew up about the year 709; but the actual division of england into shires was a gradual process, and was not complete at the norman conquest. lancashire, for example, was not constituted a shire until the twelfth century. alterations in the extent and limits of some of the counties are, indeed, still being made; and in the case of devonshire the boundaries have been changed several times within the memory of persons still living. the object of thus dividing up the country was partly military and partly financial. every shire was bound to provide a certain number of armed men to fight the king's battles, and was also bound to contribute a certain sum of money towards his income and the expenses of the state; and in each district a "shire-reeve"--or sheriff, as we call the officer now--was appointed by the crown to see that the people did their duty in both respects. the shire was a saxon institution. county is a norman word, which came into use after the conquest, when the government of each shire was entrusted to some powerful noble, often a count, a title which originally meant a companion of the king. it has been suggested that the reason why the names of some counties end or may end in "shire," while in other cases this syllable is never used, is that the former were "shorn off" from some larger district, while the latter represent entire ancient kingdoms or tribal divisions. according to this theory, yorkshire is a "shire" because it originally formed part of the kingdom of northumbria; and kent is not a "shire" because it practically represents the ancient kingdom of the cantii. the form "kent-shire" is, however, found in a record of the time of athelstan. in the case of our own county both forms are in use, and we say either "devon" or "devonshire," although the two names are not exactly interchangeable. thus, while we generally talk of "red devon" cattle, we always speak of "devonshire" cream. "devon," which is the older form, may be derived either from _dumnonii_, the name given by ptolemy, an alexandrian geographer of the second century, to the inhabitants of the south-west of britain, perhaps from a celtic word _dumnos_, "people"--or it may come from the old welsh word _dyvnaint_ or _dyfneint_, "the land of the deeps," that is to say, of deep valleys or deep seas. to the saxon settlers the people they found in possession of the district were _defn-saetan_ or "dwellers in devon"; and in time these settlers called themselves _defenas_, or "men of devon." in the exeter domesday book--the norman survey of the five south-western counties, completed probably before 1086--the name of the county is given as _devenesira_. it would appear, then, that the britons called their province "devon," and that the saxons called it "devonshire." it is characteristic of the peaceable nature of the saxon occupation that the two names, like the two nations, seem to have quietly settled down side by side. [illustration: devonshire in the exeter domesday book] it is believed that it was alfred the great who marked out the border-line between devon and somerset; and it was undoubtedly athelstan who, after his victory over the west welsh, made the tamar the boundary between devon and cornwall. 2. general characteristics. devonshire is a county in the extreme south-west of england, occupying the greater part of the peninsula between the english and bristol channels, and having a coast-line both on the south and on the north. situated thus, on two seas, and possessing, especially on its southern sea-board, a remarkable number of bays and estuaries, it has always been noted as a maritime county. and although many of its harbours have, in the lapse of ages, become silted up with sand or shingle, and are now of comparatively slight importance, it has one great sea-port, which, while only thirtieth in rank among british commercial ports, is the greatest naval station in the empire. the county has in the past been famous for its cloth-weaving and for its tin and copper-mining, but these industries are now greatly decayed, and the main occupation of the people is agriculture, to which both the soil and the climate are particularly favourable. [illustration: king tor, near tavistock] a special characteristic of devonshire is its scenery, which is so striking that it is very generally considered the most beautiful county in england; while there are probably very many who regard its mild and genial, equable and health-giving climate as more noteworthy still. it is a remarkably hilly country, and it also possesses not only many rivers, but a great number of broad river estuaries. another characteristic with which every visitor to the district is struck is the redness which distinguishes its soil, its southern cliffs, and its famous breed of cattle, which is not less noticeable than the soft and pleasant dialect, with its close sound of the letter "u" so typical both of devon and of west somerset. [illustration: a typical devon stream--watersmeet, lynmouth] another characteristic of the people has always been their loyalty to their sovereign, to their county, and to each other. devon is proverbial, like cornwall and yorkshire, for the clannishness of its inhabitants. it is a land, too, where superstition dies hard. belief in pixies--fairies, as they are called elsewhere--in witches and witch-craft, in whisht-hounds and other weird and uncanny creatures, and in portents and omens, still lingers, especially on dartmoor. [illustration: a devon valley--yawl bottom, uplyme] dartmoor itself, with its wild and picturesque scenery, its unrivalled wealth of prehistoric antiquities, and its singular geological structure, forms one of the most striking features of the county, and one to which there is no parallel in england. the marine zoology of devonshire is more interesting than that of any other english county, and nowhere else in the island has there been discovered clearer evidence of the great antiquity of man than was found in kent's cavern and other devonshire caves. above all things, its position has made devonshire a native land of heroes. very few other counties have produced so many men of mark, so many men of enterprise and daring. certainly no other has played a greater part in the expansion of england. from devonshire came not only some of the most distinguished seamen of the golden age of elizabeth, some of the most skilful and daring of her naval captains, but some of the earliest and most famous of our explorers; the founder of the first english colony, the first englishman to sail the polar sea, the first englishman to circumnavigate the globe. 3. size. shape. boundaries. devonshire, which occupies rather more than one-twenty-second of the whole area of england and wales, is one of the largest counties in the british islands, being exceeded in size only by yorkshire and lincoln in england, by inverness and argyll in scotland, and by cork in ireland. its extreme length from east to west, measured along a horizontal line drawn through the middle of the county, starting at the dorsetshire border half-way between lyme cobb and the seven rocks point, passing close to the city of exeter, and reaching to the point where the river ottery enters the county, is 67 miles; exactly the same as that of the county of somerset. its greatest breadth, from countisbury foreland on the north coast to prawle point on the south, is 71 miles. it may be added that a longer east and west line can be drawn only in yorkshire and sussex, and a longer meridional line only in yorkshire and lincoln. the area of the "ancient" or "geographical" county of devonshire, according to the revised return furnished by the ordnance department, is 1,667,154 acres, or 2605 square miles. compared with the counties that adjoin it, it is two-and-a-half times the size of dorset, it is roughly twice as large as cornwall, and it is more than half as large again as somerset. it is fifteen times as large as rutland, it is about half the size of yorkshire, and its area is less than that of lincolnshire by only 48 square miles. [illustration: glen lyn, near lynmouth] although usually said to be irregular in form, the outline of the county has a certain degree of symmetry, being roughly shaped like a life-guardsman's cuirass, with nearly equal sides, with a small hollow at the top or north coast, and a much larger one at the bottom or south coast. devonshire, like kent and cornwall, is bounded on two sides by the sea, having the bristol channel on the north and north-west, and the english channel on the south. on its western side the river tamar, with its tributary the ottery, forms almost the whole of the frontier between it and cornwall. the eastern and north-eastern border is less definite, but is roughly marked by exmoor and the blackdown hills, which partly separate devonshire from somerset. the short length of frontier between devonshire and dorsetshire is marked by no natural feature. no part of devonshire is now, as was formerly the case, wholly surrounded by any other county. three of its parishes, however, are partly in dorset, one is partly in cornwall, and one, a district of exmoor containing no houses or inhabitants, is partly in somerset. culmstock, which before 1842 was considered to belong to somerset, although completely islanded in devon, and stockland and dalwood, which were reckoned with dorset, although they were entirely inside the devonshire border, have now been formally transferred to this county. on the other hand, thornecombe and ford abbey, which belonged to devonshire although they were situate in the adjoining county, have been handed over to dorset. still later alterations were the transfer of hawkchurch and churchstanton from dorset to devon in 1896. 4. surface and general features. devonshire is characterised by such great irregularity and unevenness of surface that practically the only level land in it is along the shores of its estuaries; with the almost inevitable result that it is one of the most picturesque and beautiful counties in england. its scenery has been very greatly affected by subterranean movements, which have not only roughly shaped its hills and valleys, partly by upheaval and partly by the shrinkage of the earth's crust, but have been the principal cause of the breadth of the river estuaries which are so marked a feature of its coasts, especially of the south. at many points along the shore of devonshire there is evidence, in raised sea-beaches, and, near torquay, in the borings of marine mollusca at a great height above the present tide-line, of upheavals that must have raised the whole coast, even if they did not materially change the contour of the country. on the other hand, the existence of submerged forests at many places near the shore proves that the land has sunk at least forty feet, thus allowing the sea to flow further inland; thereby greatly widening the already existing valleys, which had been formed in part by the shrinkage of the earth's crust, and in part by the action of the rivers. [illustration: the upper dart, from the moors] the chief physical feature of devonshire, a feature without parallel in any other part of england, is the forest of dartmoor, the great upland, some twenty miles long and eighteen miles broad, which occupies so large a part of the southern half of the county. it is all granite, the largest mass of granite in england, and forms part of a chain of outcrops of that formation extending from devonshire to the scilly isles. the word "forest," it should be remembered, originally meant, not a wood, but a hunting-ground. no part of the open moor is now covered with trees, nor is it likely, considering the poorness of the soil, that it ever was so covered, although roots and other remains of trees have been found in various parts of it. in early days it was a royal hunting-ground, and most of it is still crown property, forming part of the duchy of cornwall. the most prominent feature of the moor, which contains the highest ground in england south of ingleborough in yorkshire, are the isolated rocky heights called tors, some 170 in number, many of which have been weathered, not only into very rugged and highly picturesque, but even into most strange and fantastic shapes; in many cases having their steep slopes strewn with fallen fragments of rock, some of them tons in weight, forming what are known on the moor as "clitters" or "clatters." the highest points are high willhays, 2039 feet; yes tor, 2029 feet, only half a mile away from its rival, newlake, 1983 feet; cuthill, 1980 feet; and great lynx tor, 1908 feet above sea-level; and among the most striking and picturesque are great lynx tor, staple tor, mis tor, and vixen tor, although many others are remarkable for their strange and time-worn outlines. the moor is seamed by many valleys and ravines, not a few of which are, in parts, well-wooded, each with its swiftly-flowing stream or river, and many of them most picturesque and beautiful. such, in particular, are the valley of the dart, especially including holne chase and above; of the teign near fingle bridge; of the tavy at tavy cleave; of the lyd at lydford, and of the plym at the dewerstone. [illustration: tavy cleave, showing disintegrated granite] dartmoor is distinguished in being the coldest and rainiest part of devonshire, and to these two features of its climate are no doubt largely due the fogs which so frequently envelope it. its great extent and its heavy rainfall make the moor the main watershed of the county. most of its rivers have their sources in the bogs, which are a well-known and somewhat dangerous feature of the district, and of which the most remarkable are fox tor mire, cranmere bog, and cuthill bog. its varied and peculiar features, its vast expanses of wild and desolate moorland, now aglow with golden gorse, and now still more splendid with the magnificent purple of its broad sheets of heather or with the warm hues of dying bracken, and beautiful, as the seasons change, with the varying tints of grass and sedge, of ferns and rushes, of moss and bog-myrtle and bilberry, of cotton-grass and asphodel; the almost unrivalled beauty of its river-valleys, its multitudinous streams, its wild life, its extraordinary wealth of prehistoric antiquities, its lingering superstitions of pixies, of witch-craft, of night-flying whisht-hounds and ghostly huntsmen, its very solitude and silence, combine to make dartmoor, to the antiquary and the artist, the naturalist and the angler, one of the most attractive spots in england, and one whose charm poets, painters, and authors have striven from earliest days to immortalise. the greater part of exmoor, and all its principal heights, are in somerset, but it extends into the north-eastern corner of devon, and detached portions of it, which appear to be really parts of the same upland, reach to the hills above combe martin. part of span head, whose summit is 1619 feet above the sea, is in our county; and the outlying spurs of bratton down, kentisbury down, and the great hangman are all over 1000 feet high. there is very beautiful scenery on exmoor, especially on the somerset side of the border, somewhat resembling that on dartmoor, although less wild and picturesque, and without any of the tors which are so characteristic of the greater upland. exmoor is the only part of england where red deer still run wild; and the district is visited every year by stag-hunters from all parts of the island and especially from ireland. both it and dartmoor are famous for a breed of sturdy little ponies, originally, no doubt, of the same stock. in the badgeworthy valley, which is in somerset, although not far from lynton, may be seen what are said to be the ruined huts of the doones, a community of freebooters immortalised by blackmore, who represents them as having been the terror of the country-side towards the close of the seventeenth century. other devonshire hills are the black downs, along the border of somerset, in which the highest point is 860 feet above the sea; another black down, six miles due south, reaching 930 feet; the great haldons, south-west of exeter, 817 feet high; and dumpdon hill, about two miles north by east of honiton, 856 feet above sea-level. devonshire is in parts extremely fertile, especially towards the south, and it has been called (in common, it is true, with other counties) the garden of england. two very large and specially productive areas are the vale of exeter, and the south hams,--the latter a name somewhat indefinitely applied to the district south of dartmoor and occupying a large part of the region between the teign and the plym, with kingsbridge as its chief centre. the great fertility of this famous district is due partly to the nature of the soil, partly to the mildness of the climate and the shelter afforded by the heights of dartmoor, and partly to its nearness to the sea. [illustration: on lundy] a very remarkable and interesting feature of devonshire is lundy--an island three miles long by one mile broad, lying out in the bristol channel, opposite barnstaple bay, and twelve miles north-north-west of hartland point. its name, it is believed, is derived from two norse words meaning puffin isle. composed entirely of granite, except for its southern extremity, which is millstone grit, its lofty cliffs are very wild and rugged and picturesque, and for two miles along its eastern side there is a remarkable series of chasms, from three to twenty feet wide and some of them of great depth, known to the islanders as the earthquakes. the shingle beach at the south-eastern corner, in the shelter of rat island, is the only landing-place, but many vessels find good anchorage on the eastern side, well protected from westerly winds. many ships, however, have been wrecked among the terrible rocks round its base, including the battleship _montagu_, lost in 1906, and, according to tradition, one of the galleons of the spanish armada. there is a lighthouse at each end of the island, and the southern one is the most powerful in devonshire. perhaps the greatest charm of lundy lies, as will be shown in some detail in a later chapter, in its natural history, especially in the vast numbers of birds which visit it in the breeding season. among very rare stragglers that have been shot here is the iceland falcon, a species of which very few examples have been recorded for this country. a few plants and insects are peculiar to the spot. there are now few trees, except those planted not long ago near the owner's house in a cleft at the south-eastern end, but some shrubs, such as fuchsias, hydrangeas, and rhododendrons grow to a great size, and the mesembryanthemums are particularly vigorous and beautiful. granite for the thames embankment was obtained here, but the quarries have long been closed, and farming is the chief industry of the few inhabitants. there are evidences of very ancient occupation, in the shape of kistvaens, tumuli, and the foundations of primitive dwellings; and in times more recent the island has had a stirring history. in the reign of henry ii it was held by the turbulent family of the montmorencies or moriscos, and the shell of morisco castle, now converted into cottages, still stands on the south-east corner of the island. during the civil war it was fortified for the king, and only surrendered in 1647. at various times in the seventeenth century it was captured by french, spaniards, and algerines; and it was, moreover, several times occupied by pirates, some of whom were englishmen, who found it a convenient station from which to plunder ships sailing up the bristol channel. 5. watershed. rivers and the tracing of their courses. lakes. devonshire is a well-watered county, a county of many rivers; and although not one of its multitudinous streams is of real commercial importance or of much value as a water-way, by their mere abundance and by the beauty of their scenery, especially of the magnificent ravines which many of them in the lapse of ages have worn deep in the rock, they form one of its most striking features. by far the most important watershed is the great upland of dartmoor, where, with few exceptions, rise all the principal rivers. the headwaters of the tamar and the torridge--which rise close together, but flow in very different directions and reach different seas--are in the high ground in the north-west, on the very border of cornwall, and the sources of the exe and of its great twin stream the barle are on the moor to which the former gives its name, just inside the county of somerset. but the tributaries of all these are drawn from the bogs of dartmoor, and especially from the morasses round the now insignificant sheet of water known as cranmere pool. the whole eastern border of the county, from exmoor southward to the blackdown hills, is a source of streams. such are the lyn, flowing into the bristol channel; the bray, the yeo, and the mole, tributaries of the taw; the loman, the culm, and the clyst, tributaries of the exe; the otter, falling into the english channel; and the yarty, a tributary of the axe. it is remarkable that of all the many streams of devonshire, only two of any consequence reach the estuary of the severn. almost all flow into the english channel. [illustration: the river exe at tiverton] the longest of the devonshire rivers is the exe, after which are named exford and exton in somerset, and exeter and exmouth in our own county--a strong and beautiful stream which rises near simonsbath on exmoor, flowing for the first twenty miles through somerset and crossing the devonshire border near dulverton station, where it is met, on the left bank, by its great tributary the barle. it then runs nearly due south, through well-wooded and fertile country, being joined on its left bank, at tiverton, "the town of the two fords," by the loman; and farther down on the same side by the culm, which gives its name to culmstock. near exeter it receives on the right bank the creedy, a pretty and winding stream that lends its name to crediton, and along whose shores in some of the richest land in devonshire. a little below exeter, close to the once famous port of topsham, it is joined on the left bank by the clyst, a small and unimportant stream, flowing through most fertile country, and giving its name to no fewer than seven villages. below topsham the exe widens out to nearly a mile, forming, at high tide, from this point to the sea, a noble estuary five miles long, with the popular watering-place of exmouth on the slope of the eastern side of its entrance, which is almost closed by a long sandbank called the warren, divided into two parts by a stream. until late in the thirteenth century the exe was navigable from the sea to exeter. but in 1290 isabella de fortibus, countess of devon, having quarrelled with the citizens, blocked the river-bed with stones, at a place still called the countess weir, leaving, however, sufficient room for ships to pass. at a later period this space was closed by the earl of devon, and the navigation of the river entirely stopped. vessels now reach exeter by a canal. the second river in point of length is the tamar, after which are named north tamerton in cornwall and tamerton foliott in our own county. rising in the extreme north-west, in the high ground that parts devonshire from cornwall, it forms almost the whole of the dividing line between the two counties, and is characterised throughout the lower portion of its course by some very beautiful scenery. it is joined by many streams, some rising in devonshire and some in cornwall; some of which--the lyd, for example--are renowned for their wildness and beauty. the largest of the western tributaries is the lynher, entirely a cornish river, whose estuary joins the hamoaze. the most important of those on the left bank is the tavy, a dartmoor-drawn stream, giving its name to the town of tavistock and to the villages of peter tavy and mary tavy, and flowing through some of the most fruitful land in devonshire. a particularly fertile district is that lying between the tavy and the tamar. although it is a much shorter river than the exe or the tamar, the dart is better known than either, and is perhaps the most familiar by name of all the devonshire streams. along its banks, especially near holne and buckland-in-the-moor, and along the wooded shores of its magnificent estuary, is some of the most beautiful river-scenery, not in this county only but in all england. the most important of its many tributaries are the east and the west dart--both of which rise in the great bog round cranmere pool, and join at a picturesque spot called dartmeet--and the webburns, east and west. below totnes the dart widens out into a long and most beautiful estuary, winding among finely-wooded hills. on the west side of its entrance is the old port of dartmouth, named, like dartington, after the river, and on the opposite shore is the smaller but equally picturesque little town of kingswear. [illustration: on the dart; sharpham woods] famous as the dart is for the wildness and beauty of its scenery, and for the excellence of its trout and salmon fishing, it has an evil name for the dangerous nature of its swiftly-flowing waters, which, after heavy rain on the moor, rise with extraordinary rapidity, changing it in a few hours from a peaceful and easily-forded stream into a raging and resistless torrent. at hexworthy, in november, 1894, the river rose ten and a half feet above the level of the previous day. characteristic of this as the other of the moorland streams, is the strange sound it sometimes makes, especially towards nightfall, known as its "cry," and believed by the superstitious to be ominous of flood and danger. to "hear the broadstones crying"--masses of granite lying in the bed of the stream--is considered by the moor-folk a sure sign of coming rain. the dartmoor rivers, in the upper part of their courses, are naturally all swift, and are all more or less tinged by the peat of their moorland birth-place--lightly, when the stream is low, and deepening in flood-time into the colour of a rich cairngorm. the teign, another of the streams that rise in the cranmere bog, is famous both for the beauty of the scenery along its winding shores and for the many prehistoric antiquities--stone circles and alignments, menhirs and tumuli--which stand near them. its two main branches, the north and the south teign, meet about a mile to the west of chagford. to the east of that moorland village the river flows through beautifully wooded valleys, and is joined on its right bank, below chudleigh, by another dartmoor tributary, the bovey, on which stand bovey tracy, famous for its beds of lignite and clay and for its potteries, and north bovey, near which are the remains of the very remarkable bronze age village of grimspound. below newton abbot the teign becomes a broad estuary, on or near whose shores are five of the townships that are named after the river, the most important of which is the little port and well-known watering-place of teignmouth. the river mouth is almost blocked by a low promontory, which, although now built over, was once a mere sand-bank or dune, from which latter word, no doubt, it takes its name of the den. [illustration: the axe at axminster bridge] other south-coast rivers are the axe--one of whose two main branches rises in somerset and the other in dorset--which gives its name to axminster and axmouth; the otter, which rises in the blackdown hills, and flowing past honiton, ottery st mary, and otterton, reaches the sea at budleigh salterton; the aune or avon, especially famous for its salmon, the erme, and the slopes yealm, small but beautiful streams rising on the southern slopes of dartmoor, widening into estuaries as they near the english channel, and giving names to aveton, ermington, and yealmpton, respectively. the plym, after which are named plympton, plymouth, and plymstock, is another dartmoor river, flowing through some very beautiful country, especially in the neighbourhood of bickleigh, and at length forming a broad and important estuary known first as the laira, and lower down as the catwater or cattewater, which joins plymouth sound. the chief rivers on the north coast are the torridge and the taw, the former of which, rising in the extreme north-west, on the cornish border, near the source of the tamar, flows south-west for nearly half its course, and then sweeps round to run in the opposite direction, giving its name to three several torringtons, and having as its chief tributaries the walden, the lew, and the okement, all on its right bank. the last-named stream is formed of the east and the west okements, which meet at okehampton, their namesake. the lower waters of the torridge form a long and narrow estuary--its shore only ten miles distant from the original source of the river--half-way down which is the once important port of bideford, built on both sides of the stream, which is here spanned by a very ancient bridge. near the entrance of the estuary, but neither of them on the open sea, are appledore, the port of barnstaple, and instow, a small but growing watering-place. the taw is a dartmoor-drawn river, rising, like so many streams, in the cranmere bog, giving its name to tawstock and to three several tawtons, and receiving on its right bank the yeo, the little dart, and the mole. the most considerable town on it is barnstaple, beyond which it becomes a broad tidal estuary, joining that of the torridge, and flowing out into what is known both as barnstaple and bideford bay. [illustration: bideford and the torridge estuary] many small streams fall into the bristol channel, among which is the lyn, renowned for its beautiful scenery and its good trout-fishing. a large proportion of the celtic words in our language are found in the names of natural features, especially of hills and rivers. this is particularly well seen in devonshire, where, as has been pointed out, the saxons came as settlers rather than conquerors, adopting many of the names which they found already in use, and where an unusually large number of towns and villages have been called after the streams on which they stand. the names exe, axe, and okement, from the celtic _uisge_; avon, aune, and auney, from _afon_; dart, from _dwr_; and teign, from _tain_, are all derived from roots meaning "water." other names are taken from descriptive adjectives, such as wrey, from _rea_, rapid; lyn, from _lleven_, smooth; and tamar, taw, and tavy, from _tam_, spreading or still. the lakes of devonshire, as is the case in the majority of english counties, are little more than ponds. cranmere pool, in the great morass where many devonshire rivers rise, lying in a dreary spot, as befits the reputed place of punishment of evil spirits, has shrunk of late years in consequence of much peat-cutting in its neighbourhood, and is now an insignificant pond, rarely more than seventy yards across, and in hot summers sometimes quite dry. bradmere pool and classenwell pool, the sites of old mine-workings, are beautiful little lakes, but they are only a few acres in extent. burrator reservoir has been made in order to supply water to plymouth. the largest of these miniature lakes is slapton ley, or lea, a long and narrow sheet of water, two and a quarter miles in length and measuring about 200 acres, separated from the sea, with which it was no doubt once connected, by a bank of fine shingle. the reeds of its north-eastern end, which are cut and sold for thatching, are the haunt of many water-birds; and the ley is visited in winter by immense numbers of migratory ducks and waders. 6. geology. three main points characterise the geological features of devonshire; the simplicity of the system in the west, north-centre and south-west of the county; the comparative complexity and variety of the strata in the east and south; and, most remarkable of all, the extraordinary number of outcrops of igneous rock, from the great mass of dartmoor granite, which has no parallel in england, to the hundreds of small dykes or elvans that are scattered chiefly over the southern region, although some occur to the north and east of dartmoor. the oldest rocks in devonshire are probably not, as was once thought, the granites, but the highly altered or metamorphic formations in the extreme south; that is to say, the mica and quartz schists and the hornblende epidote schists which extend from near start point to bolt tail, a district which, owing in great measure to distortion by volcanic upheaval, includes some of the most picturesque scenery in devon. next in order of age is the series called devonian, after the name of the county, in which they were first distinguished from the old red sandstone. they are, however, by no means confined to devonshire, but are very widely distributed, covering a large part of cornwall, and occurring on the continent of europe, especially in russia, and in asia and north and south america. the devonian beds--which are found both in the north and south, occupying two distinct areas separated by widespread deposits of culm or carboniferous measures--were, it is thought, formed in open water, and probably at the same time that the old red sandstone of the adjoining county of somerset and elsewhere, which is not found in this county at all, was being deposited in estuaries and land-locked seas. names of subdivisions characters of rocks systems {metal age deposits } {recent {neolithic " } superficial {pleistocene {palaeolithic " } deposits { {glacial " } t{ e{ {cromer series } r{ {weybourne crag } t{pliocene {chillesford and norwich crags } sands chiefly i{ {red and walton crags } a{ {coralline crag } r{ y{miocene absent from britain { { {fluviomarine beds of hampshire } { {bagshot beds } {eocene {london clay } clays and sands { {oldhaven beds, woolwich and reading} chiefly { {thanet sands groups } { {chalk } { {upper greensand and gault } chalk at top {cretaceous {lower greensand } sandstones, mud s{ {weald clay } and clays below e{ {hastings sands } c{ o{ {purbeck beds } n{ {portland beds } d{ {kimmeridge clay } a{ {corallian beds } r{jurassic {oxford clay and kellaways rock } shales, sandstones y{ {cornbrash } and oolitic { {forest marble } limestones { {great oolite with stonesfield slate} { {inferior oolite } { {lias--upper, middle, and lower } { { {rhaetic } { {keuper marls } {triassic {keuper sandstone } red sandstones and { {upper bunter sandstone } marls, gypsum and { {bunter pebble beds } salt { {lower bunter sandstone } { {magnesian limestone and sandstone } red sandstones {permian {marl slate } and magnesian { {lower permian sandstone } limestone p{ r{ {coal measures } sandstones, shales i{carboniferous {millstone grit } and coals at top m{ {mountain limestone } sandstones in a{ {basal carboniferous rocks } middle limestone r{ } and shales below y{ { {upper } devonian and old red } red sandstones, {devonian {mid } sandstone } shales, slates and { {lower } } limestones { { {ludlow beds } sandstones, shales {silurian {wenlock beds } and thin { {llandovery beds } limestones { { {caradoc beds } shales, slates, {ordovician {llandeilo beds }sandstones and { {arenig beds } thin limestones { { {tremadoc slates } {cambrian {lingula flags } slates and { {menevian beds } sandstones { {harlech grits and llanberis slates } { { {sandstones, {pre-cambrian no definite classification yet made {slates and {volcanic rocks [illustration: diagram section from snowdon to harwich, about 200 miles. this cross section shows what would be seen in a deep cutting nearly e. and w. across england and wales. it shows also how, in consequence of the folding of the strata and the cutting off of the uplifted parts, old rocks which should be tens of thousands of feet down are found in borings in east anglia only 1000 feet or so below the surface.] the north devonian beds, which extend from the coast as far south as the latitude of barnstaple, consist of slates, grits, and sandstones which, it is believed, judging from the organic remains in them, were formed in shallow water and near shore. their lower strata, the foreland grits, lynton beds, and hangman grits, contain some fossils and various kinds of coral. but the middle beds, the ilfracombe and morte slates, are much richer in animal remains; of which perhaps the most remarkable are primitive palaeozoic fish, such as the very curious armoured _pteraspis_; while corals and bivalve shells are abundant and characteristic. the upper devonian is less fossiliferous, but contains some large trilobites, various marine shells, and some land-plants. the south devonian, which covers nearly all south devon and a large part of cornwall, is somewhat different in character, consisting chiefly of slates, with coralline limestones, varied by volcanic outcrops or elvans--a word said to be of cornish origin, and meaning "white rock." to judge from its fossils, it was deposited in deeper water than the contemporary beds in the north of the county. the lower and middle beds are also far richer in animal remains; and the middle devonian of the south, which is the most typical of the series and includes the limestones of plymouth and torbay, is crowded with shells, trilobites, and corals. among the shells, bivalves--such as _stringocephalus_, which occurs only in the devonian formations--spiral univalves, and corals are very abundant. there are also many crinoids, distinct from those of the carboniferous limestone, while perhaps the most characteristic form is the rare and curious _caleola sandalina_, differing from all other corals in having an operculum. there are not many varieties of trilobite, but the large _brontes flabellifer_ is not uncommon. [illustration: logan stone, dartmoor] the lower beds of this series contain fewer organic remains, although a good many fossils are found, including fragmentary remains of various fishes which have not yet been identified. the upper devonian is, on the whole, very poor in fossils. between the two devonian areas, and occupying a large part of the centre of the county, are the carboniferous or coal-bearing measures, containing, however, not true coal but anthracite, which has more carbon in it than is found in ordinary coal; and these beds are perhaps more often known as culm, from the welsh _cwlwm_, a knot, in allusion to the fragmentary condition in which the mineral is frequently found. anthracite, which elsewhere and especially in south wales is a most valuable fuel, is here clayey and impure, and in thin seams. it is worked to a small extent, to be ground and made into a paint called bideford black. the culm measures consist of grits, shales, and sandstones, with beds of chert and limestone containing fossil plants and other forms of marine life. fish are few, only two species having been identified. the anthracite occurs in the middle culm, and there are other remains of plants in both the middle and upper beds. the upper culm is well seen on the coast near clovelly and by the river torridge, where it has been bent by volcanic upheaval into curious and beautiful curves. these measures, in general, are characterised by many outcrops of volcanic rock, some of which were probably contemporary, that is to say, they were poured out while the culm was in process of formation; while others are intrusive, or were forced up through the strata after these had been solidified into rock. these igneous rocks are found in great variety. [illustration: a smoothly-weathered granite tor, dartmoor] by far the most important and striking of these volcanic formations is the great granite mass of dartmoor, one of the most prominent features of the county, measuring 225 square miles in extent, and constituting the largest granitic area in england. granite is a volcanic rock, formed, it has been suggested, by fusion at a great depth and under great pressure, and consisting in the main of three minerals, quartz, felspar, and mica. that of dartmoor is, on the whole, grey and coarse-grained, but it varies a good deal in colour, fineness, and composition. its real origin is obscure. it has been assigned by various experts to various periods, and it has been called "the sphinx of devon geology." there can, however, be no doubt about the great disturbance which has been caused in the county by upheaval and by the intrusion of melted rock, which has bent, broken, and twisted previously-existing formations in a most extraordinary manner, the results of which are well seen in the picturesque scenery of the start, prawle point, and bolt head. lundy, which is twelve miles from the nearest point of devonshire mainland, is all granite, except for a small part of its south end, which is millstone grit. a long interval of time appears to have followed the laying down of the culm measures, during which so vast an amount of shattered rock was worn away that when the beds that come next in order--the new red sandstones--were formed, they were, in places, deposited directly upon the devonian, the superincumbent carboniferous or culm strata having entirely disappeared. the new red sandstones occur chiefly in the east of the county, where their lower beds fill up old creeks and valleys in the carboniferous system; and they extend northwards from the coast past exeter as far as holcombe regis, forming broad bands on either side of the exe, characterised by the high fertility of the overlying soil, and with one long spur traversing the heart of the county, past crediton and exbourne, with isolated patches round hatherleigh, and with another and less extended prolongation a few miles west of tiverton. the lower new red consists of clays, conglomerates, red breccias and sands, in which occur many outcrops of trap, the evidence, not only of numerous eruptions, but of eruptions extending over a long period of time. these beds contain no fossils, except in fragments of older rocks. the middle new red, in the form of thick beds of red marl and red and white limestones, well seen on the south coast, is covered in turn by the upper new red, with beds of pebbles, some of which are derived from the devonian and even from the silurian. in this formation, near sidmouth, have been found the remains of two remarkable reptiles, the _hyperodapedon_, a strange form allied to the existing tuatera lizard of new zealand and in england only known elsewhere in the formations of warwickshire, and the _labyrinthodon_, so named from the intricate structure of its teeth, and also called _cheirotherium_, from the hand-like impressions of its feet. [illustration: footprints of _cheirotherium_, new red sandstone] the rhaetic beds are not well seen in devonshire. they occur on the coast between lyme regis and the mouth of the axe, and in the estuary of that river, but are much hidden by landslips of cretaceous formations from above. one layer, consisting of black shale, with bivalve shells such as _cardium_ and _pecten_, contains also a bone-bed, with remains of fish, such as _acrodus_ and _hybodus_. the former is represented by its blunt teeth, and the latter, which was a huge, shark-like creature, by its long and formidable-looking fin-spines. the lower lias is exposed in a narrow strip of coast from the devonshire border to the mouth of the axe, and to a greater extent in the valley of the river above axminster. it has been divided on the coast into four distinct zones, each characterised by its own particular species of ammonite. the cretaceous formations occupy a much wider area, but they also are confined to the southern part of the county. the greensands of the blackdown and haldon hills have been divided by geologists into fifteen layers, varying in thickness from a few inches to as much as thirty-five feet, some with few fossils, and some very rich in animal remains. _trigonia_ and _inoceramus_ are found in almost all the zones: other forms less widely distributed are _murex_ and _turritella_. chalk occurs on the south coast from the dorset border to sidmouth; and in isolated patches it extends inland as far as the blackdown hills, and also further west, in the haldons. the lower chalk, well seen on the coast and to the west of hinton, is made up of calcareous sandstones, with ammonites and pectens. the middle beds, composed of white chalk with flints, the zone of _terebratulina gracilis_, is exposed at beer. the lower and harder layer is characterised by _rhynconella_. the upper chalk also holds many flints, with echini; _holaster_ in the lower, and _micraster_ in the upper strata. last of all come the tertiary deposits, which, however, occupy only a small area in the south-east, chiefly in the valley of the teign, from kingsteignton to bovey tracy; and there are a few isolated patches, as for example near bideford and at plymouth. these beds consist of clays, some of them of much value, with flints from the chalk, and gravels and beds of sand derived from the wearing away of older rocks. the most interesting feature of this formation is the lignite of bovey tracy, on the eastern edge of dartmoor. lignite, otherwise known as brown coal, consists of the imperfectly fossilised remains of tropical or sub-tropical vegetation, such as the palm, cinnamon, and laurel, amongst which are found lumps of resin. by far the most abundant remains are those of a very large tree allied to the sequoia of california. it is very remarkable that in the pleistocene clay above the lignite are found stems and twigs of arctic birch and willow, suggestive of a far colder climate than prevailed in tertiary times, when the trees that went to form the lignite were growing. to the pleistocene period also belong the gravels and alluvial deposits of some of the river valleys (those of the exe and the teign, for example), the blown sands of braunton burrows and elsewhere, the raised sea-beaches, the submerged forests, and the cave-deposits which are alluded to in other chapters. 7. natural history. it is generally believed by naturalists that the ancestors of most of our fauna and flora reached this country at a time when what we now call the british isles formed part of the mainland of europe, and when there was no intervening sea to bar the way. before this colonisation was complete, however--that is, before all the different kinds of european beasts and birds had made their way to the extreme western districts--communication with the continent was broken off. the land of the north-western districts of europe sank. the sea flowed in, forming the german ocean, the english channel and the irish sea, and the influx of animal life was stopped. this is the reason why there are more than twice as many kinds of land animals in germany as there are in england, and nearly twice as many in england as there are in ireland. this is the reason why there are no snakes in ireland, and why the nightingale, on returning from the south, never crosses into the sister kingdom. on islands that have long been separated from a continent it is found that forms of life tend to vary in the lapse of time, and that fresh species are developed. that it is not long, as geological periods go, since great britain became an island, is shown by the fact that we have no quadruped or reptile except the irish weasel (_mustela hibernica_), and, setting aside minor differences which some writers have magnified to the value of a species, only one bird, the red grouse, which is not also to be found in europe. very different is the case in japan, which was separated from the mainland of asia so long ago that new species have had time to develope; and the islands of that country contain many kinds of beasts and birds which are unknown on the adjacent continent. some of the animals which came from europe into britain have died out, either because the climate changed and so cut off their food supply, or because they were destroyed by the hunters of the stone age. the bones which have been found in kent's cavern at torquay, and in other caverns, afford clear evidence that the mammoth, the lion, the bear, and the hyaena once roamed over the hills of devonshire. although there are many more species of beasts and birds on the continent of europe than there are in this country, both birds and beasts are numerically much more common here. nothing strikes a naturalist more forcibly when travelling in france or italy, for example, than the scarcity of wild life, and especially the fewness of the birds. it is true that we have fewer species, but we have many more individuals. to this, several causes have contributed. englishmen do not, as is the custom in many european countries, shoot or trap for food small birds of every description. and game preserving--although it has been fatal to the larger birds of prey, such as kites, falcons, and buzzards, and keeps down other species, such as jays, magpies, and carrion crows--provides innumerable sanctuaries for great numbers of the smaller birds, which are safe from harm during the breeding season. the natural features of devonshire are so varied in character, including as they do large areas of wild and uncultivated and thinly-inhabited country, together with many well-wooded and sequestered valleys, and wide stretches of bog, salt-marsh, and sea-coast, that it is very rich in both animal and vegetable life. its marine fauna and flora, in particular, are of very great interest, and are among the most remarkable in england. [illustration: a red deer] nearly all the native mammals of the british isles are found or have been found in this county, from the "tall red deer" that has run wild on exmoor from time immemorial, down to the pygmy shrew, the smallest but one of european quadrupeds, and weighing only one-tenth of an ounce, or about forty-three grains and a half. [illustration: otters] among the eight species of devonshire bats is the very rare particoloured bat (_vesperugo discolor_), of which the only example ever recorded in england was taken at plymouth, having perhaps travelled there in the rigging of a ship. it is probably more than a hundred years since the last genuine wild-cat was seen in the county, but both the marten and the polecat still survive in secluded spots. foxes are common, and there are still many badgers in some of the dartmoor valleys, where the two species have been known to inhabit the same holt. otters abound on all the principal streams, and are as regularly hunted as the red deer and the fox. devonshire is, indeed, pre-eminent for its otter-hunting, and the culmstock pack is believed to be the oldest in the island. harvest mice and dormice, although widely distributed, are not numerous, and the original english black rat is now rare. among the many marine mammalia that have been recorded for the county are two kinds of seal, the sperm-whale, the common rorqual--of which specimens nearly 70 feet long have been brought into plymouth--the rare bottle-nosed dolphin and the still rarer risso's grampus. bones of a whale called _balaenoptera robustus_, which were once washed ashore in torbay, are said to represent a species so rare that these and a few similar relics stranded in sweden are the only remains of it that have ever been found. situated as devonshire is, between the english and the bristol channels, and containing widely-different physical features, suited to the needs of species of very different habits, the list of its birds, including residents, migrants, occasional visitors, and stragglers from the atlantic and even from america, is a very long one. among the larger land-birds which still hold their ground in the county are the raven and buzzard, both of which are to be seen on exmoor and dartmoor and on the coast, and the peregrine falcon, which has eyries on both the northern and southern seaboards. a few pairs of choughs still build in the northern cliffs; while such rare birds as montagu's harrier--first identified as a british species in this county--the hoopoe, and the golden oriole still occasionally breed here, and might do so regularly where they left in peace. several birds, such as the kite and the osprey, the latter of which now breeds nowhere in england, and the former only in one solitary spot, have long since left the county. warblers as a family are less abundant than in some other parts of the british isles. the nightingale is nowhere common, but it occurs every season near ashburton and in the valley of the teign. owing to the mildness of the climate it is not at all an unusual thing for a few chiffchaffs and willow-warblers to spend the winter in sheltered valleys on the south coast, instead of migrating to africa in the autumn. the ring-ouzel is a regular visitor to the open country of dartmoor, while the dipper haunts many of its streams. two birds which have greatly increased in numbers of late years are the jackdaw and the starling. it is thought that the former has done much towards exterminating the chough by destroying its eggs; and the latter, by taking possession of its holes, has in many places driven away the green woodpecker. partridges and pheasants are numerous, but black-game, once abundant on dartmoor, have become so scarce that they are at present protected the whole year round. but by far the most abundant, and perhaps the most characteristic, of the birds of devonshire are the sea-fowl, the water-fowl, and the waders, of which more than 140 different kinds have been recorded for the county. not only are its sandy shores, its bays and estuaries and leys, haunted in autumn and winter by multitudes of northern immigrants--swans, geese, ducks and a great variety of wading-birds; but there are several spots along the south coast and a few on the north where sea-birds regularly breed; while the reed-beds of slapton ley provide sanctuary for great numbers of coots and for many wild-ducks and teal, together with some rarer species. herons are common on the south coast and along the river estuaries, and there are heronries at powderham and elsewhere. a great black-headed gull (_larus ichthyaetus_) shot on the exe in 1859, is the only one known to have been seen in the british islands. there is, however, nothing on the mainland of devonshire to compare in ornithological interest with lundy, which in the summer time is a bird-lover's paradise. gannets, once very numerous, have now left the island, but cormorants, shags and gulls of various species here build their untidy nests. here multitudes of guillemots and razorbills assemble in the spring and lay their great pear-shaped and boldly-marked eggs on the ledges of the cliffs; while even vaster hosts of puffins come back every year to take up their quarters in rabbit-burrows or in holes which they have dug for themselves in the turf. here the raven, the buzzard, and the peregrine have fastnesses. here, in chinks and crannies, storm-petrels breed; and here, when darkness falls, the startled listener may hear the weird, wailing cry of the night-wandering shearwaters. the few reptiles and batrachians of devonshire present no points of special interest. vipers abound on dartmoor, where they are commoner than grass-snakes. it is curious that, while the palmated newt is common throughout the county, the smooth newt and the triton are now comparatively rare. the freshwater fish differ little from those found in the neighbouring counties; but there are fewer kinds in devonshire than there are in the midlands or in the east of england. trout abound in all the streams, and there are important salmon-fisheries on the exe, the dart, and other rivers. a sturgeon seven-and-a-half feet long was once taken in the exe. eels, which are hatched in the atlantic, to the west and north of the british islands, at a depth of 3000 feet or more, come up from the sea when they are two years old, and still very small, and ascend the rivers, especially exe, in enormous numbers. when they are mature, which is not until they are several years old, they go down to the sea to spawn, and never return. it is, however, in marine zoology, for which few other parts of england afford so rich a field, and for which its bays and inlets, its rock-pools and stretches of sand provide ideal hunting-ground for the naturalist, that devonshire is most distinguished. many famous zoologists, such as leach, montagu, parfitt, gosse, and kingsley have won renown both for themselves and for the county by their researches; while the marine biological laboratory at plymouth is constantly adding to our knowledge of the multitudinous inhabitants of the sea. the subject is so vast that only a few chief points can here be touched upon. the sea-fish differ in marked degree from those of the east coast of england. plaice and cod, for example, are smaller here than those caught in the north sea and the latter are scarce; and the haddock, one of the most important of east coast fish, is here almost unknown. two characteristic fish of the south coast of devon are the pollack, which reaches a great size, and the pilchard, confined to this county and to cornwall. many southern and even mediterranean species find their way to these waters: notable examples are the gigantic tunny, one specimen of which weighed 700 pounds, the beautiful rainbow wrasse, one of the most brilliantly-coloured of all fish, and the boar-fish, which is sometimes quite common. a number of rare species, such as montagu's sucker and the crystal goby, were first made known as british through being taken off the devonshire coast. stray examples of the tropical bonito, the flying-fish, the electric torpedo, and the sun-fish, one specimen of which weighed 500 pounds, and the splendidly-coloured opal or king-fish, have been recorded. several kinds of sharks have been caught in these waters, including the blue shark, the spinous shark, covered all over with sharp prickles, the rare and formidable hammer-head, the huge thresher, and the still larger basking-shark. the latter is, indeed, the largest of british fish. specimens have been caught measuring 30 feet in length, and weighing more than eight tons. marketable marine-fish will be treated of in a later chapter. rich as are the devonshire seas in fish, they are richer still in crustaceans--crabs, lobsters, prawns, shrimps and their allies; and in this respect ours is the premier county of england. among a multitude of species, two which have occurred nowhere else in britain may be specially singled out. one of these is the burying-shrimp, _callionassa subterranea_, a little creature something like a very small lobster, with one claw--sometimes the right and sometimes the left--very much larger than the other. it was one of montagu's many discoveries, and was found two feet deep under the sand of the kingsbridge estuary. the other rare species is the turtle-crab, _planes minutus_, a few specimens of which have been drifted ashore on fronds of sargasso weed. the "small grasshoppers" which columbus saw floating in the sea a few days before he sighted the new world, were, it is believed, not grasshoppers, but turtle-crabs. other and very beautiful forms of marine life, such as starfish, anemones, corals and other zoophytes, and sea-shells are very abundant. and in spite of the comparative scarcity of lime in the soil of devonshire, the list of land and freshwater shells is a long one. it is remarkable that _limnaea stagnalis_ and _planorbis corneus_, two water-shells that are common in somerset, are unknown in devon. the pearl-bearing mussel, _unio margaritifer_, is found in both the taw and the teign. the county is rich in insects, especially as regards butterflies, moths, and beetles; but several of the first-named which have been caught in somerset have not been recorded here. the black-veined white (_pieris crataegi_), once a common insect, has disappeared within the last forty years, and the greasy fritillary (_melitaea artemis_)--another vanishing species--is now almost extinct. neither insect can have been hunted down for the sake of its beauty or its rarity, and the reason for this disappearance is unknown. [illustration: spurge hawk moth, with pupa and caterpillar] as in the case of birds, the county is, from its position, a favourite alighting-place for insects coming from abroad. between 1876 and 1890 large numbers of a very striking and beautiful american butterfly, _danais plexippus_, appeared in england, having apparently crossed the atlantic, and three specimens were caught in devonshire. the lulworth skipper (_hesperia actaeon_), a small butterfly which elsewhere is only found in dorset, occurs along the south-east coast of this county. moths are very abundant, and the first recorded british examples of several species were taken in devonshire. about a hundred years ago, caterpillars of the spurge hawk-moth (_deilephila euphorbiae_) were very plentiful on spurge plants growing among the sand-hills near barnstaple. many of these caterpillars were taken by naturalists, and were reared, and ultimately turned into perfect insects; although neither there nor anywhere else in our island was a wild example of this very beautiful moth ever seen alive. the spurge plants were long ago covered up by drifting sand, and the caterpillars were all destroyed. no other locality for them has been found in england, and as far as this country is concerned the spurge hawk-moth appears to be extinct. as might be expected in a district of such varied physical features, with so mild a climate and such an ample rainfall, the flowering plants of devonshire are very numerous, no fewer than 1156 species having been recorded. the abundance and beauty of its wild-flowers is one of the characteristics of the county. no one who has ever seen them will forget the wonderful wealth of primroses in some of the river valleys--at holne, for example--or the splendour of the ling-empurpled sweeps of dartmoor, or its sheets of golden gorse; or the marvellous mist of bluebells upon woodland slopes or in the shelter of straggling hedgerows. each several district, sea-shore and salt-marsh, moor and bog, wood and valley, has its own distinct and characteristic flora. one devonshire plant, the romulea or gãªnotte, _romulea columnae_, a mediterranean species with very small pale blue flowers, is abundant on the warren at the mouth of the exe, but grows nowhere else in england, although it is found in guernsey. several plants occur in only one other english county; such for instance are the white rock-rose, _helianthemum polifolium_, and the irish spurge, _euphorbia hibernica_, which are confined to devon and somerset, and the "flower of the exe," _lobelia urens_, which grows only in devon and cornwall. three plants, which are very abundant in somerset, the cowslip, the sweet violet, and the mistletoe, are rare in this county, although not unknown. the first plants of sea-kale ever brought into cultivation were originally dug up on slapton sands; and the vegetable came into note in bath about 1775. ferns are characteristic of devonshire. not only are most of the familiar kinds abundant, but rarer species as the true maiden-hair, two filmy ferns, and the parsley fern (_cryptogramme crispa_) are to be found. the magnificent royal fern, _osmunda regalis_, still grows in some of the river valleys, and especially in holne chase, but it has suffered much from the greed of collectors, and the raids of unscrupulous dealers. a great variety of spleenworts has been recorded for the county, and one of the characteristic hedgerow ferns is the pretty little _asplenium adiantum-nigrum_. mosses, also, are very abundant, and there is one kind which occurs nowhere else in britain. in sea-weeds devonshire is richer than any other county except dorset. among its 468 different species is the sargasso or gulf-weed, sprays of which are sometimes thrown ashore after rough weather. except on the moors devonshire is well timbered. the elm is perhaps the most conspicuous tree, but the beech and the ash are also very abundant. there is a very fine wych-elm, with a trunk 16 ft. in circumference, in sharpham park. the sycamore, which when well-developed is a very beautiful tree, here attains to fine proportions, and there are noble examples at widecombe-in-the-moor. the oak, although it grows freely, does not, as a rule, reach a great size, though there are some well-grown specimens at tawstock court. there is an oak at flitton, near north molton, which is thirty-three feet in circumference, and the meavy oak is twenty-five feet in girth. an oak-tree thirteen and a half feet in diameter was cut down at okehampton in 1776, and there is a tradition that two couples danced upon its stump. there are no very remarkable yews in devonshire. probably the finest are at stoke gabriel, kenn, and withycombe raleigh, but the first of these is only fifteen feet in girth at the level of the ground. there is a story that, under the yew-tree at mamhead, boswell vowed that he would never get drunk again. at bowringsleigh there is a magnificent avenue of lime-trees, and the avenue of araucarias at bicton, planted in 1842, is said to be the finest in the kingdom. several manor-houses possess one or more noble old mulberry-trees planted in the time of james i, with a view to encourage the cultivation of silk. at buckland abbey, once the home of sir francis drake, there are some beautiful tulip-trees. palms and other sub-tropical trees grow without protection at several places on the south coast; and at kingsbridge and other towns pomegranates, oranges, lemons, and citrons will ripen their fruit in the open air. a good many places in devonshire take their names from trees. thus ashburton is named from the ash, egg buckland from the oak, bickleigh from the beech, and holne from the holly. 8. a peregrination of the coast: 1, the bristol channel. devonshire, like cornwall and kent, is remarkable in having both a northern and a southern seaboard; a peculiarity shared by no other english county. its two shores present striking points of difference. the south coast-line is broken by many estuaries. on the other shore there is only one important river mouth. there are, it is true, many little coves and inlets on the bristol channel, some of them of great beauty; but they make little show upon the map of england, and the stern outline of the north devon coast affords no harbour of refuge. both shores are rock-bound. but while the southern cliffs are, in great measure, of warm-hued and even brightly-coloured stone, those on the north are dark and gloomy; and their tones, although in some places very beautiful, are set in quieter key--in grey or brown or even verging upon black. again, the southern shore is fringed at some points with sandy beaches; while on the north coast there are no sands at all, except on the western side of bideford bay. along the northern seaboard of devon there runs a series of magnificent cliffs, in parts heavily wooded, whose dark walls, sloping steeply to the shore and with projecting bases suggestive of the ram of a battleship, are relieved at many points by deep, rocky clefts, known variously as combes or mouths; each with its stream, each green with ferns and oak-coppice and thickets of thorn and hazel, and each with its butterfly-haunted clumps of tall hemp-agrimony. [illustration: the castle rock, lynton] down such a hollow, the deep and finely-wooded valley of glenthorne, runs the border-line that divides somerset from devon. rather more than three miles west of it there stands out into the bristol channel the dark mass of countisbury foreland, the most northerly point in the county, and one of the highest along its coast, 1100 feet above sea-level. four miles beyond the foreland, at the mouth of a deep and well-wooded valley, down which runs the beautiful trout-stream from which it takes its name, is lynmouth, famous for its scenery, of which two striking features are the watersmeet on the river, and the valley of rocks on the coast. a port and fishing-village up to the close of the eighteenth century, its small tidal harbour is visited now only by a few small coasting vessels. about four miles west of lynmouth is heddon's mouth, a little bay at the foot of towering cliffs, with another trout-stream flowing down to the sea through one of the loveliest combes in north devon. five miles of cliff stretch from heddon's mouth to combe martin bay, a little inlet lying in the shelter of two conspicuous heights, the great hangman and the little hangman--names associated with no tragic story, but derived, like many others round our coasts, from the celtic _maen_, a stone--and with its village, once famous for its rich silver-mines, running a mile inland. two miles of rock-bound and dangerous coast, swept, especially off rillage point, by a strong tide-race, extend from combe martin bay to the ancient port of ilfracombe, whose mild yet bracing climate and beautiful surroundings have made it the most popular seaside resort in north devon. its little land-locked harbour is almost surrounded by lofty hills and rugged cliffs, whose beauty is greatly heightened by the varied colouring of the rock and by the vivid green of the abundant vegetation. [illustration: valley of rocks, lynton] ilfracombe is a place that has played a part in history. in the fourteenth century it provided six ships towards edward iii's expedition against calais. it was from this port that queen elizabeth sent troops to ireland during the rebellion of the earl of tyrone. in the civil war it was taken alternately by royalists and parliamentarians. it was from ilfracombe that wade and ferguson and other sedgemoor fugitives tried in vain to escape by sea. and it was here, in 1796, that the french squadron which afterwards landed 1000 scoundrels of the _lã©gion noire_ at fishguard, on the opposite coast--the last hostile invasion of these islands--burnt the fishing-smacks lying in the harbour. the french ships were in the end taken by lord bridport. a short distance west of ilfracombe is wildersmouth, a beautiful bay, with a gravelly beach, famous for its richness in the lower forms of marine life, and three miles farther down the coast juts out bull point, a bold headland guarded by a powerful lighthouse, marking the north-eastern limit of the most dangerous part of the coast, which here turns abruptly southward, facing squarely to the open atlantic. a little farther on is morte point, whose name the popular fancy regards, although without foundation, as hinting at the deadly character of its black, jagged, sea-swept rocks. the village of mortehoe, a few hundred yards inland, was the property in the thirteenth century of the de traci family, one of whom was among the murderers of thomas ã  becket. but there is no ground for the legend that he was buried here, or for the traditions of him that are current in the district. a tiny little cove on the south side of morte point, called barracane beach, was once famous for its rare and beautiful shells; but it is now so widely known, and its charm is so completely lost, that it has been said of it that there are more collectors than specimens. [illustration: ilfracombe, from hillsborough] beyond morte point is morte bay, most of whose shore lies low, and is fringed throughout almost its entire length by the broad expanse of woollacombe sands, along whose margin, at heights varying from eight to fifteen feet above high-water mark, may be traced at intervals a raised sea-beach. at the southern extremity of morte bay is the noble headland of baggy point, a magnificent piece of cliff, haunted by crowds of sea-birds, and pierced by many caves. the shore of croyde bay, beyond the point, is famous for its fertility; and from the crest of saunton down, the last headland before the estuary formed by the waters of the taw and the torridge, is a view which, embracing sea and coast-line, rich expanses of farm-land, the distant heights of dartmoor and the faint shape of lundy on the far horizon, is one of the finest in all devon. along the shore to the south of baggy point, where saunton sands form the seaward fringe of braunton burrows, is another long stretch of raised sea-beach, from two to fifteen feet above high-water mark. and in this beach, not far from saunton, is a large boulder of red granite, a rock unknown in the district, which may have been stranded here by floating ice. braunton burrows is a long, wide tract of sand-hills, some eighteen square miles in area, stretching far inland, and reaching to the estuary of the taw and the torridge, with deep hollows among which, without a compass, it is quite possible to get completely lost. it is a place of much interest to the naturalist and the antiquarian. a number of rare plants are found here, great quantities of primitive flint implements have been discovered in the sand, and at low water the remains of a submerged forest are to be seen along the shore. the estuary formed by the combined streams of the taw and torridge, the former of which is also known as the barnstaple river, flows into barnstaple bay at the south end of braunton burrows. there is no port on the open coast; but just inside the estuary are the quaint old town of appledore and the equally ancient village of instow, on the left and right banks, respectively, of the river torridge. in the mouth of the same stream, a little to the south of appledore, is a long flat rock called the hubblestone; named, according to tradition, after the viking hubba, who pillaged this coast in the reign of king alfred, and fell in battle at the mouth of the parrett, in the adjoining county of somerset. blocking up a great part of the river mouth, and stretching down the coast past westward ho! a distance of about two miles, is the pebble ridge, a remarkable bank of shingle and sea-worn boulders, some of which are of great size, though the majority are not more than a few inches in diameter. the sea has gradually shifted it further and further inland, and it now covers what was once a long stretch of good pasture-ground. on its landward side are the golf-links of northam burrows, considered to be among the finest south of the tweed. westward ho! a modern watering-place named in honour of kingsley's great romance, is chiefly interesting on account of its submerged forest, in whose peat and clay, deeply covered by the sea at high tide, have been found, not only the trunks of large oak and fir-trees, and bones of the wild boar, stag, horse, and dog, but bones of man, together with charcoal, pottery, and implements of flint. six miles south-west of westward ho! and in the centre of the curve that marks the southern shore of barnstaple bay, is the prettily situated fishing-village of buck's mill, with red and wood-crowned cliffs behind and beyond it, and extending to clovelly, the famous little town that may truly be called one of the most remarkable spots, not in devonshire only, but in all england. crowded in a hollow in the cliff, with woods on either side, and with an air of climbing up from its little tidal harbour sheltered by a rough stone pier of the time of richard ii, it consists of one long, winding, pebble-paved street, too steep for wheeled traffic, with quaint and irregularly-built cottages to left and right, beautiful with creepers and myrtles, fuchsias and geraniums. not only is clovelly intimately associated with the memory of charles kingsley, whose father was rector here, but it is the original "village of steepways," in dickens and collins' christmas story, _a message from the sea_. [illustration: cliffs near clovelly] a long stretch of wild and magnificent coast-line extends from clovelly to hartland point, where the shore again turns southward, and again from hartland to the county border; a wall of precipitous black cliffs, relieved here and there by bands of red schist, and broken at intervals by green combes such as are characteristic of the seabord of devon; a terrible coast, strewn with fragments of wreckage from ill-fated ships. [illustration: clovelly harbour] hartland point, believed to be the promontory of hercules alluded to by the geographer ptolemy, is a noble headland, whose dark steeps rise 350 feet sheer up out of a dangerous and ever restless sea. perhaps there is not, in any other part of north devon, more striking evidence of volcanic upheaval and disturbance than is to be seen in the curved and gnarled and twisted strata of the cliffs that tower above hartland quay. six miles south of hartland the northern seaboard of the county ends, as it began, in a deep hollow in the cliffs, marsland mouth, a beautiful combe, down which, under storm-beaten oaks and thickets of thorn and hazel, there winds the stream that forms the border-line between devonshire and cornwall. [illustration: church rock, clovelly] 9. a peregrination of the coast: 2, the english channel. the points that specially characterise the southern seaboard of devonshire, and distinguish it from the northern shore, are its many estuaries, its numerous bays and bold headlands, the strong, deep red, in some places, of its rugged cliffs, and, in a minor degree, the sandy beaches which lend an added charm to many of its seaside towns. no natural feature marks the spot, half-way between lyme cobb and the seven rocks point, where the border-line between dorsetshire and devonshire begins. but all that part of the coast, almost as far as the mouth of the axe, shows signs of having been broken away by repeated landslips; one of the most serious of which happened in 1839, when a vast mass of cliff, extending all the way from pinhay (or pinner) to culverhole point, slipped bodily down some 300 feet, carrying with it fields and houses; and it now lies in most picturesque ruin on the beach. the mouth of the axe, above whose eastern side rises the haven cliff, a fine mass of red sandstone crowned by white chalk, has long since been silted up by pebbles, and no ships now visit either axmouth or seaton, the latter of which was once of sufficient importance to contribute two vessels towards edward iii's expedition against calais, but is now only a watering-place. beyond the mouth of the axe, separated from it by a mile of low-lying shore, the white cliff, also a scene of many landslips, rises sheer up out of the sea; a fine piece of cliff-wall, the effect of whose bands of red and white, of brown and grey, is greatly heightened by the green of its abundant vegetation. more striking still is the white precipice of beer head, the most southerly outcrop of chalk in england, worn above into picturesque and ivy-mantled crags, and hollowed at its base into many caves. from its summit, 426 feet above the sea, is a far-reaching view of the coast, covering the 50 miles from portland on the east to the start on the west. half-way between the mouth of the axe and beer head is the quaint and old-world village of beer, famous for its labyrinthine quarries tunnelled deep into the hill, for its fisheries and lace-making, and, formerly, as a special haunt of smugglers. from beer head, past the little openings of branscombe mouth, weston mouth, and salcombe, to sidmouth, is a range of magnificent and picturesquely-coloured cliffs, white and grey and yellow, and at some points rising straight up from the sea-line. [illustration: pinhay landslip] [illustration: white cliff, seaton] sidmouth, the "baymouth" of thackeray's _pendennis_, set among beautiful hills, and one of the pleasantest of west-country watering-places, was once a port, with valuable pilchard fisheries. but its harbour has been destroyed by repeated falls of rock from its grand cliffs of deep red sandstone, the sid is silted up with sand and shingle, and the pilchards have left this part of the coast. about a mile west of sidmouth is the beautiful headland of high peak, whose summit, 511 feet above the sea, is the most lofty point on the south coast of devon. just beyond it is the popular bathing-place of ladram cove, whose firm sands are fringed with brightly-coloured pebbles. rather more than two miles farther on is the estuary of the otter, a harbour 500 years ago, but now, like so many of these river mouths, barred with shingle. close to the estuary lies the quiet little town of budleigh salterton, set in a beautiful valley, famous for its mild climate and its luxuriant vegetation. some five miles of coast-line--broken half-way by straight point, beyond which the shore is low--extend from budleigh to the mouth of the exe, the widest of devonshire estuaries, but almost closed by a long bar of grass-grown sand called the warren, on which, during the civil war, stood a royalist fort mounting sixteen guns. exmouth, at the east side of the estuary, formerly a fishing-village, is now a highly popular watering-place. [illustration: parson and clerk rocks, dawlish] four miles farther on, in a little bay walled-in by lofty cliffs of deep red sandstone, is dawlish, noted for its warm climate and its good sands. at the eastern end of the bay is a rock called the langstone, and at the western end are the strange-looking pillars of red sandstone known as the parson and clerk. teignmouth lies rather more than two miles s.s.w. of dawlish, with picturesque red cliffs and firm sands all the way, at the mouth of the estuary of the river teign, whose swiftly-flowing stream is here crossed by one of the longest wooden bridges in england. it is a small port and a very popular watering-place, with beautiful inland scenery behind it, and inside the den--the dune or sand-bank which bars a great part of the river's mouth--is a good harbour for vessels of light draught. teignmouth is one of the towns that in the past have suffered from the attacks of the french, who burnt it in 1347 and again in 1690. [illustration: anstis cove, near torquay] four miles south of the estuary of the teign is babbacombe bay, in whose beautiful cliffs of red and grey is some of the richest colouring on the whole coast. the paler-toned cliffs round the picturesque little inlet of anstis cove are of limestone. half a mile farther is the prominent cape called hope's nose, the northern limit of torbay, and a spot of much interest to the geologist on account of the raised sea-beach which, at a height of some thirty feet above the present high tide-line, may be traced under the headland, and also, at a lower level, on the thatcher rock. among the marine shells of the latter deposit is _trophon truncatus_, an arctic species, whose presence here is another proof that the climate of devonshire was once far colder than it is now. [illustration: torquay from vane hill] torbay, which extends from hope's nose on the north to berry head on the south--two prominent headlands nearly five miles apart--is one of the best known and most beautiful bays on the coast of england. in all except easterly winds it affords an excellent anchorage which was much used by ships of the royal navy in the old sailing days, and it is still a great yachting station. at the northern end of the bay, occupying, it is said, more ground in proportion to its population than any other town in the island, is the much frequented watering-place of torquay, widely celebrated for the beauty of its situation and the mildness of its winter climate. along the whole coast of torbay, at a level which shows that the land has sunk some forty feet, lies a submerged forest, in which have been found bones of the wild boar, red-deer antlers, and mammoth's teeth. but proofs of an elevation on a still greater scale are to be found in the borings of sea-shells in the limestone cliffs above kent's cavern, within the limits of the town, at a height of 200 feet above the present sea level. half-way along the shore of torbay is paignton, another favourite seaside resort, famous for its fine beach, and on a steep slope at the head of an inlet rather more than a mile before coming to berry head stands brixham, a town second only in importance to plymouth among the fishing-stations of the south coast of england. here, on the 5th of november, 1688, the prince of orange landed. and here, six weeks after the battle of waterloo, the _bellerophon_ anchored, with napoleon buonaparte a prisoner on board. [illustration: brixham] beyond berry head, which forms the end of a broad promontory, worn at its base into many caves, and noted for its quarries, there extends for many miles--all the way, in fact, to the mouth of the dart--a stretch of very beautiful coast-line, with low but finely-coloured cliffs of sandstone and limestone and slate, varying in tint from red to purple, and from brown to grey, with a series of sandy bays and fringed by outlying rocks, two of which are called mewstones. one of these, standing just where the coast sweeps round to the estuary of the dart, is a lofty pinnacle of stone more than 100 feet high. well inside the mouth of the dart, on the steep slope of its left or eastern entrance, is the quaint little town of kingswear; and opposite to it, on the western shore, lies dartmouth, once a noted port, but now only a favourite yachting station. the old man-of-war, the _britannia_, anchored here close to land and long used as a training-ship, has been superseded by a naval college on shore, and is now used only as a store. dartmouth is a place of much historic interest. it was from here that part of richard c[oe]ur de lion's crusading fleet sailed for palestine. the port furnished thirty-one ships towards edward iii's attack on calais. twice, in the half century that followed, it was plundered by the french. it played a prominent part in the civil war, and was taken first by prince maurice, and afterwards by fairfax. [illustration: the "britannia" and "hindostan" in dartmouth harbour] between the mouth of the dart and start point, nine miles as the crow flies, is start bay, walled for about half its length with low and quiet-coloured cliffs of slate, and fringed in great part with sand and shingle. at blackpool, a picturesque little cove near the northern end of the bay, du chastel the breton landed, in 1404, on a pillaging expedition, for the plundering was not all on the side of the english. but the frenchman was killed, with 400 of his men, and 200 more were taken prisoners. half-way along the shore of start bay are slapton sands, where a beach of small and brightly-coloured pebbles and a bank of shingle separate the long and narrow lake called slapton ley from the waters of the channel. off this spot, marked by two beacons on the shore, is the spot, "measured mile" for testing the speed of steamships. not far from slapton the coast rises again, and above the fishing villages of hallsands and beesands, which stand at the water's edge, reaches a height of some hundreds of feet. the people of these two little hamlets train powerful dogs, which, in rough weather, swim out through the surf, catch the painters thrown to them and thus enable the fishing-boats to be dragged ashore. start point, or, as it is perhaps more often called, the start, is one of the famous capes of britain, a bold headland sloping steeply both ways, like the roof of a house; whose iron base, fringed with white quartz pebbles; has been the scene of many shipwrecks, and whose dark cliffs and rugged crags are haunted by multitudes of sea-birds. the cliffs of this part of devon, from the start round prawle point and bolt head to bolt tail--cliffs whose grey rock, relieved by bands of white quartz, has been bent and twisted by volcanic upheaval, and weathered by rain and frost, by wind and sea, into the wildest and most fantastic shapes--are as remarkable for picturesqueness of form as other parts are for richness of colouring. three miles beyond the start is prawle point, a magnificent mass of jagged rock, the most southerly point in the county, and a well-known steering-mark for ships in the channel. it was off this shore, in 1793, that the english ship _nymphe_ captured the french man-of-war _clã©opatre_; the first naval battle in the struggle between england and the french republic. between prawle point and bolt head is salcombe mouth, a creek rather than an estuary; a long, winding, and picturesque inlet, whose entrance is obstructed by a bank of sand. trunks of oak and other trees, from a submerged forest not far from land, are sometimes thrown ashore here after rough weather. to the west of salcombe stands bolt head, of no great height, but a noble mass of rugged and weather-worn rock. beyond the head the coast rises into steep and lofty cliffs, culminating in bolt tail, close under whose eastern face, in 1760, the 74-gun ship _ramillies_ was lost, with more than 700 of her crew. a gun recovered from the wreck lies by the hope signal-station, on the height above. these cliffs have been much broken away by landslips; and a series of fissures called the pits suggest that much more ground is still to fall. round bigbury bay, of which bolt tail is the eastern limit, is some of the most beautiful scenery of this beautiful coast. a striking feature of the bay is a great rock called the thurlestone, an outlying mass of red sandstone, conspicuous against the general greyness of the cliffs, and pierced by a lofty archway, worn by wind and sea. two estuaries, the avon mouth and the erme mouth, break the coast-line of the bay; and there is a third, called yealm mouth, near the entrance of plymouth sound, a couple of miles beyond the grand slate headland of stoke point. outside the avon mouth is borough island, carpeted in spring-time with the beautiful blue of the delicate little vernal squill. the erme, whose mouth is guarded by rugged cliffs of slate, is strewn with rocks and sandbanks; but the estuary of the yealm is a fine sheet of deep, navigable water. standing far out into wembury bay, at the mouth of the yealm, is the third of the mewstones, a rocky and beautiful little islet, nearly 200 feet high, and frequented, as its name implies, by many sea-gulls. the mewstone may be said to mark the eastern side of the entrance of plymouth sound, one of the best known, most important, and most beautiful bays in the kingdom. it is by nature fully exposed to southerly winds, and it has, in the past, been the scene of many shipwrecks. but the breakwater, which was built in the early half of the nineteenth century right across it, two miles south of plymouth hoe, with the special object of sheltering ships of the royal navy, now affords a safe and excellent anchorage. nearer the shore is drake's island, now strongly fortified, but in stuart times a state prison, where lambert, one of the most distinguished of parliamentary generals, spent the last eighteen years of his life. at the head of the sound, on its eastern side, is the inlet called the catwater, the estuary of the river plym, an important mercantile anchorage, protected by batten breakwater. it was here that the english fleet waited until the spanish armada, on its way up the channel, had passed the entrance of the sound. between the catwater and the hamoaze, the great naval anchorage which extends from the sound to saltash bridge, are the "three towns," plymouth, stonehouse, and devonport, now joined into one by continuous buildings, forming the busiest and most populous part of the county, and constituting, with their dockyards, barracks, gun-wharves, and victualling yards, one of the most important stations of the royal navy. 10. coastal gains and losses. sandbanks. lighthouses. there are parts of our island where, even within historic times, the coast-line has been greatly changed by the encroachment of the sea, usually through the wearing away of the cliffs along the shore. this is especially the case on the eastern coast of england, where, in the lapse of ages, villages, towns, and whole manors have been completely swept away. the old town of ravenspur, for example, a place that in its time rivalled hull as a sea-port, is to-day a mere sandbank far out from shore; and the sea runs twenty feet deep over the once great shipping town of dunwich, whose site is now two miles from the land. on the other hand, there are places where the reverse has happened; where the shore has gained upon the sea. the town of yarmouth, for instance, stands on ground that first became firm enough to build upon nine hundred years ago. a large tract of land on the coast of carnarvonshire has, in times much more recent, been reclaimed from the sea; and the day cannot be far distant when the mud-flats of the wash will be under the plough. similar changes--changes resulting both from gain and loss--have happened and are still happening in devonshire. braunton great field, a rich tract of land some 300 acres in extent, cut up into hundreds of small freeholds, was, it is believed, reclaimed from the estuary of the taw. on the other hand, the pebble ridge on the shore of barnstaple bay has been slowly driven inland by the force of the sea, and is said to have advanced 200 yards in the last fifty years, thus covering a long stretch of pasture-land under heaps of stones. attempts have been lately made, by means of piles and groynes of timber, to stop its further movement. much more remarkable, however, and much more widely distributed, are the alterations that have taken place on the south coast of devonshire, owing mainly to erosion of the cliffs and consequent landslips, and to the washing up, by strong currents, of vast quantities of sand and shingle. from the dorset border westwards, especially between pinhay bay and culverhole point, in the white cliff near seaton, and at beer head, long stretches of cliff, undermined probably by streams and heavy rains, have fallen, sometimes in masses half a mile long. the old town of sidmouth is now buried under the shingle, the cliffs that protected the harbour having been entirely washed away. at dawlish, again, rather more than fifty years since, a mass estimated at 4000 tons fell bodily into the sea. nor is the erosion the work of natural forces alone. in 1897 immense quantities of fine shingle were taken from the beach at hallsands, to make concrete for keyham dockyard, with the result that the beach there has sunk twelve feet, that high-water mark is now much farther in-shore, and that many houses in the village have been swept away by the sea, whose further inroads have at last been checked by means of massive walls of concrete. [illustration: a rough sea at ilfracombe] most of the south coast estuaries, as has already been pointed out, have been more or less blocked up by banks of sand or shingle, some of which are still undergoing change. the warren, for example, the great bar at the mouth of the exe, now connected with the western shore, was in the seventeenth century joined to the exmouth side of the river, and was still reached from there by stepping-stones as late as 1730. the warren is now being slowly washed away, at the rate, it is said, of an acre in a year; and the river has within historic times encroached upon the site of newenham abbey. great as has been the loss of land on the south coast, there have been some gains. more than 170 acres of land, for instance, have been reclaimed from the laira near plymouth; and the village of penny-come-quick, lower down, whose anglicised celtic name means "the house at the head of the creek," is no longer at the water's edge. in 1805 some thirty acres were recovered from the charleston marshes, on the salcombe estuary. the bristol channel is one of the most stormy and dangerous parts of the british seas, and is the scene of about one-tenth of all the shipping disasters that happen on our coasts every year. in its upper reaches navigation is made difficult by banks of mud and sand which are continually altering in shape and position. on the north coast of devonshire, however, there are no outlying sandbanks. there is a small patch of sand off lynmouth, 1-1/2 miles n.n.w. of countisbury foreland, and the estuary of the taw and torridge is obstructed by a dangerous and shifting sandbank known as barnstaple bar, upon which ("the harbour bar" of kingsley's song), many vessels have been wrecked. but the dangers of this stormy shore lie mainly in the iron-bound coast itself, and in the rocks that stretch seaward from the bases of the cliffs. from bull point to baggy point, especially off morte point, and again from clovelly to the border of cornwall, particularly off hartland point, the shore is fringed with reefs and sharp edges of rock. lundy, again, is a constant source of danger to sailors; partly because of the many rocks that stretch out from it, especially the hen and chickens at the north end and the lee rocks at the south; partly because of the strong currents that, off the south point of the island, run five knots an hour; and partly because of the fogs that so frequently envelope it. it was all three clauses combined that, in 1906, occasioned the loss of the first-class battleship _montagu_, which, carried out of her course by the current, and deceived by the fog, became a total wreck on the shutter rock, the southern extremity of the island. off lundy, too, are the only banks of importance. over the stanley bank, which lies to the north-east, where the depth at one point is only four and a half fathoms, there run, in heavy weather, the dangerous "tide-rips" known as the white horses. the navigation of the south shore of devonshire is much more important than that of the north; partly because of the number of ports in the county itself, and partly because the english channel is a much more crowded waterway. the principal danger to navigation on the south coast is the group of reefs called the eddystone rocks, fourteen miles south-south-west of the entrance of plymouth sound. they are all covered at high tide, but the top of one of them is nineteen feet above low-water mark. in plymouth sound itself, especially near the eastern shore, there are many rocks and shallow patches. the most conspicuous of the former is the mewstone, 194 feet high. on the shagstone, a little farther in, the p. and o. steamship _nepaul_ was lost. from this point eastward the coast is fringed with rocks and small islets, most of them close in-shore. but from the start a chain of sandbanks called the skerries extends out some miles from the land. from bigbury bay to the start is one of the most dangerous parts of the coast, and has been the scene of many wrecks. here, to name a few of many instances, were lost the _ramillies_, of whose crew 708 were drowned; the _chanteloupe_, when only one man was saved; the _marana_, from which seven men escaped; and the _dryad_, on which every man perished. [illustration: the eddystone lighthouse] from the mouth of the dart to hope's nose there are many outlying rocks; but from that headland to the dorsetshire border the coast is comparatively "clean," that is to say, free from obstructions. all the rivers east of plymouth sound are more or less blocked by bars, with the exception of the dart, whose entrance, however, is strewn with rocks. to warn the sailor against these and other dangers, buoys, bells, beacons, fog-horns or sirens, guns or explosive signals, and lighthouses have been provided at many points along the devonshire coasts. there are also numerous storm-signalling stations, and there are no fewer than thirteen lifeboats, of which eight are on the south coast. the men of the thirty-three devonshire coastguard stations have been the means of saving many lives. on the two coasts, including lundy, there are in all fifty-one lights of various sorts and sizes, from the eight first-class lighthouses with massive stone towers, of which the most famous although not the most powerful is the eddystone, down to the small but useful lights of a hundred candle-power or less, most of which are connected with quays and harbours; while others, like that at clovelly, lighted only in the fishing-season, are temporary, a number of them consisting merely of a lantern on the top of a post. a hut that carries the red and white lights at the mouth of the barnstaple river is on wheels, and is moved as the bar shifts its position. the first eddystone lighthouse, a fantastic structure of wood, with six stages, begun in 1690 by winstanley--who, while engaged in building it, was carried off by a french privateer, but promptly released by command of louis xiv--was swept away, with its builder and three other men, in the historic storm of 1703. the second lighthouse, also of wood, built by rudyerd in 1706, was destroyed by fire in 1755. the third, which was the first real lighthouse ever erected, was constructed by smeaton of stones dovetailed together, with a shaft eighty-seven feet high, shaped like the trunk of an oak-tree for the sake of strength, and with the idea that it would offer greater resistance to the waves. it was finished in 1759, but its woodwork having been burnt in 1770 was then replaced by stone. the foundations of this tower having been undermined by the sea, a fourth lighthouse, whose top is 133 feet above high-water mark, was built by douglas, between 1878 and 1882, on a rock forty yards south-south-east of the original site, which is nine miles and a quarter from the nearest land. part of the old tower was taken down, and re-erected on plymouth hoe, in memory of smeaton. like most of the devonshire lights the eddystone lantern is of the group-flashing order, giving a light equal to that of nearly 300,000 candles, with two quick flashes every half-minute, and visible in clear weather for seventeen miles. a minor fixed light, in the same tower, shines on the hand deeps, a bank to the north-west; and the lighthouse is also provided with an explosive fog-signal, giving two reports every five minutes. [illustration: the start lighthouse] other very powerful lights, visible for from seventeen to twenty-one miles, are--giving them in ascending order--those at hartland, bull point, countisbury foreland, north lundy, the start, and south lundy, the last named being the most brilliant of all, of 374,225 candle-power. all these lighthouses have fog-sirens or explosive fog-signals. most of the english lighthouses are under the charge of the trinity house, a corporation founded in 1512, and now having a yearly revenue of â£300,000, derived from "light-dues" levied on shipping. the expense of keeping up the lighthouses of the united kingdom in 1909 amounted, however, to â£464,540. the early beacon-lights were simply fires of coal, and one of these was in use at st bees head as recently as 1812. there are now round the coasts of britain more than a thousand lighthouses and lights of various degrees of importance, from those at the lizard and at st catherine's point, which are the most brilliant in the world, and may be reckoned in millions of candles, down to insignificant little structures, of which there are many, like the 100-candle-power "jack-in-the-box" on the river tees. 11. climate and rainfall. the climate of any country, or in other words, its average weather, by which, again, we mean its temperature, rainfall, and hours of sunshine, as well as the dryness or otherwise of its air, depends upon various circumstances and conditions, but especially upon geographical position, that is to say, upon the nearness of the country to the equator, upon its distance from the sea and its height above sea-level; partly also upon its soil and vegetation. speaking generally, the nearer we approach the equator the hotter will be the climate, and the nearer to the sea-coast the milder and more equable it will be. the highest temperature in the shade ever yet recorded, however--127â° fahr.--was in the algerian sahara, at a spot not even within the tropics; and the greatest cold ever experienced, 90â° below zero, fahr., was at a place in siberia only just within the arctic circle. the climate of the british isles is very greatly influenced by the great ocean current, often called the gulf stream, from its supposed source in the gulf of mexico, which, impelled by steady winds, carries a constant stream of warm water from the equatorial regions towards the north pole. this current washes the shores of these islands, and it is this circumstance which makes our winters so much milder than those of labrador, which is no nearer to the pole than we are. were it not for the gulf stream our weather would probably be more severe than that of newfoundland. the highest shade temperature ever experienced in britain was 101â° fahr., at alton in hampshire, in july, 1881; and the lowest was 10â° below zero, fahr., at buxton in derbyshire, in february, 1895. a temperature of 23â° below zero is said to have been measured in berwickshire, in 1879, but the correctness of the record has been questioned. what is, however, of more importance, is the average temperature for the year, which, for the whole of england, is 48â° fahr. the sunniest part of england lies, as might be expected, along the south coast, although the south-east and south-west coasts also get more sunshine than inland districts in the same latitude. the sun is above the horizon in this country for more than 4450 hours in the year; but, owing to the frequent presence of clouds, he is not visible for even half that time in any part of the british isles and the average for the country as a whole is only 1355 hours. the southern coasts sometimes enjoy 2000 hours of bright sunshine in a year, but their average is probably not more than 1700 or 1800 hours, or about five hours a day all the year round. the amount decreases as we go north; while the manufacturing districts of the midland counties, owing to the smoke which so often obscures the sky, get 1200 hours or less. at manchester in 1907 only 894 hours of sunshine were recorded for the year's total. the sunniest months throughout the country generally are may and june, and the gloomiest month is december. [illustration: the winter garden at torquay] the climate of a country, however, depends not only upon the sunshine, but upon the rainfall. the amount of rain that falls in any place varies according to the height of that place above the sea, its distance from the coast, and the configuration of the ground, that is to say, upon its position with respect to valleys, up which moisture-laden air may be driven by the wind, to be compressed and cooled until its moisture falls in rain. the rainfall varies very much in different parts of england, but the average amount for the whole country is about 33 inches in a year. when we speak of an inch of rain we mean that it would lie an inch deep on a perfectly level piece of ground. thus, if all the rain that fell in a year stayed on the ground, and did not evaporate, or run away, or sink into the earth, the water would be 33 inches deep all over england at the end of the twelve months. an inch of rain all over an acre of ground weighs rather more than 100 tons. not only does the rainfall vary in different parts of the country, but it varies in different years. the wettest year on record was 1903, when the rainfall averaged 50 inches for the whole of england; and the driest year was 1887, when it amounted to no more than 24 inches. the heaviest rainfall in great britain is in the mountains round ben nevis and snowdon, in the english lake district, and in the uplands of cornwall and devon. and it may fairly accurately be said that, as we cross england from west to east, the amount of the annual fall steadily decreases, as is shown in the accompanying map. the moisture-laden clouds, driven across the atlantic by the prevalent s.w. winds, discharge their contents on meeting the cold high lands of western england, which thus act as a sort of umbrella, the driest parts of the country being on the east coast. while the average fall over a considerable part of the west side of it is from 40 to 60 inches, that on the east is no more than from 25 to 30; and round the wash and in parts of suffolk and essex it is under 25 inches. thus it sometimes happens that when the west of england has rain enough and to spare, the eastern districts are suffering from the want of it. the effect of this difference is shown in a marked degree in the character of the crops. the farms of the rainier west are to a great extent laid down in grass. the drier districts of the east grow more corn, which needs dry weather to ripen it. [illustration: england & wales annual rainfall (_the figures give the approximate annual rainfall in inches._)] the driest month in england generally is march, whose rainfall averages 1â·46 inches; and the wettest is october, in which the average amount is 2â·81 inches. the pleasant climate of devonshire, which is highly conducive to health and to extreme longevity, and which, especially in the south, favours luxuriant and even sub-tropical vegetation, owes its character to five main causes;--the fact that the county is bounded on two sides by the sea; the influence of the gulf stream or warm ocean current, which directly affects both coasts; the warmth and moisture of the prevailing winds; the shelter afforded to the southern districts by the high ground of dartmoor; and the large amount of bright sunshine which the county, and especially the south of it, is favoured. it is owing to the gulf stream that the temperature of the sea in the english channel is many degrees higher in winter, even as far east as the goodwins, than that in the north sea. thus, the east wind, blowing over 200 miles of warmed water, has, by the time it reaches devonshire, lost much of its proverbial bitterness. on the other hand it is mainly owing to the influence of the gulf stream that the climate of ilfracombe is more equable than that of any other town in england except falmouth, and is, in fact, from half a degree to a degree warmer in winter and cooler in summer than torquay itself. [illustration: upcott lane, bideford] it is largely the shelter given to it by dartmoor and the blackdown hills that makes the south and south-east of devonshire so famous for its warm and pleasant climate. the south-west also benefits from the protection afforded by the spurs of dartmoor, but the rainfall of that district is heavier and the air more relaxing. the prevailing winds in devonshire are the west and south-west, which, blowing across the open atlantic, are also the chief rain-carrying winds. both are comparatively warm, the latter following the course of the gulf stream. but they are often violent, and vegetation fully exposed to them does not flourish. the peninsula of which devonshire forms a part contains the warmest districts in great britain. the annual average temperature of the whole county is 49-1/2â° fahr., which is a degree and a half higher than that of the whole of england; while the average for torquay is 51â°. in the three winter months, january, february, and march, in which the average temperature for london is 39â·7â°, that for torquay is 41â·3â°. the annual amount of bright sunshine in devonshire naturally varies in different years. in 1906 it was nearly 2000 hours on the south coast, and not less than 1800 on the north. the average amount appears, however, to be about 1700 in the south, and 1500 on the north coast, or between three and four hours a day. the actual amount would, of course, be much more than this in summer, and much less in the winter. the amount of rain in devonshire in 1907, which was an average year throughout the country, was (taking the mean of the 169 stations named in dr h. r. mill's _british rainfall_) 41â·24 inches, falling on 210 days, or about 7-1/2 inches and 7 days above the average for the whole of england and wales. in the same year 196.16 inches of rain were registered at the llyn llydaw copper mine near snowdon, and only 16â·6 inches at clacton-on-sea. the wettest part of the county is dartmoor, which catches the moisture-laden clouds coming up from the atlantic. in 1907 some 81 inches of rain fell at princetown, at a spot 1390 feet above the sea. this amount was, however, much exceeded in 1903, when the rainfall at the same station was 102â·32 inches, and in cowsic valley, a little lower down, it was half an inch more. the driest part of devonshire is the south-east coast. in 1907 only 26â·27 inches of rain fell at exmouth, for example. heavy as the rainfall is, the slopes of the land are so steep and the soil in general so porous that the water soon runs away, with the result that both the earth and the air are drier than might be expected. a feature of dartmoor even more striking and characteristic than its heavy rainfall is the fog which so frequently covers it, and which is sometimes so dense as to cause the most experienced moor-men to lose their way. speaking generally, the climate of devonshire may be described as warm and moist and remarkably equable. the winters are very mild, and snow is rare, except on dartmoor. on the south coast of the county many plants which in less favoured parts of england need protection in the winter, such, for instance, as geraniums, hydrangeas, heliotropes, and camellias, are left out-of-doors all the year. magnolias reach to the tops of the houses, myrtles grow to a height of thirty feet or more, palms and eucalyptus flourish, and oranges, lemons, and citrons do well in the open air. devonshire seems peculiarly liable to seismic disturbances, and many slight shocks of earthquake have been recorded. 12. people--race. dialects. settlements. population. the earliest inhabitants of devonshire, the people of the palaeolithic or early stone age, have left few traces beyond their weapons and implements of flint. they lived in caves or on the banks of rivers. they were hunters, and appear to have practised no craft but that of hunting, while their arts seem to have been almost if not entirely limited to the use of fire and to the making of rude instruments of stone. but during the neolithic period, as the later stone age is called, the district, it is believed, was invaded by an iberian or ivernian race from south-western europe, a race possessing flocks and herds, with a knowledge of many arts and crafts, such as spinning and weaving, the making of pottery and of dug-out canoes, but having at first no acquaintance with the use of metal. they were of the same stock as the silures of south wales, and were probably dark-haired and black-eyed, round-headed and short of stature. their descendants may, perhaps, still be seen in the county, especially on the skirts of exmoor, and it is quite possible that their breeds of domestic animals may be represented upon devonshire farms to-day. the iberians were, it is thought, conquered and driven westward by the very different goidels or gaels, a powerful celtic race, tall, fair, long-headed, much further advanced in arts and crafts, and to some extent users of bronze for tools and ornaments. it is thought by some authorities that it was they who set up the stone circles, avenues, and menhirs, and who built the rude stone huts which still remain on dartmoor. many of the people of scotland and ireland are their descendants, and their language is still spoken in the highlands and western isles of scotland, in parts of ireland, and in the isle of man. the gaels were, it is believed, succeeded and conquered in the fourth century before christ by the brythons, another celtic race, who gave their name to our island. they took possession of wales, and of scotland as far as the highlands, but they do not appear to have crossed into ireland. they were, to a great extent, users of bronze, but they also worked in iron, and were the first of the iron age in this country. it is probable that they built most of the hill-forts of devonshire, and that they made many of the roads, some of which were afterwards adapted and improved by the romans. shortly before the landing of julius caesar, britain was invaded by still another celtic race, the belgae from gaul, a tall, dark-haired people, as may be gathered from the appearance of their descendants, the walloons of liã¨ge and the ardennes. the roman tenure of devonshire was of a very limited character, and can have had little effect upon the inhabitants. the saxon occupation of the district was more of the nature of colonisation than of conquest. by the time they had crossed somerset the saxons were, at least nominally, christians; and although their treatment of the original occupants was none too gentle, as, for instance, in the expulsion of the britons from exeter by athelstan, it seems likely that the two races settled quietly down together, the saxons probably becoming the land-owners, and the celts the peasantry. it is thought that the main population of the county is celtic, of one or other of the three waves of celtic invasion. there are in devonshire many celtic place-names, especially of hills and rivers; and some of the latter, with the addition of saxon endings, such as _ham_, _ton_, and _stock_, survive also in the names of towns. in some cases, curious english-looking names can be traced to celtic words of quite another meaning. thus, bowerman's nose, the name of a famous crag on dartmoor, is probably a corruption of _veor maen_, "the great stone." the dialect of devonshire, like the very similar speech of west somerset, is saxon, with strong traces of celtic influence in its pronunciation. one of many peculiarities is the sound of the diphthongs _oo_ and _ou_, which are pronounced like the french _u_ or the german _ã¼_. another peculiarity is the great variety of the vowel sounds, and the indistinctness or modification of some of the consonants. again, _th_ and even _v_ are often sounded like _dh_. it is also very characteristic to put _d_ for _th_ as, for instance, _datch_ for _thatch_, or _dishle_ for _thistle_. there are many words in common use in devonshire which are almost or entirely unknown elsewhere, and which may be regarded as survivals of ancient saxon or, in some cases, british speech. such, for example, are:- _whisht_, weird, uncanny, lonely, "overlooked." _cloam_, earthenware. _clam_, a foot-bridge. _yark_, lively. _stivery_, disordered. _clunk_, to swallow. _giglets_, young men or women seeking new situations. _havage_, character. _zamzoaky_, tepid. _coochey_, clumsy. _mawn_, a basket. _frickety_, heavy, sodden. _pluff_, not well. _spraggetty_, spotted. _dimpety_, dusk. _chicket_, cheerful. _spilsky_, lean. _fess_, smart. _plum_, soft. _scamlin_, irregular. _thurdle_, miserable. _sklum_, to grasp roughly. _yaw_, to bite. _shugg_, shy. _ippet_, a lizard. it should be remembered that some of the forms of devonshire dialect which strike the educated ear as ungrammatical are really survivals of pure saxon speech, such as was in use at the courts of alfred the great and athelstan. english in other parts of england has undergone great changes. in the west country it has in some respects kept closer to the original forms. the norman conquest left its mark in many places. double names, such as berry pomeroy, sampford courtenay, and wear gifford, suggest the addition of a norman family title to the existing saxon name of a manor. it is quite possible that the common devonshire word _fay_, as in _yes, fay_ and _no, fay_, is a survival of the old french _fay_ (for _foi_), "faith." [illustration: a cockle woman, river exe] huguenots and other french refugees have also at various times settled in the county, as, for instance, at exeter, where they introduced the art of weaving tapestry, at barnstaple, where they taught new and better methods of making cloth, and at plymouth, where many took refuge after the revocation of the edict of nantes. and it seems likely that bratton fleming and stoke fleming were named after flemish immigrants, many of whom settled in devonshire. [illustration: a honiton lace-worker] the population of the geographical county of devonshire, according to the census of 1901, is 661,314, and there are in the county 123,608 inhabited houses. a hundred years ago the population was 340,308; it has, therefore, not quite doubled during the century. in the busier county of kent the population has in the same time increased from 268,097 to 1,348,841. in common with all except five of the counties of england, there are in devonshire more women than men; the excess of the female over the male population being 37,096. the chief occupation is agriculture, which provides employment for 42,000 people, or about one-nineteenth of the inhabitants--a considerably lower proportion than in the adjoining county of somerset. less than 3000 men are engaged in mines and quarries; 2000 are fishermen, and lace-making occupies 350 men and 1500 women. in common with many other parts of england the small country parishes of devonshire are much less populous than they were. in the last fifty years there has been a decline of 17,000 in the rural population. devonshire is a somewhat thinly-inhabited county. there are in it a little more than 2-1/2 acres to every man, woman, and child, or 254 persons to the square mile, compared with 558 to the square mile for the whole of england and wales. westmorland, the most sparsely-populated county, has only 82 people to the square mile, or eight acres to each inhabitant. lancashire, on the other hand, contains more than 2300 people to the square mile, or four people to every acre; and in the county of middlesex there are 12,669 to the square mile, which gives about twenty inhabitants to every acre of ground. 13. agriculture--main cultivations. woodlands. stock. the area of all the land in england is, in round numbers, 32-1/2 millions of acres, of which 24-1/2 millions are under cultivation; 10-3/4 million acres being arable, and the greater part of the rest being devoted to permanent grass. for some years past the area of cultivation in the british islands has been gradually growing less; and in 1908 the decrease in england alone was more than 25,000 acres, chiefly in the amount of land given up to barley and oats, but extending to almost all crops except wheat, potatoes, and lucerne, which showed a slight advance. the cultivation of fruit, especially of small fruit, continues to increase, but the total space devoted to it is not quite 300,000 acres. with regard to live stock, the government returns show that the total number of horses in england (about a million) was 10,000 less in 1908 than in 1907; but that the number of cattle (about five millions), of sheep (about sixteen millions), and of pigs (about two and a half millions) had increased, especially in the case of sheep and pigs. [illustration: old ford farm, bideford] devonshire is eminently an agricultural county, having few industrial or manufacturing centres, and still fewer mining interests, although in the past it has been famous for weaving, and for tin and copper mining. there is in the county a great variety of soil, from almost barren sand to the rich alluvial earth of the many river valleys, such as the vales of honiton and exeter, for example, and that not very clearly defined tract of country called the south hams, lying south of dartmoor, including the district between the tamar and the teign, and containing some of the most fertile land in england. the climate, as has been shown, is mild and equable, but the rainfall is heavy; and the farms of devonshire, like those in the adjacent counties, are mainly devoted to pasturage, although fruit-growing is an important industry. red devon cattle are well known and highly valued; and the sturdy little ponies of exmoor and dartmoor have been famous since saxon times. [illustration: exmoor ponies] according to the latest returns of the ordnance survey, devonshire contains, exclusive of water, more than a million and a half (1,667,154) acres, of which nearly a million and a quarter (1,211,648) are under cultivation, including rather more than 500,000 acres of arable land, and nearly 700,000 acres of permanent grass. the latter, which as will be seen is more than half the cultivated area, is more than twice that in dorset or cornwall, rather more than that in somerset, and is only exceeded in the much larger county of yorkshire. it may be added that the arable land was 11,000 acres less and the permanent grass 11,000 acres more in 1908 than in 1907. [illustration: red devon cow] corn crops--which in the returns are made to include not only wheat, barley, oats, and rye, but peas and beans--occupy altogether about 200,000 acres, or one-sixth of the cultivated area. in this respect devonshire surpasses the three adjoining counties, and is excelled by only six english shires; essex and lincoln, where corn crops occupy one-third of the area, norfolk, where they are two-fifths, cambridge and suffolk, where they take up nearly one-half, and yorkshire, where more than half the cultivated area is thus occupied. with regard to wheat alone, the average yield per acre in devonshire, for the last ten years, is only 26-1/4 bushels, which is lower than that of any other county in england except monmouth. green crops other than permanent grass, and roots, occupy altogether about 300,000 acres, an amount exceeded only in norfolk and yorkshire. devonshire ranks very high as a fruit-growing county, and the area of its apple-orchards, about 27,000 acres, was, in 1908, greater than that of any other county in england. apples are grown in many districts, but especially in the vale of exeter, in the south hams, and in the valley of the dart. much of the fruit is, however, grown only for making cider, and is of little value for the table. plympton is said to have had the first cider-orchard in england. when pears, plums, and cherries are included in the fruit returns, devonshire takes third place, being surpassed by kent and hereford. vines are grown against many cottage walls, as is the case in other southern counties; but it is remarkable, considering the mildness of the climate, that no devonshire vineyard is mentioned in domesday book, although several are included in the survey for somerset. the space devoted to small fruits--strawberries, raspberries, currants, and gooseberries--although showing a large comparative increase over 1907, amounted in 1908 to no more than 1252 acres. in this respect devonshire is fourteenth among the english counties, producing little more than one-twentieth as much small fruit as kent, for instance. devonshire has no true forests. dartmoor and exmoor were so called in the sense of being unenclosed and uncultivated. but except on the moors, the county is well-timbered, and its fine trees add greatly to its beauty. its woods, plantations, and coppices amount altogether to nearly 90,000 acres, or about one-eighteenth of its whole area; and it here ranks fifth among the shires of england. sussex has the greatest proportion of woodland, about one-seventh of its total area; and cambridgeshire, with only one-ninety-second, has the least. there are considerable woods in some of the many beautiful parks; but probably the most famous is the wistman's wood, near two bridges, the ancestors of whose stunted and fantastic-looking oak-trees are mentioned in domesday book. [illustration: gathering cider apples] the total number of agricultural holdings in devonshire, in 1908, was nearly 15,000, or about one-twentieth of those in all england. this is greater than that of any other county except lancashire, lincoln, and yorkshire. nearly 3000 holdings are of five acres or less, and there are only six other counties which have more of these small farms. [illustration: a water-mill at uplyme] the numbers of the various kinds of live stock in devonshire are large, and the county ranks very high under the four main heads. in cattle (295,000, or 2000 less than in 1907) it stands second in all england, being surpassed only by yorkshire; in horses (59,000, or 1500 less than the previous year) it is fourth; in sheep (900,000, or 29,000 more) it is fifth; and in pigs (106,000, or 5000 more) it is sixth. the average price per stone of fat devon cattle was higher in 1908 than that of any other breed in england, and the value per head of three-year-old devon store cattle was only exceeded by that of herefords. there is no cheese made in devonshire to compare with the famous "cheddar" of the neighbouring county; but devonshire cream, although closely rivalled by that of both cornwall and somerset, is known all over the kingdom. 14. industries and manufactures. devonshire, although in former ages famous even on the continent of europe for its cloth-weaving, no longer ranks as a manufacturing county. apart from agriculture and fishing, its industries are now mainly confined to the making of lace and cider, to ship-building, and to the manufacture of earthenware. the prevalence in the county of the names of webber and tucker is some evidence of the extent and antiquity of the woollen trade, which, from very early times, flourished all over devonshire until the closing years of the eighteenth century, when it was greatly checked by the introduction of cotton fabrics. one of the most important seats of the manufacture was tiverton, where the industry was established in the fourteenth century, and reached perhaps its greatest height in the sixteenth. it was his success as a cloth-merchant which enabled peter blundell to found here his famous school. the chief woollen market of the county was originally at crediton, but it was removed in the sixteenth century to exeter, which long ranked second only to leeds, and in its palmy days exported annually more than 300,000 pieces of cloth. other important centres of the trade were barnstaple, where towards the end of the sixteenth century improved methods of weaving were introduced by french refugees; tavistock, whose kerseymeres had a european reputation; honiton, cullompton, and totnes. now ashburton and buckfastleigh, where there are some manufactures of blankets and serges, are the only towns where the industry survives. lace-making, which has been a characteristic devonshire industry for nearly three hundred years, is said to have been introduced at honiton by flemish refugees at the close of the sixteenth century, and to have been well established by 1630. the lace was a most costly product, chiefly because the special thread used in making it had to be imported from the low countries. in old days the price of devonshire lace is said to have been reckoned by the number of shillings which would cover it. but the change of fashion in men's dress lessened the demand for lace; and the introduction of machinery in 1808 greatly diminished its cost. the piece of lace which in the eighteenth century would have cost â£15, could be purchased a few years later for 15_s._, and can now be obtained, machine-made, for 15_d._ there was some revival of the trade after the making, at beer, of queen victoria's wedding-dress, at a cost of a thousand pounds. schools were established for the training of lace-workers; and by 1870 the industry provided employment for 8000 people. the manufacture has, however, again greatly declined, and although there is a lace-factory at tiverton, and although hand-made or pillow-lace is still worked in many cottages in the south-east, especially at beer, colyton, and seaton, the total number of lace-workers in the whole county, at the last census, was less than 2000. [illustration: devonshire lace] carpets in imitation of those of turkey were first made at axminster in 1755, but in 1835 the looms were removed to wilton, near salisbury. there are valuable deposits of various kinds of potter's clay in devonshire, and although much of this is exported, a good deal is used in the county. there were formerly many small, scattered potteries in north devon, but the chief seats of the industry now are at bideford, where a good deal of rough pottery is made; at annery, noted for its glazed bricks and tiles; and at barnstaple, where are extensive and long-established potteries of what is called barum ware, which has been compared to the italian _sgraffito_. the potteries of bovey tracy, which use both local and imported clay, employ from 250 to 350 hands. the fine red clay of watcombe is used to make terra-cotta; and at lee moor, near plympton, whence much kaolin or fine china clay is exported, the silicious refuse is made up into bricks of high quality for use in metallurgical furnaces. the kaolin deposits of devonshire were discovered by cookworthy, who made porcelain at plymouth from 1772 to 1774, after which date the works were removed to bristol. [illustration: devonshire pottery from the watcombe works] devonshire is one of the chief cider-producing counties, and its apple-orchards are the most extensive in our island. some of the best varieties of apples for cider-making--an industry which is carried on throughout a very large part of the county though totnes, whimple, crediton, exeter and tiverton are perhaps the best known centres--are kingston black, both the sweet and the sour woodbines (known locally as slack-me-girdles), sweet alford and fair maid of devon. [illustration: cider-making in the 17th century (_from an old print_)] [illustration: a modern cider press] it is interesting to note that printing was early introduced into devonshire. in 1525 the fifth printing-press in england was set up in tavistock. there are paper-mills at cullompton, iron-works near kingsbridge, glove-factories at torrington, umber-works at ashburton, tanneries and shoe-factories at crediton, and agricultural implement works at exeter. [illustration: ship-building yard, brixham] in addition to the very important government works at devonport and keyham dockyards, there is a considerable amount of ship and boat-building, especially on the dart and at brixham, and the industry employs altogether about 3500 men. 15. mines and minerals. there was a time when mining, especially tin-mining, was the most important industry of devonshire. traces left all over dartmoor show that at a very early period tin was obtained there by the process called "streaming," that is to say by the washing of grains of the metal out of the disintegrated and crumbling granite. vast numbers of abandoned shafts sunk in search of tin, copper, iron, manganese, and even silver, remain, together with their too often ugly buildings, as evidence of the former magnitude of the industry. at the present day, however, only twenty-four mines are in active operation, providing employment for no more than 700 men, who, in 1907, raised less than 1700 tons of metal of all descriptions. the tin-miners of devon and cornwall were early formed into a corporate body whose affairs were managed by a stannary parliament that met on hingston down. at a later period, probably at the beginning of the fourteenth century, the devonshire men held their own parliament, which assembled on crockern tor. they were governed by a warden--sir walter ralegh held the office for some years--appointed by the duchy of cornwall, who collected the duchy dues or royalties, and having ascertained the purity of each block of tin by "coinage," that is, by cutting off for analysis a "coin" or corner, stamped it with the duchy arms. a miner convicted of selling impure tin was punished by having some of the melted metal poured down his throat. lydford, tavistock, chagford, and ashburton were called stannary towns, since at each of those places blocks of tin might be tested; and the arbitrary nature of the stannary court is hinted at in the proverbial expression: "lydford law; hang first and try afterwards." the chief mining district of devonshire begins at the tamar and extends across dartmoor and along its borders. the most important centre was tavistock, but there were rich mines at north molton, where several kinds of metal were worked, near ashburton, and elsewhere. the principal ores are those of copper and tin; some iron is worked, and there are rich veins, believed to be not yet exhausted although not now worked, of galena or silver-lead. the devonshire mines formerly produced more tin than those of cornwall; but since the fourteenth century the output of the latter county has been the greater. the quantity now raised in devonshire is inconsiderable, and in 1907 amounted to only 94 tons. tin is very largely used in making what is called tin-plate, which is really sheet-iron dipped into the melted metal. it is also mixed with copper to make bronze or machine-brass, and it was for the manufacture of bronze that it was so much sought after by the ancient inhabitants of the country. copper-mining in devonshire is believed to be a comparatively modern industry. it is not known whether the ancient britons made their own bronze from native tin and copper, or whether they imported it from abroad. the devon great consols mine, four miles from tavistock, once by far the richest mine in england, and one of the richest in the world, has shipped as much as 1200 tons of copper in a single month, and has produced altogether 3-1/2 million pounds' worth of ore; but it now yields little but arsenic. in 1907 only 652 tons were raised in the whole county. the ore is not exhausted, but the cost of raising it from deep mines is too great to withstand foreign competition. [illustration: devon great consols mine] ores of iron and zinc are widely distributed, but are little worked; and the annual yield, both of these metals and of manganese, of which this county was once a chief source of supply, is inconsiderable. very rich silver-lead ore was formerly worked at bere alston and at combe martin, but the mines in both places have been abandoned. a very massive cup, made of combe martin silver, given to the corporation of london by queen elizabeth, is still used at the inauguration of each lord mayor. arsenic and arsenical pyrites, ochre, and umber are obtained, especially from some mines whose more valuable ore is exhausted. cobalt, tungsten, and uranium also occur, and gold has been found in small quantities, generally in streams, as, for instance, in the west webburn and below lethitor. although the metal mines of devonshire have lost their old importance, there are other minerals of great commercial value, of which altogether more than a million tons are obtained in the course of a year. china clay, or kaolin, a product of the natural decomposition of granite, is worked at lee moor, and more than 75,000 tons--which, however, is only one-tenth of that obtained from cornwall--are annually exported, especially to staffordshire, for the making of fine earthenware. other kinds of potter's clay, white at kingsteignton and bovey tracy, and red at watcombe, are dug in still larger quantities. there are many quarries in devonshire, the most important of them being of limestone, of which more than half a million tons are worked every year. heytor granite was used in london bridge and waterloo bridge, and lundy granite in the thames embankment. but the stone is not considered equal to that from cornwall. the same remark applies to the slate, of which only 5000 tons are now raised annually. there are old quarries of it near kingsbridge, and also at tavistock and other places. colyton slate is used for billiard-tables. marble is worked at chudleigh, and a finer quality at ipplepen, torquay, and plymouth. there are large quarries at beer. the material for whetstones has long been dug in the blackdown hills, where the refuse from the workings, like lines of railway embankment, is a feature in the landscape. [illustration: stone quarry, beer] there is no coal in devonshire, but there is much lignite at bovey tracy, where, in the bed of an ancient lake, a deposit of layers of it occurs, alternating with clay and sand, to a depth of 100 feet. on account of its disagreeable smell while burning and its low heating-power it is not used for fuel except for firing bricks, and to some extent in the pottery-kilns. there are also extensive beds of anthracite or culm near bideford; but this, again, is not of a quality to serve as fuel, except for lime-burning, and the product of the one solitary working is ground up to make a paint called bideford black. there are vast and valuable deposits of peat on dartmoor, in some places as much as thirty feet deep. 16. fisheries and fishing stations. the fisheries of the british islands form one of our most important industries, providing regular or occasional employment for nearly 100,000 men and boys in the catching of the fish; for a very great number of persons engaged in secondary occupations connected with the industry, who probably far outnumber the actual fishermen; and for innumerable people of all grades engaged in distributing the eight million pounds' worth of fish brought into the ports of england and wales each year by british ships alone. the fisheries also furnish an immense quantity of cheap and wholesome food, which, by rapid methods of transit, is available in all parts of the country. by far the most productive of our fishing-grounds, although not as predominant as it was some years ago, is the north sea--an area of more than 150,000 square miles, in which are taken more than half of all the british-caught fish, not including shell-fish, which are annually landed on the coasts of england and wales. more fish are brought, every year, into grimsby, hull, lowestoft, and yarmouth than into all the other fishing-ports of england put together. it is interesting to note that, while according to the latest returns there were 1731 british steam-trawlers and drifters, exclusive of ordinary fishing-boats, engaged in the north sea fisheries, there were only 451 similar craft belonging to the ports of germany, holland, belgium, and france put together. in other words there are four british steam-trawlers in the north sea to every foreigner. much fishing is also done by english trawlers off the shores of iceland, norway, and the faroã«s, and the boats now go as far even as the white sea and the coast of morocco. about half the fish are taken by trawling, which consists in dragging a beam of wood, with a net attached to it, along the bottom of the sea, in comparatively shallow water. very many different species are caught in this way, but haddock, plaice, and cod are by far the most numerous, and make up between them nearly half the total amount of all the fish landed in england and wales in a year. much fishing is also done with seine nets, or with drift nets, both of which are long nets, attached to floats of cork or to air-bladders and let down into the sea without regard to the depth, and sometimes at a considerable distance from the shore. stake nets, fastened to poles fixed in shallow water near the land, are also much used. herrings are the chief fish caught in drift nets and seines, and more of them are landed than of any other kind of fish. the latest return gives the total quantity of herrings annually brought into english ports as rather more than 200,000 tons, of cod as about 100,000 tons, and of plaice as about 50,000 tons. pilchards, which are full-grown sardines, and much resemble herrings in appearance, are caught in large quantities--which, however, seem trifling in comparison with those of the three fish named above--in seine nets off the coasts of cornwall and devon, and nowhere else in the british isles. many fish, especially halibut, cod, and ling are taken with hook and line, sometimes at great depths. crabs and lobsters are caught in wicker traps or baskets called pots, and oysters are usually taken by dredging. [illustration: fish market at brixham] in spite of its two long stretches of seaboard, the fisheries of devonshire are not equal in productiveness to those of cornwall, and are insignificant in comparison with those of the east coast; and the total value of the fish landed at all its ports taken together amounted, according to the latest return, to no more than â£150,000, or one-nineteenth of what is landed at grimsby alone. it was far exceeded at five other east-coast fishing stations. the fish of the english channel differ considerably from those of the north sea. haddock, the most abundant species on the east coast, is very rare in the south, and practically none are caught at any of the devonshire fishing stations. the cod, again, is a northern species, and is almost entirely absent from both the bristol and the english channels. whiting is one of the most abundant of english channel fish; and in this species, as well as in soles and turbot, the south coast is of all the british fishing-grounds second only in productiveness to the east coast. more conger-eels are caught in the english channel than anywhere else off our islands, and there is also a great abundance of gurnards, skates, and dogfish. the devonshire fishermen catch great quantities of whiting, herring, mackerel, sprats, and pilchards, together with considerable numbers of soles, turbot, plaice, pollack, skates, congers, crabs, lobsters, and prawns. herrings were formerly very abundant off lynmouth. the last great shoals appeared in 1823. a skate caught off the south coast of devonshire measured nine feet by six and a half feet, and weighed 560 pounds. the quantity of sprats annually caught in devonshire waters is very great, but, as in other districts, varies very much in different years. thus the amount brought into torquay in 1905 was more than 500 tons, or more than were landed at any other port in the kingdom; but in 1906 the quantity was only 100 tons. pilchards, as has been already observed, are confined to cornwall and to the south coast of devon; but by far the greater quantity are taken at the fishing stations of the former county. almost all the pilchards caught in devonshire waters are landed at plymouth. none are taken further east than dawlish. these fish, which are particularly oily, are mostly salted and exported to the mediterranean. dogfish, which are very abundant and formerly thrown away as worthless, are finding an increasing market, especially in london, where they are filleted and sold as "flake." [illustration: brixham trawlers] the most important fishing stations are plymouth, brixham, and torquay, the annual value of whose fisheries according to the latest return is about â£66,000, â£60,000 and â£8,000 respectively. there is also a good deal of fishing off exmouth, teignmouth, dartmouth, torcross, and budleigh salterton, where the annual values vary from â£4000 to â£750 a year. it is interesting to compare these figures with the annual value of the fish brought into grimsby, which, by the last return, amounted to nearly three millions sterling. there are valuable salmon fisheries at exmouth, teignmouth, and babbacombe; and most of the devonshire streams abound with trout, although the fish as a rule run small. thirteen devonshire fisheries are named in domesday book. the most valuable was that at dartington, for which two fishermen paid a yearly rent of eighty salmon. 17. shipping and trade. the ports of devonshire once ranked among the first in england, and her sailors have for many centuries been famous for their enterprise and daring. it was from this county that the first english trading-expeditions sailed to africa, brazil, and north america. they were devonshire men, who, by taking possession of newfoundland, established the first english colony--in which most of the old families are of devonshire descent. devonshire ships were long the terror of the spanish main. devonshire men were among the very foremost in the defeat of the spanish armada. a devonshire captain was the first englishman to sail round the world; and although we remember with regret that his friend and comrade was the first englishman to engage in the iniquitous traffic of the slave-trade, we are proud to think that few men did more than he to improve our ships and the condition of our seamen. in their palmy days, in the century or more following the flight of the armada, bideford and topsham had each of them more trade with the young colonies of north america than any other english town except london. barnstaple, ilfracombe, dartmouth, brixham, and appledore were once important seaports. at the present day not one of the whole seven has sufficient trade to be honoured with a separate entry in the government shipping returns. plymouth is now the only maritime town of commercial importance. even its traffic, large as it seems, is small in comparison with that of london or liverpool, and as far as trading statistics go, it stands no higher than thirtieth among the ports of the united kingdom. several causes have contributed to the decay of the devonshire ports. most of them are situated on river-estuaries which, in the lapse of ages, have become silted up by mud and sand brought down by the rivers, or obstructed by shingle washed up by the waves. the harbour of sidmouth was destroyed by the encroachment of the sea and the fall of the cliffs which formerly protected it. again, the tonnage of ships, and consequently the amount of water they draw, have very greatly increased since tudor and stuart times, when these ports were in their prime; and it would be impossible for the large vessels of to-day to navigate the shallow and danger-strewn waters of our estuaries, even if they could cross the bars by which they are obstructed. nor is it worth while to improve the navigation by dredging, as is done to so great an extent on the thames, the mersey, and the clyde. the industries of devonshire are now of small importance, and the county has no great manufacturing centres to supply freights. plymouth sound is the only busy waterway, and plymouth is the one populous town requiring large quantities of imports. the only harbour in north devon given in the shipping returns is barnstaple, with which are associated ilfracombe, bideford, and appledore. ilfracombe, the only port in the long stretch of coast between bridgwater and padstow, had formerly a good deal of traffic with wales and ireland, but its tidal harbour is now visited only by excursion steamers and small coasting-vessels. the other three towns are river-ports. barnstaple is eight miles from the mouth of the torridge, appledore is just inside the entrance of the taw, and bideford is five miles up the same river, whose estuary is obstructed by a dangerous bar, only to be crossed at high tide. in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries all three towns had an active trade with north america; and even in comparatively recent times ships of 1000 tons have been moored at barnstaple quay. but at the present day only 37 cargo-carrying vessels sail to and from the whole group in a year, and the trade (chiefly in timber and dye-stuffs) of all four together, principally with home ports, but also with sweden and norway and some other european countries, amounts to little more than â£18,000 in twelve months. dartmouth, brixham, and salcombe form another group of ports, all of which have played a part in history. their total trade, the import of timber and the export of ships and boats, amounts to nearly â£19,000 a year, and such foreign intercourse as they have is chiefly with sweden, norway, and russia. exeter and exmouth, with which is associated lyme regis in the adjoining county of dorsetshire, rank next in importance, topsham, the ancient port of exeter, having gone entirely to decay. their annual trade, about half of which consists of wood, cured fish, and sugar, and which, as regards foreign intercourse, is mainly with france, germany, and sweden, is nearly â£100,000. the trade of teignmouth and torquay together, in the importation of paper-making materials and timber, and in the export of china-clay, chiefly with english ports, but also with france, germany, belgium, and norway, amounts to â£110,000 in the twelve-month. [illustration: teignmouth] plymouth which, as has been already pointed out, is the only large sea-port in the county, has four times as much trade, and is entered and cleared by four times as many vessels as all the other ports of devonshire put together. its chief imports are grain (â£540,000), timber (â£250,000), sugar (â£135,000), guano and manures (â£110,000), and petroleum (â£52,000); and its principal export is â£52,000 worth of clay. its imports and exports taken together amount to 1-3/4 million pounds sterling, and it is entered and cleared by 1656 ships in a year. its chief foreign trade is with france, but its commerce may truly be said to be world-wide. thirteen lines of ocean steamers sail from or call at plymouth, the principal of which are the white star, american, norddeutscher-lloyd, and hamburg-american for the united states; the orient and peninsular and oriental for australia; the latter and the british india for india; the shaw-savill and new zealand ss. co. for new zealand; and the british and african for the west coast of africa. there are also regular sailings of steamers for france, scotland, ireland, the channel isles, and various home ports. it is interesting to compare this sea-traffic with that of london, which is entered and cleared by 18,491 cargo-carrying ships in the course of twelve months, and has a total annual import and export trade of 333 millions of pounds sterling; which are respectively about 11 times, and about 190 times as large as the corresponding figures for plymouth. but although plymouth is a place of considerable maritime trade, a busy fishing station and a port of call for ocean-going steamers, for whose accommodation are provided spacious docks and ample quays, its greatest importance and renown--remembering that we include with it its sister towns of stonehouse and devonport--rest upon its rank as a naval station, as an arsenal which is second only to that of woolwich, and as a naval dockyard which is the largest in the kingdom. the anchorage at the head of the sound, once very much exposed and dangerous in southerly winds, is now protected by a stone breakwater nearly a mile long, designed to shelter ships of the royal navy. it was commenced in 1812 by rennie, continued by his son, modified in the slope of its sides and improved in stability by violent storms, especially in 1817, and completed in 1840. [illustration: drake's island from mt. edgcumbe, plymouth] taking all its various features into account, its commerce, its passenger traffic by means of ocean-liners and other steamers, its fisheries, its docks and dockyards, its barracks, its factories of marine appliances, its arsenal, and lastly the vast number of ships of all sizes, belonging to the navy, to the mercantile marine, or to the fishing-fleet, that are constantly leaving or entering the sound, plymouth is one of the most important sea-ports in the british empire. 18. history of devonshire. the history of our country begins with the roman occupation. for although we have ample and striking traces, in the shape of earthworks and stone circles, tools and weapons, pottery and ornaments, of the successive races of men who lived here before julius caesar set foot in britain, those ancient and primitive people left no written records, not so much as an inscription on a single coin, and our knowledge of them is in the highest degree vague and uncertain. of many parts of our island the romans took complete possession, constructing fortresses, making roads, establishing towns, building baths and temples and luxuriously appointed villas, and scattering, wherever they went, the coins whose lettering and devices have revealed to us so much concerning the some time masters of the world. in somerset, for example, to which the conquerors were attracted partly by the hot and health-restoring springs of bath, and partly by the silver-bearing lead mines of the mendip hills, the relics of their occupation have been found from one end of the county to the other. in devonshire, on the other hand, such relics are so few, and are confined to so limited an area that we are driven to the conclusion that, except as regards the city of exeter, there was no definite roman occupation at all. there is probably not one camp of roman workmanship in the whole county. it is doubtful if any roman road went farther than the river teign. the sites of only two roman villas are known with certainty. and although roman coins have been found in many places, sometimes in hoards of hundreds, and in one case even of thousands, they are not absolute proof of actual occupation. the names chester moor, scrobchester, and wickchester, all near the cornish border, may, perhaps, be of roman origin. there is, however, no doubt that exeter, believed to be the _isca dumniorum_ of antonine's _itinerary_--that wonderful register, planned by julius caesar and carried out by augustus, of distances and stations along all the roads in the empire--was an important roman town; and there is reason to think, from the coins that have been found at many points within the walls, that the city was held by the romans from the latter half of the first century of the christian era until the time when the legions were recalled from britain. the site of _moridunum_, the second roman station mentioned in the _itinerary_, has not been identified, but there is some ground for the theory that it was at hembury, four miles from honiton. a few vague and brief allusions in the anglo-saxon chronicle, believed to refer to this county, describing how "ina fought against geraint," how "cynewulf fought very many battles against the welsh," and how "egbert laid waste west wales from eastward to westward," contain practically all that we know of the saxon conquest of devonshire. there is, indeed, so little record of actual fighting that it seems probable that the invaders settled here rather as colonists than conquerors, although athelstan appears to have found it necessary to expel from exeter the britons who had so far shared the town with the saxons. the chief events in devonshire between the departure of the romans and the norman conquest were the repeated descents, spread over a long period of years, of the pirates whom we speak of as danes or northmen or vikings; who pillaged the coast towns, sacked exeter, sailed up the tamar, and burnt and plundered tavistock and lydford. victory was not always on the side of the marauders. their first raid, in 851, was repulsed with great slaughter; and when, five and twenty years later, guthrum seized exeter, king alfred promptly drove him out of it. during the saxon period there were mints at exeter, barnstaple, totnes, and lydford, and thousands of devonshire-struck silver pennies are in existence. by far the greater number of them are in the royal museum at stockholm, the most numerous being those of ethelred ii and canute. of the former there are in stockholm 2254 specimens, compared with 144 in the british museum. these swedish specimens probably represent partly the plunder carried off by the northmen, partly the bribes vainly paid to the invaders by ethelred (whose surname of unradig, "he who will not take counsel," or "the headstrong," has been misrendered "the unready"), and partly the results of commerce while canute was king. [illustration: penny of ethelred ii, struck at exeter] the year succeeding the battle of hastings found william the conqueror before the gates of exeter, a place already regarded, as it continued to be for many centuries, as the key of the west of england. he took the city after a brief siege and proceeded to secure his hold upon it by building the castle of rougemont, which was hardly finished when it was unsuccessfully attacked by the saxons. a year later the sons of harold also tried in vain to take it. the last man of mark in devonshire to hold out against norman rule was sithric, the saxon abbot of tavistock, who, when all was lost, fled to hereward's camp of refuge in the fens. a few englishmen were left by the conqueror in possession of their estates; but the county, as a whole, was divided among a number of norman nobles, some of whose descendants, courtenay, carew, and champernowne, for example, still survive in devonshire. an interesting link with norman times and customs is the ringing of the curfew bell, which is still kept up at exeter, okehampton, and other places. at eight o'clock every evening thirty strokes are sounded for "curfew," and then eight more for the hour. in the stormy reign of king stephen exeter was the last place to hold out for queen maud. the king was admitted into the town by the citizens, but the castle of rougemont cost him a three months' siege. the importance of devonshire sea-ports brought the county into great prominence in mediaeval times. part of richard c[oe]ur-de-lion's crusading fleet, we are told, assembled at dartmouth--a town which chaucer, probably regarding it as a typical sea-port, chose for the native place of the shipman in the _canterbury tales_. no other part of england furnished so many ships and men for edward iii's expedition against calais. again and again, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the french, in reprisal for what they had suffered by the attacks of england, harried the coast of devon, plundering and burning teignmouth, plymouth, and other places on the coast. the black death, the most terrible and destructive epidemic of which we have any record, which devastated the whole of england in 1348 and 1349, was very severe in this county, paralyzing agriculture and trade, and stopping for a time the building of exeter cathedral. fighting in devonshire during the wars of the roses was confined to an unsuccessful and half-hearted siege of exeter by the yorkists, and to attacks on the fortified manor-houses of shute and upcott. but many men in the county took sides in the struggle, and some of the great families suffered severely. sir william bonville was beheaded after the second battle of st albans. of the ancient house of courtenay, thomas, earl of devon, was executed at york, sir hugh was beheaded at sarum, and sir john was killed at wakefield green. the county as a whole was lancastrian. queen margaret herself was there after her defeat at barnet; and french gold coins found in blackpool sands are believed to be relics of the landing there, in 1470, of warwick and clarence. but when in the same year edward iv visited exeter, he was so well satisfied with his reception that he presented the corporation with a sword of state, which is still carried in processions before the mayor. the peace of devonshire in the fifteenth century was further disturbed by a rising, in 1483, against richard iii; by the march through the county, in 1497, of an army of cornishmen who had risen in revolt against a heavy war-tax, and who were ultimately beaten at blackheath; and by the insurrection, also in 1497, of perkin warbeck, who claimed to be the richard duke of york usually said to have been murdered in the tower, and who made a desperate although vain attack upon exeter, when some of his men fought their way into the town, but were driven out again by the citizens. about fifty years later, in 1549, there was a widespread and determined and altogether much more serious rebellion called the "commotion," caused partly by the suppression of the monasteries, which was greatly objected to by the poor, and partly by the introduction of the prayer book. the insurgents, who had collected from all parts of the west country, and who were led by such men of mark as pomeroy, arundel, and coffin, laid siege to exeter and plymouth, and for a time held the king's troops helplessly at bay. in the end, however, lord russell, one of the newly-created lords lieutenant, aided by german cavalry and italian arquebusiers, defeated the rebels with great slaughter in a series of hotly-contested battles. the vicar of st thomas in exeter, who had encouraged the rising and who was described as very skilled both with the long-bow and the hand-gun, was hanged "in his popish apparel" on the tower of his own church, and his body was left there for four years. the reign of queen elizabeth has been called the golden age of english history. and among the heroic figures of that stirring time there are few more striking than the little group of devonshire men who played so gallant a part in making england great:--drake and hawkyns, the scourges of spain; ralegh, courtier and soldier, sailor and author; gilbert, the discoverer of newfoundland; and grenville, who at flores, in the _revenge_ of immortal memory, kept at bay a spanish fleet of fifty-three sail. [illustration: signatures of drake and hawkyns] the great event of the reign was the defeat of the armada. and although howard of effingham, the lord high admiral, showed himself a skilful and intrepid sailor, it is drake whom we always think of first in connection with the victory. it was drake whose buccaneering exploits on the coasts of spain and her colonies did so much to heighten philip ii's ambition to humiliate england. it was drake who, in 1587, dashed into cadiz, where the armada was preparing, and by destroying 100 ships and vast quantities of stores, delayed for a whole year the sailing of the expedition. and when at last the armada had been sighted, it was drake who, according to the commonly received tradition, thinking it wiser to wait until the enemy's fleet had passed plymouth sound, and so take them in the rear, persuaded his fellow-captains to stay and finish that never-to-be-forgotten game of bowls, before the english ships, lying ready in the catwater, should slip their moorings and stand out to sea. it was drake who was foremost in the attack. it was drake who took the _capitana_, the flagship of pedro de valdez, and brought her, the first prize of the great victory, into torbay. and when the english fireships had scattered the hostile fleet in headlong flight, it was drake who was foremost in the chase. [illustration: flagon taken by drake from the "capitana" of the armada (_in windsor castle_)] [illustration: drake's drum] among the relics of devonshire's greatest hero, carefully treasured by his descendants at his old home at buckland abbey, are his sword and the famous drum that he carried with him round the world; while at nutwell court are flags that he flew while in command of the _pelican_, the miniature of herself given to him by queen elizabeth, and other objects of the greatest historical interest. and among the royal plate in windsor castle is preserved the noble wine-flagon of bold silver-gilt _repoussã©_ work, standing nearly a yard high, which drake took from the _capitana_ of the armada and presented to queen elizabeth. an illustration of it, from a photograph taken for this book by command of the queen, is here shown for the first time. [illustration: the "mayflower" stone on plymouth quay] during the retreat to spain a second armada vessel, the hospital-ship _st peter the great_, was driven ashore in hope cove; and the pulpit of st james's church, exeter, and the timber roof of tiverton school were, it is believed, made of wood either from this ship or from the _capitana_. it was not until this period that plymouth came into prominence as a naval station. a special tax was levied on the pilchard fishery to provide money for the fortifications, and a leat or water-course was constructed with the primary object, it is said, of supplying fresh water for the royal ships. a memorable event in james i's reign was the sailing of the _mayflower_. preceded by another ship called the _speedwell_ she set sail from leyden in the autumn of 1620, having on board a number of puritan refugees bent on finding in north america the religious freedom denied to them in england. the two vessels having met at southampton and put into dartmouth, were finally driven back by stress of weather into plymouth, whence--her consort having proved unseaworthy--the _mayflower_ alone continued the voyage, ultimately landing her 101 exiles at plymouth, massachusetts, which, however, had received its name five years before. in the civil war between charles i and the parliament, few counties saw more fighting than devonshire. the fighting consisted, however, not of pitched battles, but of sieges and attacks on fortified positions; which, indeed, was characteristic of the whole war, in whatever part of the country it was waged. every devonshire town of importance, a great number of villages, many castles, manor-houses, and even churches played a part in the struggle. as a whole, the towns, with the exception of exeter, sympathised with the parliament, while the rural districts, encouraged by the great landowners, were mainly for the king. the royal forces were, however, numerous in devonshire; goring's army, in 1642, was 6000 strong; and although fortune wavered, and although towns were taken and retaken, there came a time, before the arrival of fairfax and the new model army, when the royal standard flew from nearly every important town in devon, somerset, and cornwall. there was one conspicuous exception. the party of the people never lost its hold on plymouth, which, at a cost of 8000 lives, or more than the entire population of the town, withstood a blockade lasting from 1642 to 1646, together with many desperate attacks by hopton, prince maurice, and the king himself, enduring altogether a longer siege than any other town in england. exeter was early seized for the parliament, but the majority of the citizens were royalists, and the city, which was regarded as one of the strongest cavalier holds in the west, was soon retaken by prince maurice. queen henrietta was there in 1644, and there king charles's youngest daughter, afterwards duchess of orleans, was born. when fairfax retook the town in 1646 he allowed the garrison to march out with all the honours of war. that year saw the final ruin of the royal cause in the west, and the dispersal of the only army which, although little better than a mob, still kept the field for the king. one of the most important, and at the same time most fiercely-contested parliamentary victories, was the storming of the town of torrington by fairfax, at midnight, in the winter of 1646. after the battle, the church, which had been used by the king's troops (as also was exeter cathedral) as a powder-magazine, was blown up, and 200 royalist prisoners who had been confined in it and many of their guards were killed. the loss of torrington was the death-blow of the royal cause in devon. all that a brave man could do, hopton did. but the county was sick of the royalists and their methods. the people had learnt that the well-disciplined troops of fairfax were not mere robbers, like the ruffians of grenville and goring; and after torrington the royal army melted away. the last place in the county to hold out for the king except lundy, where there was no fighting, but which did not surrender until 1647, was clifton castle, or fort charles, near salcombe. after enduring a blockade and siege of four months, with the trifling loss of one man killed and one wounded, the besieged were granted the same terms as the garrisons of exeter and barnstaple, and marched out with matches lighted, drums beating, and colours flying. after the battle of worcester, in 1651, charles ii took refuge for a time in devonshire. four years later there was an attempt at an insurrection in his favour, known as penruddock's rising, and charles was proclaimed king at south molton. the movement was promptly suppressed, and its leader, colonel penruddock, was executed. it is interesting to remember that, at the restoration in 1660, exeter was the first town in england to acknowledge charles ii, and that he was there proclaimed king ten days before he landed at dover. seven years later, in 1667, the great dutch admiral de ruyter captured all the shipping in torbay. during the commonwealth and later, when there was no copper coinage in this country, many tradesmen all over england struck money of their own, chiefly in the form of farthings. nearly 400 varieties of devonshire "tokens," as they were called, issued by sixty different towns, are known. ninety-one were struck at exeter alone, which is more than were issued from any other provincial town except norwich. at a much later period shillings and sixpenny tokens of leather were in circulation at hartland. after the duke of monmouth landed at lyme in dorsetshire, in 1685, axminster was the first town that he occupied, and a number of colyton men are said to have joined his army. otherwise the rebellion hardly touched devonshire. yet judge jeffreys put to death, at various places in the county, thirty-seven of the duke's misguided followers. after the battle of sedgemoor, wade and other fugitives attempted to escape by sea from ilfracombe, but they were obliged to put back, and were caught in the woods near lynton. when, under very different auspices, william of orange landed at brixham on the 5th of november, 1688, he marched to exeter, as the chief city of the west. the citizens at first held aloof, but in the end they gave to the deliverer their hearty and most valuable support. two years later the french admiral tourville, fresh from his victory over our fleet off beachy head, landed a strong force at teignmouth, and sacked and burnt that part of the town which ever since has been known as french street. both in 1715 and in 1745 the county was suspected of showing sympathy with the exiled stuarts. but when in the former year the duke of ormond, with a small party of french soldiers, appeared in a war-ship off brixham, expecting to be welcomed by the devonshire jacobites, he met with no encouragement. several episodes in the history of devonshire are associated with the french war of the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries. in 1797 a french squadron, afterwards captured by admiral bridport, sank the fishing-boats in ilfracombe harbour. a few years later, in 1809, princetown was built for the reception of the rougher class of french prisoners of war, and during the five years that followed 12,679 frenchmen and americans were confined there, while many others were billeted at okehampton, ashburton, tavistock, and moreton hampstead. the princetown buildings were afterwards disused--except for a short occupation by a naphtha company--until 1850, when they were converted into a prison for convicts. it was at this period that torquay came into note, having become a place of residence for the families of naval officers serving on men-of-war anchored in torbay. in torbay, too, was enacted what may be called the last scene of the war. for it was here, on the 24th of july, 1815, that napoleon was brought a prisoner. and here he remained, except for a few days spent in plymouth sound, until the 11th of august, when he was taken to st helena. 19. antiquities. to the archaeologist and the antiquarian devonshire is one of the most interesting counties in england. with the exception of cornwall no other district is so rich in relics of the ancient inhabitants of britain; and it was from the caves of this county that pengelly obtained that clear evidence of the extreme antiquity of man in this island which proved that he lived here, unnumbered ages back, when such animals as the cave-lion, the hyaena, and the mammoth ran wild in what we now call england. [illustration: palaeolithic flint implement (_from kent's cavern_)] the people who inhabited britain before the coming of the romans are said to have belonged to the stone age, the bronze age, or the iron age, according to the material which they used for their tools and weapons; and the first of these epochs is further divided into the earlier and the later stone ages, or the palaeolithic and the neolithic periods. the implements of the former were very roughly fashioned of chipped, unpolished flint; those of the latter were more skilfully made, and were sometimes very highly finished. relics of all these periods have been found in devonshire, but it is not always possible to say to which age a particular weapon or implement belongs. the use of flint for arrow-heads, for example, certainly continued long after the invention of bronze; and bronze was employed, especially for ornaments, long after iron had come into regular use. traces of palaeolithic man are nowhere common, and they are rare in devonshire; but they have been found, in the shape of massive tools of roughly chipped flint, in kent's cavern near torquay, in the cattedown cave, now destroyed, near plymouth, and in the river-drift near axminster. very fine examples have been obtained from a ballast-pit at broome. remains belonging to the neolithic age, on the other hand, are not only much more abundant, but are of greater variety, showing an advance in knowledge of the arts of life, and they include not only axe-heads, spear-points, and arrow-tips of flint, in some cases beautifully finished, but weapons and ornaments of bone and horn, rude pottery, spindle-whorls, and even primitive musical instruments. no traces of the dwellings of the people of this age, except as regards the caves that sheltered some of them and their predecessors of the earlier time, have yet been found, nor of their graves, if we except the spinster's rock, two miles west of drewsteignton. this is a dolmen consisting of three huge stones, on which rests a still larger block, twelve feet long and estimated at sixteen tons in weight; it doubtless was a neolithic burying-place. [illustration: dolmen near drewsteignton] relics of the bronze age are far more abundant, and they form, indeed, the chief archaeological feature of devonshire. dartmoor in particular, chiefly perhaps because its great upland wilderness has never been broken up by the plough, is dotted all over with remains of primitive bronze age dwellings, sometimes standing alone, sometimes grouped in villages and surrounded by a wall, and also with many stone circles, tumuli, kistvaens, menhirs, and rows of upright stones. it is, moreover, intersected by a network of ancient trackways, linking settlement to settlement. [illustration: palstave of the bronze age (_in exeter museum_)] the best example of an early bronze age village is grimspound, eight miles north-east of princetown. it consists of twenty-four round huts made of stone slabs set on end and standing about three feet above ground, scattered over a space of about four acres, surrounded by a nearly circular double wall, from nine to fourteen feet thick, and about five feet high, built of blocks of granite, some of which are tons in weight. half the huts contain fire-hearths, which have been much used; and a good many have raised stone benches, from eight inches to a foot high. except that the roofs, which were no doubt made of poles and thatch, have disappeared, these primitive dwellings, of which there are hundreds on dartmoor, are probably much in the same condition as when they were inhabited, perhaps 2000 years ago. it has been suggested that grimspound, like many ancient camps or hill-forts, was a place of refuge in times of danger, rather than a permanently occupied fortress. [illustration: fernworthy circle, near chagford] the objects found in these and similar dwellings consist of flint implements, pottery--some of it decorated--spindle-whorls, and cooking-stones such as are still in use among the eskimo. so far, no fragment of metal of any kind has been discovered, from which it might, perhaps, have been inferred that the huts were the work of a race unacquainted with the use of metal. but the pottery so closely resembles that found in the burial-mounds of the bronze age that archaeologists are satisfied that the dwellings belong to that period. [illustration: hurston stone alignment] other remarkable monuments are the stone circles, or upright, unhewn blocks of granite arranged in rings, of which there are many on dartmoor, and of which some of the finest are the grey wethers near post bridge, and similar structures near chagford and on langstone moor; the avenues or alignments, consisting of rows of stones set up in straight lines, as at merivale bridge, hurston, and challacombe; and the menhirs, which are single stones, sometimes twelve feet high, of which the best are at drizlecombe, at merivale, and on langstone moor. [illustration: triple stone row and circle near headlands, dartmoor] it is probable that these structures were connected with primitive forms of worship, but sir norman lockyer has endeavoured to show, in one of the most fascinating chapters of archaeological research, that the circles and avenues, and the monoliths or menhirs connected with them, were in all probability set up as rough astronomical instruments for observing the rising of the sun or of particular stars, in order to regulate the true length of the year. it is even possible, he contends, to form some idea of the date of their erection. thus the two avenues at merivale were probably laid out at different times, one about 1610 b.c., and the other about 1420 b.c., in order to watch the sunrise in may, which was then regarded as the first month of the year; while the avenues at challacombe, among the most remarkable of all the monuments, are probably of far older date, perhaps 3500 b.c., and seem to have been arranged for the observation of sunrise in november, a month long accepted by some celtic tribes as marking the beginning of the year. kistvaens, of which nearly 100 have been found, almost all of them on dartmoor, are small stone burial chambers, generally used for the reception of the burnt ashes of the dead, probably in many instances originally covered with earth, and made of four slabs of granite set on edge, forming a sort of vault, with another and more massive stone laid on the top. specially good examples have been found at fernworthy, on lakehead hill, and at plymouth. the most remarkable kistvaen--belonging, however, to a later period, when burial had displaced cremation--was that discovered on lundy, containing a human skeleton eight feet two inches in length. tumuli or burial mounds, called cairns when they are made of small stones, and barrows when they are merely piles of earth, are to be seen in all parts of devonshire, especially on high ground, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of from two to ten or twelve, and always round. no long barrows have been discovered in the county. the men of the bronze age reached a much higher stage of civilisation than their stone-using predecessors, and very fine examples of their bronze swords, daggers, spear-heads and axes; of their pottery, some of it finely decorated; and of their ornaments, including beads of shale and clay and amber, and an amber dagger-hilt with studs of gold, have been found at various places in devonshire. relics that can be attributed with certainty to the prehistoric iron age are rare, partly, no doubt, because iron so quickly rusts away. some very remarkable remains of this period were however found on stamford hill near plymouth, during the construction of a fort, when the workmen dug into an ancient burial-ground, in which, in addition to human bones, were discovered red, black, and yellow pottery, mirrors and finger rings of bronze, fragments of beautiful amber-tinted glass, and some much-corroded cutting-instruments of iron. in the old camp called holne chase castle, a man digging out a rabbit came upon about a dozen bars of rusty iron, two feet long, nearly two inches broad, and a quarter of an inch thick, which although at first mistaken, as has been the case elsewhere, for unfinished sword-blades, were subsequently identified as specimens of the iron currency-bars which passed as money among the ancient britons. british coins of gold, silver, and copper have been found in several places, particularly at exeter and at mount batten near plymouth. the commonest are of what is known as the channel islands type, bearing the effigy of a horse rudely imitated from the macedonian stater, and probably struck about 200 b.c. a special feature of the prehistoric antiquities of devonshire is the great number of camps or hill-forts, of which there are more than 140; some in the heart of the county, some on the coast, often on prominent headlands, and some along the lines of division between this and the adjoining shires; showing in many instances great military skill and knowledge both in construction and in the choice of good, defensive sites. two of the most remarkable of the many strongholds, both near honiton, are the great encampment of dumpdon and the magnificently planned fortress of hembury--a monument of military skill. another fine example is hawkesdown, the strongest of the chain of border forts--of which membury and musbury are two important links--built along the river axe as defences against the ancient inhabitants of dorsetshire. one of the largest and most elaborate of all is clovelly dykes, twenty acres in extent, and defended by from three to five lines of intricate earthworks. another remarkable fort, and the largest in the county, is milber down, two miles south-east of newton abbot. [illustration: bronze centaur forming the head of a roman standard (found at sidmouth)] there is no real clue to the makers of these fortresses. roman coins have been found in several of them, but there is not one which competent authorities attribute to the romans, and it is probable that they were built by british tribes during the ages of bronze and of iron, but perhaps chiefly by the gaels or goidels. a few of them have played a part in modern history. cadbury, for instance, was occupied by fairfax in 1645; and in 1688 the prince of orange parked his artillery in the great fort of milber down, a camp which it is thought was not only occupied but adapted by the romans. the romans, as was pointed out in the previous chapter, left comparatively few traces in devonshire; and at only twelve spots in the county have roman relics other than coins been discovered. at exeter, the only town where there seems to have been continuous occupation, there have been found the foundations of the city walls, a bath, several tesselated pavements--one of which has been relaid in the hall of the police-court, on the spot where it was discovered--statuettes in bronze and in stone, engraved gems, lamps--one encrusted with lizards, toads, and newts--many pieces of finely decorated samian pottery, and great numbers of coins. the finest mosaic pavement was that found at uplyme, on the site of one of the only two known roman villas in the county. coins have been dug up in many places. considerable hoards have been discovered at compton gifford, holcombe, tiverton, and widworthy. the largest, however, was at kingskerswell, where 2000 were found together. perhaps the most remarkable roman relic was a bronze object found on the beach at sidmouth, believed to be the head of a standard, and representing chiron the centaur carrying achilles. except as regards coins, of which great numbers are in existence, especially, as has been stated, in the royal museum at stockholm, few antiquities that can be ascribed to the saxons have been found in devonshire. one remarkable relic, now in the british museum, was a bronze sword-hilt, dug up in exeter in 1833, finely ornamented with key-pattern, and inscribed leofricâ·meâ·fec(it). part of the lettering is inverted, a fact which at first entirely disguised the real words. one of the treasures of exeter cathedral is an old english manuscript headed "a mycel englisc bok," placed in the chapter library by leofric, who in 1050 was bishop of the diocese. it contains some of the work of cynewulf and his school. one poem has been thus translated: "to the frisian wife comes a dear welcome guest; the keel is at rest; his vessel is come; her husband is home; her own cherished lord she leads to the board; his wet weeds she wrings; dry garments she brings. ah, happy is he whom, home from the sea his true love awaits." [illustration: saxon sword-hilt] a norman relic of the highest interest is the exeter domesday book, also preserved in the chapter library, describing in greater detail than is given by the winchester survey, especially as regards live stock, the five counties of devon, cornwall, dorset, somerset, and wiltshire. among many points of difference between the two books is that where the more general survey gives the letters t.r.e., for _tempore regis edwardi_, meaning that such were the facts in the time of edward the confessor, the exeter book uses the phrase "eadie q^a rexâ·eâ·fâ·uâ·&â·mâ·" for _e㢠die qua rex edwardus fuit vivus et mortuus_, that is to say, "on the day when king edward was alive and dead," meaning the day he died, which was the 6th of january, 1066. it is worthy of note that, with one exception, the devonshire hundreds were the same in 1086, the supposed year of the completion of the survey, as they are in our time. scattered up and down over devonshire are many old stone crosses, some in churchyards or by the wayside, probably intended as preaching places, and some standing on the open moor as marks of boundary or of lines of ancient roadway, a few of them bearing brief inscriptions or traces of decoration. fine examples are those of addiscot, helliton, mary tavy, and south zeal, the last-named of which has been restored, and measures, with its steps, eighteen feet in height; the merchant's cross near meavy, the tallest on dartmoor; the very ancient coplestone cross, once decorated with interlaced celtic ornament, standing where three parishes meet, and named in an anglo-saxon charter of 974; and the nun's or siward's cross, inscribed on one side (si)ward, and on the other boc lond, set up in the twelfth century to mark the boundary between the royal forest and the property of buckland abbey. with these may be mentioned the inscribed stones of lustleigh, stowford, tiverton, and fardel--the latter now removed. the last-named, and one of the three tiverton examples, bear inscriptions in ogham or irish runic characters. [illustration: cyclopean bridge, dartmoor] among the features of dartmoor are the so-called "clapper bridges," made of great blocks of unhewn stone. their date and their builders are matters of conjecture. if, as has been said, they were meant for pack-horse traffic, they may be at least as old as the time of the norman conquest, for packhorses are mentioned in the exeter domesday. there are fine examples at dartmeet, bellaford, and near scaurhill circle. but the most striking and perhaps the most ancient is that at post bridge, in which two of the stones are fifteen feet long. the idea has long been abandoned that logan or rocking stones were the work of man, or that the rock basins which are found on the top of some of the dartmoor tors had anything to do with druidical ceremonies. both are now recognised as of natural origin. but it may here be noted that the largest of the devonshire logans is the rugglestone, at widecombe, estimated at from 100 to 150 tons, but it can no longer be moved. the largest that will still rock is one of about fifty tons weight at smallacombe. the largest of the many rock basins, which vary from a few inches to five feet or more, are on heltor and kestor. 20. architecture--(_a_) ecclesiastical. the ecclesiastical buildings of devonshire,--its magnificent cathedral, which is without doubt the finest example of the decorated style in all england; its many noble churches, some of which, specially remarkable for their interest and beauty, are situated in remote and thinly-peopled rural parishes; and, in a minor degree, the picturesque fragments of its ruined abbeys--form altogether one of the most striking features of the county. speaking generally, it may be said that devonshire churches, as a whole, are remarkable for their interiors, very many of them containing beautiful wood-work, especially rood-screens, and finely-carved stone pulpits, to which, in many instances, the addition of gold and colour has lent a still more striking and even gorgeous effect. some of the exteriors also are very beautiful; but, on the other hand, many of them, partly on account of the intractable nature of the stone of which they were built, are simple and even severe in character. as might be expected, the material varies with the geological formation. thus, many churches were built of grey limestone. in east devon much use was made of flints and of freestone from beer. round exeter and crediton volcanic tufa was often employed, particularly in vaulting. the use of old red sandstone and even of granite greatly affected the style, which in buildings of those difficult materials is plain and with little ornament. a large proportion of the churches of devonshire were more or less rebuilt during the perpendicular period, that is, between 1377 and 1547; but many, probably even the majority of them, contain features of earlier dates, in a few cases going as far back as saxon times. some have been skilfully restored. but in too many cases the work of renewal was carried out in an age when church architecture was imperfectly understood, and when the value of old and beautiful, even if time-worn, details was not sufficiently appreciated; and it is unfortunately true that, in order to accomplish needless or barbarous alterations, many interesting features were ruthlessly swept away. [illustration: norman doorway, axminster church] the oldest existing work is the saxon masonry in the bases of some of the central norman towers--those of branscombe, axminster, and colyton, for example, and in the crypt of sidbury. no church is wholly or even largely norman; but the transeptal towers of exeter cathedral are of this period, as are the towers of south brent, ilfracombe, and aveton gifford, in addition to those named above. there are also fine norman doorways at paignton, kelly, axminster, hartland, bishop's teignton, and elsewhere. in at least a hundred churches, most of which probably possess no other feature of the time, there are norman fonts, of which the most remarkable are those at hartland, alphington, and bradsworthy. the font in dolton church is believed to be saxon. [illustration: ottery st mary church] perhaps the best examples of early english architecture are to be seen in the aisles and transeptal towers--the latter imitated from those of exeter cathedral--of the very beautiful church of ottery st mary, the finest and most interesting church in devon. the plain little building on brent tor, one of the smallest of churches, measuring only forty feet by fourteen, is probably all early english. the churches of sampford peverell, haccombe, and aveton gifford are almost entirely of this period, as are the transepts and central tower of combe martin and the tower of buckfastleigh, which carries one of the few spires in the county. [illustration: decorated window, exeter cathedral] the decorated style is not so well represented as regards the number of examples. but to this period belongs almost the whole of exeter cathedral, a great part of the beautiful church of tavistock, and the nave, chancel, and lady-chapel of ottery st mary. there is also good work of this style at beer ferris, plympton, and denbury. so many devonshire churches, as already remarked, were rebuilt in tudor times that the majority of the ecclesiastical buildings in the county appear to belong to the perpendicular period. there is very beautiful perpendicular work in the church of tiverton, whose south front and chapel were decorated by their founder, a wool-merchant named greenway, with very elaborate carvings, some symbolic of his trade, and some representing scenes from the life of christ. other notable churches mainly of this period--to name a few only out of a multitude of examples--are those of crediton, hartland, plymptree, awliscombe, kenton, harberton, dartmouth, and buckland monachorum. to the perpendicular period belong the finest of the devonshire towers, which as a rule, however, owing in many instances to the absence or to the poorness of buttresses and pinnacles, lack the majesty of those which are so striking a feature of the ecclesiastical architecture of somerset. there is a group of three towers in near neighbourhood, assigned by tradition to the same architect, and known as length, strength and beauty, at bishop's nympton, south molton, and chittlehampton, respectively; and the last of these, a magnificent piece of architecture, is the most beautiful specimen of an enriched tower in devonshire. other very fine towers are those of cullompton, chumleigh, berrynarbor, arlington, kentisbury, and combe martin. the tower of colyton is unique in character, being crowned by an octagonal lantern supported by slender flying buttresses. there are not now many spires in devonshire, but there are fine examples at modbury--which tapers the whole way up--and at barnstaple, both of the sixteenth century; and there are others at braunton, brushford, and west worlington. one of the towers of ottery st mary carries a spire, the other is without. one of the special characteristics of devonshire churches is their woodwork, their roofs and bench-ends, their pulpits--although some of the best of these are of stone--and, above all, their rood-screens. the last-named are among the finest in the kingdom, and are not rivalled even in norfolk and suffolk. there are good timber roofs at cullompton, widecombe, south tawton, hartland, ashburton, chittlehampton, sampford courtenay, and hatherleigh. the bench-ends at abbotsham, ilsington, ashton, mortehoe, tawstock, braunton, monksleigh, frithelstock, east budleigh, and combe-in-teignhead are specially fine. the seventeenth century seats at cruwys morchard are inscribed with the farm names of the parish. rood-screens, which are here the most remarkable feature of the perpendicular period, are very numerous in devonshire. although many have disappeared, having been removed or broken up, there are still some 150 in more or less perfect condition. so many of them, moreover, are of such truly exquisite workmanship that it is difficult to say which are the most beautiful. the material, in the majority of cases, is wood, perhaps because of the scarcity of tractable stone--elaborately carved, and very often splendidly decorated with gold and colour. there are, however, magnificent screens of stone in exeter cathedral and in the churches of totnes and awliscombe. [illustration: rood screen and pulpit, harberton church] it is probable that most of the screens were the work of native craftsmen, but there are some whose style shows distinct signs of foreign influence. the beautiful screen at harberton, for example, suggests spanish work or influence, that of colebrook french, that of kenton flemish, and that of swymbridge italian. while by far the greater number are of the perpendicular period, that of washfield is jacobean, and that of cruwys morchard is georgian. it is perhaps generally considered that the magnificent screen at kenton is the finest of all; but it has a good many rivals which closely approach it in beauty of design and in excellence of workmanship. other splendid specimens, all of them of great beauty, are those at kentisbere, hartland, hemyock, swymbridge, kingsnympton, dartmouth, honiton, holbeton, tawstock, lustleigh, lapford, pinhoe, and uffculme. the last-named, which measures sixty-seven feet, is the longest, and that at welcombe is believed to be the oldest, in the county. carved pulpits are another special feature of devonshire churches. the finest stone pulpit, which is at harberton, contains, like the beautiful examples at south molton and chittlehampton, full-length figures in panels. other good stone pulpits are at pilton, totnes, paignton, dartmouth and elsewhere. two particularly fine carved oaken pulpits are those of hartland and kenton, the latter of which is very richly decorated with gold and colour. there are also good specimens at east allington, tor bryan, ipplepen, and holne. ancient stained glass is very rare in devon, much having been destroyed by puritan fanatics. the best which has survived is at doddiscombeleigh, where there are four very beautiful windows. there is also very good glass at cheriton bishop and budleigh; and some less striking but noteworthy examples may be seen at ashton, christow, cadbury, manaton, atherington and other places. the great east window in exeter cathedral contains some very fine coloured glass, and there are a few remains in some of the clerestory windows. among the very striking recumbent effigies of warriors and churchmen and great ladies to be found in our churches there are some not to be surpassed in england; and the magnificent examples in exeter cathedral, in particular, afford most valuable chronological studies both of costume and of carving. among the finest of those in the cathedral are the splendid thirteenth century alabaster effigy of bishop bronescombe, the fourteenth century mail-clad figures of humphrey de bohun and sir richard stapledon, and the sixteenth century effigy of bishop hugh oldham. perhaps the grandest of those in parish churches, to name a few only out of many, are the fourteenth century effigies of sir otho grandisson and his wife at ottery st mary, and the seventeenth century figures of denys rolle and his wife at bicton. other fine effigies are at paignton, broadclyst, landkey, tawstock, haccombe, and horwood and the seymour tomb at berry pomeroy. our county is rich also in monumental brasses, most of which date from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. among the finest are the splendid triple-canopied fifteenth century brasses in the church of st saviour, dartmouth, in memory of sir john hawley and his two wives, the fifteenth century brass of sir nicholas carew in exeter cathedral, which is a wonderful representation of the military costume of the period, and the fine sixteenth century brass at tiverton, in memory of john and joan greenway. other good brasses are in exeter cathedral and in the churches of stoke-in-teignhead, stoke fleming, clovelly, braunton, haccombe, and clyst st george. many of the churches, that of pilton, for example, have specially musical peals of bells; and there are very old bells at ogwell, abbot's beckington, alverdiscott and hittesleigh. at the latter place is the most ancient bell in the county. [illustration: the seymour tomb, berry pomeroy church] by far the most important and remarkable ecclesiastical building in devonshire is exeter cathedral, which, although not one of the largest or--externally, at any rate--one of the most majestic cathedrals in this country, is without doubt the most beautiful example in all england of the decorated style of architecture. it is built of beer stone; a material which when first quarried is white and easily worked, but which, in this case, is now dark and crumbling with age. the two features which specially distinguish this from all other cathedrals are its transeptal towers, of which the only other english example is at ottery st mary; and the great length of its roof, which extends unbroken over nave and choir. the exterior is further remarkable for the statuary on its west front with its figures of kings and knights, saints and angels; for its flying buttresses and its richly carved pinnacles. and the interior, which has been called the finest in europe, is distinguished for the beautiful tracery of its many decorated windows, the elaborate details of its side-chapels; its episcopal throne, more than fifty feet high, a marvel of wood-carving, without a rival in the island; its noble screen, one of the best in a county particularly rich in screens; its ancient and quaintly-carved misereres, the earliest in england; its fourteenth century minstrels' gallery, the most nearly perfect known; its long stretch of stone vaulted roof, the longest of the kind in existence; its clustered columns; its richly yet delicately carved bosses and finely sculptured corbels; its many monuments and recumbent effigies of knights in armour and of bishops in their robes of office; and, generally, by the wonderful uniformity and symmetry of its design. [illustration: exeter cathedral, west front] the cathedral is the work of many hands. hardly one of its long line of bishops but has left his mark upon it. but that it is an architectural masterpiece is due in the first place to the genius of one man, and in the second place to the wisdom of his successors in faithfully carrying out his original design. the cathedral stands on the site of a saxon church, of which no trace remains; and of the norman edifice which succeeded it little is left but the two transeptal towers. these towers, the northern of which has been much altered, and now has strongly-marked perpendicular characters, were built by bishop warelwast (1107-1136), the son of william the conqueror's sister; and bishop marshall (1194-1206), brother of that earl of pembroke who helped henry ii in the conquest of ireland, finished the building in the norman style. but it was bishop quivil (1280-1291) who planned the reconstruction of the whole cathedral in the decorated style, with the exception of the towers, and himself began the transformation, rebuilding the transepts, the lady-chapel, and part of the nave. and although the work extended over more than a hundred years after quivil's time, and was continued far into the perpendicular period, the architecture was not altered, and there are few features in the building which are not in keeping with the bishop's first design. the magnificent perpendicular eastern window is filled with beautiful glass of the previous period, and it is believed that its tracery also was originally of the decorated style. [illustration: the nave, exeter cathedral] of the bishops who succeeded quivil, stapledon (1308-1326), a statesman as well as a prelate and an architect, murdered in cheapside by ruffian partisans of the she-wolf of france, carried out some of the finest work in the building, including the rood-screen, the episcopal throne, and the stone sedilia. last of the great builders was bishop grandisson (1327-1369), who, in his long tenure of the see, completed and finally consecrated the cathedral, to which, however, some details were added by those who followed him. bishop brantyngham (1370-1394), for instance, finished the west front, the great east window, and the cloisters--destroyed by the puritans and only recently rebuilt. there have been two main restorations of the cathedral; one in 1662, and one between 1870 and 1877, when the reredos and other features were added. the chapter-house, which is an exception in style to the rest of the building, its lower part being early english, and its upper part perpendicular, contains part of the cathedral library. the rest of the 15,000 volumes of books, together with some very valuable manuscripts, including the exeter domesday book, leofric's book of saxon poetry, and the original charter signed by edward the confessor, earl godwin, harold and tostig, authorising the removal of the see from crediton to exeter are preserved in the chapter library. in the north transept of the cathedral are the dials of an ancient and curious clock, believed to have been set up early in the reign of edward iii, although its movement has been renewed. it sounds the hours and the curfew on great peter, a ponderous bell in the tower above it. the peal of ten bells in the southern tower is the heaviest in england. at many points in devonshire may be seen the ruins of monasteries, priories, and nunneries which were closed by order of henry viii. almost all of them have suffered so severely from decay, or perhaps even more from having been used as quarries, that in a great many instances only a few fragments of ruin remain of what, in their time, were large and magnificent buildings. these monastic houses were originally founded as places to which people might retreat who wished to retire from the world, and to lead simple lives of holiness, benevolence, and poverty, serving god and benefiting their fellows. for a time the inmates did all these things. as long as they were poor they were a blessing to the countries where they lived. they preached to the people, they taught in schools, tended the poor and the sick, practised agriculture and many useful arts, such as the construction of clocks, keeping alive such learning as there was, and making beautiful manuscript copies of the bible and of the works of classical writers which otherwise would have been lost. but when they grew rich they became idle, careless, and ignorant, and their lives too often a scandal to the world. henry viii, as the result of a commission which he sent round to enquire into their condition, decided to suppress them. the houses were closed, their inmates were scattered, their estates were sold for trifling sums or given to the king's favourites, while part of their vast wealth was used in founding grammar-schools. the richest monastic house in the county was the cistercian priory of plympton, of which little now remains beyond the refectory and the kitchen. of the benedictine monastery of tavistock, an establishment second in wealth only to plympton, the gateway, a porch, and two towers alone are left. the remains of the norbertine abbey of torre consist chiefly of the refectory, a gate-house, and the fine building known as the spanish barn, from a tradition that spanish prisoners of war were confined in it. the two cistercian houses of buckfast and buckland are specially interesting. the ruins of the former, which was a very ancient and very rich establishment, whose last abbot attained his office as a reward for having helped to capture tyndale, were bought in 1882 by a community of french monks, who have rebuilt much of the abbey in the original style. part of buckland abbey, which had been converted into a dwelling-house in henry viii's time, was bought and rebuilt by sir francis drake. several relics of drake are preserved here, and the house, with its fine cedars and stately tulip trees, is one of the most picturesque buildings in devon. hartland abbey, originally founded, like buckfast, in saxon times, has also been converted into a dwelling-house, into which were built the early english cloisters. at leigh, near christow, are the very picturesque remains--a fine gate-house, the refectory, and the dormitory--of a small cell connected with buckland abbey. [illustration: buckland abbey] other monastic remains, mostly in a fragmentary condition, are those at polsloe (benedictine nuns), denbury (benedictine cell connected with tavistock), newenham and dunkeswell (both cistercian), cornworthy (augustinian nuns), and frithelstock (a house of augustinian canons). 21. architecture--(_b_) military. as has already been pointed out, there were in devonshire a very great number of primitive castles or fortresses, generally on the tops of hills, and consisting simply of enclosures surrounded by ramparts of earth or of loose stones. after the norman conquest castles of a very different type, strongly built of stone, were erected in our county, as in many other parts of england, partly by order of the king himself, and partly by his knights and nobles, who found it necessary to defend themselves against the saxons, of whose lands they had taken possession. by the end of the reign of king stephen, after less than ninety years of norman rule, there were 1115 such strongholds in england. the early norman castle consisted, as a rule, of a single three-storied tower with walls of great thickness. but at a later period, after the experience gained in the crusades, and in consequence of the introduction of powerful engines capable of throwing great stones against a besieged fortress, military architecture became much more elaborate. the castles of the middle ages, which sometimes occupied a space of many acres, were usually built on high ground, or close to a river or the sea-shore, and were almost always surrounded by a ditch or moat, which, if possible, was filled with water. inside the moat was a high and very thick wall, generally with towers at intervals, especially at the corners, with a parapet to shelter the men fighting on the top of it, and with spaces called embrasures through which they could shoot arrows at the enemy. the principal gate was strongly defended by covering towers, and above it were holes through which melted lead, or boiling water, or hot pitch or sand could be thrown on the besiegers. the doorway was reached by a drawbridge, raised and lowered by chains, and was closed by a heavy door, or a strong grating called a portcullis. smaller gates were the postern and the sally-port. the space inside the outer wall was known as the outer bailey, inside which was another wall, also with towers and a gate, within which were dwellings and store-houses. this was the inner bailey; and within it was the most important part of the fortress, the high tower called the keep--a building of several floors, with walls 15 or even 20 feet thick--the last place of retreat when the rest of the castle was taken. on the ground floor, which had no windows, were the well, sometimes of immense depth, the dungeon, and the store-rooms. on the next floor, which was lighted by narrow loop-holes, were the soldiers' quarters. on upper floors were the chapel and the apartments of the governor and his family. there were nearly twenty norman and mediaeval castles in devonshire, few of them large or elaborate from the military point of view, and some, perhaps even the majority of them, insignificant in size and simple in style. of some of these twenty strongholds no trace remains. almost all, of which anything survives, are ruinous and uninhabitable. and although a few have been partially restored and are now occupied as dwelling-houses, only one, that of powderham, retains its ancient dignity, after continuous occupation that has lasted for nearly six centuries. comparatively little is known of the history of these castles; but many of them have been the scenes of fighting, especially in norman times, in the reign of henry viii and during the civil war. one of the most famous and at the same time one of the oldest of devonshire castles, is that of exeter, called rougemont from the colour of the rock on which it stands, built in 1067 by william the conqueror on the site of an earlier fortress constructed by athelstan, destroyed by sweyn, and restored by cnut and edward the confessor. its first norman governor was baldwin de brioniis, the conqueror's nephew by marriage. it, or the city round it, has sustained many sieges; by the saxons, by the sons of harold, by king stephen, by the yorkists, by rebel armies, by royalists and parliamentarians, but it was ruinous even when fairfax captured exeter in 1646. a mere fragment, consisting chiefly of the gateway tower, is all that now remains of it. the picturesque ruins of okehampton castle, built, it is believed, in the thirteenth century, partly of water-worn stones from the river below, and dismantled by order of henry viii, stand in a strong position above the west okement, and include the remains of many rooms and of a great banqueting hall. a french prisoner of war has left a latin inscription cut in one of the stones. the remains of the ancient castle of berry pomeroy--founded, as some think, in the reign of william i--the most picturesque ruin in devonshire, standing on a rocky eminence surrounded by dense woods three miles north-east of totnes, consist principally of two towers, and of the gate-house and the chapel, whose fine masonry, much of which is thirteenth century work, is overgrown with moss and ivy. inside the original building stands a very large but unfinished mansion, of great magnificence, begun by lord seymour, to whom, when sir thomas pomeroy was deprived of his estates because of his share in the commotion of 1549, the castle was given. the property still belongs to the duke of somerset, and has thus been in the hands of only two families since the norman conquest. compton castle, about two miles west of torquay, a very strongly fortified manor-house of the early fifteenth century built on the site of a castle of william i's time, is specially interesting from its association with sir humphrey gilbert. it is now occupied as a farm. nearness to the sea, and the consequent danger from the raids of foreign invaders, led to the strength of its defences. the building, which is large and picturesque, includes a number of ancient features, especially the chapel and two gateways. [illustration: compton castle] lydford castle, now little more than the shell of a square tower, stands on an artificial mound, and is said to have been founded soon after the conquest. it was a place of great importance in the palmy days of devonshire tin-mining, when lydford was one of the chief towns in the county. here, from a very early period until late in the eighteenth century, was held the stannary court, proverbial for its arbitrary methods of procedure; and within the walls was a notorious dungeon, used as the stannary prison. plympton castle, built by richard de redvers, first earl of devon, and the scene of fighting in the reigns of stephen, john, and charles i, is now quite ruinous. tiverton castle, ascribed to the same founder, but reconstructed in the fourteenth century and dismantled after the civil war, has been partly adapted as a modern house. it sustained a brief siege, of only a few hours' duration, by fairfax in 1645. a cannon-shot cut the chain of the drawbridge, the bridge fell, and the besiegers, pouring in, were quickly masters of the fortress. the chief ancient features are the great gate, a tower, and the remains of the banqueting hall and the chapel. the scanty remains of hemyock castle, two miles east of culmstock, and not far from the border of somerset, at first garrisoned for the parliament, then taken by the royalists, and finally dismantled by cromwell, consist of little more than the gateway and its covering-towers, which are of flint. totnes castle, whose ivy-clad walls of red sandstone look down upon the river dart, was founded by judhael, soon after the conquest, but it has been a ruin since the time of henry viii. of dartmouth castle, a very picturesque ruin at the end of a promontory guarding the harbour, the chief remains are a square tower of the time of edward iv, and a round tower of the reign of henry vii. the place may still be seen where a chain was drawn across the river to gomerock castle, a small fort on the opposite shore, to keep hostile ships from sailing up the dart. kingswear castle, a small thirteenth century building on the same river, the scene of some fighting during the civil war, has been restored, and is now a private residence. salcombe or clifton castle, on the kingsbridge estuary, one of henry viii's coast defences against the long-expected attack of the spanish armada, was the last place on the devonshire mainland to hold out for charles i. the square morisco fortress on lundy, whose plain walls now shelter cottages that have been built inside it, is twelfth century work. the scanty ruins of colcombe castle near colyton, supposed to have been destroyed by the parliamentarians, and the square tower of gidleigh, not far from chagford, date, it is believed, from the century following; and the castle of ilton, two miles north-west of salcombe, on the kingsbridge estuary, now used as a farm, was built in the fourteenth century. of torrington castle a few fragments only are left. the castles of exmouth and bampton have entirely disappeared; and of barnstaple castle, built, it is said, by athelstan, but ruinous as far back as the reign of henry viii, nothing but the site remains. powderham castle, the only one of all these fortresses which has been continuously inhabited since its foundation, stands--from a military point of view--on a poor site, on low ground close to the estuary of the exe. its chief charm is in its setting, in its beautiful park and fine timber, especially its magnificent oak-trees. built in 1325 in the form of a long parallelogram, with six towers, four of which remain intact, while two have been restored, it has been altered and added to by many hands, and is now a vast, irregular pile of buildings. its present owner is the lineal descendant of its original founder, the sir philip courtenay who, in 1367, was knighted by the black prince on the field of navarete. successfully held for the king in december, 1645, against fairfax himself, it was taken by colonel hammond in the following january after some sharp fighting, in which the parliamentary troops, as happened on not a few occasions during the war, seized and fortified the village church. 22. architecture--(_c_) domestic. scattered up and down over devonshire are many fine old manor-houses, some of them, in parts at least, very ancient, some with picturesque and striking features, many set in very beautiful surroundings, and others of interest for the sake of their historic associations. such houses are so numerous that only a few of them can here be even lightly touched upon. [illustration: an old devon farmhouse chimney corner] not one of the famous houses of devonshire is entirely, or even in great part, as old as the thirteenth century, although there are several that contain features of that period. such, for example, is bowringsleigh, near kingsbridge, a fine old building, which although mainly tudor, and containing details of later eras--beautiful jacobean oak screens and highly-decorated plaster ceilings of the time of william and mary--has some striking thirteenth century work in it. at little hempstone, near totnes, is a very interesting and well-preserved pre-reformation parsonage or priest's residence of the fourteenth century; and ayshford court, near burlescombe, a fine old house now used like the little hempstone parsonage as a farm, contains a fourteenth century chapel. of the same period are the great hall, now dismantled, and the old kitchen and other buildings connected with the mansion of dartington, which although as a whole a noble example of elizabethan architecture, was originally erected in the reign of richard ii. manor-houses of the fifteenth century are much more numerous. the most remarkable of them--indeed, the finest of all the many great houses in the county, is wear gifford, on the torridge, about 2-1/2 miles south of bideford, a perfect example of an old english manorial residence, built, it is believed, during the reign of henry vi. greatly damaged during the civil war, the house, which stands in a commanding situation with fine timber, especially oak-trees, about it, was for a long period occupied as a farm, and having become much dilapidated, was restored about eighty years ago. it contains many beautiful and interesting details, but the most striking of the original features are the square embattled tower with the fine entrance archway beneath it, and the magnificent hall, rising to the whole height of the building, with richly-decorated oaken panelling and a carved, open, hammer-beam roof which is one of the very finest examples of perpendicular woodwork in england. other good specimens of fifteenth century architecture are wortham, at lifton, near the border of cornwall, an almost perfect house of the period; bradley, near newton abbot, a very picturesque building with a fine hall and chapel; and the main fabric of exeter guildhall, which was erected in 1464 though the front is elizabethan. the noblest tudor mansion in devonshire is holcombe rogus, in the village of that name, near burlescombe, about three miles from the border of somerset. a good deal of the building is a modern restoration, but many details of the time of its foundation, in the reign either of henry viii or of edward vi, still remain. as in the case of wear gifford, the most striking features of the house are the very picturesque tower and gate-house, and the great hall--a magnificent room, more than forty feet long, lighted by two great six-light windows. some of the rooms are finely wainscoted with curiously carved oaken panelling. adjoining the building is the original "church-house," consisting of kitchen, refectory, and cellar, where parishioners could cook their food and brew their beer, where the poor received their doles, and where the needs of casual wayfarers were relieved. another very interesting tudor mansion, only part of which, however, is now habitable, and is used as a farm, is cadhay, at ottery st mary. the interior of the house has been a good deal altered, but the exterior is much as it was in the days of queen elizabeth. its most remarkable feature is the inner court, round which the house is built, and in each of whose four sides, over an arched tudor doorway, is a highly-decorated projecting canopied niche. in these niches are statues of henry viii, edward vi, queen mary, and queen elizabeth. another very fine sixteenth century house, containing also some earlier details, is bradfield, near uffculme, in which are a beautiful music-room, a fine banqueting-hall with good panelling, a minstrels' gallery, and a richly-carved roof. altogether, this is one of the best examples of domestic architecture in devonshire. [illustration: hayes barton: sir walter ralegh's house] other interesting and noteworthy houses of the period are colleton barton at chumleigh, flete house at holbeton, hayes barton at east budleigh, and mol's coffee house in exeter. flete has been rebuilt, but it is a fine mansion, whose beauty is much enhanced by its surroundings and its avenue of cedars. hayes barton, where ralegh was born--it was thus he always spelt his name--and where a table said to have belonged to him is shown, is a rather modern-looking house, plainly built of "cobb"; but its gables, its mullioned windows and its heavy door are characteristic of the time. in mol's coffee house, which is one of the sights of exeter, is an oak-panelled room decorated with the arms of drake, ralegh, monk and others, in which the great devonshire soldiers and sailors of armada days were accustomed to meet. two particularly interesting seventeenth century mansions are sydenham house, not far from tavistock, and forde house, near newton abbot. in the former, which is a specially fine example of the work of the early part of the century, containing also some fourteenth century details, is some very good carved and decorated woodwork, especially in the form of artistic panelling and stately staircases. there are also secret rooms and passages, some of which have been contrived in the thickness of the walls. the house was greatly damaged during the civil war, when it is said to have been stormed by the troops of the parliament. at forde house, which was taken and retaken several times in the struggle between the king and the commons, the prince of orange slept on the first night after his landing at brixham. charles i was there twice, in the first year of his reign. [illustration: mol's coffee house, exeter] some good examples of more modern houses are kingsnympton, in the parish of that name, about four miles from chumleigh, surrounded by well-wooded grounds, on a commanding eminence looking down on the taw; ugbrooke, near chudleigh, standing in a deer-park of rare beauty, finely timbered, and most picturesquely varied by wood and hill and water, and where dryden's grove may still be seen; rousdon, near axmouth, built of flint faced with purbeck stone, and considered one of the most magnificent modern mansions in devon; saltram house, three miles east-north-east of plymouth, a stately building in a large and beautiful park; and bicton house near budleigh salterton, whose trees, brought from all parts of the world, and including a wonderful avenue of araucarias, form one of the finest collections of the kind in europe. [illustration: sydenham house] other interesting houses are ashe house near axminster, the home of the drake family and the birth-place of the great duke of marlborough, partly burnt down during the civil war and repaired with stones from the ruins of newenham abbey, and now a farmhouse; great fulford, in the parish of dunsford, about eight miles west of exeter, owned by a family who have held it since the time of richard i, stormed by fairfax in 1645; and the residence in exeter of the abbots of buckfast, a good example of mediaeval architecture. some very picturesque old half-timbered houses are to be seen in exeter, especially in high street, north street, and south street; and there are so many in dartmouth that the town has been called the chester of devonshire. nor should the fine old almshouses of tiverton and exeter be forgotten. devonshire possesses a great variety of building stone; and the materials employed have naturally varied, as a rule, according to the geological formation of the district. some of the best houses are of beer stone. some, as has been shown, are of flint. brick, which when of good colour and quality is an excellent material, has been largely employed. many cottages, and even whole villages, such as otterton and east budleigh, are built of "cobb," which is a mixture of clay and straw. [illustration: dartmouth: old houses in the high street] thatch, which is still used for roofing, although to a less extent than formerly, has in the past been the cause of many disastrous fires. as recently as 1866 more than 100 houses were burnt down in ottery st mary. nearly the whole of chudleigh was thus destroyed in 1807. fires in crediton, in the eighteenth century, destroyed hundreds of houses. perhaps the town that has suffered most severely in this way is tiverton, where there were very destructive fires in the eighteenth century. one in 1612 consumed almost every house, and in another, in 1598, no fewer than 400 houses were burnt down. [illustration: newton village] 23. communications: past and present. in prehistoric times devonshire was crossed by a network of trackways, some of which are to-day broad and well-kept high roads. others form those proverbially narrow, awkward, and frequently muddy devonshire lanes which are so characteristic of the county, having become worn in the lapse of ages so deep below the level of the adjacent country, owing partly to the softness of the ground, and partly to the heavy rainfall, that their high banks, although often very beautiful, completely shut out the view. others, again, that once served merely to connect one hill-fort with another, have fallen out of use, and are now hardly to be traced. these roads, probably begun in the neolithic period as footpaths, may have been made into tracks for packhorses in the bronze age, and more or less adapted for wheeled traffic by the prehistoric users of iron. packhorses, however, usually or frequently in teams of six, were in common use in the county until the middle of the eighteenth century; and although good roads were made across dartmoor in 1792 there were parts of that wild district where, before the year 1831, wheeled vehicles were unknown. at the present time the total length of all the roads in devonshire is only exceeded in the county of yorkshire. it is generally believed that no devonshire road was wholly constructed by the romans, who probably reached the district by the already existing british coast-road from dorchester. there are some, however, who think that the fosse way joined this road and passed through exeter, going as far as the river teign. the romans made no road beyond this point, at any rate; and here, not far from newton abbot, they built over the river a bridge of freestone, on whose foundations the modern structure--the third since then--now rests. some ancient roads have been abandoned because of their steepness, or because they have been superseded by more convenient ways. such, for example, are the lane from crockam bridge over the teign to trusham, and the lichway (i.e. the way of the corpse) along which, before 1260, the dead were carried for burial into lydford, crossing the river over willsworthy steps, a series of eighteen stepping-stones. one of the most remarkable of these old roads was the great central trackway on dartmoor, leading from chagford to tavistock, 10 feet wide, 2-1/2 feet deep, and made of rough stones with smaller stones above. although much of it has been destroyed for the sake of its materials, about 18 miles of it still remain. it was during the seventeenth century that the "moor-stones"--upright monoliths of granite--were set up to serve as guide-posts for wayfarers during the mists that so often cover the moor. one of the most important highways in devonshire is the great trunk road from london, which enters the county with the great western railway and accompanies it to exeter, thence making straight for plymouth, and passing on into cornwall. in common with other english counties devonshire possesses a number of hamlets whose names end in "ford," a syllable which, in words of saxon origin, means that an old road there passed through the shallows of a stream or river. such, to give a few familiar instances, are chagford, lydford, and bideford. devonshire canals are short and unimportant. the hilly country is not adapted for them; and such traffic as some of them once enjoyed has been absorbed by the railways. there is, however, a good deal of traffic on the exeter canal--constructed in 1566, and therefore one of the oldest ship canals in england and the first lock-canal in the kingdom--but it is worked at a loss. most of the bude canal has been abandoned, and only two miles of it are now in use. the grand western canal, running ten-and-a-half miles eastward from tiverton, nearly to the somerset border--all that was ever made of a waterway intended to reach taunton--the stover canal, two miles in length, and the hackney canal, only half-a-mile long, both connected with the river teign, are all under the control of the great western railway. no devonshire river is now of much value as a waterway. there is some traffic on some of the estuaries, especially the teign; and the tamar is navigable to gunnislake, a distance of twenty miles. there are in our county some very old lines of stone-tramway for horse-traction; from tavistock to princetown, for example, and from the heytor quarries to the head of the stover canal, but they are no longer in use. down the former was brought granite to build london bridge. the railway from london to bristol was opened by the great western company in 1841, was continued to exeter by the bristol and exeter company in 1844, and to plymouth by the south devon company in 1846. atmospheric pressure was tried for a time between exeter and newton abbot, but it was a failure, and was soon superseded by steam-traction. brunel's railways were made on the broad-gauge system with seven feet between the rails, in order to give stability to the trains and to allow of a high rate of speed; and the entire line from london to plymouth was broad gauge. most other companies, however, adopted the narrow gauge, in which there is only four feet eight-and-a-half inches between the rails; and owing mainly to the inconvenience of not being able to interchange rolling-stock with other lines, the great western railway company have converted their whole system to narrow gauge. [illustration: teignmouth: the coast line and sea-wall] the devonshire railways are now owned by two companies only, the great western and the london and south western. the latter, which enters the county near axminster, runs to plymouth, especially serving the south coast to the east of exmouth, with important branches to barnstaple and ilfracombe and to bude, and with a continuation into cornwall. the great western railway enters devonshire at two points; near burlescombe, running thence to plymouth and into cornwall, and near venn cross, for barnstaple. the cornish riviera express from paddington, which slips a coach at reading, and, passing south of bristol, slips another at exeter, performs the journey of 225 miles to plymouth--the longest non-stop run of any train in england--in 7 minutes over 4 hours, which is an average speed of 55 miles an hour. there are some famous bridges on the devonshire roads and railways, of which the most remarkable are the saltash viaduct, 2240 feet long and 102 feet above high-water mark, built by brunel across the tamar; the old stone bridge of 16 arches over the taw at barnstaple, originally built in the thirteenth century, but since much altered and widened; the fifteenth century stone bridge of 24 arches over the torridge at bideford, also much changed from the days when it was only wide enough for a pack-horse, but always a valuable source of revenue to the town from the money that has, at various times, been left for its maintenance, and has been used to promote education, municipal improvements, charity and other objects; and the wooden bridge over the teign at teignmouth, one of the longest of its kind in england. very different in character are the lydford bridge, whose single arch of stone spans the deep gorge of the river, close to the town; and the ancient stone clapper bridges, of which perhaps post bridge is the best known, already described in the chapter on antiquities. 24. administration and divisions--ancient and modern. in the days of our ancestors the anglo-saxons, devonshire was governed much in the same way as it is governed now. that is to say, while the people had to obey the laws that were drawn up under the direction of the king, they had a great deal of what we now call self-government. every little group of houses in devonshire had its own "tun-moot" or village council, which made its own by-laws (from the danish _by_, a town) and managed its own affairs. the large divisions of the county called hundreds--groups of a hundred families--had their more important "hundred-moot"; while the general business of the whole shire was conducted by the "shire-moot," with its two chief officers, the "ealdorman," or earl, for military commander, and the "shire-reeve" for judicial president. the devonshire shire-moot met twice in the year. these three assemblies may fairly be said to correspond to the parish councils, the district councils, and the county council of the present time. our lord-lieutenant corresponds to the ealdorman of other days, and the present sheriff to the ancient shire-reeve. the division called a hundred may have been named, as already suggested, because it contained a hundred families. but the present devonshire hundreds, of which there are 32, vary a good deal in population. the hundred of black torrington, for example, contains 38 parishes, and the hundred of hemyock only three. the parish is another ancient institution, and was originally "a township or cluster of houses, to which a single priest ministered, to whom its tithes and ecclesiastical dues were paid." many of the 516 ecclesiastical parishes or parts of parishes situated wholly or partly within the ancient geographical county of devon fairly correspond to the manors described in domesday book; but the whole country was not divided up into parishes until the reign of edward iii. the parishes, again, vary much in size and population. thus, the parish of lydford, which includes a large part of dartmoor, and measures more than 50,000 acres, being the largest parish in england, contains 325 inhabited houses and a population of 2812. the parish of haccombe, on the other hand, contains three inhabited houses and nine people. queen elizabeth made the parishes areas of taxation, partly, at any rate, to provide funds for the relief of the poor. in modern times, with the idea of taking still better care of the poor, the parishes have been grouped together in poor law unions, of which there are 20 in devonshire, each provided with a workhouse, which was meant to be a place in which the able-bodied poor might find employment. now, however, the workhouse is little more than a refuge for the destitute, the idle, and the incapable. the local government of saxon times was swept away by the feudal system of the normans, which transferred the power of making and carrying out laws from the freemen to the lords of the various manors, and was only restored as recently as 1888 and 1894. the affairs of each parish, since the latter date, have been managed by a parish council of from 5 to 15 men or women, elected by the parishioners. district councils have charge of wide areas, and have larger powers. they are, in particular, the sanitary authorities, and are responsible for the water-supply. the county council, whose very considerable powers extend to the whole shire, is a small parliament, which can levy rates and borrow money for public works. it manages lunatic asylums and reformatories, keeps roads and bridges in repair, controls the police in conjunction with the quarter sessions, appoints coroners and officers of health, and sees that the acts relating to local government are carried out. the devonshire county council consists of 103 members, of whom 77 are elected every three years by the ratepayers of the various electoral districts; while 26 are aldermen, elected or co-opted by the 77; thirteen of them in one triennial period, to serve for six years, and the other thirteen in the next period, to serve for the same length of time. the council meets at exeter, four times in the year. plymouth, devonport, and exeter are called county boroughs, and their corporations have the powers of a county council. ten other towns, barnstaple, bideford, dartmouth, great torrington, honiton, okehampton, south molton, tiverton, torquay, and totnes, are called municipal boroughs and are governed by a mayor and corporation. for the administration of justice the county, which is in the western circuit, has one court of quarter sessions, the assizes being held at exeter; while petty sessions, presided over by local justices of the peace, are held weekly in 22 towns, to try cases and to punish those who have broken the law. [illustration: the guildhall, exeter] ecclesiastical affairs are in the hands of the bishop of exeter, the archdeacons of barnstaple, exeter, and totnes, together with numerous deans and other church officials, in addition to the parish clergy. the county council appoints a number of education committees, who have charge of all government elementary and secondary schools throughout the county. devonshire is divided into eleven constituencies, of which eight are parliamentary divisions, known as those of honiton, tiverton, south molton, barnstaple, tavistock, totnes, torquay, and ashburton, each of which returns one member. in addition to these plymouth and devonport each return two members and exeter one, so that the county is represented altogether by thirteen members of parliament. we may recall with pride the fact that, among the members for devon, have been some of the most distinguished men who have ever sat in parliament. thus, sir walter ralegh sat for the county, plymouth has been represented by sir francis drake, sir john hawkyns, and sir humphrey gilbert, tavistock by john pym and lord john russell, barnstaple by skippon and lord exmouth, okehampton by william pitt and lord rodney, plympton by lord castlereagh and sir christopher wren, dartmouth by lord howe, and tiverton by lord palmerston. 25. the roll of honour of the county. famous as our county is for its beautiful scenery, its wealth of prehistoric antiquities, and the abundance and variety of its wild life, it is still more renowned for its long roll of honour, for the many great and distinguished men who were born in it, or who have been more or less closely associated with it by residence within its borders. there can be little doubt that the foremost man in the whole history of devon is sir francis drake, the greatest of elizabethan seamen, the first english circumnavigator of the globe, the terror of every spanish ship, and the most conspicuous figure in the defeat of the armada. born near tavistock, about 1540, of humble parentage, he early took to the sea, and was only seventeen when he and his kinsman hawkyns, in the course of a trading-voyage to guiana, were so ill-treated at a south american spanish port that, for the rest of his life, drake's chief aim seems to have been to avenge his injuries by plundering the towns, destroying the shipping, and capturing the treasure-ships of both spain and portugal. among his greatest exploits were his voyage round the world, between 1577 and 1580--after which, on his return, he was knighted by queen elizabeth on board his ship the _golden hind_; the ravaging of the west indies in 1585 and 1586; the destruction in the harbour of cadiz of ships and stores intended for the invasion of england, by which he delayed for a whole year the sailing of the armada; and the prominent part he took in the defeat of the armada itself, when he captured the flagship of admiral pedro de valdez. [illustration: sir francis drake] during the comparatively few years he spent on shore drake constructed the still-existing leat or water-course for bringing drinking-water into plymouth, and he also represented that town as member of parliament. in 1595 he and hawkyns set out for the west indies on what proved to be their last expedition. misfortune dogged the fleet from the outset. both commanders died at sea, hawkyns off porto rico, late in 1595, and drake off porto bello, early in 1596. a greater man in some ways than even drake himself was the gentle, noble, lovable, gallant sir walter ralegh, a man who won renown in many fields, not only as soldier, sailor, and explorer, as courtier and administrator, but as historian and poet; whose whole life was crowded with adventure and romance, and who is one of the most picturesque figures in the entire range of english history. born in 1552, in a house that still stands at hayes barton, he was only 17 when he left oxford to fight for the huguenots; and from that time, except for brief intervals at court, and even shorter periods of quiet enjoyment of his property in ireland, or of his home at sherborne, or when he was a prisoner in the tower, the rest of his life was spent in action; now fighting the rebel desmonds in ireland, now harrying the ships and towns of spain and portugal, now helping in the attack on the armada, now engaged with his half-brother sir humphrey gilbert in perilous and fruitless exploration in the far north of america, now attempting to colonise virginia--an enterprise whose sole result was the introduction to this country of tobacco and potatoes--and now sailing up the orinoco in the vain quest of the fabled golden city of manoa. [illustration: sir walter ralegh and his signature] elizabeth, whose favour he won by the sacrifice of his cloak, and lost again for a time owing to her jealousy of his passion for one of her maids of honour, when he had to spend four years in the tower, knighted him, gave him vast estates in ireland, made him captain of the guard, governor of jersey, lord warden of the stannaries and vice-admiral of devon and cornwall. like drake, he sat in parliament; and it was while still in favour with the queen that he was elected member for his county. on the accession of james i, however, ralegh was charged with joining in the plot on behalf of arabella stuart, and was again sent to the tower. during his long imprisonment there he wrote his most famous work, the _history of the world_, whose learned, eloquent, and philosophic pages proved that his skill was no less with his pen than with his sword. his stirring description of the last fight of the _revenge_ inspired tennyson's noble ballad. released from prison by james in order that he might once more sail up the orinoco in search of the mythical treasure-land ruled over by el dorado, he came back from that most disastrous expedition a broken man. again committed to the tower at the instigation of the spanish ambassador, he was soon afterwards beheaded on the old charge of treason, dying as he had lived, dignified, noble, and fearless to the last. two other heroic figures of the elizabethan age, worthy to be ranked in the same company with drake, are his gallant comrade hawkyns, who was born at plymouth in 1532, and grenville the indomitable, the hero of that last fight of the _revenge_. several other men who were born in our county have distinguished themselves as explorers, or by having helped, by peaceable means, to found our over-seas empire. such were davis, the arctic navigator, who was born near dartmouth about 1550, who left his name in davis's straits, and who wrote _the seaman's secrets_ and other works; sir humphrey gilbert, born in 1539 at dartmouth, distinguished as a soldier in the irish wars of elizabeth's reign, but still more as having taken possession of newfoundland, thus establishing the first british colony; gate, who with somers colonised bermuda in 1611; and wills, who perished in 1861 with burke in crossing australia. devonshire has been the native land of many soldiers. two of the most distinguished, both of whom strongly influenced their country's destiny, and were made dukes as a reward for their services, were monck and marlborough. george monck, born near torrington in 1608, distinguished himself both by land and sea. he twice defeated the great dutch admiral van tromp; and although severely beaten by de ruyter he afterwards gained a great victory over him off the north foreland. at first a royalist, he joined the parliamentary army after his capture by fairfax (followed by two years in the tower) and cromwell made him governor of scotland. on the death of the protector he marched to london, and was the chief instrument in the restoration of charles ii, who made him duke of albemarle. john churchill, better known as the duke of marlborough, born at ashe house in 1650, was not only the greatest general of his time, but one of the ablest military commanders the world has ever seen. his most memorable successes were the four great battles of blenheim, ramillies, oudenarde, and malplaquet, in which he defeated the long-victorious armies of louis xiv, then the most powerful monarch on the continent. by this series of victories, followed by the treaty of utrecht in 1713, the peace of europe was secured for thirty years. many great devonshire men, including some of the earliest who became distinguished, were churchmen or divines, not a few of whom are also famous as authors. such, for example, was winfrid, otherwise saint boniface, and known as the apostle of germany, who, born probably at crediton in 680, began his career as a benedictine monk at exeter, and after spending many years in converting the wild german tribes to christianity, was appointed archbishop of mainz, and was afterwards murdered by the frisians in 755. such were leofric, the first bishop of exeter, warelwast the builder of the norman cathedral, quivil the designer of the magnificent fabric that replaced it, stapledon and grandisson his able successors, reynolds the leading puritan divine at the hampton court conference of 1604, whose proposal of a new translation of the bible led to the authorised version of 1611, trelawney, one of the seven bishops whose trial and acquittal formed one of the most memorable events of the reign of james ii, jewel, bishop of salisbury, one of the fathers of english protestantism, the "judicious" hooker, author of the _laws of ecclesiastical polity_, barclay, who translated brant's satiric allegory under the title _the shyp of folys_, prince, author of the _worthies of devon_, dean buckland the famous geologist, author of _reliquiae diluvianae_, who died in 1856, and charles kingsley, born at holne in 1819, distinguished as an able and eloquent preacher and as a strenuous worker for the good of mankind, as poet, novelist, and naturalist, author of many books, and especially of _westward ho!_ and the _water babies_, and of the words of many beautiful songs, such as the _three fishers_. not a native of the county, but bishop of exeter in 1551, was miles coverdale, whose translation of the bible appeared in 1535. to him many of the finest phrases in our authorised version of 1611 are directly due. [illustration: charles kingsley] the most distinguished of the many devonshire men of letters is coleridge, poet and dreamer, philosopher and critic, who was born at ottery st mary in 1772. that, however, was his sole connection with the county. it was chiefly during his three years' residence at nether stowey, in somerset, that the finest of his few masterpieces, especially the _ancient mariner_ and part of _christabel_, were written. amongst other authors who were born in devon may be named gay, writer of plays, fables, and songs, among them the _beggars' opera_ and _black-eyed susan_; ford the dramatist; william browne, the author of _britannia's pastorals_; kitto, the deaf compiler of biblical literature; merivale the roman historian; rowe and risdon, each of whom wrote books on the county; and froude the historian, author of many books, and especially of the _history of england from the fall of wolsey to the defeat of the spanish armada_. herrick was not devonshire born, but it was while he was vicar of dean prior, between 1647 and 1674, that he wrote the _hesperides_, among which are some of the best lyrics in the language. dryden, again, was a frequent visitor at lord clifford's seat at ugbrooke, and there is a tradition that he there finished his translation of virgil. it was at lynton that shelley wrote part of _queen mab_. keats finished _endymion_ at teignmouth. tennyson was often a guest of froude at salcombe, and it is said that he had salcombe bar in mind when he wrote his last verses, _crossing the bar_. distinguished in other ways may be mentioned blundell, the tiverton cloth-merchant, who, dying in 1601, left money for the establishment of blundell's school; bodley, born at exeter in 1545, founder of the bodleian library at oxford; john baring, founder of the great banking-house of baring brothers; babbage, the inventor of the calculating machine; bidder, the "calculating boy," son of a stone-mason of moreton hampstead; cookworthy, the originator of plymouth china; and newcomen, a dartmouth ironmonger, whose improvement on the atmospheric steam-engine of savery, also a devonshire man, was used early in the eighteenth century for pumping water out of mines. [illustration: blundell's school, tiverton] devonshire has been specially remarkable for its artists, of whom the most distinguished were sir joshua reynolds, the great portrait-painter, born at plympton in 1723; cosway, who painted exquisite miniatures; samuel prout, the famous architectural painter, and skinner prout his nephew; eastlake, the great painter of figures, and the author of books on art; and hilliard the goldsmith of queen elizabeth. [illustration: samuel taylor coleridge] two very famous devonshire houses are those of courtenay and carew. there is said to be hardly a parish in all devon in which a courtenay did not hold land. courtenays followed the king to many wars. one tilted with francis i at the field of the cloth of gold. three were at navarete with the black prince. three died during the wars of the roses, either in battle or on the scaffold. of the house of carew, one was at cressy and another at agincourt. one was knighted on the field of bosworth, one was at flodden, and one, while fighting the french, was blown up with the _mary rose_. 26. the chief towns and villages of devonshire. (the figures in brackets after each name give the population of the parish in 1901, from the official returns, and those at the end of each paragraph are references to the pages in the text.) #appledore# (2625). a small sea-port at the mouth of the torridge, wrongly supposed, through confusion with an appledore in kent, to have been the landing-place of hubba the dane. (pp. 27, 61, 130, 131.) #ashburton# (2628). a market-town on the yeo, eight miles south-west of newton abbot, one of the stannary towns, with some manufacture of cloth. a good centre for dartmoor, and with a fine church and other old buildings. near it are holne chase and the buckland woods, with very beautiful scenery. (pp. 46, 112, 118, 120, 151, 173, 212.) #axminster# (2906). close to the border of dorset, high above the axe. interesting for the history of its church, founded in 755, and endowed by athelstan after his victory over the danes. the manufacture of axminster carpets was discontinued here in 1835. (pp. 114, 150, 153, 168, 170, 199, 206.) #axmouth# (643). a pretty village in a combe in rugged chalk cliffs, near the mouth of the axe. the coast here has been much altered by landslips. (pp. 66, 199.) #bampton# (1657). an old market-town, near the border of somerset, with a very large annual fair, especially for the sale of sheep and exmoor ponies. has also large limestone quarries. (p. 191.) #barnstaple# (11,999). the chief town of north devon, nine miles from the mouth of the taw, where the river widens into a tidal estuary. it formerly had much trade with america, but is now noted only for its pottery, called barum ware. the river is spanned by a famous stone bridge of 16 arches, dating from the thirteenth century. (pp. 82, 101, 112, 114, 130, 131, 139, 149, 173, 192, 206, 207, 210, 212.) #beer# (1118). a fishing-village at the foot of a narrow, deep valley near the dorset border, noted for lace-making, and for its very extensive subterranean quarries of fine building-stone. (pp. 68, 112, 114, 123, 168, 200.) #bere alston.# a village eight miles north of plymouth, close to the border of cornwall, was formerly noted for its rich silver mine, flooded by the tamar in 1860. (p. 121.) #berry pomeroy# (423). a village in the valley of the dart, near totnes, famous for its ruined castle, the most picturesque ruin in devonshire. (pp. 100, 176, 188.) #bideford# (8754) is a market-town and river-port near the mouth of the torridge, here crossed by a fine bridge, built in the fifteenth century in place of the dangerous ford which gave its name to the town. it was a very important place in armada days, and formerly had great trade with newfoundland and other american colonies. (pp. 114, 123, 130, 131, 194, 204, 207, 210.) #bovey tracy# (2693), six miles north-west of newton abbot, is noted for beds of clay and lignite, and for its potteries. (pp. 25, 40, 114, 122, 123.) #brixham# (8092), a sea-port with a good harbour, a market-town, and a very important fishing-station, with many trawlers, stands on berry head, at the south end of torbay. here william of orange landed in 1688. (pp. 73, 118, 128, 130, 132, 150, 154, 197.) #buckfastleigh# (2781) is a small town in the dart valley, with woollen factories. buckfast abbey, a saxon foundation, was restored and reinhabited by french benedictine monks in 1882. (pp. 112, 171, 184, 200.) #buckland abbey#, seven miles north of plymouth, was in part converted into a dwelling-house by sir richard grenville, and this was afterwards altered by sir francis drake, of whom interesting relics are here preserved. (pp. 54, 145, 166, 184.) #budleigh salterton# (1883). a small port and favourite watering-place, beautifully situated five miles east of the mouth of the exe. (pp. 69, 129, 199.) #chagford# (1397). a small market-town, high above the teign valley, on the borders of dartmoor, forming a good centre for tourists, naturalists, and archaeologists. there are many bronze age antiquities in the neighbourhood. (pp. 25, 120, 191, 204.) #chudleigh# (1820), seven miles inland from dawlish, contains the ruins of the palace of the bishop of exeter, built in 1080. ugbrooke, often visited by dryden, is a mile away. (pp. 123, 199, 200, 221.) #chumleigh# (1158), is a village on high ground above the valley of the taw, chiefly interesting for the history of the seven prebends of its church. (pp. 172, 196, 197.) #clovelly# (621). a small but extraordinarily picturesque fishing-village, consisting of one cobble-paved street, running steeply up a narrow ravine through a densely-wooded hill-side. near it is the hobby drive. there is a fine camp on the hill above. (pp. 62, 63, 85, 161, 176.) [illustration: clovelly] #colyton# (1943) is a small market-town, beautifully situated in the coly valley, near the border of dorset, with a fine church. (pp. 114, 122, 150, 168, 191.) #combe martin# (1521), a village on the coast six miles east of ilfracombe, in a fertile valley, was formerly noted for its very rich silver mine; now for market-gardening. (pp. 15, 121, 171, 172.) #countisbury# (279) is a little village on the west side of the foreland, close to the somerset border. #crediton# (3974), a market-town with boot and shoe, and cider factories, stands above the valley of the creedy, eight miles north-west of exeter, whither the see of the bishopric was, for greater safety, moved from here by leofric, in 1050. the very fine church, of unusual length, contains many monuments. (pp. 112, 118, 168, 172, 200, 219.) #cullompton# (2919) is a market-town 12 miles north-east of exeter, on the road from bristol. the manor belonged to buckland abbey. the walronds is a fine elizabethan mansion. (pp. 112, 118, 172, 173.) #dartington# (478), so-named when the tidal estuary of the dart ran close to it, is now a suburb of totnes. dartington hall is a very fine elizabethan house. (pp. 129, 194.) #dartmouth# (6579), a market-town, and favourite resort of yachtsmen, and formerly a port of great importance, at the narrow entrance of the dart estuary, is a place of exceptional beauty and of great historic interest, built in terraces on a steep, wooded hill. in the old town along the quay and in the butter-walk are fine old elizabethan houses. st saviour's, one of its four churches, dates from 1372, and has a splendid rood-screen and a very fine pulpit. the land-locked harbour was guarded by two castles. on a hill above the town is the great white building of the naval college, which has superseded the old training-ship _britannia_. (pp. 23, 74, 75, 129, 130, 132, 140, 147, 172, 175, 176, 191, 200, 210, 212, 218, 222.) [illustration: dartmouth, from warfleet] #dawlish# (4287) is a charming and highly popular watering-place with fine sands and beautiful red cliffs, in a sheltered combe, south of the estuary of the exe. a pretty pleasure garden called the lawn, with a stream through it, divides the new town from the old. (pp. 69, 80, 128.) #devonport# (70,437) is a parliamentary, municipal, and county borough, on high ground above the estuary of the tamar, two miles west-north-west of plymouth, one of the chief naval arsenals in britain, with government establishments--dockyards, barracks, magazines, etc.--stretching nearly four miles along the hamoaze, a great anchorage for men-of-war. (pp. 79, 118, 210, 212.) #drewsteignton# (673), a large village near the teign, not far from which is the spinster's rock, the only cromlech in devonshire. (p. 154.) #exeter# (47,185), the capital of devonshire, and long regarded as the key of the west of england, is a picturesque old city, standing on high ground above the exe, which passes through the town. it is a port, with a large basin connected with the estuary of the exe by a canal. a municipal, county, and parliamentary borough, it has factories of agricultural implements and gloves, and there are large nurseries round it. of its castle of rougemont, built by the conqueror in 1067, little now remains. but its magnificent cathedral, which contains many most beautiful and interesting features, is the finest example of the decorated style of architecture in england. other interesting or important buildings are the deanery, the house of the abbots of buckfast, mol's coffee house, the guildhall, and the albert memorial museum. the history of the town is of the highest interest, and is linked with every event of importance connected with the county. it has been besieged in turn by danes and normans and saxons, by king stephen, by the army of perkin warbeck, and the rebels of the "commotion," by the yorkists, and by royalists and parliamentarians. many distinguished bishops have held the see; and noteworthy names of those who have been born in the city are those of the "judicious" hooker, sir thomas bodley, and the princess henrietta, daughter of charles i, and afterwards duchess of orleans. (pp. 22, 101, 112, 118, 132, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 160, 163, 164, 168, 170, 171, 175, 176, 178, 180, 181, 182, 187, 195, 196, 197, 200, 203, 204, 205, 210, 212, 219, 221, 222.) #exminster# (2550), a village on the west bank of the exe, where is a large asylum. #exmouth# (10,485), once a sea-port, is a rapidly growing and very popular watering-place, with docks and brick-works, at the entrance of the estuary of the exe, here narrowed to a swift current by the sand-bank called the warren. (pp. 22, 82, 96, 129, 132, 191, 206.) #haccombe# (9), the smallest parish in england, contains the residence, not always occupied, of the carew family, and three other houses. in the tiny church, the rector of which is an "arch-priest," are many memorials. (pp. 171, 176, 209.) #hartland# (1634), a small town in a very large but thinly-inhabited parish, stands on the west side of hartland point. in the church, whose lofty tower serves as a steering-mark for ships in the bristol channel, is one of the longest rood-screens in devon, and also a good norman font and door. (pp. 64, 150, 170, 172, 173, 175, 184.) #holbeton# (850) stands on the erme estuary, ten miles from plymouth. its fine church contains a magnificent rood-screen and a norman font. (pp. 175, 196.) #holcombe rogus# (607), on the somerset border, south-west of wellington, contains a church in which are many monuments of the bluett family, who formerly owned holcombe rogus court, the finest tudor mansion in the county. (p. 195.) #holne# (273), a small village in the beautifully-wooded valley of the upper dart, was the birth-place of charles kingsley. the church has a fine screen and pulpit. (pp. 23, 160, 175, 220.) #holsworthy# (1371), is an important market near the border of cornwall, ten miles inland from bude. the very ancient horse-fair of st peter is held here in july. #honiton# (3271), a municipal borough on the london and exeter road, 16 miles from the latter town, gives its name to the lace which was first made here by flemish refugees. st margaret's hospital for lepers has been converted into almshouses. four miles away is hembury fort, one of the finest camps in devon. (pp. 112, 138, 161, 175, 210, 212.) #ilfracombe# (8557), a small sea-port and very popular watering-place on the north coast, having a land-locked harbour sheltered by the capstone hill, and with the chapel of st nicholas, now a lighthouse, at the entrance of it, is celebrated for the exceptional mildness of its climate. (pp. 58, 94, 130, 131, 150, 151, 170, 206.) #instow# (634), a small but very ancient port, at the point where the taw and the torridge meet, has weekly communication with lundy. (pp. 27, 61.) #kenton# (1612), a very picturesque village, inland from starcross, with a fine church of red sandstone, whose rood-screen, partly flemish, is one of the best in england, and its oaken pulpit perhaps the finest in devon. (pp. 172, 174, 175.) #kingsbridge# (3025 with #dodbrooke#) is a small but important market-town at the head of the kingsbridge estuary, which is really a tidal creek without a river, in the extreme south of the county. it is one of the chief places in the fertile district called the south hams. (pp. 16, 50, 54, 118, 122, 193.) #kingswear# (841) is a picturesque village opposite dartmouth, which is reached from it by a steam-ferry. near the old castle, now modernised, but said to date from john's reign, are the remains of a guard-house from which a chain was stretched across the river to dartmouth castle, to guard the estuary. (pp. 74, 191.) #lydford# (2812), a small village in the largest parish in england, including a great part of dartmoor, was once second in importance to exeter, a stannary town, and the seat of the stannary prison. there is a ruined norman castle. lydford gorge, spanned by a single-arched stone bridge, is one of the most beautiful spots in devon. (pp. 14, 120, 138, 139, 190, 204, 207, 209.) [illustration: cherry bridge, near lynmouth] #lynton# (1641) and #lynmouth# (402) are two villages in the parish of lynton, on the north coast, the latter on the shore, and the former 450 feet above it, famous for their very beautiful scenery, especially along the river lyn--where one of the finest spots is at the watersmeet--and in the wild ravine called the valley of rocks. (pp. 16, 57, 82, 127, 150, 221.) [illustration: lynmouth harbour] #modbury# (1242) is a small market-town 12 miles south-east of plymouth, once the principal residence of the champernownes, who made it famous as a musical centre in tudor times. #moreton hampstead# (1541), a picturesque little town on the eastern border of dartmoor, with an important cattle-market. (pp. 151, 222.) #mortehoe# (788), a small but growing watering-place near ilfracombe, with an interesting church, and not far from woollacombe sands and the dangerous headland of morte point. (pp. 60, 173.) #newton abbot# (16,951), in very beautiful country six miles from torquay, has large markets for cattle and for dairy-produce, and wharves on the teign for trade in timber and coal. the parish church has fine screens and many monuments. both charles i and the prince of orange were entertained here at forde house. (pp. 26, 161, 195, 197, 203, 205.) [illustration: ogwell mill, near newton abbot] #okehampton# (2569), on the north-west edge of dartmoor, has large markets for cattle and agricultural produce. in the neighbourhood are the very picturesque ruins of a norman castle and other attractions both for antiquarians and naturalists. (pp. 140, 151, 188, 210.) #ottery st mary# (3495), a market-town south-east of exeter, in the beautiful valley of the otter, is famous for its noble church, the finest in devonshire, and containing many very interesting and beautiful features, and also as being the birth-place of the poet coleridge. (pp. 170, 171, 173, 176, 178, 195, 200, 221.) #paignton# (8385), a rapidly-growing watering-place on torbay, with a fine situation, a bracing climate, and good sands (pp. 73, 175, 176.) #plymouth# (107,636), very finely situated at the mouth of the river plym, at the head of plymouth sound, a parliamentary, municipal, and county borough, the chief seat of trade, commerce, and manufactures in devonshire, is one of the most famous seaports in the kingdom. described in domesday book as sutton, and occasionally known as plymouth as early as the fourteenth century, it did not definitely receive its present name until the reign of henry vi. its spacious docks, millbay, the graving-dock and the floating basin, can accommodate the largest merchant-ships. in sutton pool and the catwater, in the hamoaze--the estuary of the tamar, the lynher and the tavy--and at the head of the sound, in the shelter of the breakwater, a very large number of vessels find safe and convenient anchorage. at its numerous quays, connected with the great western railway, to which company the docks belong, are landed passengers and mails from the united states, from australia and new zealand, from the west coast of africa and the cape, from india and the east, as well as merchandise from all parts of the world, especially from france. next to newlyn, it is the most important fishing-station on the south coast of england. further details will be found in the chapters on shipping and fisheries. two of its most remarkable monuments, both on the hoe, are a copy of boehm's fine statue of drake, and part of the old eddystone lighthouse, re-erected as a memorial to smeaton. plymouth has had a stirring history. in mediaeval times, especially in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, it suffered much from the attacks of the french, who, in 1403, under du chastel, are said to have burnt 600 houses. its most important periods are those connected with the defeat of the armada, with the civil war, and with the french war that ended with the battle of waterloo. it was in the catwater that the english fleet lay at anchor, while drake and his fellow-captains waited on the hoe, the famous ridge between millbay and sutton pool, until the spanish ships had passed. more or less closely blockaded from 1642 to 1646 by the royal forces, and many times desperately assailed, plymouth was the one town in the whole west of england that was never lost to the parliament. in the napoleonic war the town was the scene of great activity, fitting out many naval expeditions against the french, and receiving many captured ships. many famous names are associated with the town. it was from here that the black prince set out for france and the victory of agincourt. here, in 1470, landed the duke of clarence, in the hope of enlisting recruits for the lancastrian army. here, too, came margaret herself, with prince edward, just before the final overthrow at tewkesbury. it was at plymouth that the princess of aragon landed, on her way to marry prince arthur. from plymouth sailed drake and hawkyns on their filibustering expeditions, and to this port they came back loaded with spanish gold. here, too, came drake, after his voyage round the world. from here sir humphrey gilbert set out on his last voyage, and from here sailed captain cook. in the streets and on the quays of plymouth benbow and rodney, howe and jervis, collingwood and nelson, were, in their time, familiar figures. (pp. 48, 78, 79, 82, 83, 86, 101, 114, 123, 128, 130, 131, 132, 134, 136, 140, 142, 144, 146, 147, 148, 151, 153, 159, 160, 199, 204, 205, 206, 207, 210, 212, 215, 217, 222.) #plympton# (4954), a parish north of plymouth, comprising two separate villages which grew up round the castle and the priory. until the fifteenth century the prior of plympton controlled the affairs of plymouth. (pp. 108, 114, 172, 183, 190, 212, 223.) #plymstock# (3195), a parish to the east of plymouth, with large quarries, and with extensive fortifications for the protection of the harbour. #powderham# (233), a village on the west side of the estuary of the exe, where, in a very beautiful park, stands powderham castle, chief seat of the courtenays, earls of devon. (pp. 187, 192.) #princetown#, in the western part of dartmoor, is the site of a famous convict prison, originally built, in 1809, for the reception of french prisoners of war. the convicts have brought much land into cultivation, and there are also large granite quarries in the neighbourhood. (pp. 96, 151, 155, 205.) #salcombe# (1710), a small port at the mouth of the kingsbridge estuary, with an exceptionally mild climate, and with other attractions as a watering-place. (pp. 82, 132, 149, 191, 222.) #seaton# (1325), a pleasant watering-place near the mouth of the axe, in the chalk cliffs, close to dorset. (pp. 66, 80, 114.) #shute# (461), a scattered parish, containing the former seat of the de la poles, has many monuments to them in its church. [illustration: shute manor house] #sidmouth# (4201), a fashionable watering-place, very pleasantly situated at the mouth of the sid, between exmouth and the border of dorset. its equable climate is perhaps its chief attraction, but it was an important harbour before its sheltering cliffs were destroyed by landslips. queen victoria spent some years of her childhood here. (pp. 68, 80, 130, 163.) #south molton# (2848), a very ancient market-town in the south of exmoor, has corn-mills and a very fine church-tower. (pp. 172, 212.) #tavistock# (4728), close to the border of cornwall, with the ruins of a great abbey, round which the town grew up, was formerly very famous as a mining-centre, and was one of the stannary towns. sir francis drake was born here, and the statue of him by boehm, of which there is a copy on plymouth hoe, is one of that sculptor's finest works. (pp. 112, 118, 120, 122, 138, 151, 171, 183, 197, 204, 205, 212, 213.) #teignmouth# (7366), an ancient sea-port, a modern and very popular watering-place and a market-town at the mouth of the teign, has a good harbour, sheltered by the den, once a mere sandbank, but now a promenade and pleasure-garden. the wooden bridge over the river is one of the longest in england. (pp. 26, 69, 71, 129, 132, 140, 150, 207, 221.) #tiverton# (10,382), an old market-town where the loman joins the exe--hence the name, two-ford-town--was formerly noted for its woollen trade, but now for its lace-factory. the church contains many interesting monuments. (pp. 111, 114, 146, 163, 166, 172, 176, 190, 200, 202, 205, 210, 212, 222.) [illustration: tiverton bridge] #topsham# (2790), once a famous port, is now a market-town and fishing station on the estuary of the exe. (pp. 22, 130, 132.) #torcross#, a small fishing-village and watering-place at the south end of the slapton sands. the bay being very exposed, the fishermen train newfoundland dogs to swim out to boats in rough weather, and take the "painter" ashore. (p. 129.) #torquay# (33,625), one of the best-known towns in devon, is a large and fashionable watering-place, very celebrated for its mild and equable climate, standing on the south slopes of the northern headland of torbay. from the well-sheltered little harbour the town rises in a semicircle, so protected from rough winds that palms, myrtles, aloes, agaves and other sub-tropical trees flourish here freely in the open air. near the town is kent's cavern, in which have been discovered many most interesting remains of extinct animals and of pre-historic man. (pp. 11, 73, 94, 95, 123, 127, 128, 132, 151, 153, 188, 210, 212.) #torrington# (3241), a market-town on the torridge, south of bideford, with important fairs and cattle-shows, and with factories of gloves. the storming of torrington by fairfax in february, 1646, was the death-blow to the cause of king charles, and practically ended the civil war in devonshire. (pp. 118, 148, 149, 191, 210, 218.) #totnes# (4035), one of the oldest municipal boroughs in england, at the head of the navigable portion of the river dart, is one of the chief market-towns of the south hams, with a ruined castle and other remains of fortification, some picturesque old houses, a fine church with a specially good stone rood-screen, and a granite obelisk in memory of the australian explorer wills, who was born here. (pp. 23, 112, 139, 175, 188, 191, 194, 210, 212.) #westward ho!# a watering-place on northam burrows on the shore of barnstaple bay, with a good climate, and with many attractions for the marine zoologist, was named in honour of kingsley's great romance. (pp. 62.) #widecombe-in-the-moor# (657), a village in the centre of dartmoor, with an annual fair for the sale of sheep and ponies, with many very interesting prehistoric remains in the neighbourhood, and a very fine church tower. (pp. 167, 173.) [illustration: +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | | | | | | | england & wales | | | | 37,327,479 acres | | | | | | | +------+ | | | | | | devon | +------+-------------------------------------------------------------+ fig. 1. the area of the ancient geographical county of devon (1,667,154 acres), compared with that of england and wales] [illustration: +--------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | | | | | | | england & wales | | | | population 32,527,843 | | | | | | | +-----+ | | | | | | devon | +-----+--------------------------------------------------------------+ fig. 2. the population of devon (661,314) compared with that of england and wales (in 1901)] [illustration: lancashire 2347 england and wales 558 devonshire 254 fig. 3. comparative density of population to square mile in 1901 (_each square represents a square mile_)] [illustration: fig. 4. proportionate area under corn crops in devon in 1908] [illustration: fig. 5. proportionate area of chief cereals in devon in 1908] [illustration: fig. 6. proportion of perennial pasture to other areas in devon in 1908] [illustration: fig. 7. proportionate numbers of chief live-stock in devon in 1908] cambridge: printed by john clay, m.a. at the university press. [illustration: geological map of devon] transcriber's note: original spelling and punctuation has been retained, with a few exceptions. some quotation mark errors were corrected. italicised text has been coded with underscores before and after. small caps were converted to uppercase. a few of the illustrations were untitled. short descriptions have been added, prefixed by "tn: ". on page 51, the passage "to the deer-haunted heights of dunkerry" is retained. there are five mentions of "dunkery" in the book, and only one of "dunkerry". * * * * * in the west country. * * * * * [illustration: clovelly from the sea.] in the west country by francis a. knight, author of _"by leafy ways," "rambles of a dominie," "by moorland and sea," &c., &c._ _illustrated._ bristol: w. crofton hemmons, st. stephen street. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. _these sketches are, with alterations and additions, reprinted from the "daily news" and the "speaker," by kind permission of the editors._ without permission, but with love and gratitude too deep for words, these pages are dedicated to the devoted companion whose rambles with me in the west country began now nearly "_... five and twenty years ago; alas, but time escapes! 'tis even so._" _printed at the publisher's works, st. stephen street, bristol._ [all rights reserved.] [illustration: untitled. tn: sailing ships in harbour.] contents. page clovelly: "westward ho!" country 1 clovelly: the sound of the sea 9 clovelly: the vikings' seat 16 westward ho! an old carronade 25 dartmoor days 36 exmoor--wychanger: a far retreat 50 exmoor--luccombe: twilight in the hollow 59 exmoor: horner water 67 exmoor: where red deer hide 75 torr steps: a moorland river 82 exmoor--winsford: voices three 90 brean down: flotsam and jetsam 98 the country life 114 hale well: a quiet corner 128 the greenwood tree 146 chill october 162 turf moor: a happy hunting ground 176 turf moor: the frozen marshes 188 winscombe: a camp of refuge 196 winscombe: a midsummer meadow 204 winscombe: harvest home 213 the mendips--winterhead: aftermath 222 woodspring: a grey old house by the sea 235 kewstoke: the monk's steps 250 by coach to tintagel 258 [illustration: untitled. tn: bird, perhaps a heron, flying with moon and clouds in background.] list of illustrations. page clovelly from the sea (_frontispiece_). clovelly street 1 a rocky coast 9 moonlight 16 old sailor and child _to face_ 22 an old carronade 25 dartmoor: chagford 36 dartmoor--evening: taking home the sheep _to face_ 48 a west country cottage 50 the old mill: twilight 59 exmoor: horner bridge 67 where red deer hide 75 torr steps 82 an exmoor sketch 90 a message from the sea 98 moorland near the sea 114 a west country mole catcher _to face_ 124 a quiet corner 128 the greenwood tree 146 the harvest moon 162 on sedgmoor 176 winter in the marshes 188 winscombe--the church porch 196 a mendip village--winscombe _to face_ 200 the mowers 204 a west country reaper 213 country life 222 winterhead: an upland pasture _to face_ 233 a grey old house by the sea 235 the monk's retreat 250 tintagel 258 [illustration: untitled. tn: farmstead.] [illustration: clovelly street.] at clovelly. there are few parts of english coast-line whose traditions are more picturesque than those of the beautiful sea-board of devon. its shores are haunted by memories of the great armada, of the deeds of drake and hawkins, of howard and raleigh, and of many another old sea-dog, who played his part in the making of our island story. it was the coast of devonshire that was first harried by the danes, when, in the words of the anglo-saxon chronicle, "three ships of northmen, out of denmark," put in to plunder teignmouth. the other side of the county suffered most. again and again the hamlets on the northern shore were wasted by the merciless invaders. the isle of lundy, that from the land shows like a faint blue bar along the sky line, has a stirring story of its own. it has served in its time as a stronghold even of corsair algerines. pirates from spain and holland each held it in their turn. on the beach of its only landing place there still lies, buried in the shingle, an ancient gun that was hurled over the cliff by the french when they were about to leave the island. its rightful lords themselves were, in the good old days, little better, probably, than buccaneers. but there is a greater and more real interest linked with this pleasant shore. the memory that, before all others, haunts the coast of devon is the memory of charles kingsley. the legends that have most charm for us here are from the pages of "westward ho!" if bideford has regained nothing of its lost renown, bideford that in queen bess's time "was one of the chief ports in england ... furnished seven ships to fight the armada; and even more than a century afterwards ... sent more vessels to the northern trade than any port in england saving london and topsham," we cannot forget that it was there that "westward ho!" was written. as we stroll along the streets of the little seaport that lies opposite, we are less likely to think of hubba and his vikings than of how "the _vengeance_ slid over the bar, passed the sleeping sandhills, and dropped anchor off appledore with her flag floating half-mast high, for the corpse of salvation yeo was on board." kingsley's pictures of south american forests have fired the heart of many a reader, old as well as young, to see for himself the wonders of those enchanted regions, to gaze on a giant ceiba tree, like that on the green steeps above la guayra, where "parrots peeped in and out of every cranny, while, within the air of woodland, brilliant lizards basked like living gems upon the bark, gaudy finches flitted and chirrupped, butterflies of every size and colour hovered over the topmost twigs, innumerable insects hummed from morn till eve; and, when the sun went down, tree-toads came out to snore and croak till dawn." but those descriptions, marvellous as they are, were borrowed from books. it was not until fourteen years after that passage was written that "the dream of forty years" was fulfilled; that the author of "at last" was able to see with his own eyes the west indies and the spanish main; could, as he says, "compare books with facts, and judge for myself of the reported wonders of the earthly paradise." but it is quite another thing when he is talking of the coast of devon. there his foot is on his native heath. he was not, it is true, born within sound of the sea, but some of his earliest memories were of hartland and welcombe, of bideford and clovelly. above all of clovelly. to use his wife's words, "his love for clovelly was a passion." even his well-loved eversley had hardly a warmer place in his regard. kingsley was just eleven when his father became rector there, and for some six years he doubtless spent most of his holidays at least among the scenes which he describes so well. thirteen years passed before he went back. "i cannot believe my eyes," he wrote to his wife; "the same place, the pavement, the same dear old smells, the dear old handsome, loving faces again." the cottages are much the same as when last he saw them, now nearly fifty years ago, "with jessamine and fuchsia running up the windows." just the same as then is "the narrow paved cranny of a street, vanishing downwards, stair below stair." any change there is must be for the better. the village has been drained; that is a substantial improvement, and the fuchsias and climbers have wreathed half the hamlet in a very bower of green. clovelly church--so far away that the sound of its bells never reaches the village in the cleft below--has few features of its own to recommend it. but the grey-haired sexton remembers how he sat with young kingsley in the choir, sixty years since, when they were boys together. and the churchyard is to us like a chapter of romance. half the names we know best in "westward ho!" are on its stones. here are two names that conjure up those "five desperate minutes" on the mountain road when the gold train was taken; when the surviving spaniards, "two only, who were behind the rest, happening to be in full armour, escaped without mortal wound, and fled down the hill again." they were chased by "michael evans and simon heard ... two long and lean clovelly men ... who ran two feet for the spaniards' one; and in ten minutes returned, having done their work." another stone reminds us of "the armourer, who sat tinkering a head-piece," humming a ballad in honour of his birthplace. "'tis sunderland, john squire, to the song, and not bidevor," said his mate. "well, bidevor's as good as sunderland any day, for all there's no say-coals there blacking a place about." the names of ebbsworthy and parracombe recall that scene by the banks of the meta, when amyas went with ayacanora in search of two of his men, who had taken to the forest, each with an indian bride. it was parracombe who asked only to be left "in peace, alone with god and god's woods, and the good wives that god has given us, to play a little like school children. it's long since i've had play-hours, and now i'll be a little child once more, with the flowers and the singing birds and the silver fishes in the stream that are at peace and think no harm, and want neither clothes, nor money, nor knighthood, nor peerage, but just take what comes." here are yeo and hamblyn. and if there are no careys in the churchyard, they lie in plenty in the church itself. here, too, is a passmore. "lucy passmore, the white witch to welcombe. don't you mind lucy passmore, as charmed your warts for you when you was a boy?" it is a far cry from clovelly to the deep gorge of welcombe: a good way even to harty point, with whose lesser altitude the crew of the _rose_ compared the towering heights above the mangrove swamps of higuerote. but the place is close to the village where frank and amyas kept watch after that strange missive had been left at the court by some "country fellow"- "mister carey, be you wary by deer park end to-night yf irish ffoxe com out of rocks grip and hold hym tight" we can stand there now and look out over just such a scene as amyas saw when, "outside, the south-west wind blew fresh and strong, and the moonlight danced upon a thousand crests of foam; but within the black, jagged point which sheltered the town, the sea did but heave in long, oily swells of rolling silver, onward into the black shadow of the hills, within which town and pier lay invisible, save where a twinkling light gave token of some weary fisher's wife, watching the weary night through for the boat which would return with dawn." the beech below, the "steep hillside fenced with oak wood," are at least the same as in kingsley's time. and if the stout craft that he used to watch putting out from the pier have not outlived the gales of half a century, there are men on the fishing boats of to-day that remember him well. there are those in the village who recollect even his father, "a man who feared no danger, and could steer a boat, hoist and lower a sail, shoot a herring net, and haul a seine as one of themselves." who that stands looking seaward from the ancient quay, whose rude, unmortared masonry has weathered full five hundred winters, and watches the great green rollers thundering up the beach, but thinks of the bay as kingsley saw it, "darkened with the grey columns of the waterspouts, stalking across the waves before the northern gale; and the tiny herring-boats fleeing from their nets right for the breakers, hoping more mercy even from those iron walls of rock than the pitiless, howling waste of spray behind them?" yes, it is "westward ho!" country. turn where we will--the bay, the cliffs, the woods, the village--all remind us of amyas leigh, of will carey, of salvation yeo. [illustration: a rocky coast.] the sound of the sea. the long curve of the shore on either side this little fishing port, guarded here by a mighty wall of cliff, here by steep faces of red rock, and bordered here with fields that come down nearly to the water's edge, is fringed with a wide belt of shingle--no smooth stretch of yellow sand, but miles and miles of great grey pebbles, the ruins of old cliffs, the wreck of rocky battlements shattered by the surges, and rolled and shaped and rounded by the rude play of winds and waves. down the long shore, headland beyond headland shows fainter and more faint, until the shadowy outline of the land fades into the far horizon. westward from the harbour, a long cliff towers above the shore, with strange curves and mighty buttresses, of endless shades of red and brown, its seaworn faces weathered to cool grey or stained to inky black, touched with the gold of clinging lichens and the bright green of tiny ferns. along its ledges sturdy rowan trees are rooted, among thickets of gorse and bracken and heather. higher up there hangs over the rocky brows a crown of dwarf oak trees, gnarled and storm-beaten. at the foot of the vast wall, growing dim now as evening darkens, is a little space of shingle-covered beach, that at high water is altogether shut out from the world. when the tide is in there is no way in or out. if on the steep side of the cliff there are tracks up which a goat might clamber, yet round the points of rock that fence it in, against which now the waves are breaking, there will be no way for hours. for hours nor voice nor foot of man can break the quiet of this lonely spot. a single gull, rocking idly on the waves, over its double in the clear water under it, and one solitary cormorant standing erect and motionless on a great rock that is almost as dark as he, deepen the sense of solitude. solitude there is, but not silence. the warm air of the summer twilight is full of the sound of the sea--"low at times, and loud at times, and changing like a poet's rhymes;" and after each wave-beat on the storm-worn rocks the dark cliff overhead so flings back the answer that it seems as if "from each cave and rocky fastness, in its vastness, floats some fragment of a song" the hour is late. the cliff grows cold and sombre. darkness is settling in its cavernous hollows. the shadow of the shore steals slowly out over the pale green sea. over the bay are scattered the fishing-boats of the port, still far off, but making for home towards the tiny quay that, from the shore below the village, stretches out its sheltering arm. far out at sea, beyond the jagged line of tumbling waves against the sky, lies a great ocean highway, whose white sails and drifting smoke show faintly through the haze. over the vast sea, here dark with shifting cloud-shadows, there still bright in the clear sunshine, are hues a painter might toil for in vain. who could render the swift changes of colour that wind and sun are weaving with their magical loom over the wide expanse? here a band of pale, clear green stretches far across the bay; here a belt of soft amber; there a long stretch of rich, imperial purple, with endless interchange of brown and green and blue, ruffled with light flaws of wind, and touched at far intervals with white points of foam, as of waves that were fleeing from the rougher sea outside. the art of man might copy to the life the curve of that great green wave, with scraps of seaweed showing darkly through its cool, transparent depths; but not the deftest hand that ever drew could give the low roar of the incoming roller, the sound of its plunge on the unyielding rock. the painter might imitate the snowy whiteness of the water beaten suddenly into foam, but not its seething hiss as it rushes in among the boulders, not the rattle of the pebbles as the wave draws back for its next plunge along the beach. he might show us the glisten of the wet stones, rounded and polished by the eternal chafing of the surges; he might make the white foam flicker in the black shadows under them, but not the sullen sound of boulders shaken to their stony roots by the resistless tide--boulders that on rough nights of winter, when the lighthouse tower is veiled in storm-drift, and great waves are thundering on the bar, are hurled like play-things up and down the beach. the cormorant on the canvas might be to the full as stately and sombre as that dark figure yonder, brooding like some spirit of evil; but no shout could startle him to flight, driving him, with slow beat of his broad wings, to seek safety in some still more secluded resting-place. the clearest colours of the palette, the deftest touches of the brush, the highest ideal of the painter can give us but one glimpse of what after all is one unending change. his may be the ideal. this is the real, the restless, seething, stormy sea. what is the sea without its sound? as we gaze at the dumb fury of a painted storm--the fatal reef, the doomed ship, the white lash of the pitiless surges, it is to fancy alone that we must look for "the sound of the trampling surf on the rocks and the hard sea sand." but now the fishing-boats are coming in. their brown sails, always so dear to the soul of the artist, have taken colour from the flaming west, and shine like fiery orange in the light of sunset. their dark hulls are glistening with spray, the white foam shines like silver underneath their bows. one after one they near the shore, and as they pass into the shadow of the cliff the silver melts from the hissing foam below them, the borrowed colour fades slowly from their sails, that, as each craft reaches her moorings, rattle down, mere heaps of sombre, sea-beaten canvas. boats are putting out from the shore to bring in the fish. groups of idlers and fishing-folk gather on the quay. for the moment the hum of voices rises louder through the narrow street of the little town, half hidden now in the darkness of the hollow--the little town that is like no other in the islands. "'tis a stairway, not a street. that ascends the deep ravine." the sun is down. far off across the bay the lighthouse has mounted guard over the bar,--the very bar over which "three fishers went sailing away to the west, away to the west as the sun went down." now silence begins to settle on the village. the bearded vikings are gone from the seat where, night after night, they spin the same old yarns; where night after night the wayfarer over-hears scraps of seafaring talk--of prodigious hauls of fish, of hairbreadth escapes, of trawlers that, fleeing from a storm, were caught on the very threshold and dashed to flinders on the quay. a sound of the sea is in it all. and when the last group of idlers has broken up, when the clatter of the last belated footsteps has died away up the little, unlighted, stony street, and the hush of night is brooding on this quaint old village, the song of the sea grows louder still. now through the quiet air comes faintly up the cry of some wandering plover, the muttered croak of a solitary heron. all night the little town is full of voices of the sea- "the grand, majestic symphonies of ocean." [illustration: moonlight.] the vikings seat. half way down the one street of this "little wood-embosomed fishing town--a steep stair of houses clinging to the cliff," as kingsley calls it, is one of the few level spaces that break the otherwise abrupt descent. no better place could have been chosen for a seat, for no point in all the village commands so wide a view of the sea. there is no place so good as this for watching the trawlers putting out, hauled slowly to the head of the quay, and then spreading their great brown mainsails,--double-reefed of late, for there is mostly a stiff breeze outside the bay. on the left, in front of one of the prettiest of many pretty houses in the village, half covered with a bower of creepers, is a low wall, on which, when their day's work is done, the sailors and the old sea captains gather for their nightly gossip. below are groups of cottages, scattered in picturesque confusion, with ancient roofs of crumbling slate, and quaint old gables, all wreathed in creepers and honeysuckle and tall fuchsias. lower still is the old quay, five centuries old, with brown fishing nets hung up to dry, and with a half-score or so of trawlers moored to old corroded guns embedded in the masonry, their tall masts swaying idly on the long swell that now, at high tide, fills the little harbour. the fishermen are still busy over their gear. when all is stowed they will make their way up here, to the wall yonder, or to this bench, to talk over the doings of the day. here the old captains, grey-headed, storm-beaten sea kings, sit, night after night, and spin over and over their well-worn yarns. there is not so much in their speech of "... the magic charm of foreign lands, with shadows of palms, and shining sands;" not so much of the high seas, "of ships dismasted, that were hailed, and sent no answer back again," as of disasters nearer home, of some mishap among the boats. it is always the boats. the talk is ever and ever the same--of spars carried away, of split mainsails, of the failure of the fishing. a few days since the trawlers put out with a fair wind and a smooth sea. the trawls were not yet down when clouds swept off the land, the air was darkened by a great rush of rain, and a sudden storm, with heavy squalls of wind, broke over the boats. one by one the brown sails disappeared. on the quay stood a group of anxious figures vainly endeavouring to peer through the storm. when the weather cleared it was seen that one of the boats was in trouble. a squall had laid her on her beam ends, and she shipped a heavy sea. the men had given themselves up for lost, for no help could have got to them in time, even had their plight been seen; when, happily for them, the bowsprit carried away, some of the strain was taken off, and the boat righted. all next day her skipper was strolling idly on the quay, like a man dazed; and as you pass the vikings' seat in the evening, or indeed any little knot of sailors, you will still hear scraps of the story. the gravestones round the church on the hill are evidence enough of the risks they run that go down to the sea in ships. more eloquent still are the tales of the old fishermen:--how, for instance, in one great storm, now "five-and-fifty years agone," as they put it, twenty-one men from this port were drowned in the bay, within sight of land. still farther back, "a matter of one-and-seventy years agone," no fewer than thirty-two were lost; and the whole population of the port is even now not much over two hundred. of such great disasters the churchyard has few records. so strong are the currents in the bay that bodies are seldom recovered. some of the stones are only in memory of those whose rest remains unknown--not here, but somewhere in the stormy sea. every son of the village is a fisherman born. every man has been a sailor almost since he could remember anything. few as are the inhabitants of the place, twenty of them are captains on the high seas, or, having spent their lives in battling with the storm, have put in for the last time to spend in this harbour of refuge their few remaining days. these are the men of the old school, who, from childhood to old age, have kept green the memory of their native village, always cherishing the hope "... their long vexations past, here to return, and die at home at last." the modern captain is a more prosperous man. he knows more of the world. he is not content with the narrow street, the tiny rooms, the small affairs of this awkward out-of-the-way corner. his home will be at some larger port. in twenty years there will be few of the old race of sea captains left to rule the conclaves round the vikings' seat. they are a kindly race, those west country fishermen. kingsley's eulogies of his beloved devon folk were never more deserved than here, never were more true than now:--a warm-hearted, honest, pleasant-spoken race, gentle and courteous, yet free and independent as ever. a fine old figure is that venerable, white-headed, white-bearded mariner, whose memories go back over eighty years of seafaring life. he is never tired of the story of a sailor of this village, who, returning home in a gold-ship, was cast away on norfolk island--then entirely uninhabited--together with his wife and a handful of the crew. the men saved nothing from the wreck but one precious lucifer match, parent of all the fires they had in many dreary years. some of the party, in despair, put off in a boat, but nothing was ever known as to their fate. years passed before a sealing brig put in and took off the few survivors. the portrait of the castaway and his wife, in their rude dress of skins, sewn with bone needles of their own making, is still shewn in the village--he, with lifted hand, as if pointing to the long-looked-for sail; she, with a bright look of joy upon her pretty face. the white-haired sailor, for all his eighty years of sailing, has never been out of sight of land; but that tall, grizzled sea captain standing yonder has been round the horn more times than he can well reckon up. after forty years he came home, with every intention of getting another ship, feeling that nothing could ever part him from the sea. but the years have passed, and still he lingers in the village. nothing now could tempt him from the shore. of all the wonders of his forty years' experience, none seems to have burnt itself so deep into his memory as a night in the tropics, in a perfect calm, on a smooth and oily sea, in which all the stars were copied with such perfect clearness that, as he puts it, "you would almost think there really was another world, and that you were in it." in a doorway hard by, festooned after the manner of the place with creepers and tall fuchsias, is a picture for an artist. at the threshold there sits, on the brick-floor, the grandfather, an old, sunburnt, sea-beaten fisherman, nursing a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked youngster, who laughs and crows and struggles to escape the old man's careful arm, bent on setting off alone on a voyage of discovery down the stony slope. behind them, framed in the darkness of the room beyond, stands the mother, looking on well pleased. [illustration: old sailor and child.] what have the years in store for that young fisherman? will his grave be here? will days that are coming see one more stone set up in memory of a sailor lost at sea? perhaps not. as one of the old captains says, "boys don't take to the sea now. going to be artists. learn to draw and all manner of things." in his time "the schoolmaster was a very different sort from now. he had to be a schoolmaster, land-measurer, pig-killer, all in one. you paid three halfpence a week for learning to read, three halfpence more for learning to write, and then you went to sea. boys all went to sea at twelve. they had their choice--work or starve." sailors of his day had rarely even as much schooling as that. he had never, he said, courted but one woman in his life, and that was for another man. he had had so much trouble reading and writing other folks' love-letters that he never had the heart to try it for himself. round the vikings' seat the children of the village are playing. hard by, on a tiny stretch of level ground, half-a-dozen boys are intent on some running game--nautical little figures in regulation jerseys; sea boots too, some of them. where will they be in twenty years? if they are not to man the trawlers of the future there is all the more chance that they will be scattered. if they are not to be fishermen, there is no room for them here. here there is nothing but the fishing. and the girls? these laughing, sunny, bright-eyed little flowers of devon, absorbed in an old-world country game, singing as they play- "how many miles to london town? three score ten. shall us get there by candle light? oh yes, if your legs are long and straight." what of the girls? below there, sleeping in the twilight, is the sea, the cruel, treacherous, hungry sea, destined but too surely to darken the sunshine of their simple lives. that small figure now, that dainty little golden-haired darling, for her what have the years in store? in days to be will she "... start from her slumber when gusts shake the door?" will she make her way against the storm, some winter's night, down to the little quay, and peer with wild eyes through the rain and the spray, amid a roar of wind and surge, and of great waves thundering on the bar, hoping against hope for the home-coming of the _madcap_ or the _village girl_? what would you? it is an old story, and "... men must work and women must weep, though the harbour bar be moaning." [illustration: an old carronade.] an old carronade. half-buried in the soft turf that clothes the rocky brows of a low headland in the west there lies an ancient carronade. it is a quiet spot. there is no sound save the lap of the tide along the shore, the stir of the wind in the long grass, the cry of a sea-gull wheeling over, or now and then the sharp clamour of a troop of daws that flutter round their harbour in the cliff. about it grow great tufts of sea-pink, whose flowers, save here and there a belated bloom or two, have long since gone to seed. but in summer the air is sweetened by the breath of thyme and crowfoot, and at times, from the rocky steeps below, comes the strange smell of blossoming samphire. there is no mark on the old gun. the rust of years has eaten deep into its battered metal. no date remains, no royal cipher. but there is a tradition that it was recovered from the wreck of a spanish warship that, in the flight of the armada, went to pieces on this rock-bound coast. in the face of the cliff, a few hundred yards to the westward, there were found embedded, many years ago, some corroded cannon-balls that once might have fitted such a gun as this, but surrounded by so thick a coat of rust that they were increased to nearly four times their original calibre. the gun has at any rate seen some hard fighting. it has been spiked. some part at least it has played in our rough island story, whether on pirate or privateer, or on one of the unwieldy galleons of the great armada. but as it lies here now, deep sunk in its green rest, it is a very emblem of peace and of disarmament. the tide is at the full, almost "too full for sound or foam;" yet along the broad beach below, "... where the sand like silver shines, flows the long, monotonous cadence of its unrhymed lyric lines." and round the rocky bases of the little island yonder--once, so tradition says, a viking stronghold--there is the low fret of pale green waves. beyond the island stretches away to the horizon a vast sweep of sea, smooth, unbroken; an expanse of vivid blue, more brilliant than the brightest sapphire. but "when descends on the atlantic the gigantic storm-wind of the equinox," then the huge green rollers come charging up this narrow strait, and thunder in the caverns of the cliff, whirling great flakes of foam a hundred feet into the air. they are gentle waves that lap to-day against the rocky wall. but there is no stormier sea when, on rough nights of winter, "the wild winds lift it in their grasp, and hold it up, and shake it like a fleece." a few brown-sailed luggers are cruising in the bay,--mackerel fishing perhaps. the pilchards have deserted this coast altogether. some of the men say that the constant passing of steamers has disturbed them. others declare "there have been no pilchards since the new parson came, and there'll be none till he's turned his back on the parish." on the verge of the next headland, a rampart of grey cliff that stands out towards the open atlantic, are two great grave mounds, mere flaws on the horizon's edge, piled over the ashes of some long-forgotten warriors. there is a legend here that, at midnight, two kings in golden armour rise from these green barrows, and fight on the short sward of the downs until the lighthouse on the far point "... shows the matin to be near. and 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire." then the old sea-kings turn back to their rest, to lie till nightfall, each "arched over with a mound of grass, two handfuls of white dust shut in an urn of brass." on a ledge of rock below the barrows, a pair of ravens build. year after year their brood is reared in safety, beyond the reach even of the most venturesome of climbers. the old birds patrol the cliff for miles, like wandering spirits of two wreckers, condemned to haunt for ever the scene of their ill deeds. here they come now, sailing slowly along on their broad wings, the sunshine glancing on their glossy plumage. they go sweeping by, uttering at times a crooning sound, not a croak at all, a soft, low note, with no touch of harshness in it. gracefully they wheel and soar and glide, now turning over in the air, now poising like a pair of kestrels. below them, crouching on the hot sand of the beach that skirts the bases of the cliff, a flock of gulls are resting, like heaps of foam left stranded by the tide. they do not shrink as the dark figures pass over. there are no eggs to plunder from the rocks; no young broods to harry; and a full-grown herring gull will show fight even to a raven. it is a noble wall of cliff that guards this sandy fringe of the atlantic; now light, now dark; here bare and weathered and windswept, there overgrown with sea-pink and samphire; and here again worn into deep clefts and cavernous hollows, which, when this old gun was new, were thorns in the side of the preventive men. no shore in england has seen more smuggling than this. many a contraband cargo has been landed at the little village at the head of the creek. it is whispered that more than one family of standing here owes its rise to well-planned "runs" of silk and spirits and tobacco. in the side of the witan stone--a grey old menhir that was old in roman times--there is still pointed out a hole called the "gauger's pocket," into which a bag of gold was dropped when a "run" was coming off, with due notice to the exciseman to go and look for it, and then to keep well in the background. it was quite an open ceremony. "please, sir," a smuggler would say to the officer, "please, sir, your pocket's unbuttoned." "aye, aye," was the answer, "but i shan't lose my money for all that." those days are not so long ago. it is not really many years since the clergyman who tells that story entered on that cure in the west country which, to use his own words "was a mixed multitude of smugglers, wreckers, and dissenters," who still held that to shoot the gauger was not only a venial but a meritorious deed. when a man was hanged for murdering one of those hated representatives of law and order, his death was regarded as a piece of flagrant injustice, a crime in the eyes of heaven itself; the very grass, it was triumphantly pointed out, refusing to grow upon his grave. those were days when the prosperity of a sea-board farm depended less on its scanty grazing and its sterile corn-land than on its ill-gotten harvest of the sea. they were all in it. even a parson has been known to hold the lantern while the spirit kegs were hauled safely through the surf. and once, when a wreck came ashore in church time, and the congregation had with one accord rushed out of doors, the vicar stopped them on their way to the sea. "brethren," he shouted, "i have but five words more to say." then walking deliberately to the front, and taking off his surplice, he said: "now, let us start fair." this is a terrible coast. there are villages where half the gardens are decorated with figure-heads of lost ships, where the churchyards are strewn with sorrowful memorials of men, known or nameless, whose lifeless bodies have been given up by the sea. it is not long since corpses that were washed ashore were buried with scant ceremony just above high-water mark. but of recent years these wasted relics of mortality have been treated with more reverence, and in some villages it has become a custom to use figure-heads of wrecked vessels as memorials of the dead. in one place the white effigy of an armed warrior guards the grave of thirteen sailors, whose bodies the sea had laid upon the shore. in another graveyard the stern of a ship's boat has been set up over the remains of ten seamen "who were drifted on shore in a boat, frozen to death, at beacon cove, in this parish," one sunday in december, now nearly fifty years ago. the rock-bound coast is as perilous as ever, but the days have gone when the shipwrecked mariner was dashed ashore alive only to meet his death from enemies more relentless than the waves. it was the height of rashness in the good old wrecking times to rescue a drowning man:- "save a stranger from the sea, and he'll turn your enemy." in our time, at any rate, no shipwrecked sailor would meet with anything but kindness at the hands of englishmen. the real race of wreckers has died out--that is to say, the cold-blooded wretches who would lure a ship ashore, and then murder the crew by way of precaution before proceeding to plunder the cargo. but the spirit of plunder at least is not dead. coastguardsmen and agents of insurance companies know only too well how cleverly the cornish fishermen even of to-day, though ready to lend willing hands in salving, and though fairly well paid for it too, contrive to appropriate stray things that take their fancy. it is not long since a large ship went ashore at the lizard, and finally ground herself to pieces on the rocks. the closest watch was kept by the agents and preventive men, but next spring a perfect epidemic of musical instruments broke out in every village in the district, proving audibly enough that the light-fingered wreckers had been at their tricks all the time. how it is done the rambler in the west country, who can use his eyes and ears, will soon discover; will agree too, with the remark made the other day in a western village, that people who talked of wrecking as a thing of the past knew very little about it. "you see, sir," said a weather-beaten fisherman, "a great deal drifts out of a wreck, and although there are salvage men always on the watch, there's many a cask and bale that's picked up by our boats. one man with a long pair of tongs and another with a water-telescope can make a good thing of it between them. there was an italian steamer, now, that went ashore at mullion. she was full of fruit and wine and all sorts of things--enough for everybody. there was great cases of champagne lying about, and the word went round among our men that it was 'real' pain, with no 'sham' to it, for when we did knock the tops of the bottles off, the wine all went out at one spurt, and we couldn't get a drop. but at last we got corkscrews, and then we was happy. well, i had a cask of sherry wine out of her," he went on, "and i got it safe in by the back way, and you see i've a coastguardsman living on each side of me. but, law bless you, sir! they be just the same as we.... oh, yes, sir, everything is supposed to be given up, but everything isn't, not by a good way. and when we risk our lives to save the cargo, who has a better right to a share of it than we?" he was near the _mosel_, he said, when she ran full speed upon the rocks, and the sound of it was like a thousand tons of cliff falling into the sea, and such shrieks as never were heard.... might he have stopped her? well, perhaps he might. but a mate of his who put out at the risk of his life, and warned a big liner that was too close in shore--she was backed off and saved--never got so much as a word of thanks, let alone any reward, for saving her. "another man," he went on, "warned a steamer from his boat, and, as i'm a living man, they tried to swamp him for fear the captain should be blamed for his bad sailing. no, sir, we'll never do nothing to risk life, but if we can't get fair pay for saving a ship, we'll get fair share by helping ourselves." ... might anything be kept that was picked up? oh yes, pieces of timber below a certain length. he was pressed further as to how the particular length was settled. "well," he said slowly, "we do keep a saw in our boat." [illustration: dartmoor: chagford.] dartmoor days. the dwellers in the picturesque homesteads scattered at wide intervals over this countryside would hardly be content to hear these hills of theirs called a wilderness. but up yonder against the sky line, with grey clouds trailing low along its topmost ridges, is a brow of the wildest wilderness in england, and these hillside pastures are the fringe of dartmoor. one might well imagine, too, looking out over this beautiful landscape, that the lines of these west country yeomen were fallen to them in pleasant places. and, indeed, fortunes have been made here in the "good old days," when bread was dear and wages were at starvation point. but times are hard. and there are sons of the soil here now working for hire on other farms, whose sires held broad acres of their own. the wayfarer who, making his way up from chagford towards the moorland, should chance to pass this little settlement, might well pause in wonder as he passed the gate, and stand and rub his eyes in doubt whether it was a dream or not. so unlike the old country is this log hut and all about it that a settler from the bush might, if he saw it, almost fancy himself upon his native heath. the very trees that flourish here are strange. among shrubs that have been brought from the slopes of the himalaya, grow tall bamboos whose feathery crowns look over the topmost ridges of the roof. and yet on every hand there are suggestions of the moorland--those stacks of peat, with their picturesque coverings of furze and straw; that granite roller, so thickly set with crystals of felspar. the very props of the clothes-line are untrimmed birch poles from the wood, wearing still their silvery bark. it is moorland earth that made those rhododendron thickets so broad and strong. it is moorland air that has draped the trees with shaggy lichens, adding centuries of age to oaks yet hardly in their prime, and lending to the sturdy fruit bushes of the borders the air of hoary patriarchs. furze bushes, in whose thorny depths the yellow-hammers build in springtime, and willow-warblers weave their domes of grass, flourish in the garden precincts. and all the banks are overgrown with a green jungle of fern and broom and bilberry--children of the moorland, stealing down to regain their lost dominions. this is winter by the calendar. but it is a day of clear shining after rain. the air is full of the sound of streams--of the roar of moorland torrents, of the deeper voice of the river plunging through the wooded gorge below. the stems of the tall birches in the wood below the house, still wet with last night's rain, shine as if they were sheathed in silver, and their branches glitter as if every twig were hung with silver beads--as, indeed, they are, the silver of the clinging raindrops. a graceful, yellow-breasted wagtail, still lingering here when the rest of her kindred are across the sea, flutters down now and then from the top of the dovecot to catch the flies that are sunning themselves against the wall. on the roof above the pigeons sit in conclave, their slumbrous voices just in keeping with the music of the streams. in his cage against the wall of the hut i can hear, now and then, a raven stirring. he is a silent bird for the most part: "he speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes- the golden silence of the greek, the gravest wisdom of the wise, as if he could, but would not speak." some day he will talk, and then perhaps we shall learn what strange things he has been hoarding in the dark places of his memory. again and again last night he woke me by rattling the bars of his prison, or by sharpening that great bill of his against his perch. i doubt if he slept a wink before daylight. it was strange to hear him thus in the darkness. at times, too, i heard the mellow voices of the owls, sounding clear above the rush of the streams and the patter of rain upon the roof. birds pass and repass now in the sunlight. at times the pigeons sweep down from their rest overhead, with sudden clatter of wings, and as they wheel round the house they rouse into speech for a moment the taciturn jackdaw, whose cage adjoins the prison of the yet more silent raven. from far up the moorland sounds the hoarse clamour of crows. and magpies go by, carefully keeping clear of the precincts, as if they were aware that the master of the house had a keen eye and a steady hand. but they might lay aside their fears. no beast or bird is vermin in this corner of arcadia. no jay or magpie ever suffered here the penalty of evil deeds or tarnished reputation. one night the master of the house was roused by the sounds of a slight scuffle outside. an owl had swooped on a rat in a corner of the verandah, and through the wooden wall of the hut was plainly heard the rustle of feathers as the bird spread its broad wings over the body of its victim. weasels find sanctuary under the very flooring of the shanty, and stoats may hunt the covers at their will without fear of trap or gun. the hunt know well that there is no surer spot to find a fox than the larch plantations up yonder on the hill. and there, too, the badgers pursue in safety the even tenour of their harmless lives. when the larches were first planted, and were but just struggling to get their heads above the hillside jungle, grasshopper-warblers hid their nests on the ground among them, and chats, and tree-pipits. a few years later blackbirds came and built among the branches. now the ring-doves trust their frail platforms of stick to the strong young arms. and in a year or two sparrow-hawks and magpies will build in the green tops. the trees have already killed the grass about their feet, and the bare earth beneath their shadow is a favourite haunt of the woodcock. but in spite of crows and magpies, stoats and weasels, and all the creatures of the wild that are too often branded as vermin, there is no want of pheasants in the cover. and the master of the house, with his man behind him, and three eager little terriers dancing at his heels, has but this moment left me to look for a woodcock. the dogs are much keener for the sport than their owner, master of woodcraft though he be. he is always readier to use his field-glass than his gun. many a time, as he stood motionless, gun in hand, has a rabbit cantering by paused to look up at him, or a woodcock settled near, and come and gone unharmed. the moor-folk here are sportsmen born, with the keenest eyes for the whereabouts of hare or pheasant, and far too much given to the setting of gins. the master of the house--who says that half the pheasants he shoots have already lost a leg--showed me yesterday an illustrated price-list of the traps made by a man who boasts of supplying the queen and the prince of wales, and who reckons in his long list of noble patrons not a few distinguished names that we have been accustomed to think of as belonging to champions of the "brute" creation. yet here were not only rat-traps and rabbit-traps, traps for foxes and even for tigers, but traps--of horrible device, and certain to inflict the most cruel tortures--for killing hawks and herons. surely, if some keepers are still ignorant and brutal, better things might have been expected of their masters. and his must be a mean and sordid soul who would grudge the kingfisher his meed of beauty--even supposing that so rare a bird can do any appreciable amount of harm. yet in this list of fiendish enginry is figured a kingfisher-trap. this the purchaser is directed "to screw to a stump in the water where the birds resort, and place a piece of wood on the fork for them to alight on, or a small fish may be used as bait." in the last few days, when from other parts of the island have come reports of bitter weather, of rough winds and frosty airs, the climate here has been almost summer-like. yesterday, as i sat in the verandah, more than one wasp, roused by the sunshine from her winter slumber, was buzzing among the rafters overhead. but, as the day wore on, there were signs of a change. ominous-looking clouds began to gather up from the southward. and, in the late afternoon, as we rode slowly up the steep track towards the moor, there came now and then a spurt of wind and rain. the road, like so many of the dartmoor roads, was fenced by rude walls of granite, built of blocks so ponderous as to suggest that only giants could have reared such cyclopean masonry. every chink between the stones was fringed with fern and bilberry. clinging lichens made the grey faces of the granite greyer still; while others, nestling in mossy hollows, were tipped with scarlet, recalling the vivid touches of colour over the eyes of a moorfowl. high up on the moorland, looking down on one of the most beautiful of its many river valleys, we came on a great stone circle, known to the moor men as the roundy pound--a double ring of unhewn, irregular blocks of granite, shaggy with ages' growth of lichens, and with a single thorn tree standing in the midst, mantled from base to crest with grey--a hoary patriarch, like the lone priest of long-forgotten rites. far below lay the valley of the teign, winding away into the hills. to the right rose the sad-coloured slopes of the moorland, here darkened with dead bracken, and there brightened by pale sheets of withered grass. on the left was a birch wood, with a rare purple bloom upon its leafless boughs, like the purple of far hills at sunset. here and there a dead birch stem glimmered white against the dark. and about the feet of the bare trees was a wealth of colour almost more marvellous still--the rich brown, lustrous velvet of mosses and dead leaves, the fiery red of withered brake fern, beaten down by wind and rain. below the wood, on a little island in the river, was a group of old scotch firs, with the water gleaming white between the ruddy branches. over all there stretched away the far-reaching wastes of the moorland, lifeless, desolate, with a fringe of mist along the sky line. night closed in grey and wet. as the hours passed, i woke at times to hear the rush of the rain, the growing sounds of multitudinous streams, the deepening voice of the river roaring through its wooded passes. morning broke on a day of undoubted dartmoor weather--no gleam of sunshine anywhere; cold, clinging mists on every hand; grey sheets of rain stalking like ghosts across the landscape. the day was at its very worst when the keeper, who had been at work since daylight rescuing trout that, in struggling up the swollen streams, had got themselves into difficulties in unexpected shallows, came up to the house and stood for a minute in the rain, the water streaming from every outlying point in his figure, and looked inquiringly at the master of the house. the master groaned. but he threw on his old shooting-coat, picked up a handful of cartridges, and took his gun from the corner, and the two men sallied out into the rain. it was, in truth, a dreary morning. there was no sunshine now to light the dripping birch stems. but even under that grey sky there was marvellous beauty in the bare boughs, in the brown oak leaves, in the streaming ferns on the green bank below. under the bank was a new gleam of silver, where the swollen brook went swirling by under a grey brow of granite. hour after hour fell the pitiless rain. every thread of water on the hillside was a headlong torrent. the road below the house was deep under a rushing flood. it was late when the little shooting party came back, their coming heralded by the screaming of a troop of jays that apparently kept pace with them as they plodded through the underwood. but the birds were not inveighing against the sportsmen. when my friend returned, he told me that as he passed under a pollard oak an owl flew out, almost brushing him with its wings. the jays, who were hanging about among the thickets on the edge of the wood, espied it in a moment. and, raising a hue and cry that was caught up by every finch and tit and blackbird within hearing, they chased the bewildered bird from tree to tree, scolding and storming, and buffeting it with their wings. earlier in the afternoon a rabbit passed, unnoticed by the dogs, not running, but leaping, across the wood; and close at its heels a weasel, following in hot pursuit. the rain was slackening a little as we turned into the hut. but a heavy fog was closing in from the moor, blotting out even the near woodland with its wall of grey. pleasant, indeed, after the mist and the rain was the glow of lamplight. and pleasanter still the glow of roaring oak logs, as we sat that night, each with a terrier on his knee, before the great wood fire. the dogs have taken kindly to the casual stranger, and one of them in particular is fond of sitting by me on a chair at meal times, resting her head on my arm in the most engaging manner. the two are on the best of terms for the most part, but a little attention paid to one is apt to lead to trouble with the other. i am told that there is sometimes a good deal of jealousy shown in the retrieving of a rabbit--a circumstance which, as may readily be guessed, does not tend to improve the condition of the game. and the slippers which we threw to distant corners of the hut for the dogs to bring back to us suffered severely in the bringing. as we sat by the fire i heard something of the dangers of the moor, and of the reality of getting lost at night or in a dartmoor fog. the oldest hand, said the master of the house, would be helpless in such a fog as now lay round the house. a good plan, he added, is to follow a stream if you are fortunate enough to find one. sooner or later you are sure to come to a house. he himself was on the moor once, with two companions, far away from any path, when a dense mist came on. after long walking, he happened, by great good fortune, on the wall that bounded his own common, and came at length to a familiar gate that he knew was only half a mile from home. the three wanderers drew a breath of relief. they were all right now. the haunting fear of having to pass a night upon the moor, as many a lost wayfarer has done, was forgotten in a moment. with confident steps they marched through the mist straight down the slope towards this bungalow. but after going steadily for three hours, with a gradually growing conviction that something after all must be wrong, they found themselves back at the same wall, and at the very identical gate. they had been walking in a circle--an experience only too familiar to travellers who have lost their way in the desert. they now followed the wall until it turned abruptly down the hill. my friend then walked close to it, while the others kept abreast of him, at a distance of a hundred yards or so, that they might avoid a bog which skirted the enclosure. in this way, shouting to each other now and then, they reached here in safety, not having seen each other since they parted company. [illustration: dartmoor--evening: taking home the sheep.] another man, well known in the district--a man who rather prides himself on his acquaintance with dartmoor--will not soon be allowed to forget how he set off on horseback one day in the mist, taking a short cut across the moor, by which he expected in half an hour to strike the princetown road, and how, after an hour and a half of pretty hard riding, he too, found himself at the spot from which he had started. [illustration: a west country cottage.] wychanger: a far retreat. on the northern edge of exmoor, parted from the outer world by a long ridge of wooded hills that die away into a bold headland by the grey sea, there lies a spacious valley--fair even for the west country, a valley that for its beauty of broad fields and noble trees and old-world villages, may rank among the fairest in all england. the traveller by the well-kept coach road that passes along the foot of the hills, almost from end to end of it, looking across its green meadows and its red corn-lands to the deer-haunted heights of dunkerry, sees something of its beauty, of its picturesque cottages, its wooded slopes, its rich pasture lands; may even catch a glimpse in passing of that old mill that, with its pointed gables, its rambling outbuildings, its rude bridges, and its "dark wheel that toils amid the hurry and rushing of the flume," is like an artist's dream. he who fares through on foot will know more of its charm, but even he is hardly likely to discover the best of its lovely lanes, deep set under over-arching hedgerows, the oldest and most magnificent of its trees, the most picturesque and retiring of its cottages. while hidden behind a rampart of low hills on the very skirts of dunkery, the most beautiful village of all, an ideal west country hamlet, will escape him altogether:--a village in a nest of hills, with brown gables all embowered in green. by the church, whose grey tower rises in the midst, two poplars stand, their young leaves trembling in the sunshine, their tall forms just swaying in the wind. the old manor house, whose traditions go back beyond the days of the armada, seems to stand at the very limit of the world. so near the wilderness is it that the creatures of the wild, the birds, the beasts, share with man the possession of its barns and outbuildings. its lawns, its thick-growing bays and laurels, its broad eaves, the masonry of its old walls are haunted by innumerable birds. in the early morning, an hour or more before the sunrise, the whole air about the house is filled with sweet sounds, with the sunny ripple of the goldfinch's song, with the mingled chorus of thrush and blackbird, of wrens and robins and warblers, with the call of the cuckoo, the pipe of the wryneck, the croon of doves among the larches on the hill. at times, from far up the moorland comes down even the strange cry of a buzzard, or the croak of a wandering raven. all day the garden is full of pleasant sounds and sweet suggestions of the woodland, of the hushed whispers of swift moorland streams, of the stir of winds among the restless pines. even after sundown life is still stirring. long after the mists of evening have begun to gather on the darkening hills the cuckoo calls. the musical halloo of wandering owls breaks in through the vespers of the blackbird, and the shrill challenge of the black-cock sounds loud on the fringe of the moorland. instead of the swallows, that all day float singing round the eaves, the bats come out of hiding in old barns and ruinous outbuildings, and flutter on silent wings through vacant windows. in the twilight even the wild red deer stray down from their fastness to the very precincts of the garden. it is not long since, in the hind-hunting time, the "tufters" broke away after a stag and followed it, in spite of all the efforts of the huntsmen, far across the moor and down into the lowland. and, when at length the hounds were beaten off, two sheep-dogs from the village took up the chase and drove the stag up here to the manor house. there it stood for hours in a narrow passage near the stables, showing a bold front to its pursuers, and undismayed by the curious villagers who came thronging up to gaze at it--a noble beast, with all its honours. someone at length opened the door of an empty stable, and the stag walked quietly in. tired out with the long chase over the slopes of dunkery, it stayed in its strange asylum two days and nights, entirely unmoved by efforts to dislodge it, but lowering its antlers in a moment if one of its visitors made an attempt to cross the threshold; though when one of the men, thinking it had gone, went into the stable after dark and actually brushed against it, the stag, happily for him, took no notice. the door was left open; the noble beast was free to go when it would. on the third morning the stable was empty; the strange guest had gone. a line of footprints across the lawn to the fence that parts the garden from the paddock, and up the long meadow towards the hanger, showed how it had made its way back unmolested to its haunt upon the moor. guests almost as strange are two wild ducks that built a nest in a pool in the field below the house. the eggs were hatched not many days since, and the young brood were caught and given in charge to a hen, who, so far, has proved herself but an indifferent foster-mother. the drake, after the manner of his kind, has another mate, and she is still sitting on her eggs on a small island in another pond near by. and he and the mother of the lost family still linger about the farm. you may see them flying past the windows on their way down from one of the moorland streams, or watch them in the meadow by the empty nest. or you may even chance upon them among the outbuildings, the drake a little way in advance, walking slowly forward, looking this way and that, pausing now and then at some strange sound; while his sober-tinted mate follows meekly a yard or so behind him. now they stand doubtful, uncertain whether or no it is safe to enter the precincts. at length they venture in. now walk quietly after them. there they stand, a gallant pair, he splendid with the rich green velvet of his glossy head, the white ring about his neck, the dark chocolate of his breast, his brilliant orange legs, and all the exquisite shades of grey upon his beautiful back: she with quiet plumage, streaked and mottled with soft tones of brown, looking for all the world like a dry heap of reeds and withered sedges. in a moment they are aware of danger. they move closer together. the drake utters a low warning call, nodding his head, slowly at first, then faster and faster until, with a loud note the two birds spread their beautiful wings, wheel round the house, and sail down to their old haunt by the pool. by the same pool, not fifty yards from the road, there is another nest--a moorhen's; and if you creep quietly up you may see the old bird on her nest of rushes under the bank, her dark figure looking little more than a patch of shadow in the heart of the bramble bush that overhangs her home. her, too, you may watch in the early mornings wading among the long grass of the meadow, or you may even catch a glimpse of her as she paddles fast across the pool, keeping time with her glossy head to the rapid movement of her feet. hood has told us how, in his "haunted house," "a wren had built within the porch, she found the quiet loneliness so sure and thorough." it is almost more strange that here a pair of chaffinches have made a sanctuary of this porch, and have built their nest just over the door, within arm's reach of every passer-by. it is an exquisite work of art, whose moss and lichen, felted with cobwebs and fine strands of wool fitted deftly on the curve of a level larch pole, and woven among the young shoots of the climbing rose tree, whose leaves hang down as if to hide it, might have escaped notice altogether were it not that the little builders are busy all day upon the grass before the windows, now taking short flights among the laurels or the branches of the old arbutus, or the great bay tree that overhangs the lawn, scenting all the air with its abundant bloom, and that now and then they fly up to their nest over the doorway. a far retreat--a spot in which the lover of nature would only too gladly settle down, content, amid this gracious scenery and these pleasant sights and sounds, to end his days in one of the little old-world cottages of "the sweetest village in the world," with their tiny windows, their quaint gables, their roofs of russet thatch. a far retreat, upon whose dreamlike quiet no ripple of unrest could surely enter. we can hardly realise that it was a lord of this very manor who, though long past his three score years and ten, held a fortress for king charles until the last extremity, marching out at length with all the honours of war. it is stranger still that a marble tablet on the chancel wall of the old church records how a rector of this peaceful parish left his charge and followed his master to the war; how he raised a troop of horse for the king's service; how four of his sons were captains in the royal army; and how he himself, after worcester's crowning fight, went with the second charles across the sea, giving up all, with a devotion worthy of a better cause, for a prince whom the clearer vision of our time justly brands as "immoral, dishonourable, and contemptible." [illustration: the old mill: twilight.] luccombe: twilight in the hollow. round the old mill that stands like a drowsy sentinel at the gate of the valley, quiet reigns. silenced is the plash of the wheel; hushed the low rumble of the rude machinery. through the rich grass of the meadow by the stream the red cattle are trooping home in answer to the milking call. the sun, already sunk below the fringe of woodland on the hill, shows like a fiery cloud through the dark lattice work of branches. light still lingers on the steep slope across the glen, on tawny grass and golden furze, and on points of grey rock that here and there break through the short turf. there is sunshine still upon the dark tops of the highest ridge of pines, and there are lines of silver on the branches of a giant oak whose crest towers far above his fellows. but here in the hollow the mist of evening gathers. all along the stream are drawn grey lines of vapour that, in the far recesses of the valley, deepen to a shadowy gloom. the birds, with whose notes the whole glen was ringing, grow silent one by one. their brief vesper hour is almost over. the hush of night is settling on the woodland. far up the slope there still sounds the clear whistle of a blackbird. a thrush, too, is singing, as if moved to rivalry. his is a song less wild and thrilling, less powerful and passionate, yet a masterpiece of melody. still through the deepening shadows rings the clear treble of the robin, and through all, like a whisper of peace, one hears the slumbrous voices of the doves. two cuckoos are still calling; one near at hand, whose loud notes, clear and mellow, seem to linger among the trees, dying slowly, like music in the roof of a cathedral. another, more distant, answers him. they keep such perfect time that the stronger voice overpowers half the answer, and, for the most part three notes alone are audible, the last one faint and low, and like a soft refrain: cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! the cuckoo's life is like that of no other bird that flies. there are no household cares for him; no nest to build, no eggs to warm, no brood to forage for. his sole business seems but to call his own name all day among the tree tops. it is a beautiful sound. and yet there are times when the cuckoo, as much as any bandit of the air, any crow, or sparrow-hawk, or prowling magpie, breaks the peace of the sylvan solitude. he may call all day if he will, without let or hindrance, or the least attempt at interruption. the birds pay little heed to him, save now and then in an idle moment to mob him and jeer at and hustle him, as they love to do to an owl, who by some mischance has sallied out into the daylight. but the moment his mate is suspected of designs on the nest of some defenceless hedge-sparrow, or robin, or wagtail, with an eye to finding foster parents for her own discarded offspring, the whole neighbourhood is up in arms. a few days since a cuckoo, who had evidently set her heart on a robin's nest in the thick growth of ivy round the chimney of one of the houses in the village, alighted in the top of a tall aspen that overlooked the spot. she settled on the roof of the house to reconnoitre. she even perched on the ledge of the garret window to get a better view. and all the while she was followed by an excited mob of redstarts, wagtails, and robins, scolding, storming, chattering. sometimes, as if dismayed by their persistent clamour, the cuckoo made a half circuit of the garden, diving in and out among the bushes, swooping down to avoid the attack of some pursuer more importunate than the rest, and uttering now and then a strange, inarticulate cry, as if--which is likely enough--she were carrying in her mouth the egg she wanted to leave in the robin's nest. she gave it up at last, plunging down into a great bay tree, seeking in its thick-growing foliage some respite from pursuit. the darkness deepens. but there is still light enough to follow the deer-path among the trees, whose thick carpeting of brown dry pine-needles is soft as velvet to the feet. it is not yet too dark to see the black-cock that gets up from the bilberry jungle by the path, or the wood pigeons that, when you pause beneath their roosting place, go crashing out from the branches overhead. you can still watch the two squirrels that chase each other round the stem of a giant ash tree; can follow them, when, startled from their frolic, they take a short cut homeward through the larch-tops. they leap from the firm footing of one tree to the drooping bough beyond, and when it goes down, down beneath them like a blade of grass, they go on, without a moment's pause, towards their nest in the heart of the wood. so few wayfarers disturb the quiet here--or else the brown woodlanders have had such scant experience of the ways of man, of his love of capture and annexation--that the squirrels have not thought it worth while to build their stronghold high among the trees. it is not twenty feet from the ground. it is like a great wren's nest, a ball of moss, thick and closely felted, and marvellously laced round and round with long pliant larch twigs, and with only the least trace of an entrance at the side. a flock of swifts are careering down the glen, like a troop of noisy revellers; their wild chorus sounding shrill and clear in the deepening hush of night. they wheel, with loud rustle of keen wings, and dash upwards towards the moor. again that swift career along the grass-grown road; again that wild exultant scream, so fierce, so beautiful. deride it if you will. call it hoarse, discordant, savage. it is a victorious pã¦an, a song of triumph, an exultant chorus proclaiming the empire of the air. the dark forms vanish; the wild notes die away. it is the last sound of daylight. "far away, some belfry chime breathes a prayer across the moors." the last sound of daylight. the children of the night are abroad. white moths, painted boldly on the shadows, flit by like phantoms. ghost-like, too, is the soundless flutter of a bat that, by the dark archway of the old bridge, chases the insects that hover on the stream. the long, low, monotonous call of the grasshopper-warbler among the furze bushes on the edge of the wood, is a strange sound;--the voice of a cricket, one might think, and not of a bird at all. strange, too, is the droning note of a nightjar, rising and falling as if the bird, wheeling this way and that, were chasing moths among the trees. the bats have voices, though their flight is soundless, and their faint shrill cries grow in the stillness louder and more clear. at intervals an owl hoots, startling from their half sleep the drowsy birds among the thickets over which he passes, so that one may follow his flight by the clamour he leaves behind him. among the trees there sounds at times the crash of a belated ring-dove, settling down for the night, followed by a murmur of soft love notes, an answering whisper, and then silence. yet the air is full of faint, indistinguishable sounds, the opening of leaves perhaps, the patter of spent petals, the fall of pine needles, and the movements of night-wandering creatures. and to every sound the darkness lends a touch of mystery. fancy could paint almost anything of strange and startling among the black shadows of the wood. you stop, almost in terror, when a pheasant rises, under your very feet, with a great rush of wings, and vanishes into the gloom. a blackbird, flying over unseen, sounds his loud alarm in passing, ringing, musical, metallic, like the throbbing string of some wild instrument. there is another sound, the sound as of some large animal moving heavily among the thickets near the stream, with now and then a crash of branches. the noise draws nearer. some red deer are making their way down to the water. the light wind is blowing straight this way. there is nothing to warn them. the leader pauses, not five yards away, fetlock deep in the soft green morass along one of the small streams that vein the hill. his shape is dark and indistinct, yet there is just light enough to see that he has antlers still. behind him is a troop of hinds, a mingled mass of stately, slow-moving, shadowy figures, leisurely crashing through the thickets. one strolls idly this way, closer still, pausing to browse on the leaves of the very willow that spreads its long boughs overhead. another follows, and another. there are ten of them, at least, and not one aware of danger. like ajax, one longs for daylight. yet daylight must have revealed the ambush. they are passing on. another moment and they will have taken the alarm. stand up and shout. what headlong rush, what wild stampede, what thunder of swift hoofs, what gallop of flying feet. away they go, crashing through the underwood, up the slope, into the black, impenetrable shadows--sanctuary as safe as the very densest covert of the forest. [illustration: horner bridge.] horner water. the man who knows exmoor only in the pride of its summer beauty, who has, it may be, followed the staghounds over its far-reaching slopes through a splendour of heath and ling and blossomed furze, who has never seen the broad shoulders of dunkery save when they were wrapped about with royal purple, would find the moorland now in very different mood, would think it even now, far on towards the summer, desolate and sad-coloured and forlorn. the gorse, indeed, is in its prime. its fragrant gold is as full of beauty as when the mingled mob of horse and foot and carriages gathers, for the first meet of the season, on the smooth crown of cloutsham ball. the gorse is a flower of the year. it is in bloom even in january. there is an old saw that declares it to be, like kissing, never out of season. but the heather that covers so much of the slopes of dunkery wears at this moment its very somberest of hues. standing on the fringe of the moorland, on the brink of one of the deep glens that run into the heart of the hills, and looking up the slope towards the dark summit, one might think that winter was not over even yet. there is a touch of vivid green here and there, round the birthplace of some mountain stream. there is colour on the young birches that one by one are feeling their way up out of the hollow. but in the sober brown of the heather, in the pearl grey of the peat moss, in the dark hue of the gaunt and twisted pines scattered at far intervals in front of the advancing forest, there is no sign of the sweet influences of the spring. a lonely spot. there is not a house in sight, no farm, no hedgerow, no sign of man's dominion anywhere, beyond faint traces of bridle paths, like dark lines along the heath, or a broader track whose warm red shows a moment as it climbs some rising of the moor. a solitary skylark sings over the brown heather. at times a buzzard wails, as on broad wings he drifts in mighty circles overhead, a dark spot against the pale blue heaven. sounds like these but deepen the sense of loneliness. but there is charm in the very solitude. there is charm in the dark heath and in the golden furze--in the play of the cloud-shadows that each moment change the tones of brown and green and grey. there is charm in the sweet breath of the gorse, and above all, in the bright, fresh air of the open moorland. and however bare and voiceless these sombre slopes, each hollow that wanders away into the hills is filled to overflowing with a sea of mingled foliage, all astir with life and movement. the path that leads down from the highland to the hollow looks upon a different world. the steep sides of the glen are green to the very brim, are covered, right up to the brown fringe of heather, with noble oaks in the pride of fresh, young foliage, among whose golden green, all shimmering in a haze of sunlight, shows the shadowy grey of boughs still bare, and in the open spaces are all carpeted with the rich red of dead bracken, or the vivid green of bilberry leaves. from far below, out of the mist of green and grey, rises the song of a swift mountain stream, whose pools and white cascades and brawling rapids gleam among the trees like scattered links of silver. there is a sudden clatter of stones upon the farther slope. two stags and four attendant hinds are making their way up from horner water. they pause and look this way; the head of the leader lifted, his antlers clear against the foliage behind him. this is exmoor. here the red deer are on their native heath. this is their last stronghold south of the border. and it is in glens like this that they find the sanctuary they love. the noble beasts stand long at gaze. at last the leader turns, and moves slowly up the slope, the others falling into line behind him. they quicken the pace as they gain more easy ground, and breaking into a canter, wind in gallant style across the heath. they pause for a last look as they reach the summit of the ridge, their figures darkly cut against the sky. the road sinks lower, lower yet, down into the green heart of the glen. noble trees they are that fill the hollow. some have long since passed their prime. their mighty branches are thick with moss and lichen, and fringed with green tongues of fern. in rifts that time and storm have carved in their huge columns, rowan and bramble and young holly trees are rooted. grey arms of ivy, almost as broad and vigorous as they, are twined with fatal clasp about their sturdy stems. where the pathway crosses at the ford, there stands a blasted tree: a giant oak, whose top, wrecked and shattered though it is, rises high above its forest brothers. its bark has all fallen away. its bare limbs glimmer ghost-like through the green gloom. the whole glen is full of life. solitude there may be, but not silence. the air is musical with the ripple of the stream, and with the songs of sweet-voiced warblers. over the tree tops clamorous daws are passing, and the light wings of homeward-flying doves. among the boulders that winter floods have heaped along the torrent--that even now, before the patient, eternal, resistless chafing of the water, are moving slowly down the stream--you may startle a heron from his noonday dreaming. or you may come unaware upon a pair of wild ducks, paddling softly on one of the smooth and sheltered reaches, the mallard still splendid in the nuptial plumage he is so soon to lose. only a few weeks longer will he wear it. summer will find him in a quiet-coloured garb, a suit of brown and grey as plain and unpretending as the dress of his sober-tinted mate. this, too, is the dipper's haunt. again and again you will meet him on his way up stream, flying swift and straight, with sharp note of warning on spying a stranger near his fishing grounds. or you may watch him as he stands on some small island in the torrent, his white breast gleaming like a patch of silver in the water under him, bowing and calling, and now breaking off into that sweet, wild song so dear to the soul of the fisherman. the dipper's nest of moss and leaves and withered sedges, hidden deftly in some old stump by the shore, is empty and deserted. his mate and he are out all day on the river with their little mob of dusky children. it is a pleasant path that winds leisurely along the glen, now wandering with the stream, now passing it by a ford, now loitering among the trees, now fenced on either hand with tall thickets of gorse and briar and hawthorn, now keeping close by the grey willows that overhang the water. it is not a wide stream to cross, for all the rain. the deer, whose fresh footmarks are printed deep in the moist earth all along its banks, can easily leap over it. the squirrels on their airy highway along meeting oak boughs far above it, have no need to think of it at all. but for the rabbits there is no way over but through the stream itself. and here, a few days since, a rabbit, startled from the herbage on the brink, took to the water without a moment's hesitation; a mere baby of a rabbit, so small and slight that it was carried along for yards by the swift current before it could get into shallow water and struggle up the bank. suddenly two birds rise soaring from the trees, better seen when they are clear of the valley, and sharply drawn against the sky. one slow-winged and heavy, one quick and active, and deft in every movement. a crow and a sparrow-hawk. they are fighting. sounds of battle float downwards through the air--the fierce defiance of the hawk, the hoarse answer of his black antagonist. round and round they go, wheeling, sinking, soaring, now the hawk uppermost, and now the crow. to watch the skilful man[oe]uvres of the hawk, one might think there was little doubt about the issue. how easily he sweeps past his lumbering enemy, how he clutches at him with talons, how he flouts him with his strong wings. yet the crow, for all his awkwardness, is armed with no mean weapon. the hawk knows well the value of that black dagger of a bill. and so they drift over the rim of the valley to the open moorland, fighting to the last. [illustration: where red deer hide.] on exmoor: where red deer hide. high up on the moorland, in a wilderness of dead heather--surely beyond all power of spring-time to call back to life--with dead gorse bushes scattered over it, gaunt and spectral, unlighted by any touch of golden bloom, there stands an ancient grave-mound. it is the merest flaw in the wide landscape. a roadway passes near it. but from elsewhere, unless it chanced to cut the sky line, you might search for it in vain. looking across the grassy rim of the hollow space within it, a space like the crater of some spent volcano, you see nothing but the pale summer sky above you, and, stretching away on every side, a waste of desolate, far-reaching undulations, to whose wintry hues the scanty patches of grass and the tender tone of the late bilberry plants have hardly, even yet, lent any tinge of green. this is the very heart of the wilderness. there is not a house in sight. there are no fields, no fences, no horses, no red cattle, not a sheep even; no single moving figure, save of a bird that flits restlessly among the gorse. this is almost as bleak and bare a landscape as the haunt of the "dead drummer" upon salisbury plain. yet it is a beautiful landscape, still and lonely though it be. there is no gold of blossomed gorse, no rich tyrian of early heather. but there is marvellous wealth of colour even in these sheets of dead ling, whose varied greys and browns are strengthened here to deep shades of purple, and there,--by a carpet of withered brake fern, beaten down by wind and rain, and with stout young fronds but just beginning to uncurl,--are fairly kindled into red. at one point a belt of dry sedges gleams like a grey river. at another a patch of vivid green betrays the birthplace of some moorland stream. round the old hawthorns, dotted here and there over the waste, a green mist is gathering. but the starved and stunted trees of this high upland country are slow to answer to the sunshine, and there are hardly leaves enough yet to hide the shaggy tufts of lichen, silver grey and golden yellow, that hang so thickly on the boughs. in the thorny depths of these storm-beaten trees, even carrion crows venture to build fastnesses, fearing nothing, though with thresholds not six feet above ground, short of an avenging volley from the keeper's gun. as the hours go by you grow conscious, by degrees, of companions of your solitude. you hear notes of larks and pipits as they flit here and there among the heather. you catch the faint far call of a wandering cuckoo. a stone-chat settles near, on a tall, dead furze bush, and sings over and over his brief roundelay. there are few dwellers on the heath more smart than he, with his coal-black head, his neat white collar, and his ruddy breast. this, too, is the native heath of yonder curlews, wheeling idly across the sky, sounding now and then that musical, clear call, that is one of the most characteristic voices of the moorland. the black-cock, the true children of the wilderness, are lying close among the heather. the grey dawn is the time to see them best, when they come down to drink and bathe at favourite points along the streams. towards nightfall, too, you will hear on all sides, but especially on the fringe of the wooded valleys where they come to feed, their strange, hoarse crying, which it is hard to credit is the note of bird at all. in the twilight each old black-cock will take his stand on some hillock, or even on the level ground, and spreading wide his splendid tail, drooping his wings, and sinking his head, like a stag preparing to give battle, will utter strange, almost weird, sounds, which, as you watch his odd figure, and fantastic attitudes, you would hardly think were meant as notes of challenge to his rivals, intended to be full of defiance and contempt. beyond the white cart-track, that just shows for a moment before it sinks behind a rising in the heath, runs a deep valley--a great hollow filled almost to the brim with oaks and beeches and tall larch trees;--they, at least, are in the full pride of their magnificent young beauty, with long branches thickly hung with tufts of fragrant green. it is a valley of streams, that, drawn in silver threads from every hill-slope near, set all along with alder and willow, with ferns and rushes, and cool water plants, go plunging through at last out of the narrow gateway of the glen, to widen farther down into a broad, smooth flood, that sweeps in silence among the worn stepping-stones of a village way. the valley is full of life; full as the moorland here is bare of it. in the great bank that skirts the wood badgers have their holt. hard by it is a famous "earth," to which every hunted fox for miles round flees for sanctuary. the woodmen have been busy here. the ground is strewn with red larch chips, whose sweet, resinous fragrance hangs heavy on the air. and from the welcome rest of some new-felled tree, whose shorn plumes lie heaped about it in well-ordered faggots, you may listen to the pleasant voices of the doves, and the blithe notes of warblers in the boughs above you. you may watch the pheasants stalking solemnly among the underwood, may see the brown squirrels romping on the grass, or playing follow the leader up and down the smooth-stemmed beech trees. a charmã©d spot. a spot such as the poet sang of, who "... heard the cushies croon through the gowden afternoon, and the quhair burn singing on its way down to the tweed." the red deer love this quiet glen. you may see their sharp footprints along every woodman's path, and by the oozy marge of every stream. their hour is not yet. like the fox and the badger, they are lovers of the twilight. it is not till evening darkens that they leave their lairs in the cool depths of the larch copse or the shadowy heart of the oak plantation, and cross the high dyke that parts the farm lands from the cover, and sally out to raid the young corn and the turnips in outlying fields. this is the red deer country. empty as the landscape is at noon, there are times when this wild heath is all alive with moving figures, horse and hound, and all the bravery of the shouting chase. many a time has the hunt swept past this solitary tumulus, the gallant stag seen for a moment, perhaps, upon the sky line, as "with anxious eye he wandered o'er mountain and meadow, moss and moor." there is no hamlet for miles around but has its legends, old and new, of a sport that is dear to all the country side. in one of the moorland churches it is recorded how, some six hundred years since, a villager slew one of the king's deer; how the culprit was "not found," and how, in the end, four neighbouring parishes paid fine to the royal foresters. it is but a mile as the crow flies to a hamlet, lying deep in a hollow of the hills, where last year, when the chase went thundering through the quiet street, the stag, in his despair, sought refuge in the inn, and was pulled down by the hounds within the doorway of the hostelry. it is the most picturesque of inns, with its rambling buildings, its thatched roofs, mossed and lichen stained, its tiny dormer windows, and a sign that has puzzled many an idler on the village green;--uncertain whether, as some would have it, the figure in scarlet is meant for a woman seated on a stile; whether it is a nabob mounted on an elephant; or whether, as the words that run above it would suggest, it is a roundhead trooper drawing rein under the oak of boscobel. [illustration: torr steps.] torr steps: a moorland river. down a deep valley in the west country winds a swift moorland stream. mile after mile of sombre, heath-clad solitudes stretch away on either side of it, broken with gorse and bracken, and with here and there a few stunted and storm-beaten trees. well-ordered farm lands slope down to it. at far intervals it roars under the ancient bridges of solitary hamlets. here, in the heart of the great hills, it runs between wooded slopes, covered with thick growth of sturdy oak trees--leafless still, but with purple of fast opening blossoms that, with the rich red brown of dead leaves and withered fern about their feet, lends to the whole glen a glow of warmth and colour. here the red deer steal out after sundown over the ruinous wall and through the untended hedgerow to the broad meadow that for a space divides the river from the wood. here in the twilight the otters play, rolling over and over in the water like great grey cats. the beautiful moorland sheep that lift their horned heads to watch the solitary wayfarer, with half-curious, half-supercilious gaze, seem hardly less the true creatures of the wild than the grey rabbit that you startle from his noonday dreaming among the long grass by the hedgerow, or than the brown squirrel, coming down for a frolic on the soft, green turf. below the wooded slope runs the river, here foaming over great blocks of stone lying prostrate in its bed, there eddying round a jutting bar of rock, now loitering in quiet backwaters, where dead leaves and tufts of grass and all the smaller flotsam of the stream spin slowly on the tranquil surface. at one point it roars through a narrow channel between two ponderous stones, which lie calm and unmoved in all the headlong rush; at another it pauses, silent, in a deep, dark pool. now it is broken all across in a tumultuous cataract, and now again it widens to a broad sheet of waving glass. at a bend in the river bank--a little hollow worn by the floods of many winters--three alders overhang. and at their feet, close to the margin of the stream, sheltered by a screen of strong young branches growing upward from the base of the trees, is a pleasant resting-place from which to watch unseen the life and movement of this bird-haunted hollow--the warblers that throng the thickets by the shore, the dippers that on swift wings pass and repass along the watery highway, the graceful wagtails that with dainty steps run up and down upon the strips of sand. looking down from the edge of the slope at the far end of the meadow, framed by the broad arms of giant trees, show the buildings of a farm, that with its wide eaves and crested gables, its deep-sunk dormer windows, its rows of hives, and its ruinous sheds, is a picture in itself. close by it one of the moorland highways, a narrow country lane, slopes steeply down, crossing the river by a ford. and by the road, its grey masonry clearly drawn against the shadowy spires of thick-growing alder trees, is an old stone bridge--so old that no clue remains, no legend even, to its history or its builders. two thousand years, perhaps, has the river run beneath these ponderous slabs of stone, laid flat across rude, unmortared piers. beyond the bridge, through a purple mist of branches, show silver glimpses of the river, then a broad stretch of meadow with dark pine woods above it, among which the young larch foliage floats in feathery clouds of green, and above these again, the brown and desolate moorland. near the bridge a little party of wanderers have made their camp. the blue smoke of their fire drifts slowly this way, with the pleasant scent of burning pine wood, the pleasanter voices of girls and the shouts of children. it is a perfect day for camping in the open; with warm air, and blue sky, and soft white clouds sailing slowly over,--a day of clear shining after rain. the air over the stream is full of insect life, of flies of many shapes and various hues, of browns, and drakes, and duns, so dear to the brown river trout; and, in counterfeit presentment at any rate, almost dearer to the soul of the trout-fisher. and as you watch the myriad wingã¨d things that sail along the water, that settle on the warm stones, or on the alder boughs, or even on your hand, you will think it small ground for wonder that the thickets by the stream should be so full of birds. one might think that the roar of the river would be enough to drown all other sounds. but, clear above it rise the notes of tits and finches and warblers. the breezy chatter of the swallows, the call of the dipper, the woodwren's hasty little stave of song, the whistle of the blackbird, the mellow call of the cuckoo, are as plain as if the great voice of the river were not heard at all. in the next tree two finches have alighted; their restless movements and sharp challenge of alarm betraying only too plainly what they are so anxious to conceal, that their nest is somewhere near. two beautiful birds they are; one with the red flush on his breast, the broad bar of white in either wing, the slate-blue feathers of his lifted crest. the other, hardly less charming, with all her colours pitched in soberer key. with anxious and persistent iteration of their one shrill note of protest, they flit from branch to branch; and when you rise, and peer into the tangle of ivy-mantled boughs above you, the birds grow more clamorous still. there is the nest, its mossy cup woven deftly among the slender twigs, studded all over with lichen points of silver--as ever, a miracle of beauty. there are many birds preparing for the great event of the year. it is not for nothing, you may be sure, that that old blackbird has stayed out at the same corner of the hedge every day for a week past; there is some good reason for his stealing towards it now across the wood, a moving shadow, quiet for once. we can read the signs of the times in the notes of the birds no less than in the heightened colours of their plumage. it is a love-song pure and simple that yonder hedge sparrow, poised on a straying spray of bramble, is singing so softly to himself. the ringing call of an oxeye overhead never was more clear, and blithe, and musical. but the soft notes of a flock of long-tailed tits, not yet disbanded, have a still softer tone to-day. their light-hearted gossip seems subdued and low, as if they knew the days were near when every woodlander will go about his work with all the stealth he may. there is a gold-crest rummaging among the ivy that clings about an old elm hard by, almost within arm's length, so near that the touch of vivid yellow on his crown gleams like very gold. smoke is still rising from the white ashes of the fire, but it is proof enough that the little group has moved away, and that no one is visible from the highway of the river, when a kingfisher flashes across the bridge, straight up the stream, a swift gleam of azure through the sunlit air. as you follow its flight to the bend where the river vanishes behind its fringing alders, you are aware of a moving point of light on one of the great boulders far out from shore. then the shape of a dipper shows clearly on the top of the stone. a moment later it dives straight down into the water, reappearing some yards nearer this way, pausing on another great block of sandstone, to bow and curtsey, uttering now and then a loud, clear note, its white gorget glowing like a star, whiter even than the very foam of the river. now it swims lightly across a smooth backwater. now it works its way sidelong across a rapid rush of the current, stooping now and then to pick some dainty morsel from among the stones, and all the while moving slowly with the stream, until at last it stands on a stone in mid-channel, not thirty yards away--a graceful, charming, dainty little figure, the very naiad of the mountain stream. but alas, there is another spectator of its movements. across the meadow sails a dark, hawk-like figure, swift and silent, disappearing in the oak wood on the farther shore. in a moment every voice is hushed. not a bird calls. not even a wren dares to utter an alarm. there is a sudden rush of wings. a merlin dashes from the thicket by the shore, catches up the dipper in its cruel claws, and, alighting on a great flat stone, in the middle of the river, it buries its merciless bill again and again in the white breast of its struggling captive. what a picture! the sunlight is full on the blue back of the beautiful little falcon, as it leans forward a little, half hiding its prey under its drooping wings. giving a swift glance to right and left--the sparkle of its keen eyes plain to see--it tears out a little cloud of feathers that flutter lightly down, and sail away upon the stream. again the merlin looks up. something has startled him. he gives one glance this way. he catches sight of a figure under the alder trees. like a flash he is gone. the dead dipper falls into the water, sailing down the river, in which but a few minutes since it was playing, full of life and happiness, the white feathers from its blood-stained gorget floating away from it at every swirl of the current; a sorrowful little heap of ruffled plumage, whirling with the whirling stream. [illustration: an exmoor sketch.] winsford: voices three. on the slopes of a great hollow in the heart of exmoor, a hot sun beats fiercely down. true that it is an april sky whose clouds and sunshine weave their changing web of lights and shadows over the landscape. true that the landscape, even yet, wears but little of the guise of springtime. but to-day no touch of east is in the air, and the smoke columns, rising slowly from the chimneys of the village, and showing so blue against the oak plantation on a distant shoulder of the moorland, are drifting slowly from the southward. from this upland country, over which the snow lay deep for two whole months, the grip of winter has been slow to loosen. but the trees and hedgerows are answering at last to the magical influence of the sunshine, and "the useful trouble of the rain." the grass of these rich meadow lands--for months past all burnt and brown, as if after a long, rainless summer--wears now its very loveliest hue. there is a fringe of pale blue violets along the edge of every woodland path. stars of celandine are scattered over every field, and among the tangle of the withered hedge-row grasses. marsh marigolds are gleaming in the wet earth about the roots of the alders by the river. even at this distance, the great clumps of primroses show like points of light on the slope of the orchard by the vicarage. surely never were there such beautiful masses of wood-sorrel as, with their vivid leaves and dainty, purple-veined flowers, brighten now the banks of every deep-worn lane. the tall chestnut by the church, but yesterday just dusted over with fine points of gold, is now a very cloud of fresh young foliage. each day strengthens the green hue of the larches crowning the bold spur beyond the village. each day deepens the warm purple of fast-opening blossoms round the heads of the tall elms of the village, and the great oaks of this warm slope. noble trees they are, these hoary patriarchs that the woodman's axe has spared. their mighty branches, gnarled and twisted and storm-beaten, towering far up against the pale blue heaven, are shaggy with ages' growth of lichens. moss grows thick over the furrowed rind, not of their broad stems alone, but almost of their topmost branches. in the crannies of the bark, fringed with grey-green tongues of fern, woodbine and briar and slim mountain-ash have found anchorage. over their old arms the nuthatches wander up and down, calling to each other with that loud musical trill so characteristic of the springtime. on every side, among the broad stumps of vanished forest monarchs, long dethroned, are springing the sturdy forms of another generation, young pines and oaks and beeches, that are doing their best to fill the places of the fallen, and although the giant sycamore that overhangs the path is still all bare and leafless, everywhere in the grass beneath its shadow, its children, tiny double blades of tender green, are springing, thousands strong. it is a scene of marvellous beauty upon which the eye looks down from the welcome rest of this fallen tree beside the woodland path. below, at the foot of the slope, the border line between the wild life of the covert and the order of the well-kept farm lands, runs a swift moorland stream, whose broad band of silver is broken again and again by the rude stone bridges of the village streets. every reach of the river seems to have its several sound, that, "low at times, and loud at times and changing like a poet's rhymes," seems, with the rush of the wind among the rocking tops, and with the songs and call-notes of a hundred birds, to fill the hollow. in the pauses of the roar of the white lasher by the mill, a roar that sinks and swells with every flaw that blows, the ear may catch now the sound of the swift current brawling over its brown pebbles, now the swirl of water round a bar of shingle, now the chafing of the stream among the alder roots, and now the soft sound of ripples on a sandy shallow. round the broad green knoll that rises from the river, filling all the centre of the valley, and almost islanded by wandering streams, cluster the houses of the hamlet, whose white walls and brown and moss-grown roofs of thatch, whose pointed gables and quaint deep-sunk dormer windows show plainly now among sheltering elms, that in the summer-time will hide them in a very bower of green. high over the roofs of the village, high even above the topmost trees, rises the grey tower of the church. round its turrets a troop of daws are fluttering. is it only fancy, or is there really a note of protest and impatience in their snatches of clear-cut speech? for weeks past these bold frequenters of the church have been piling sticks upon the turret stair, by way of foundation for their great untidy nests. they had strewn a cartload of rubbish over the floor of the belfry, when the sexton arose in his wrath and blocked up all the tower windows and the loophole lights of the stairway, so that the daws were compelled to change their quarters to the roofs of the village. but they still linger round their ancestral homestead, and one pair, determined not to quit altogether the sacred precincts that have sheltered them and theirs for generations, have established themselves in a niche behind the iron pipe of the stove. it is a hole that might just contain the nest, but the birds have thought it necessary to fill up with sticks a yard or more of the space between the chimney and the tower wall, as if by way of outworks to their fortress. a flood of sunshine is falling at this moment on the ancient tower, on the brown thatch of the old houses, on the purple lacework of the budding elms, until the whole beautiful picture stands clear-drawn against the soft background of the far hillside, still all in shadow. the sunlight glitters on the slate roofs of houses lower down, and flashes on the winding river until every reach of it is a sheet of burnished silver. now it brightens yet more the vivid green of the meadows, now it touches the red slopes of distant corn-lands, and now it seems to linger on a far shoulder of the moor, whose brown heath and dead grey gorse bushes, and ancient thorn trees straggling up the hill, are transfigured to a very vision of glory by the dreamy, sunlit haze. dream-like, too, is the quiet that broods over this peaceful valley--a quiet even deepened by those voices three, of the wind, and the birds, and the river. no sound of toil or traffic rises from the village, save the clink of iron in the smithy, the thud of a woodman's axe among the young alders by the water, or, still more rarely, the lumbering of a cart along one of the deep lanes that slope upward to the moor, or that wander with the winding streams. the wind that sways the oak boughs overhead has a stormy sound. but this sheltered corner under the hill, with its screen of thick-growing fir and holly, is full of the warm south, of soft and gentle airs, scented with the sweet resinous fragrance of the pines. and all the while, louder than the rush of the wind, clearer far than the sound of the river, there float from tree to tree the happy voices of the woodland singers. everywhere among the leafless boughs the chiff-chaffs are calling. here and there along the slope a tree pipit, rising high above his station upon some yet wintry branch, sinks slowly downward through the sunny air, singing as he sinks, till he alights again upon his windy perch. loud above all other sounds there strikes in now and then the whistle of a blackbird, wild and clear, and at times the yet sweeter carol of the blackcap. rooks call hoarsely to each other as they pass, on the way to their great settlement far down the river. at times the white pigeons of the vicarage, hovering a moment in mid-air, descend like a shower of snowflakes on their dovecot. from the shelter of the old scotch firs at the far end of the wood, where the trees have long been left untouched, come now and then the deep notes of carrion crows, low-toned, sullen, unmirthful. they are ill neighbours for all the weaker children of the wood. later on in the season, the edge of the punch bowl, that great hollow beyond the oak coppice, whose rim just shows against the sky line, the hollow where the red deer are so fond of lying, will be strewn with broken eggs of black game and pheasant, the spoil of raids in the heather and the covert. and here, too, scattered under the trees, are broken ringdoves' eggs, bearing plainly the marks of those black-coated, merciless marauders. from that corner too, out of the jungle of broom, and hazel, and wild-briar, comes at intervals the crow of a pheasant--a strident and far-reaching cry, different altogether from all other woodland voices. and in every tree along the slope willow warblers are crooning, over and over, their dainty snatches of sweet, low-toned song. it is a sleepy tune; a leisurely cadence of soft sounds, suggestive of sunshine and the summer, of "music, that gentlier on the spirit lies, than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes." [illustration: a message from the sea.] brean down: flotsam and jetsam. it is a cold, grey world that lies waiting for the dawn--a misty sky, in which one pale planet glimmers; a hazy sea, whose fretted levels shine faintly in the moonlight; shadowy hills, along whose winding line, here darkened with clustering woodlands, and there whitened by still slumbering hamlets, a grey mist hangs. it hangs, too, like a vast canopy, over the wide plain, whose sunburnt meadows seem to melt away into an infinite distance; and along the wandering river whose brown flood loiters idly to the sea. a silent world, for the most part. even the voice of the river, that but now was chafing loud against the shingle bar piled high along the shore, is failing in the swift inrush of the tide. it is a slow moving and taciturn stream that, as it wound along the level fringes of the hills, long since forgot the sunshine and the laughter and the crystal clearness of its youth, when, under banks that were hung with fern and meadow-sweet, it sang over the brown pebbles of its bed, round "... many a fairy foreland, set with willow-weed and mallow." but the tide, that is hushing the hoarse song of the river, swells louder every moment the troubled roar of the sea, whose grey waves are plunging in over the rattling shingle and the shining sand. and as the light of dawning strengthens over the low grey hills to the eastward, other sounds break in upon the stillness. far off across the moor a curlew calls. a heron who all night long, it may be, has been keeping his lone vigil in the marshes, and who is now flying leisurely home-ward to the hills, lets fall a muttered croak in passing--midnight revellers both. but the white gulls that rise and fall and toy like butterflies above the broadening stream calling to each other with discordant voices, are children of the sunshine. of the sunshine, too, is the music of a lark, who, high up in the grey mist, brooding like a fate over the brown and thirsty meadows, seems to hover at the very gates of dawn. yet there is a sound of the sea even on his silvery tongue. among the sweet notes of his familiar "babble of green fields," he brings in at times the cry of the curlew and the whistle of the plover. a breath of the sea there is, too, in the chatter of the starling on the roof above. the croak of the heron and the call of the whimbrel are common speech with him. and now he even imitates the creak of the cordage on the coasting smack swinging in the stream yonder, where two men are busy setting the old brown sails. from the cliffs that break the round swell of the hill a line of daws are streaming, eager, clamorous, on the wing for their hunting ground upon the moor. one troop has wheeled aside to alight among the boughs of a cherry-tree in a little walled-in space of garden at some distance from the house. the farmer, who has just appeared, with his milking-pail upon his shoulder, and who looks up to nod a friendly greeting, pauses a moment in the doorway to watch the marauders at their work, while the old sheep-dog waits wondering at his side. suddenly, far out on the moor, beyond the cattle that stand motionless, expectant, all looking this way, a tall figure looms out of the mist, and across the fields comes a strange cry: "leave your meadow grasses mellow, mellow, mellow; quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow." the old dog hears, and bounds forward to his work. but the sleek and sober herd, never turning their heads to look behind them, move slowly, as by common impulse, converging fanwise to the gate. men in white smocks, and with shining pails upon their backs, are striding through the meadows towards the farm. and all the while the milking call sounds at intervals across the fields:- "quit your pipes of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow; come uppe lightfoot, rise and follow; lightfoot, whitefoot, from your clovers lift the head." but along the side of the green headland that, beyond the old farm-buildings stretches a mile or more into the sea, silence still reigns, save for the sound of the waves, for the plaintive cry of a curlew or the clamour of a troop of gulls. when a gleam of sunshine breaks the grey veil of cloud, changing the sombre hues of the mud flats to warm tones of brown and purple, turning to gold the broad beach and the ragged sand-hills, birds, unseen before, start swiftly into view. here a tall curlew stalks solemnly along, erect and watchful. there an inky crow is picking dainty morsels from the ooze. and here a party of trim black-headed gulls have collected round some treasure trove left by the last tide. a troop of sandpipers sweeps along, now flashing in a hundred points of silver in the sunlight; now, as they wheel, all lost again in the brown hues of their haunts. as far as the eye can reach are scattered gulls, shieldrakes, oyster-catchers, rock-doves even, foraging by the edge of the water, falling back before the rising tide. but sounds of life are faint, even now. among the boulders pipits flit at times with feeble cries. and a brood of young kestrels lately fledged, sail and soar along the cliff farther on, and scream as if in defiance of the wind, against which their keen wings are beating. the rocky brows that overhang the shore are thick with grasses and sweet bedstraw, with flags and mullein, and tall evening primrose. in the crannies campion and sea-pink are rooted. here a yellow poppy trembles in the wind, and there a great cluster of samphire fills a rocky cleft. there are tufts of it quite low down, but it is a plant that always grows above high-water mark, and many a shipwrecked sailor, thrown ashore among the rocks, has taken heart again when, in the darkness, his despairing grasp has tightened on those strangely smelling leaves. it is st. peter's plant--saint pierre, sampier, samphire. now the shrill screaming of the kestrels rises louder still, the fierce cry of the old birds mingling with the plaintive clamour of their brood. now one of them, sweeping round the headland, poises a moment in the air, his wings motionless, his tail spread wide, his figure dark upon the western sky. slowly stooping, he alights on the crown of a rocky pinnacle, a crag that stands out from the cliff like the tower of some old stronghold; and, with feet spread wide, clutching with his strong claws the rifted rock, his head lowered to the wind, stands a splendid figure, as still as if he were the living rock. many a keen-eyed falcon has looked out over the sea from that high watch tower, round whose base wander grey arms of ivy, gnarled and wrinkled, centuries old. nor do hawks alone find sanctuary here. so quiet is this lonely shore, so complete its solitude, that among these cliffs even the raven and the peregrine are safe. in the shelter of a long line of sand-hills that centuries have heaped over the old sea-wall, there stands a solitary cottage. its brown eaves just peer over the dyke of sand. no window looks to seaward through its massy wall. it is close above high-water mark. often, on wild nights of winter, "the startled waves leap over it; the storm smites it with all the scourges of the rain, and steadily against its solid form press the great shoulders of the hurricane." close by it runs a belt of shingle, and, beyond, there stretches away to the brown sea a wide sweep of sand, on whose wet surface the heron and the curlew leave their traces, where whole armies of sandpipers weave a maze of tiny footprints. to them this barren shore is a land of plenty. this open beach is to them the very safest of sanctuaries. no wildfowler can get within range of them unobserved. their only foes are the herring-gull--the pirate of the sea--or the keen-eyed falcon that has his hold in yonder cliff. except at times of very high tides--even then only when accompanied by stormy weather--the sea never quite reaches to the sand-hills; but in summer especially, a mirage is occasionally seen on this wide beach,--a phantom sea, in whose smooth surface are reflected the jagged line of sand-hills, the church of the distant village, and the few houses scattered at far intervals along the coast. it is a fruitful plain, whose level meadows stretch away from the old farm, fading only on the far horizon. so low it lies that, were it not for yonder mounds of sand, whose jagged fringes line the coast for miles, the high october tides would often, when a strong wind is blowing, find their way among the hamlets far inland. many a time has the old wall given way; never, perhaps, with quite such dire results as in the great flood of 1607, when the salt water was twelve feet deep in villages five miles from the sea. thirty hamlets were overwhelmed. scores of unhappy villagers perished. so swift was the rush of the water that there was no chance of escape, and for many--in the words of a black-letter chap-book of the time, "their last refuge was patiently to die. cattle were drowned in droves. rabbits being driven out of their burroughes by the tyde, were seene to sit for safety on the backs of sheepe, as they swom up and downe, and at last were drowned with them.... deade bodies floate hourely above water, and are continually taken uppe. it cannot yet be knowne howe manye have fell in this tempest of god's fearful judgement." life here was not always quiet. the green slopes of the hill above are scarred all along with old earthworks, so defaced by plough and spade, so trampled down by men and cattle, so worn by the storms of untold centuries, that the eye can hardly trace their outlines in the smooth short sward. not even a tradition survives of the lost inhabitants whose rude pottery and flint arrow-heads the rabbits bring up among the red earth of their burrows. compared with this old hill fortress, the earthworks round the tower of the church yonder, the square lines of a roman camp, the last fort on the well-guarded road down which was brought metal from the mines among the hills, are works of yesterday. again and again this coast was wasted by the danes, who plundered not the hamlets by the shore alone, but villages twenty miles from the sea. victory was not always with the invaders. athelney is not far distant. ethandune was on that low line of hills to the southward. and in the very year of that crowning victory, a few miles farther down, "the brother of hingwar and halfdene came with twenty-three ships ... and he was there slain, and with him eight hundred and forty of his army, and there was taken the war-flag which they called the raven." by the river that loiters seaward under the blue hills across the bay, whose broad mouth shines like silver in the sun, still stands the green mound of hubbalowe, which the vikings piled over the ashes of the dead sea-rover. on every hill-top in the west country "the brake and the tufted grass are high on the low mounds where warriors lie." each point of vantage on the hills has its time-worn lines of old entrenchments. there is hardly a lofty crest but has had its cluster of green grave mounds. but of the builders there remains little but the shapes of their ruined strongholds, their rude pottery, and still ruder weapons, from which to build up our dim conjectures of what manner of men they were who held these hill tops against the arms of claudius and vespasian. even of the legionaries who forced their way thus far into the west, our knowledge has been gained by fragments. it is by accident that we have obtained our most vivid glimpses of their arts, their arms, their way of life. massive ingots of lead have from time to time been found in the fields or along the line of one or other of the old military roads, whose stamps showed clearly how soon, after the landing of claudius, the conquerors took possession of the mining country. again, when the plough struck on a stone coffin in a field remote from any sign of human occupation; and when further search revealed the ruins of a roman villa, with beautiful pavements still undisturbed, it was possible to guess, from the lettering of the coins which were strewn among broken amphor㦠and scraps of samian, the very year in which the house was last inhabited. many a hoard of silver pieces has been found among these hills, buried doubtless in some "dark hour of doubt and dread," to wait for better times that never came. many a time the labourer's spade has clashed on a rusted spear-head, a broken urn, a handful of denarii. at times even on "a tarnished ring, whose fiery gems, still on its circle set, from the far sands of indus brought, gleam through their setting, rudely wrought, as if the sky, their hues had caught, flamed in their glory yet." relics like these--a flint arrowhead, a fragment of pottery, a handful of denarii, a camp, a tumulus--eke out the scanty records of the time, the pages of asser, the meagre outlines of the saxon chronicle. hardly a point in all the landscape but is linked with some stirring memory. it was on the little island lying off the point here that githa found refuge after hastings. two years later all this shore was ravaged by the sons of harold; and in the domesday record, made eighteen years afterwards, we still can trace their handiwork in the lessened values of villages they had plundered. over and over again after the brief sketch of a hamlet, its list of boors and villeins, its corn and grass land, its mill, its fishpond--perhaps even its patch of vineyard--follow such words as these: "it was worth 100s., now only 60"; or "it was worth four pounds, now only 40 shillings." in the armada days--for half a century, indeed, before the sailing of "that great fleet invincible"--there stood, on the high ground across the river, according to a quaint map of the period, "the coste of england uppon seuerne," a tower, in which a gun was mounted, as a defence against invasion. not a stone remains of the tower which in king harry's time guarded the little port. but all this coast was armed and ready, years before the sailing of the armada, watching for the red glow on dawnsboro' that should call up the bold yeomen of the moors to face the "inquisition dogs, and the devildoms of spain." "the trewthe is," wrote the muster-master, in his report to the government--"after having vewed and trayned the nombers bothe of foote and horse twyce since my coming into this countie--the trewthe is, it is a most gallaunte contrey for the men, armor, and rediness." the authorities were constantly furnished with "certyffycathes," showing the numbers of duly qualified pikemen and archers. again and again were the justices urged to keep everything in readiness, since "the wings of man's life are plumed with the feathers of death"; and to train their men to meet any emergency, because "great dilatory wants are found upon all sudden hurly-burlies." early orders in council declared that any able-bodied man between seventeen and fifty-nine who should be found to "lacke a bowe and fower arrowes" was to be fined. later, in elizabeth's reign, more attention was paid to the use of firearms, and most minute instructions were issued from headquarters as to the training of marksmen. the musket was to be fired at first with priming only, then with half a charge, and finally, when the men were ready for it, the full amount of powder was to be used. this was with an eye to the right training of men who, "by reason of the churlishness of their pieces, and not being made acquainted therewith by degrees, are ever after so discouraged as either they wincke or pull their heades from the piece, whereby they take no perfect level, but shoot at random, and so never prove good shottes." among the seaweed on the bank of shingle by the cottage all kinds of strange things are found--palm wood, long bamboos, seeds from the west indies, sabots, children's toys. once even a clock was washed up on the beach. a few months since the sands were strewn with parts of carriages from the wreck of a vessel that was carrying railway plant to south america. as you stand in the little garden, whose broad edges are none too good protection for it against the wind, you will notice that everything about the place has a touch of this sombre local colouring. every piece of woodwork is part of a wreck. there is not a hinge or a bolt, hardly a nail even that did not come out of some ship's fittings. the posts on which the garden gate is hung are pieces of a mast. the gate itself is made of planks that have been picked up on the sand. mahogany panels from the saloon of some steamship have been worked into the walling of the garden shed. no coal is ever needed here. a little peat is all that is wanted. the sea brings an endless store of firewood almost to the door. too often, alas! the ebbing tide leaves yet sadder jetsam on the shore--white, still figures, lying face down on the yellow sand; to be lifted reverently, perhaps, but yet by stranger hands, and committed with brief rites to the corner of the ancient burial-ground on the headland yonder, where "the little grey church on the windy hill" stands among the green graves of centuries, roofless, dismantled, and forlorn. [illustration: moorland near the sea.] the country life. the man who can look back over thirty years of rural life, of life spent among woods and meadows, has doubtless learnt something at least of the ways of the wild creatures of his district, of its beasts and birds, of its reptiles, and fish, and insects, even of forms of life still lower in the scale. in the works of nature, her lovers find a never-failing charm. there is no book like hers, as we read it in green field and country lane, in copse, and stream, and hedge-row. there is no voice like hers, as we hear it in the sounds of the wood, in the sounds of the sea, in the sounds of the night. no poet ever breathed such songs. no writer of romance has ever woven such tales of mystery and wonder. there are few of us probably who, looking back on the country life of our early days, would not be ready to admit that among its pursuits and pleasures, many and various as they were, the art and craft of birds'-nesting stood supreme. it is a pursuit that has a charm peculiarly its own. it may be that, in the days of our youth, the love of having and holding was one chief motive; a love that some of us have not shaken off yet, though perhaps, it is lavished on more useful things. even the lust of plunder and destruction may have had its weight with us, as we feel sure it has with the village children. not every nest-robber, it is true, is really a lover of nature. but the birds'-nester who is a naturalist born soon wakens, not only to the beauty, but to the significance, of his fragile treasures. perhaps few young collectors pay much conscious attention to the construction of the nest, or notice how skilfully its materials are made to harmonise with its surroundings, or see how wonderfully some eggs are protected by their colouring. but his would be a dull soul on whom these things did not, sooner or later, make some impression. there are some birds'-nesters who are no longer young--no longer able to climb a tree or ford a river, to whom, year after year, the season of nests brings new delight; to whom the exquisite workmanship of the chaffinch seems each year more wonderful than ever, and in whose eyes the blue of a song-thrush's egg will never lose its charm. these two nightjars' eggs, for example, are exquisitely beautiful, with their soft shades of brown and grey, veined like some rare marble. but as you look at them you think less of their beauty than of the moment when, in the corner of the old orchard, the bird got up, almost under your feet, and you watched it sail away to one of the fir-trees in the hedge-row, and crouch down on a low branch to watch your movements. then, looking down, you saw, on the bare earth, these eggs, so near that another step would have crushed them. this is only a magpie's egg, but the date on it reminds you of that stiff climb up the giant fir-tree in the coppice, when for want of a box to carry them in, you had to bring your spoil down in your cap held between your teeth; while the farmer below shouted encouragingly: "bring 'em all, sir; doã¤n't 'ee leave none on 'em. i doã¤n't want none o' they varmint on my ground." here is a kestrel's egg on which there is a date written, and a name--the name of a once-familiar hill-top. as you look, the scene of long ago comes back. it was an early morning in may. the dew lay heavy on the bracken, whose stout young fronds joined hands across the path. and as you paused on the hill slope and looked back, you saw how all the upland pastures, and the broad meadow lands below, were glistening in the light of the just risen sun. through the grey haze that veiled the distance showed, faintly and more faint, range after range of low blue hills, with white hamlets glimmering here and there. the light of sunrise had just caught the windows of the old manor house on the slope, some mile away, and they flashed and flamed like fire. the grey cliffs above you had the flush of dawn upon their storm-worn steeps, and the light air tossed the leaves of the wayfaring trees rooted in the crannies, till they glittered like blades of silver. among the elms about the farmstead, on the knoll below, sounded the uneasy chatter of a magpie. a crow was flying leisurely up to his fastness in the clump of old scotch firs on the low hill-top. from a belt of coppice further down there rose at intervals, above the low sweet notes of the warblers, the clear call of a cuckoo. overhead a woodlark drifted in vast circles, singing as he flew. when at length you gained the hill crest, you heard the challenge of a black-cock. over the wide pasture the lapwings were calling. now they wheeled across the pale blue heaven, now they swooped swiftly almost to the ground, turning over and over in the air. now one flew by, so near that you saw clearly the long plume upon his glossy head, and heard the musical throb of his strong wings sounding loud in the quiet morning air. as you paused on the short turf close to the brow of the cliff, and looking down once more, saw your shadow falling on the young corn of the ploughed land far below, a hawk dashed out from the cliff below you, and then, staying its swift course, hovered a moment in mid air, while the sunshine lighted up its rich brown plumage. as you peered over the brink of the cliff there were no signs of a nest. but a tall sapling rooted in a ledge some ten feet below looked safe to hold by. cautiously you slid over the edge, and dropped within reach of the branches, and so, from ledge to ledge, you climbed slowly down, holding on by points of rock or tufts of grass, or stems of ivy, until--yes, there, at your feet, in an arched crevice of the cliff, on a little earth, with no sort of nest, lay the four exquisite eggs, whose radiant beauty--so much richer five-and-twenty years since--seemed to your enraptured gaze to light up the little hollow. as you stooped to take one of them in your hand--how warm it was--and clung there, gloating over the beauty of your treasure, the old hawk hovered near, sounding at times her wild cry of anger and alarm, answered far off by her fierce mate, hurrying homeward on his swift, keen wings. it is not given to all alike to be able to appreciate the true pleasure of a country walk. it is a thing that many of us prize, and that even more of us long for. and yet there are some people, really fond of walking, to whom it seems to make little difference whether their road goes evenly along the queen's highway, and is hemmed in by straight stone walls, or loiters through winding by-ways, under banks crowned with straggling hedge-rows, overhung with sheltering elms. there are those who take their weekly tramp, and who say they like it best so, on sunday, through the monotonous dreariness of london streets. to them a country walk, with its possible mud, and with its certain solitude and tameness, is, at least in fancy, flat and stale and altogether profitless. it is largely a matter of training. we may learn to love bricks and mortar and the traffic of the town more than the quiet of woods and meadows, and the companionship of the everlasting hills. but there are others who cannot breathe amid the stir and noise and money-grubbing fever of the city; to whom the air of the open country is the elixir of life; who love its restful quietude, and who, at each turn along the favourite path, look for some old friend, some familiar bird, or flower, or insect. with those who are really fond of rural life, other things have weight besides the mere landscape, besides the beauty of the view or the exhilaration of the keen air of the hill-tops. the charm of woodland walk, of river path, of quiet lanes, or of lonely places in the hills, is increased a hundredfold by some knowledge of rural sights and sounds. a power to recognise the songs of birds, some acquaintance with insect life, a little plant lore, a little knowledge of rocks and fossils--in a word, some tincture of natural history--combine to make a ramble in the country one of the best things that life can offer us. this love of nature is again largely a matter of training. schoolboys, as a race, are strangely slow at first to see plants, or shells, or fossils. but the young birds'-nester, for instance, whose first motive was, it may be, nothing nobler than the lust of having and holding, the love of plunder, or even the savage pleasure of destruction, may soon be trained to see the meaning of the shape and tints and markings of the eggs; not only to appreciate the beauty of the nest and the skill with which it was put together, but to learn in time the song of the builder and to know something of its habits. the butterfly hunter may be taught to recognise not merely the beauty of his captives, but to see something of those marvellous devices by which nature hides caterpillar and chrysalis, and even perfect insect, from prying eyes. the boy who has acquired a love for natural history has something to be thankful for, all the days of his life, a possession that may be the means of bringing more comfort to his soul than all the wisdom of the ancients. of no man can it be so truly said as of the naturalist that he "finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." it is true enough that, to most men, a knowledge of flowers or fossils, of insect life or of the habits of birds, will bring no return in hard cash. but there are other things in life besides a balance at the banker's. and a love of art is not more lucrative, or a taste for music or for books. there are people who, if they would, might do much to aid the study of natural history; people whose avocations take them much into the open air, and who have opportunities which some of us long for in vain. the fisherman, the keeper, the shepherd, and the farm labourer might, if they could be won over to take interest in such things, contribute not a little to our knowledge of the life history of even the most familiar of animals. fishermen along the coast see things sometimes the description of which rouses envy in the breasts of less fortunate listeners. not long since a man was rowing out to his nets in the early morning just outside the bar of a small tidal river in the west country, when he saw a raven sweeping slowly along the hill-slope near by--the grassy side of a long promontory stretching far out into the sea, muttering to itself at times with that deep voice that, happily, is still familiar to the long-shore dwellers on that coast. suddenly the bird paused, and with swift descent swooped down among the brown heather and the stunted bushes of the hill, seizing in its strong claws a hare that had been lying crouched among the herbage. but the bird was too late in using its beak or else missed its stroke altogether, for in a moment the hare and the raven, locked fast together, rolled over and over, kicking, struggling, flapping down the rough slope below; until the bird, dismayed by such an unwonted experience and the buffeting of the rocks and broken ground, let go its hold. the hare was on its feet and had vanished like a flash, while the baffled raven, rising slowly in the air, sailed reluctantly away. the naturalist is not now, even in country districts, looked upon quite in the same light as he once was--but one degree removed from the state of lunatic. the old order of things, the prejudice, the bigotry, the superstition of half a century ago has to a great degree disappeared. there are many english parishes still without a railway; there is none probably without a newspaper. the presence of a single naturalist, parson or village doctor, or what not, has been known, like the little leaven that leaveneth the whole lump, to rouse a real interest among the neighbours in birds and beasts and even insects. a man's reputation for being fond of strange creatures may perhaps be laughed at, at first, and perhaps be always a little looked down on. but by degrees, very slow it may be, the influence spreads. the keeper brings him a strange bird, the labourer a nest of dormice found in stubbing up a hedge-row, or a clutch of quails' eggs he has come upon among the clover. the old mole catcher, too, is a very mine of stories about the strange beasts he has seen in his sixty years' experience. one of his most wonderful tales is about the great snake--"more 'n _that_ long,"--a matter of five feet or so,--which he killed as it was sucking the milk of a cow: "and" as he will add triumphantly, "there were more 'n a pint of milk in him":--the crushed eggs of the unfortunate reptile no doubt, but it is altogether useless to suggest any such paltry explanation. one autumn a boy at work among the potatoes turned up with his spade something that instantly, so he declared, became a bird and flew away. the boy ran home in horror. his parents would not believe a word of the story, but the boy was too big to be flogged as a mere liar. they were greatly relieved on learning that something of the kind was at least possible, and regarded with no little interest a death's head hawkmoth, for such no doubt the apparition was, preserved in a collection. [illustration: a west country mole catcher.] the change from egg to caterpillar is a thing with which every rustic is probably familiar; but in remote rural districts there are still men who cannot believe that a caterpillar can ever become a butterfly, and who still entertain strange superstitions about toads and snakes and slow worms. perhaps in time the county councils may do something for the rustic enlightenment, by means of lectures and the limelight. the rural population is, however, notoriously hard of belief; is the most difficult of all populations to move from the faiths of their fathers. there is many a farmer's wife even yet who will labour with the churn from morning till night,--lamenting all the while that the butter will not come,--rather than by the use of a thermometer so regulate the temperature that the whole process would be over in half-an-hour. a series of lectures lately given in somersetshire on the management of farm stock was, however, well attended by the younger farmers at any rate. they were keenly interested, and although they may, perhaps, have mostly adjourned afterwards to discuss each discourse at the public-house, it was not as sceptics; and the local ironmonger always found it necessary to lay in a stock of thermometers as soon as the lectures had begun. the older men mostly kept aloof. they had no faith in any new-fangled ways. they are a stiff-necked generation. as their fathers did, so do they. one burly, red-faced farmer of the old school was lately heard to express his contempt for the educational efforts of the county council. "what be the use," said he, "of wasting the public money sending round men to talk about a dairy as don't know a cow from a elephant? and these yar cook'ry classes. 'tis my belief that if a man have got summat to cook, he'll soon find out how to cook un." with a few popular lectures and a little practical help and guidance the farmer and the farm labourer might render untold service to science, with all their long hours in the open air, summer and winter, seedtime and harvest. they see some strange things now, or think they see them. snakes are the theme of many marvellous tales. "i were walking along the path through the wheat," said an old villager, "when i heard a rustling, like a robbut: i thought 'twere a robbut. but a gurt viper come out of the wheat and jumped across the path so high's my head." a captive tortoise escaped one day into the road, and was soon the centre of a knot of astonished villagers. after long debate they concluded it was either "a tremendous gurt tooad, or some wendimous warmint"; and they decided to kill it on the spot--a task of no small difficulty, as may well be imagined. [illustration: a quiet corner.] hale well: a quiet corner. on the south slope of an old west country orchard there is a sheltered corner lying open to the sun. above it rises a broad, unkempt, straggling hedge-row--holly and hawthorn, bramble and sweetbriar--and behind this again the green slopes of the hill. on the left, rising at intervals through the tangled thickets that form the eastern limit of the orchard, is a line of old scotch firs, and beyond them, dimly seen through the haze that broods over the landscape, are the grey ramparts of a range of limestone cliffs. the wind of march is in the dark foliage of the firs, tossing their gnarled arms against the pallid sky. but here the golden blossoms of the gorse, the brown stems of last year's bracken, stand unmoved. the dark firs are stirring with a sound as of the sea, but here, on this sunlit slope, is the very air of summer, "... the grace, the golden smile of june, with bloom and sun in every place, and all the world in tune." butterflies flit idly by--dark-winged peacocks, soft brown tortoise-shells, pale yellow brimstones like flying gleams of sunshine. the apple boughs are fretted all over with fine points of green, the purple mist round the heads of the great elms deepens in the warm air, the old hedge-row wears already the bright garb of spring. the air is full of spring time, of the breath of primroses and violets, full of pleasant sounds of country life, of the wakening of the world, of the happy voices of a hundred birds, whose glad hearts are revelling in the golden weather. the birds know well this sunny hollow. here spring comes early, and summer lingers late. while the fields without are white with wintry rime, "... here the glancing sunbeams throng, and tasselled larches droop to hear a grace of fleeting song." to-day, on every side, the feathered woodlanders are stirring. from an old scotch fir that towers out of the hedge-row--its dark shape showing like a shadow through the leafless boughs of the apple-trees--falls the rich music of a blackbird's song, clear and wild and flute-like. he is a noble singer; less great, indeed, than the song-thrush, but yet a master of his art. and there are those who hold that there is more beauty in the depth and richness, in the power and passion, of his few brief bars, than in all the magnificent anthem of his rival. farther off, low down in a leafless elm by the border of the orchard, is the thrush himself, flooding the whole glade with his wonderful melody. over and over there sounds the polished lyric of the wren; over and over again the metallic clink of a coaltit rings out above the plaintive carol of the robin, the sober ditty of the hedge-sparrow. over all the fields the larks are singing. in the hedges that skirt the orchard sounds the sweet cadence of the chaffinch, the wild warble of the missel-thrush, at times the ringing call of some light-hearted oxeye. from farther up the hollow, from his sanctuary in the old, neglected wilderness of unpruned, lichen-coated trees, floats down the soft laugh of a woodpecker, a mellow sound, a note of peace and solitude, and sylvan greenness. is it only fancy that here, among these hills, in this sweet country air, among these untarnished immemorial elms, there is more melody in the skylark's song, that there is a finer tone in the cool, clear singing of the robin, that there is a touch of music in the chatter of the very sparrows? but hark, a fainter note floats lightly down from the tree-tops; a note not strong or musical, but heard through all the blended harmonies of a score of singers. it is the call of the chiff-chaff, the first returning wanderer from the warm south, fresh from the orange groves of sorrento, or the sunny slopes of the sabine hills. when his small figure shows presently against the dark foliage of a scotch fir, there is that about him which seems to suggest that he is well content with his home-coming, even though woods are bare and skies are cheerless. he flutters up and down among the branches, never still for a moment. even when he pauses,--looking like a point of light against the sombre leaves behind him,--to call his own name over and over, it is easy to see that his whole small figure is trembling with the ardour of his eager little soul. a tiny figure, and a simple song. but there is more of meaning in those few faint notes than in all the rest of the great chorus that day by day is gathering strength in the woodland. for in the chiff-chaff's call there is the promise of spring. it is said that when the siberian exiles hear for the first time, after their long and bitter winter, the cry of the cuckoo, the familiar voice rouses in their weary souls a resistless longing to taste once more, if only for a day, the sweets of freedom; that there are always some who, at the summons, elude the vigilance of their guards, and take to the forest, lured by the magic of that wandering voice. and so, in our hearts, this feeble note rouses a longing for green fields and country lanes, for flowers and sunshine, for summer and the coming of the swallows. somewhere in the elms a nuthatch sounds at intervals his flute-like call--a wandering voice, now among the topmost branches, whose sunlit purple holds so well against the pallid blue, now near the ground, now in some mighty bough that leans far out over the field. now the bird's figure shows darkly on the sky, and now, as he glides head foremost down, like the born acrobat that he is, his grey plumage lights up for a moment in the sunshine. and now he leaves the tree, still calling as he flies, and sinks down among that grey fringe of orchard, where his mate and he have, perhaps, already fixed on the hole in the old apple tree in which they mean to take up their quarters for the season. the old hedge-rows round the orchard are but wintry still for the most part, save for a few buds of hawthorn just breaking into leaf, or an elder bush already tinged with green. but on the banks of the tiny stream that wanders leisurely along the lane below, celandine and sweet violet are in bloom; and primroses, no longer pale and stunted, as in the rougher days of march, lend their rare perfume to the air. meadowsweet and brooklime are springing by the oozy shore, and on the dark boughs of the alders that lean over it the catkins cluster thick. in a blackthorn bush, whose armed sprays are lightly touched with blossom as with new fallen snow, two wrens alight; two tiny figures, mere balls of brown feather, so near that every line of the wavy, shell-like marking on their backs is plain to see. now one of them, poised on a briar stem, breaks suddenly into song, turning from side to side, his wings parted, his atom of a tail expanded to the full. the brief lyric ended, he flies down to join his mate, who waits demurely in the bush below, and for a minute or two they flutter and play, and whisper to each other soft notes of fond endearment--the sweetest bit of love-making imaginable. farther on, in a young oak tree in the hedge-row, two blackbirds have alighted. not lovers, nothing like it, paying no manner of heed to each other's presence. one of them flies down--a splendid figure, with his new black coat, with the bright golden orange of his bill. instantly the other is down too, in front of him. a moment they stand thus, motionless. then, with loud notes of challenge, they tilt headlong at each other, beaks down, wings and tail spread wide, their whole dark plumage rough with rage. again and again they meet in the shock of battle, rushing each on the other's weapon, rising at last into the air, fluttering and fighting, the snapping of their bills heard plainly fifty yards away. five minutes only the conflict lasts. more than one historic field has been lost and won in time as brief. it is all over. the victor stands alone upon the grass. his beaten rival is in full flight far down the hedge-row. a moment later the queen of beauty, who from her perch among the blackthorns has watched the tournament unseen, flies down to the hero of her choice. it is the old story; a tale far older than the days of thais--"none but the brave, none but the brave, none but the brave deserves the fair." here in this happy valley there has not been, for weeks past, one clouded hour. march has shown, all through, the temper of the lamb; nor now, in his last hours, does he show signs of changing mood. to seaward it is true the haze deepens to a cold grey fog, and the sullen booming of the distant fog guns is sounding faintly, at intervals, even now. on the hill the lapwings are calling, their plaintive voices softened by the distance, and at times their dark figures show against the pale blue sky, as they rise and fall above the limestone cliffs that skirt the hill. yonder crow, drifting up the slope, keeping low down, as if fearing to be seen, is making for his fastness among the fir-trees on the hill-crest higher up. he may well keep out of sight. only last week two lambs were found in a field near the crow's nest, dying, with their eyes torn out. and the magpie, chuckling now and then in doubtful tone, somewhere at the foot of the orchard, has here a reputation almost as much blown upon. terrible fellows, both of them, in lambing time or in the poultry yard. but they have been working hard and honestly enough all the rest of the year. some people seem to think that the destruction of a chicken or two, or the theft of a few eggs, far outweighs a whole year of good deeds--the slaughter of unnumbered grubs, wire-worms, mice, and beetles. at regular intervals, a few seconds apart, there sounds from a tall ash tree in the hollow the drone of a greenfinch, monotonous and unmusical. was there ever such a drowsy sound? and yet when he breaks off presently in a stave of his own wild song, his voice is one of the sweetest of sweet sounds, a light and breezy ripple of love and sun and happiness. pleasant, too, are the notes of the chaffinches that flit in and out of the hedgerow. and never surely was there sweeter blackbird's song than that wild lyric sounding now among the trees that overhang the well. in the top of the great elm that leans over the orchard stile there is such a chorus of tongues, such a babel of linnet and blackbird, of sparrow and jackdaw, with intervals of untuneful chattering, whistling, piping, that you fancy twenty performers at the least. but it is only a starling telling all the world in his quaint way of his joy in this unwonted sunshine. now he breaks off into the song of a swallow, copied from the life. he may have heard it this very morning. or it may be merely that the impulse of the spring time rouses in his heart a memory of the long absent wanderer, just as on rough days of autumn you may hear him mock the curlew's cry because the wind is roaring like the sea. a very real note of spring is the hum of that burly bumble-bee sailing along the hedge-row in search of some convenient hollow, some abandoned mouse-hole it may be, in which to build her nest. her nest, not his, or theirs. she has no mate. he died in the autumn, and on her alone devolves the labour of rearing the new generation. among the stones that years of patient toil have heaped under this straggling hedge-row, the long-hidden slaves of nature are broad awake and busy, revelling in the brightness of these delightful days. a crowd of insects, flies, and bees, and beetles are coming out of their long hiding to sun their stiffened limbs. butterflies flit lightly down the hedge-row, some newly waked from sleep, and some that have but just broken the dry husk of their chrysalis condition, and are spreading for the first time their beautiful wings. to the lover of the sights and sounds of nature, life has few better things to offer than a quiet hour, some bright spring morning, under the shadow of a green arch of blossomed boughs, in company with gentle, beautiful, sweet-voiced poets of the air, glad, like him, in the sunshine and the fragrance. is it a mere flight of fancy that the feathered architects, no less than the ballad singers, of this out-of-the-way corner of the world are masters of their art above the birds of less favoured regions? look at this chaffinch's nest, cradled in the end of an apple-bough, so dexterously woven in among the twigs in which it rests, so daintily touched with silvery points of lichen, so perfect a harmony with its surroundings that one might well fancy it had grown there, some strange product of the tree. while just above it, an apple bough in bloom, the rich gold of clustered stamens just showing through the white and pink of still half-open flowers, lends the crowning touch of beauty. few birds, perhaps, have employed more curious decoration than a pair of hedge sparrows, who, this spring, attached to their nest with strands of bass a label, bearing in large letters the legend, "early english." in a crevice of the old wall, just outside the orchard, is the work of another master-builder, a wren. the dry grass and skeleton leaves of its framework match exactly with the weather-worn and lichen-stained masonry about it. and slender sprays of ivy, clinging to the rough surface of the stone, spread round it their beautiful young leaves. another wren's nest, in an old stump, just filling a space among great grey ivy stems, is built wholly of moss, so fresh and green, so true a copy of the natural growths on the dead wood, that the eye would hardly have discovered it, had not the little architect itself betrayed it. but there is a third wren's nest, in the old cart-shed in the corner of the orchard, that surpasses even these. it is built of dry grass, in the straw of the thatch, framed by the rough rafters, and around it, and over it, there hang down as if to hide it the threshed-out ears that have been left upon the straw. and within the small round entrance is the builder's tiny head, her bright eyes showing plainly in the ring of shadow. wrens are among the shyest and most fastidious of birds. many a one has abandoned her nest, and all the eggs in it, because some curious passer-by has touched it in her absence, never so gently. but this one, as if confiding in the honour of her visitors, sits on unmoved. there is a ringdove's nest quite low down in a holly tree in the orchard hedge, and not only will the bird allow you to stand beneath and watch her, but when, a few days since, a ladder was placed against the tree, she waited until she was within arm's reach before she left her nest. she made a fine picture as she sat there, proudly unconscious of the intruders, not even deigning to turn her head to look at them, the soft lavender of her beautiful plumage relieved by the clouding of white feathers on her neck. at length she could bear it no longer. she went crashing off through the holly twigs, her great wings clattering as she flew. so shallow and insecure was the frail platform on which she had been sitting, that her sudden start threw one of her two nestlings over the side. it was handed up again, apparently none the worse for its adventure; and the two youngsters crouched trembling in the slight hollow; two blind, helpless, hideous, evil-looking little creatures; a whole world of difference between them and the stately, fearless bird who, a minute before, had covered them with the shadow of her wings. more fearless still is a blue-tit that has her dwelling in a crevice in the wall some fifty yards further on. it is a tiny hole, and the nest is far in, but you can see her sitting there, her pretty head and one of her bright eyes just showing over the mossy rim. she is not in the least shy of being looked at. indeed, if you touch her nest with a straw she will spar at it and hiss, making a noise for all the world like the spitting of an angry kitten, even coming to the door to storm at the intruder, but without the least idea of leaving her unprotected offspring to his mercy. but other tenants of the hollow revel in the sunshine besides the birds and the bees and the butterflies. these straggling hedge-rows are the haunt of finch and blackbird. crow and magpie and squirrel hide their homes among the thick foliage of the firs. nightjars love this quiet corner, and the nuthatch and the wryneck find sanctuary in the hollows of the trees. but the stony bank along the hedge, sweet now with violets, and strewn with stars of celandine spreading wide their golden petals to the sun, is of all spots the viper's favourite haunt. all along the bank and far in among the thickets are heaped fragments of red sandstone that by slow degrees have been cleared from these sterile pastures. the sun is on them from dawn till sunset. they are quite hot to the touch. here, then, the viper loves to lie, warming his cold heart upon the heated stone. on a day like this he is wide awake, quick in his movements, and off like a flash, especially if once alarmed. slowly, silently, with stealthy steps must you approach his haunt. there he is, loosely coiled against a flat slab of sandstone, his cold, unwinking eye set in a fixed stare, looking straight this way. the broad zigzag stripe along his back is boldly drawn on the pale brown of his coat. plain even at this distance is the v-like mark upon his head. but he has begun to move. before you can reach him he has vanished among the stones. there is nothing for it but to sit down a few yards away, hidden by a dwarf blackthorn bush, and wait patiently for his re-appearing. how quiet it all is. the hamlet on the hill-slope yonder- "one of those little places that have run half up the hill beneath a burning sun, and then sat down to rest, as if to say, 'i climb no further upward, come what may'"-looms faintly through the haze. the white houses scattered through the valley melt away into the mist. but the sun is still warm. the cones of the old firs crackle in the sunshine. still sweeter grows the faint perfume of the gorse, still more beautiful its radiant gold. a bullfinch settles in a tree hard by. there is no colour in nature more beautiful than the exquisite flush of crimson on his breast. quite in keeping with his beauty is the soft sweetness of the tender love note that now and then he whispers to his mate, who, in colours far less bright than his, sits just below him on a lichened apple bough. hark! a faint sound among the dry brambles on the bank, a long rustle, and then through the blackthorn stems the slender shape of the viper glides softly down to the warm stones. here he comes, gliding boldly from his harbour in the bank. his brown mail glistens in the sun, his red eyes glance swiftly right and left, his long tongue flickers through his fast shut lips. he coils his long body round between two stones, whose warm red seems warmer still to-day, fitting himself comfortably in the angle of the stones, there he lies motionless. small beetles creep over him unseen and unregarded. he pays no heed when a butterfly settles close by him to sun its splendid wings. but he is broad awake. now move slowly towards the spot. some sound startles him. he lifts his head and gives a swift glance this way. he is going. twitch him out on the grass with your stick, hold him down a moment, and then, watching your opportunity, take him up by the tail. an angry beast he is, hissing and struggling, making vain attempts to reach his captor's hand. he can only lift his head a few inches, and there is no fear at all of his doing any harm. there is no doubt about the harm he can do. a viper's bite, especially in hot weather, is painful enough, though seldom dangerous. but the farmer who comes up at this moment eyes the captive with grim satisfaction. heifers, he says, are often bitten, even horses. "doã¤n't 'ee let un go," he adds anxiously; "i doã¤n't like none o' they beasts about." [illustration: the greenwood tree.] the greenwood tree. it is a very blaze of sunshine that fills the open spaces of the wood. the tall ash saplings that join hands across the path, now almost lost among the briar sprays, the trailing woodbine, and the long arms of wandering bryony, sway slowly in the hot and heavy air. but the stir of the leaves that flutter lightly overhead, their green lacework all dark against the summer sky, is a restful, soothing sound. it is a pleasant relief to turn aside a little from the pathway, to wade breast high through the green jungle of the underwood to a little place out of the sunshine, a hollow walled half way round by a line of low grey rocks, almost hidden by thick tapestries of ivy. two noble trees that stand on either side, two stately spanish chestnuts, spread their arms over it, as if in benediction. overhead, their "... dark foliage interweaves in one unbroken roof of leaves. underneath whose sloping eaves the shadows hardly move." a cool and quiet spot. like the poet who found it pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, "to see the tumult and not feel the stir," we too, from the kindly shadow of these great chestnut trees, can look out on the woodland in its pride of summer glory, with its flowers and its fragrance and its greenness, nor feel the heat and glare and the pitiless weight of the sunshine. day after day, week after week, there has been "... that nameless splendour everywhere that makes the passers in the city street congratulate each other as they meet." yet perhaps the full beauty of such weather, its wealth of flowers and foliage, its abundance of bird and insect life, above all its half-tropic heat, is for the country rather than the town. among stone walls and pavements summer days are too often weariness, and summer nights but stifling. in the country the glare of noon is tempered by cool winds, softened by grass and foliage. there, too, the hot air of night is sweetened with the breath of honeysuckle and jasmine; and through wide open windows the scent of the roses floats up to us "like sweet thoughts in a dream." if the town is close and sultry, woodland and green lane are at their best and sweetest. in the country at any rate- "there is no price set on the lavish summer, and june may be had by the poorest comer." though the flowers of may have passed into a proverb, it is june after all that gives to the fields and by ways their crowning grace and beauty. may draped all the trees with fresh young foliage, deepened april's mist of bluebells, and whitened the hedge-rows with blossoming hawthorn. may was a month of broad effects and lavish colouring. here she silvered a whole field with daisies, as with a light fall of snow. and here, like a cunning alchemist, she changed with her buttercups the green of a rich pasture-land to a blaze of living gold. but there is yet more of beauty in the fields of june. even in the tropics, travellers tell us, there is nothing so superbly beautiful as an english midsummer meadow--whether an upland pasture, with its hawkweed and lotus, its scented grasses and sweet clover blooms; or a low-lying field along some loitering stream, where, in the swampy soil, among the tasselled sedges, spring fiery spikes of orchis, foamy meadow-sweet, and tall flower-de-luce. if june is the most flowery of months, may is certainly the most musical. the days are drawing near when there will settle on the green world of woods and lanes and meadows the silence of the summer. the grey dawn is still almost as full as ever of sweet sounds. the songs of thrush and blackbird are still glorious in the evening twilight. wren and robin still sing to us at intervals from dawn to sunset. but through the long hours of daylight we miss already the notes of many a wandering singer, for whom june is the limit of the season. already the cuckoo's voice is breaking. we have but another week, at the farthest, of the nightingale's song. his is a superb and matchless melody. many a time, it is true, have the notes of thrush or blackcap, or even of sedge-warbler, been mistaken for it. sweet singers, all of them. yet it is strange that anyone who has ever fairly listened to the chief of song could confuse with his magnificent strains the note of the most musical of thrushes. but it is to singers less skilled and less famous than the nightingale that the woodland owes its greatest charm: light wingã¨d dryads of the trees, without whose songs and call notes, and mere life and movement, the lover of nature thinks that "summer is not summer, nor can be." the willow-warbler's song, a little careless cadence of soft notes that at intervals seems to filter lightly down among the branches, is the very soul of sunshine and sweet air. the wood wren's call is like no other sylvan sound. its plaintive, long-drawn, monotonous notes, often growing louder towards the close, are sometimes so sonorous and far-reaching that it is hard to credit they can come from so diminutive a singer. his actual song is a little gush of simple notes again and again repeated, from his perch on the end of some leafless bough high up among the trees. it is not remarkable for melody, though now and then there is a very real touch of sweetness in it, and after the first rather deliberate beginning it is so hurried as to give the listener the impression that the bird is trying to crowd twenty notes into a single beat. the whitethroat is another hasty singer, but he has a greater gift of music, and his manner of singing--sometimes taking short flights into the air the while, and then diving back into the thicket--his quick movements, the almost luminous whiteness of his swelling throat, rank him among the most charming of woodlanders. yet his haunt is rather on the skirts of the wood than in the heart of it. he is still more a roadside singer, and greatly given to building his frail nest of grass in the thorny depths of some old hedge-row, or even among the nettles on the bank. but of all the sylvan minstrels the blackcap has, after the nightingale, the most silvery tongue, and we hear so much more of him in the country generally--not only is he more widely distributed, but he sings again when his brood are fledged and flown, which the nightingale never does--that to most of us he is much the more familiar, perhaps we might even say he is more highly prized than the acknowledged chief of song himself. watch him now, before household cares have for the time taken up all his care and attention. see him balanced, with his breast of tender grey, his black crest slightly lifted, on a spray of briar that, swaying underneath his weight, trembles with the energy of his wild and mellow notes--now clear and loud, and reaching, it may be, far beyond the limits of the wood; now tender and soft and low, and low and lower yet, until at a yard's distance hardly heard. a beautiful song. a song that to white of selborne, as doubtless to many a nature lover since his day, always brought back with its wild sweetness the lines of amien's song: "under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me and turn his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat: come hither, come hither, come hither." a bird flies into the tree near by. a blue-tit, smartest of his race. he stands a moment on the edge of a hole in the level bough, looks round twice, then dives in and disappears. and out of that stronghold of his, snugly lined with moss, and hair, and feathers, he will not stir for you or any man. but yonder is a figure, in a tree some twenty yards away, from which perhaps even the bold blue-tit would fly in terror. a lithe brown creature is climbing leisurely out of a hole high up in the trunk--a weasel, searching for eggs, no doubt. up the tree he goes, more lightly even than a squirrel, right to the very topmost branches. now down he comes again, head first, and makes his way to another tree. as he canters lightly through the long grass he pauses now and then to rear on his hind legs and peer sharply round over the green jungle, looking for the moment, quite bird-like. two more trees he climbs, searching every likely spot among the boughs, prying into every hole and cranny--clearly a birds'-nester born. a master of woodcraft, too, for when you move nearer for a better view, he vanishes. he is there all right, lying close behind some branch, no doubt; but he is as completely screened from sight as if he wore the magic cap of perseus. he is a tiny figure at the most. the birds take no notice of him. the yellow-hammer goes on with his sleepy tune, and the greenfinch in the elm above him with his yet sleepier drawl, while a linnet in the tree near by sings undisturbed his sweet and dainty song, that in itself is like a gleam of sunshine. the whole woodland is astir with life and movement and sweet sounds of song. look at that bullfinch yonder, balanced on a spray of woodbine, that swings lightly beneath his weight. leaning forward a little, with his black head turned slightly on one side, he picks off, as if in pure mischief, the dainty tufts that cluster on the branches near him, while the ruined leaves fall in a very shower. a beautiful figure. there is not in nature a hue more lovely than the exquisite flush of crimson on his breast. close by him, as if by way of foil to his perfect beauty, sit two sober-clad companions, dull and grey and colourless, yet to the full as mischievous as he. sunny spaces in the wood are filled with hovering insects, whose tiny figures rise and fall like motes in the warm air; beetles for the most part, not flies; small, black, long-bodied beetles, the very same that give us such annoyance by getting in our eyes in the twilight. butterflies cross and recross the clearing--some so brilliant in their whiteness that they almost suggest yet brighter gleams of sunshine. some, again, are dark and sombre, and like patches of moving shadow. now one brave in black and scarlet flashes past. now one on wings of golden brown sails leisurely along. and some there are, small, sylph-like figures, that float lightly by, as blue as the unclouded heaven overhead. some moths, too, are abroad, even at this hour and in this fierce sunshine--moths clad in the very softest tints, the most ethereal tones of fawn and grey, of brown and yellow. some are without a mark on their pure colouring, and some are daintily pencilled with shell-like lines and bars. to and fro in the sunbeams, whose misty shafts slant through the thickets, hover a crowd of winged things--of great bees, black or yellow or tipped with fiery red, flies of many hues, beetles light and dark--and the sound of their multitudinous wings seems to fill the hot summer air. insects make up no small part, perhaps even the larger part, of the life of the woodland. the woods just now are swarming with caterpillars, many of which, perhaps even the majority, belong to the class called geometers, from the curious way in which they move along, arching their bodies in a fashion that reminds the observer of a man measuring a distance by "spanning" it with his hand. a much more curious point about them is their wonderful mimicry of the twigs of the tree on which they live: a fact which has earned for them the name of "stick" caterpillars. their skins are the colour of the bark, their bodies have knots and markings exactly like twigs. and when one of them waits motionless, standing erect on its hinder set of feet--an attitude it can preserve for hours together, it looks so like a piece of stick that even a naturalist has related how he was about to prune a twig from one of his fruit trees, and had even touched it with his knife before he saw that it was not vegetable at all, but one of these "stick" caterpillars. one cannot help wondering if birds are taken in too. the curious movements of these geometers are due to their comparatively scant supply of legs. there is an amusing ballad called "the bishop and the caterpillar," which describes, after the manner of "ingoldsby," how a great dignitary of the church inspected a village school. the children acquitted themselves well:- "for the bishop, to his great pleasure, found that they knew the date when our queen was crowned. and the number of pence which make up a pound; and the oceans and seas which our island bound; that the earth is nearly, but not quite, round; their orthography, also, was equally sound." the gratified examiner, declaring that it was only fair for the scholars to have their turn, proposed they should question him. a small boy in the audience, unawed even by a bishop, instantly "... raised his head and abruptly said: how many legs has a caterpillar got?" here was a poser indeed. kings of israel, now, his lordship might have known; very likely the date of the second punic war; perhaps even some of the counties of england. but caterpillars were beyond his ken. it was to no purpose that he privately invoked, under cover of making a speech, the aid of the rector, of the curates, of the schoolmaster. not one of them knew. in vain was the beadle sent out in hot haste to interrogate passers-by. he returned disconsolate, and whispered to the anxious bishop "nobody knows." in the end the questioner himself supplied the information, and "... with a countenance gay, said 'six, for i counted 'em yesterday.'" it rather spoils the point of the story that, although caterpillars have indeed, on one-half of the body, the six legs of the perfect or winged condition, most of them have ten more, very substantial ones too, on the other half, making not six, but sixteen. some, indeed, have only fourteen; while these geometers are driven to adopt the attitudes they do because they have to shuffle along as best they can, on no more than ten legs altogether. there are few points of brighter colour among the world of green. not many brilliant flowers grow well in the very heart of the woods. along the paths there is a fringe of hawkweed and crowfoot and yellow cistus. and where the sunlight is less broken by the trees there are patches of red lychnis and tall crowns of white cow parsley. in the clearings strawberries run riot, in flower still, but with scantier harvest than usual of the small sweet fruit, in whose pleasant flavour is a dash of woodland wildness. there is honeysuckle everywhere, trailing on the ground, creeping among the bushes, and climbing up out of the green tangle, laying hold of trees and saplings to help it to the light. and as it climbs it twines with fatal clasp about the friendly stems, slowly tightening its embrace, sometimes cutting deep into the wood, sometimes even killing the branch outright, and going up until at times a green canopy of it crowns boughs thirty feet above the ground, while its flowery clusters scent the woodland. and as evening darkens, "what time the blackbird pipes to vespers from his perch," when the heat of the long summer day gives place to the cooler, sweeter air of night, the fragrance grows until the whole glade is conscious of its subtle charm. briar bushes there are in plenty, and some of them are lightly set with delicate blossoms. but the dog-roses are at their best, not here, but on the skirts of the wood, where the long, swaying sprays are crowded with those sweetest flowers of june. but the glory of the woodland is in its trees; in its sturdy oaks, and stately beeches, its old scotch firs and graceful larch trees. there is no season when the larch is without some charm. it is beautiful in the springtime, when its sprays are set with exquisite red blossoms, like fairy jewel-work. it is beautiful when among soft tufts of green the brown cones harden in the pleasant sun of may. it is beautiful now, when the flowing, feathery plumes wear the soberer hue of summer. nor is the beauty greatly less when, in the chill autumn days, that hue changes slowly into yellow. nor is it wholly lost, even in the dead of winter, when, in the frosty sunshine, the bare boughs seem to glow like gold against the pale blue sky. the mist of bluebells, that lingered here so late, has vanished. the fiery spikes of early orchis are all spent and faded. the 'lords and ladies' have given place to little clusters of green berries, that these sunny days will swiftly ripen to red beads of coral. yet there are other flowers, with even more of beauty, that love the greater heat of summer. few are more lovely than the white butterfly orchis; fewer still more fragrant. it has allies that mimic with marvellous faithfulness the forms of bees and flies and spiders. they are plants of the heath, of the sunny meadow, and the open hill. but here is one, perhaps the least striking of the clan, that will flourish in the shadow, and that grows well even here in the half twilight of the trees. the quiet-coloured petals of the tway-blade are not like fly or bee or any insect. each floweret on its plain, unscented spike is the little green figure of a man, a man with outstretched arms. one might almost fancy that the plant was copying shapes long lost to our dulled vision; that this quiet nook was not alone "... for pretty cares with mate and nest, a lurking-place of tender airs from south and west;" but that it was peopled still by the green-clad gnomes of old belief; that these woodland aisles were even now a place "where elves hold midnight revel, and fairies linger still." [illustration: the harvest moon.] chill october. it is the heavy rain no less than the chilly air, the wet days as well as the frosty nights, which have earned for october its added name, and which mark this month so clearly as the real end of a season. we often get a long spell of warm weather in september; it may linger even over the opening of october; but it is october that sets for good and all its fiery seal upon the ruins of the summer. yet october has been a delightful month; a month of golden dawns, bright days, and fiery sunsets. and it is closing with quiet moonlight nights under whose gauzy veil the landscape lies transfigured, and far hills show faintly as through mists of dreamland. this is st. martin's summer: "the summer and the winter here midway a truce are holding. a soft, consenting atmosphere their tents of peace enfolding." the colours of the leaves, that so long seemed cold and sullen, are swiftly changing in the sharpening air of night. among the tattered foliage there broaden, day after day, gleams of that fiery splendour that in a few weeks will flare through the length and breadth of the woodland, like the afterglow of summer. the few last leaves of the wild cherry shine like fire in the coppice, and the horse chestnuts in the meadow are all gold from base to crown. dead leaves lie thick upon the rustling pathway, where brown of oakleaf, crimson of beech, russet of maple, and gold of elm, lends each its own particular note of colour to the splendid carpet; while the foliage of the sycamore, still clinging to its brilliant stalks, is painted with such varied tints, such greens and browns, such inky blacks and flaming yellows, that one might almost fancy some young dryad had been wandering through the woodland with her brush and had tried her colours on the leaves. so bright the days have been, so warm is the lingering sunshine, that even the thrush has been trying over his old sweet songs, yet to airs so quiet and subdued that they seemed but a reverie of springtime. all day the robin sings. he is the minstrel of the autumn. now when other birds are silent his voice rings clear through the deserted woods, and we realise more fully how passing sweet are his familiar melodies. there are few signs of life among the autumn trees. the jays wrangle as they gather the acorns, and at times a troop of fieldfares chatter as they pass. but the sounds of the october woodland are the patter of falling leaves--now filling the air like rain, and now whirled along the path in fiery eddy; the rush of the wind among the rocking tops; and now and then the creak of branches interlocked, that chafe and fret almost with a cry of pain, such as in old days, ere pan was dead, startled the woodcutter on the slopes of apennine. we wander in the woods, however, with senses unattuned to sights and sounds about us. had we but eyes we could not fail to see some life stirring even now. were our ears but trained aright we should be aware of ceaseless sounds of movement. the birds are here, had we but the gift to see them. if no ringdove coos in the shadow of the pines, we may hear as our footsteps rustle on the leafy ways, the crash of wings among distant branches. if no woodpecker's shout breaks in upon the stillness, we may watch the silent figure of the forester in green close crouched against the giant elm. if no magpie chatters in the tree-tops we may at least catch a glimpse of black and white plumage as the wary old campaigner dives into the thickets. this old fir just off the pathway, with its close growing foliage and its canopies of ivy and woodbine, is a screen at once from the wind and the keen eyes of the woodlanders. in its shadow we may stand aside and watch the life of the woods go by, perhaps even overhear some of the secrets of the "light wingã¨d dryads of the trees." jays, that just now were busy over the acorns, are moving leisurely down the slope, absorbed in gossip, wholly unconscious of any spectator of their movements. there is a wide difference between the quick, impetuous actions of a startled jay, on the look-out for danger, and his lazy, loitering manner when he is quite at his ease, and thinks no one is watching him. now, as they come nearer, they break into a chorus of loud, harsh notes, mingling with their own wild sylvan speech scraps borrowed from magpie and missel-thrush. now one mimics the hoarse cry of a crow just sailing over. now they all join in a babel of odd, inarticulate, indescribable sounds. still nearer they come. suddenly one alights close by, three yards off at farthest. he is off again in a moment, too scared to speak. here comes another. he, too, settles near, but notices nothing. what a handsome fellow he is! what a splendid touch of blue there is in his wing--a blue such as no sapphire or lapis or turquoise could really rival for a moment. his crest is slightly lifted; the sunlight glistens on his polished bill. easily he sways on a tall ash sapling, looking idly round. suddenly he starts--is gone. one by one his comrades reach the tree. one after one the startled birds take wing again and vanish in the thickets. the rustle of their quick movements dies away. their clamorous cries grow fainter, and then cease. silence settles down once more--the silence of a sleep. the sharp touch of winter in october has changed the whole face of things. cold and wind and wet have set their mark alike on woodland and on garden border. everywhere there is change. the birds of summer have all left us. no bee or wasp is stirring. in this pallid sunshine are no gnats to poise in cloudy column. no moths hover on quivering wings among the ruined flowers. of the shy four-footed creatures of whose lives we know so little, some are still broad awake and busy, caring nothing for the cold; but some have already entered on their winter sleep. the dormouse is rolled in his snug ball of moss, the hedgehog is buried in his bed of leaves. grass-snake and viper have crawled away into warm hiding places in banks or among the roots of trees. the frog has buried himself in his cold bed of mud at the bottom of the pond. the toad has squeezed his burly figure into a hole in a tree stump, or under some sheltering stone. it is the fondness of the toad for hiding in holes and corners--not only in winter, but to some extent all the year--which has given rise to so many marvellous tales of the discovery of toads in the heart of trees or in solid blocks of marble. toads may often be found in holes. but never yet was one found living in any cavity whatsoever where there was no communication with the outer world, no chink through which insects might make their way after the manner of the fly into the parlour of the spider. long before the frosts of october, and while the weather was still warm and sunny, snails were to be seen collected in hundreds on the fences of fields and lanes--on their way, no doubt, to winter quarters. though whether they expected to find suitable lodgings up there at the tops of the palings, or whether they were only sunning themselves for the last time before crawling down to earth to bury themselves in the holes into which the posts were driven, is perhaps less clear. some few snails are provided already with close-fitting doors. others will seal up their gates with a temporary barricade, behind which they will sleep until the trumpet-call of spring shall break on their dull senses. do they dream, these snails? do visions of plump cabbages and brilliant dahlias flit through their molluscous minds? do they in slumber enjoy again the midnight raid upon the marrow-bed, or cry havoc on the choicest lilies of the garden? there is a strange stillness in the woods these autumn days; a mournful silence, as of regret for the lost summer. the birds are quiet; the insects, whose life and beauty lent so much to the brightness of the summer, are dying in the sharpening air, or are creeping away to hide themselves for the winter. october is a fatal month for the lower forms of life. the different species of our native insects are numbered by tens of thousands, and of the myriads of these with which the air of august, and even of september, teemed, only a few, a very few, will survive the chillier dawns and sunsets of this month, which marks the limit of their lives. at the best their lives are brief. the lives of insects, in their perfect condition, are more often numbered only by months, or even weeks: while the little sad-coloured stone-flies that haunt the banks of streams, entering on their last stage without mouths, spend only a few days of strange existence; and there are other flies which, born after sunset and dying before sunrise, never see the full light of day at all. those insects which survive the winter do so as a rule by retiring into the shelter of buildings, into crevices in walls, or into hollow trees, and there remaining, motionless and apparently lifeless, all through the cold season, coming out again at the return of spring. some butterflies are especially fond of taking up their quarters for the winter in the roofs of houses; and the cornices of unoccupied rooms seem particularly favourite resting-places. there is a case on record in which a small tortoiseshell butterfly, having entered a church during service-time one sunday in august, settled calmly on a rafter over the heads of the congregation, closed its wings, and then and there took up its quarters for the season. it was happily beyond the reach of the verger's broom, though under the eyes of the clergyman,--himself a naturalist, and there it hung, week after week, all the winter through. at length, on a warm sunday in may, after a sleep of just nine months' duration, the little creature opened its wings again and fluttered down from its perch, "apparently as fresh in colour and condition as if just out of the chrysalis". in the same way another of the race flew into a sitting-room in a little country town, one day during the hot weather of september, and finally established itself in the cornice, where for six long months it hung motionless. one fine morning in the following march it was fluttering at the window. the sash was lifted. the little creature dashed out into the sunshine, almost with the speed of a swallow. a striking feature of the autumn garden some years is the multitude of sober-coloured moths hovering among the flower-beds, morning, noon, and night. the moths themselves not only do no harm in the garden, but are of no small service to the gardener by carrying pollen on their tufted heads from flower to flower, and thus unconsciously fertilising many a blossom that might otherwise have borne no seed at all. but it is quite otherwise with the caterpillars, insignificant but noxious little grubs, which, in some seasons, appear in such hosts as to devastate whole fields. in germany it has been found necessary to use a machine, drawn by horses, to sweep up these caterpillars, which are collected from it in sacks and then destroyed. the perfect insect, the commonest perhaps of all the moths, is a beautiful little creature, though there is nothing striking in its colouring. it is known as the "silver y," from a conspicuous mark on each of its front wings. its scientific name of "gamma" has been given to it from another and more learned reading of the letter. it has been found very difficult to bestow a rational english "popular name" on each of the two thousand species of moths that inhabit these islands. some of the names, indeed, appear almost, if not quite, meaningless, while some, on the other hand, are highly appropriate. the humming-bird hawk moth is marvellously like the bird whose name it bears, as every one must admit who watches it poise with outstretched trunk before a flower, on wings that move so swiftly that they show like a halo round it. two other hawk moths are called elephants, but this is because of the strange-looking head of the caterpillar, which can be extended like a sort of dwarf proboscis. another moth, the death's head, bears a skull and cross-bones on its back. the moths of the large class known as geometers are so called because the caterpillars, as they loop themselves along, have the air of measuring the space they traverse, as a man might span it with his hand. the tiger is a moth of brilliant colouring. the widow and the old lady are clad in sombre hues. the quakers are mostly dressed in soft shades of sober brown, while the sixteen varieties of footmen wear among them almost as many varieties of livery. such names might, indeed, give rise to misconception. we can well understand the feelings of the old market-woman who, toiling up the steep path through the wood with her eggs and butter, overheard a party of schoolboys talking over their captures of the day. we can picture her dismay as she heard one youngster describe how he had chased a small elephant through the wood, and just missed capturing a tiger. we can imagine her alarm at hearing another boy boast of having killed two quakers and a footman. and how, at a distant shout from another member of the party that he had just knocked down an old lady, she dropped her basket and fled for her life. but of all the signs in nature's calendar that mark, like figures on a dial, the movement of the seasons, there is none more certain, none more full of mournful augury, than the passing of the birds. their going is secret, silent; they vanish unseen and unheard. we have learnt much in recent years with regard to migration. with one single exception, we know where every one of the summer migrants goes to rear its brood. the haunt of one only--the curlew-sandpiper--still defies discovery. but there is as much cause for wonder as ever that the stork and the swallow observe the time of their coming. and how some birds contrive to find their way over vast stretches of unbroken sea is as great a mystery as when anacreon saw the "cranes from hoary winter fly, to flutter in a kinder sky;" or when the hebrew watched the wandering hawk stretch her wings toward the south. among the few sounds that break the stillness of the autumn night is a faint and hurried cry, that at times may be heard out of the darkness--the note of some bird passing over unseen. it is the cry of the redwing--a feeble note, and yet the very trumpet-call of coming winter. in the spring the sight of the first swallow raises hopes of better times, of sunshine and warm weather. in autumn this voice calling out of the dark is a warning that cold and hunger are driving the redwing from its northern home, that the arctic night is settling down among the norway hills. vast indeed is the array of these feathered fugitives. and if most of us see but little of plover or wild duck, of goose or swan or sandpiper, we may perhaps hear them as they pass. often in the silence of these autumn nights, or even when the wind is blowing, we may hear the swift flight of the mallard overhead, or the musical voices of plovers; perhaps at times the trumpet-notes of geese, or even the whistling of the whooper's wings. now and then, too, there floats down out of the starlit stillness the wild call of some unknown bird, the voice of some nameless stranger crying in the dark: "and with no language but a cry." [illustration: on sedgmoor.] turf moor: a happy hunting ground. the traveller who at this season of the year is whirled along the iron highway of the northern part of somersetshire will perhaps be led to form but a poor opinion of west country scenery, for he sees little from the rail of the heath-covered heights of exmoor, of the wooded glens of quantock, or of the green heart of mendip. the line is laid for many miles across a wide stretch of low-lying moorland--so low that it would be flooded each high tide were it not for the old sea wall by the shore. there are parts of the monotonous expanse that may well remind the wayfarer of the opening lines of one of ingoldsby's ballads: "o, salisbury plain is bleak and bare, at least so i've heard many people declare, for i fairly confess that i never was there. not a shrub nor a tree, nor a bush can you see, no hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles, much less a house or a cottage for miles." there are indeed parts of this great plain that are almost absolutely bare of timber save for a few scanty rows of pollard willow trees. there are hardly any hedge-rows, there are few gates, and fewer stiles. the cottages are far apart, built only on the low risings--once islands in the severn sea, which the moorfolk fondly call "hills," because they are not "drownded out" in flood time. yet there is one striking difference. the somersetshire marshes--far more level than the green waves of the great wiltshire down--are cut up by a network of innumerable ditches, narrow indeed, yet not always easily passed, as the little army of king monmouth proved only too well. these "rhines," as they are called in the west country, take the place of hedge-rows, and serve also to drain away into the sluggish moorland stream the water which in rainy seasons would collect on the low ground. turf moor is a strange looking country, with its interminable stacks of black peat, its great hollows from which turf has been taken, its miles of straight-cut dykes by which the water is drained away into the rivers. the sombre hue of the great plain is relieved by picturesque groups of turf-cutters, by dense masses of noble scotch firs--trees that flourish well in the peaty soil--and by an occasional belt of coppice that runs in among the peat workings--a jungle of reeds and bulrushes, of bracken and tall royal fern, a sort of no-man's land, a very paradise for beast and bird. the moormen happen on strange things sometimes when they are digging in the peat. it is no very rare thing for the turf-cutter's tool to clash on pottery or rude weapons far below the present level of the moor. some years since a bow was thus discovered, whose once heavy yew wood was so altered by its long soaking that it was as light as cork. at one place an iron anchor was found, at another the paddle of an old canoe. there is a tradition in the marshes that, years ago, whenever after a dry summer the water was low in one of the great rhines, a boat became visible, embedded in the bank. "squire phippen's big ship," as it was called, has long been lost sight of, but in more recent times another canoe has been found on the moor, which happily has met with the attention it deserves. some labourers who had been employed every autumn to clear out the rhines on cranhill moor, near glastonbury, had often been inconvenienced at one point by what they thought was the trunk of an old tree--such as are frequently found buried in the peat. the place was pointed out to a local archã¦ologist, mr. arthur bulleid, of glastonbury, and he saw at once that the supposed tree-trunk was an old british canoe, in splendid preservation, most skilfully worked out of a single log. the end which had projected from the bank is damaged by the spades with which the labourers had repeatedly in past years tried to cut it away, but the rest is uninjured. this curious old craft is flat-bottomed, and pointed at each end, just as are the boats that still navigate the rhines of the district. it measures about seventeen feet in length, is perhaps thirty inches broad, and ten or eleven inches deep. this canoe might have continued for years a mere obstacle to the clearing of the rhine--now a small ditch, but once a navigable water-way--were it not that the whole district was interested in the recent discovery of an ancient british village, of which it is safe to say that few things of more importance have rewarded recent archã¦ological research in this country. the ancient lake dwellings of switzerland and northern italy, though our knowledge of them is not yet half-a-century old, are familiar wherever archã¦ology is studied. in the forty years which have elapsed since they were first examined, it has been found that there are many places, even now, where huts, constructed on the same plan, are still in use. such dwellings exist in the shallows along the amazon and the orinoco. travellers have described them, as they are at this moment, in borneo and new guinea. cameron found them in the heart of the dark continent. to this very day roumelian fishermen inhabit huts built on piles over the water, in the same spot where, twenty-five centuries ago, the children of the paeonian lake dwellers were, according to herodotus, tied by the leg to prevent them falling into the water. but, long before the discovery of the swiss lake villages in 1853, another somewhat similar form of primitive habitation was known, confined, as far as can be at present ascertained, to countries inhabited by celtic races. this was the crannog, or marsh village, from the celtic word _crann_, a tree--not built on piles in the water, but on platforms of timber laid over brushwood arranged on the soft soil of a morass. the existence of such dwellings had long been known, but little attention was paid to them before the famous researches of keller, in switzerland. modern archã¦ologists have, however, explored at least a hundred of these villages in ireland, and about half that number in scotland; and many most interesting remains have been recovered from them. the scotch and irish crannogs appear to belong to the iron age. implements of the more primitive materials have, it is true, been found in them, but they were not such as were in use in the bronze or stone ages. they differ both in shape and in the style of their ornamentation. a few stone celts have been found in irish crannogs, but no object belonging to a time earlier than the age of iron has yet been met with in the marsh villages of scotland. the metal objects are, as a rule, characteristic of the period between the 9th and the 12th centuries, though we have evidence that some of the irish crannogs were in use long after that time. allusions to them frequently occur in the old writers. we learn from "the annals of the four masters" that the historic crannog of lough gabhor--the first that was examined in ireland--was burnt a.d. 848, and again, by the danes, in 933. an account, written at the time, of the expedition sent by queen elizabeth to put down the rebel earl of tyrone, describes a crannog in county down, which "was seated in the midst of a great bog, and no way accessible but through thick woods, hardly passable. it had about it two deep ditches, both encompassed with strong pallisadoes, a very high and thick rampart of timber, and well flanked with bulwarks. for defence of the place, forty-two musqueteers and some twenty swordsmen were lodged in it." this was in 1602. later still, sir felim o'neill, who had headed the rebellion of 1641, was captured in a crannog, in 1642. until recent years no crannog had been found in this country. the discovery of a very extensive settlement of this kind, in the turf moor near glastonbury, is thus an event of great archã¦ological interest, which is much increased by the fact that, whereas the remains found in the scotch and irish crannogs point to a period so recent as from the ninth to the seventeenth centuries, the marsh village discovered in somersetshire has yielded, so far, no object which appears to be so late even as the roman occupation. but these broad flats on turf moor, their patches of coppice, the edges of the green "droves," the waste lands where turf has been cut, and which have been left to recover themselves by the rest and growth of perhaps half a century, even the very ditches of the moor, are in summer-time a happy hunting-ground for the naturalist. the plants of these monotonous marshes, the birds, the beasts, the insects, have a character of their own. in summer-time the meadows that stretch from rhine to rhine are crimson with orchis and clover, with sheep sorrel and ragged robin, are golden with flower-de-luce, whitened with tall oxeye daisies and soft tufts of cotton grass. now the whole moorland is sobered to a dull, monotonous hue of mingled browns and greys tinged with a sad-coloured note of green. the rhines that to-day are but straight-cut belts of water, with no beauty and hardly more of interest, were filled then to the very brim with sedges and iris and tall stems of flowering rush. along their hedges grew teazels and skullcap and comfrey, and down their steep banks the moneywort poured its lavish streams of gold. few plants of any sort are to-day visible in the water. but the still depths were covered then with a green film of weed, crossed and re-crossed with a very labyrinth of tracks, where rat or moorhen or water-rail had cut its devious way. here grew the arrow-head, with its beautiful white flowers. here floated the star-like blossoms of the frogbit. and here the bladderwort, that now rests unseen on the mud at the bottom, buoyed up by multitudinous little floats of air, lifted its exquisite spike above the surface. the busy life that in the summer filled these interminable ditches has ebbed away. the green jungle of flags and water plants where the sedge warbler sang--not from dawn till nightfall only, but from sundown till the east was grey--is gone. the reeds among whose slender stems the warbler wove her exquisite nest are beaten down. the peewits who reared their scanty broods among these open meadows are here still. even the quails that hid their beautiful eggs among the summer clover may still be couching in the withered grass; and water-rails find shelter still among the brown and broken reeds. the banks are honeycombed with the burrows of water-rats--as most people call them. beautiful creatures, not really rats at all, and having little in common with their evil-minded, mischievous, objectionable namesakes. their habit of burrowing is perhaps their one fault, and has more than once helped to break down the bank of a river here, and so deluge the moors with miles of tawny water. water-rats are out at all times, all the year, except in the very coldest weather. but twilight is their favourite hour. then as you steal quietly along by the bank you may watch the soft brown balls of fur crouched on the narrow fringe of shore; may envy their incomparable feats of diving; may follow their course by a slight ripple on the surface as they swim to some secret hiding place. the owls know their habits well. this very month a barn owl was seen in the twilight, flying over the moor on its soft and soundless wings. suddenly it swooped below the bank of a rhine, reappearing a moment later with a water-rat in its claws. scared by a shout, it dropped its prey, but the rat, though warm, was stone dead. much less often seen are the water-shrews, whose frolics you may watch in broad daylight if you are so very fortunate as to come upon a party of them at play, swimming round and round like the tiny beetles that spin in mazy circles on the surface. the water itself is, in the summer-time, crowded with life. over the surface skim rowing-flies and water-spiders. under it a countless crowd of creatures live out their little day--beetles and water-scorpions, active little boatmen that paddle up and down with dexterous oars, caddis larv㦠carrying about with them their houses built of grains of sand, or scraps of reed, or of a multitude of tiny shells. shells there are everywhere, small some of them, but even the very smallest revealing under the microscope forms as marvellous as that of the nautilus itself. slender newts, too, swarm in the still water, and great black tritons, the terror of the moorfolk, in whose eyes even the viper is hardly more venomous. not to every one is it given to appreciate the beauty and the wonder of the inhabitants of this happy hunting-ground. in such a paradise two naturalists had been hard at work through a hot summer afternoon. they were stretched contentedly by the roadside, when a burly, red-faced farmer driving by drew rein, and seeing their nets upon the grass asked them what sport they had had, and if it was eels or flounders they had been catching. they proceeded to explain. "oh, bitles," said the farmer, somewhat contemptuously. "and what be they vur, then?" this was a more difficult point. it was not at all easy to make him see that there could be any use in hoarding up such "common ornery rubbish" as that. butterflies, now, he could understand, or "bird eggs." he himself had collected "bird eggs" when he was a boy. but "bitles! well," said he at last, "good day. i must be gwine"; and he drove slowly off. he had not got more than fifty yards along the road, however, when he pulled up again, and turning half round in his seat, called out, "hi! but i can't think what ee can want they bitles vur!" [illustration: winter in the marshes.] turf moor: the frozen marshes. it is now some years since, through the giving way of the bank of one of the moorland rivers, a large part of the low-lying land in the heart of somersetshire was under water all through the autumn. many tenants of cottages on the moor were, as they would put it, "drownded out," and there were outlying villages that for a long while could only be reached by means of boats. during a recent autumn another wide area in the same county was flooded. frost set in while a vast tract of land was still inundated. miles of flooded marshland were entirely frozen over, and many cottages, after standing in the water for months past, were surrounded by the ice. so sharp was the cold that, on the second day of the frost, the fortunate few who were able to avail themselves of the opportunity had a perfect skating-ground, which must have measured thousands of acres. a heavy snowfall, however, has changed the face of things altogether. some of the moor men, whose ordinary avocations have long been at a standstill, have cleared a pretty fair piece of ice. but the rest is covered with snow. much of it has sunk and broken, owing to the draining away of the water from beneath it; so that, vast as is still the frozen area, comparatively little of it is good enough to satisfy a fastidious performer. but it is a wonderful landscape that, on every side of the little house which skaters on this part of the marshes use as their headquarters, lies glistening in the sunshine. a few old alder trees and storm-beaten scotch firs shelter the cottage a little from the wind. and its all too scanty stacks and its picturesque sheds and outbuildings, whose roof of tiles are weathered to every imaginable shade of red and brown, help to give an air of warmth and comfort. a primitive place. a place such as might have given shelter to king alfred before that desperate fight yonder on the hills of ethandune. the master of the house is a neatherd too, as it happens, and his heifers are at this moment all huddled in the byres about the cottage, only too glad to make the acquaintance of a sympathetic stranger. there is no entrance at the front. the frozen ground has "lifted" and has jammed the door. you must make your way in through the hospitable-looking brick-floored kitchen at the back. before the frost began the water was over the garden, and even on the cottage floor. and now, though the house is clear, the ice stretches away almost from the threshold, as far as the eye can see over the level country. it would be hard to picture a scene more absolutely desolate. on the skyline to the southward, just seen through the wintry haze, is a long line of low bluehills, with patches of snow on them dimly showing. over a dark belt of fir trees to the eastward rises the tor of glastonbury, snow covered, too, for once. and right to the bases of the hills, over field after field, stretches for miles the great white plain, broken only by lines of pollard willows, by tall aspens and clumps of alder; with patches of furze that look strangely out of place rising up through the ice, with here and there a gate, half-hidden, with haystacks standing forlorn upon the wintry level, and, sadder still, with cottages that, long since rendered uninhabitable by the water, are now completely surrounded by the ice. in that cottage, some hundred yards farther on, whose walls have settled so much in the soft peat that there is not a straight line in all its primitive architecture, the water is still nine inches deep in all the rooms. the tenant of it is that moor man standing yonder, lending a helping hand to the skaters preparing for the ice. a picturesque figure, whose old brown coat, with its endless varieties of shade would delight the soul of an artist. you can understand why he wears boots up to his knees when you learn that every day, from the beginning of december until a fortnight since, he waded to his door through more than a foot of water. he is better off since the frost, for now he can slide in. a characteristic touch about these cottages is the store of winter fuel, the stacks of peat heaped against the wall. almost more characteristic still is the quaintly-shaped boat, flat-bottomed, sharp at both ends, that you see in so many gardens; for not only are floods here far too common, but the innumerable ditches make convenient waterways for bringing home grass or peat. a strange silence broods over the landscape. no birds are visible save the few that hang about the outbuildings. the flocks of gulls and the few ducks that were here before the floods were frozen have all disappeared. multitudes of skylarks, too, passed over when the snow set in, but they soon vanished. this was once a great country for wild-duck. twenty years ago there were four decoys almost in sight from this cottage. now they are all drained--"let off" as the moor folk put it. the only sound besides the low lament of the wind among the alders, the plaintive protests of the heifers in the byres, and the laughter and voices and occasional clink of steel where the skaters are preparing for work, is a strange, hollow, booming sound under the ice, or the sharper crash when it gives way because the water has gone from under it. it is strange to see great sheets of ice caught in the bushes or among the alder stems, feet above the general level. it is a wintry wind that sweeps over the frozen marshes. but here, in this sunny corner, with a heap of dry peats to sit on, in the shelter of a stable on whose door is nailed a lucky horseshoe, there is the warmth of very summer. but hark, the ring of skates upon the ice! and see, the skaters are leaving their little camping ground just outside the garden. already there are moving figures far out on the frozen meadows. as you watch them start, some bold and fearless, as to the manner born, some doubtful and hesitating, and hardly venturing to lift their feet, you might almost read something of their story in their very movements. that tall figure yonder, so absolutely at home upon his skates, had more time in one long canadian winter to learn the art he practises so well than most of us get in a lifetime. and to one who, in a forced march across the dominion in the dead of winter, has tried in vain to sleep on the snow with the thermometer forty degrees below zero, and who has put down his boiling can of grog to take it up next minute frozen solid, cold like this is nothing. and you might have known that the stalwart skater further out, whose wife is the most graceful among many graceful figures in the moving throng, gained his first experiences on skates in latitudes where the frost sometimes holds unbroken for twelve long dreary weeks. the frozen-out moor men are ready enough to volunteer assistance. and as the day wears on it is really marvellous to see with what dexterity they carry cups of tea to the skaters; while their dogs, with an eye to biscuits, make friends with each little group in turn. a kindly race, these somerset folks, sunny of face, and pleasant of speech, in spite of the hard times, and the enforced idleness and the bitter weather. but they hold strong views as to the incapacity of engineers who fail to guard against such floods as this. "what be the use," said one, "of they drainage commissioners, what charges we two and eightpence poundage for keeping the water off of we? this here flood have lasted since before christmas. here be the rent going on all the time, and the land won't be no use till may." pleasant it is to watch from this sheltered corner the evolutions of the skaters. the wind that blows so keen over the miles of frozen marshland, and that lends a heightened colour to their glowing faces, cannot reach you here. pleasant, too, is the scent of the hay and the breath of cattle from the byres. but pleasanter still is the ingle nook within the cottage, in a tiny room, so low that the beam across its ceiling is a trap for even the shortest of the group on the old settle, by the fragrant fire of peat. by such a fire it was that alfred sat. yet there is a long gap between the half-shaped bow of the old story and the gun, ancient as it is, hanging yonder on the wall; and if there are cakes about this hearth, you will not hear the tall, blue-eyed, winsome damsel who dispenses them "... scold with kindling eye, in good broad somerset," as the neatherd's wife, a thousand years since, scolded the royal fugitive in these very marshes. [illustration: winscombe--the church porch.] winscombe: a camp of refuge on the edge of a broad valley in the mendips, on the gentle slope of a line of low green hills, there stands a quiet hamlet, almost hidden now among its clustering trees. at the foot of the slope, standing some way back from the village street, is a white-walled cottage, whose lawns and garden grounds only a slender fence divides from the fields that fringe the village. on one side of the garden runs a narrow lane, losing itself presently in the meadows, a quieter backwater of the quiet village life, in whose old walls and deep-browed hedgerows many birds find lodging. on the other side, beyond a row of picturesque old sheds and ruinous old buildings, with brown roofs of thatch and crowns of thick-growing ivy, stretch the bird-haunted aisles of an orchard. the nuthatches love its cavernous trees. its shades are musical, long before the dawn, with the songs of thrush and blackbird, of redstart and willow-wren. among the old buildings tits and wagtails and robins hide their nests in crannies of the crumbling masonry. but to the garden itself, islanded by lanes and meadows, with its trees and shrubs, its broad thickets of laurel and rhododendron and arbutus, the birds come as to a camp of refuge. in the tall evergreen above the gate, wreathed in a great bower of ivy, blackbirds even now are feeding their young. there are nests in the lilacs, in the laurels, in the hedges, in the trellis on the wall. through the open windows the warm air brings all pleasant scents and sounds. the low of cattle, on distant farms, the mellow chiming of the old church bells, the rich strains of thrush and blackbird, the sweet song of the swallow, clink of oxeye, call of cuckoo, jay's harsh cry, and wood-pecker's light-hearted laughter, mingle with the perfume of the roses and the woodruff. the swallows that sing on the brown gable of the barn beyond the precincts may have their nests plundered by prowling schoolboys. the hollow trees in the orchard, the chinks in the old wall of the lane, are not wholly safe from the village birds'-nester. but here is sanctuary inviolate, from which no bird was ever driven. year after year the fly-catchers repair their nest in the plum tree trained against the wall. no hand disturbs the martins that build under the broad eaves. no sweet singer ever here paid with his life the penalty of his taste for cherries. here no blackbird ever suffered for his raids upon the strawberry beds. this garden is to him the garden of the laureate: "the espaliers and the standards tall are thine; the range of lawn and park; the un-netted black-hearts ripen dark, all thine, against the garden wall." here the bullfinch may pillage at his will. the only unpardonable crime that even the house-sparrow can commit is to take wrongful possession of a martin's nest. even then the culprit has never suffered anything but reproaches. even when, with its own untidy heap of hay and feathers, it has blocked up a rain-water pipe, the disaster that it caused was not held warrant for eviction. and never surely were there sparrows quite so bright of plumage--so glossy their sleek heads, so rich their chestnut feathers, so stainless the white bars across their wings. here, too, in the hard winter weather, the birds have learnt by long experience to come as for corn in egypt. the missel-thrush and the nuthatch, the marsh-tit and the oxeye, know well the brilliant berries they may plunder at their will from the tall irish yew before the window. in the very bearing of the birds that haunt the garden, of the robin and the sparrow and the song-thrush, that in hard times come to the very window to be fed, with firm faith in their gentle almoners, you may read the confidence born of long experience, the result of years of welcome and protection. the fly-catcher brooding on her nest, her glossy head just showing over the rim of the little cradle she has slung between the plum-tree and the wall, watches your approach without the least alarm. and as you stroll between the borders, bright with thickets of peonies, covered with great rose-like blooms, with their flags and pansies and pale yellow poppies, and with all their hundred flowers, she will flicker lightly by to her favourite resting-place on the rose-hung arch over the garden path, or to the handle of the walking-stick set upright in the grass for her sovereign pleasure, or to the leafless laurel bough that, while shears and pruning-knife are merciless to every other dead wood in the garden, is spared for her sake alone. watch her for a moment. see how she turns her head this way and that, keeping a sharp look-out for passing fly or beetle. see how suddenly she darts from her watch tower, how she hovers for a moment in the air, with faint click of her sharp bill, flying lightly back, perhaps beating her prey against the bough a time or two before she swallows it. there is a saying here that fortune hangs on giving shelter to the flycatcher: "if you scare the flycatcher away, no good luck will with you stay." [illustration: a mendip village: winscombe.] but there is no thought of fortune, good or ill, mingled with the kindly care that has made for so many years a sanctuary of this quiet spot. the very cat seems to have learnt that--under the eyes of the family at least--there is close time here, all the year round, for every bird that flies. when jock is lying at the door, stretched out at length in the sunshine, you may see a thrush alight within a yard of him, the picture of righteous indignation, feathers ruffled, wings adroop, and storm and scold and flutter and gesticulate; while he, his conscience pricked perhaps--who knows?--by the remembrance of an early breakfast some fine morning among the lilac bushes, when that brood of young thrushes disappeared so strangely, blinks with affected sleepiness at his fierce little accuser. she has even been seen to perch upon his back, when he, as if remembering some previous engagement, stretched himself, and yawned, and meekly walked away. at the far end of the lawn, in a nook between the meeting lines of hedge-row, stand four sheltering elms, joining their heads in a green canopy, cool and restful. from the seat beneath them you look out over a broad meadow to the misty hills. the long grass is bright with myriad flowers, with lotus and hawkweed, and with yellow crowns of dandelion, whose silvery parachutes now and then sail over, sinking slowly down the summer air. somewhere in the grass, that in a few short weeks will fill the house with the sweet incense of the hay, a corncrake is calling. it is a strange note, harsh and unmusical always; heard at night, sometimes irritating beyond words to paint; yet here, and now, a pleasant country sound. you may watch the shrike yonder, perched motionless on his favourite hawthorn, in whose shadow his mate is doubtless already brooding on her eggs. you may listen to the goldfinch singing in the green mist of meeting branches overhead; see the grey cuckoo alight on the topmost crest of the great elm that towers above the meadow; watch the busy starlings as they pass and repass with hurried flight. and, as through the great masses of lilac, now beginning to abate their rare perfume, you catch glimpses of hills and meadows, of the white houses of the village, with its orchards and its elms, and, crowning these, the grey tower of the church, looking down like a watchful sentinel on the hamlet lying at its feet, you feel it was to no fairer spot than this that the poet called his friend, when he sang: "or if thou tarry, come with the summer. that welcome comer welcome as he. when noontide sunshine beats on the meadow a seat in shadow, we'll keep for thee." [illustration: the mowers.] winscombe: a midsummer meadow. the whirr of the iron mower has ceased at length. hour after hour the clashing blades swept in still narrowing circles round and round the spacious meadow. now the last swath has fallen. now in the centre of the field the machine stands silent; the tired horses taking toll of the sweet grass that is strewn about their feet. the men lie motionless, their sunburned faces buried in the fragrant coolness. a few short hours ago this broad field was a sea of nodding grasses, whose tasselled points lent soft and changing tints of purple to the long waves that betrayed the light movements of the air. sheets of great moon-daisies whitened it. here it was golden with dyer's weed and lingering buttercups; and there it was crimson with fiery touches of red sorrel. under the hot noonday sun each waft of air that stirred across it was fragrant with mingled perfumes, of the scent of hawkweed and lotus and sweet clover blooms. its cool depths were stirred by honey-hunting bees. wandering butterflies floated over it. burnet moths in black and crimson sailed across it on their silken wings. now the close shaven sward is strewn with drying grass and fading flowers. bee nor butterfly will visit it more. to-morrow night not a touch of colour will remain of all its mingled beauty, ruined now past all hope; not a petal of its oxeye daisies, not a hawkweed unwithered, not a lingering clover bloom. the hour is late. along the low hills that bound the valley hangs the haze of sunset. there is a faint flush of rose colour on the soft clouds that drift slowly overhead. the air is still filled with fragrance. instead of the sweet incense of the clover, there is the scent of new-mown hay. for the breath of the lost flowers of the meadow there are all the perfumes of the one garden that gives upon the field--of roses all in bloom on arch and trellis, of clumps of tall sweet peas, white and red and rich imperial purple, of the delicate wild pinks, rooted at will in the old garden wall. and, although the last blossom has faded from the hawthorns round the meadow, slowly, and as with reluctance, delicate dog-roses are scattered broadcast all along the hedge-rows, and the woodbine sprays are rich already with pale sweet clusters. this is a flowery haytime. surely there was never more lavish wealth of roses on the hedges, nor can one even fancy broader sheets of oxeye daisies in the mowing grass. along the hedges the machine has left a fringe of tall grasses still unmown. and this green jungle, and the broad thickets behind it, are all astir with birds, some of them gaining now their first experiences of the great green world--a world of warmth and beauty, such as rarely, even in the noon of summer, greets the young children of the air. linnets and finches, thrushes and blackbirds, and a host of other wingã¨d toilers of the field, are busy among the fallen swaths--not plundering the seeds, but seeking treasure-trove of slugs and wire-worms, and all the myriad creatures whose haunts the fall of the grass forest has laid bare. here forages a troop of starlings; the old birds in dark and glossy plumage, the young brood in sober, unpretending brown. now a little cloud of martins wheel over the meadow, fluttering down to hover above the grass with soft, sweet notes. now a singing swallow floats along. and now on dark wings a troop of swifts sail swarming down the field--labourers in man's service one and all. on the end of a dead ivy branch that stands out of the garden hedge sits a solitary flycatcher; a small grey figure that, in her shape and attitude, is like no other bird that haunts the precincts. she is silent for the most part, only uttering now and then a weak, half querulous note, that is answered by notes weaker and more querulous from the heart of the thick laurel near. again and again she takes short flights into the air across the garden, and even a dozen yards or more out over the grass, fluttering in the air a moment, and then lightly flitting back to her perch on the dead ivy stem, or to the rail that parts the garden from the meadow. in a plum tree on the cottage wall, half hidden among clustering roses, is the empty nest from which the grey youngsters hiding now among the bushes have but just spread wings to fly. for once they tried their powers too soon. they ventured over the edge of their small nursery on wings not yet strong enough for flight, and they were found one morning on the ground among the stocks and poppies and sweet-williams underneath the nest, while the anxious parents, with plaintive cries, fluttered over them with vain attempts at rescue. the fall had been fatal to one of the little aeronauts, but three were rescued, and, in a small basket filled with hay, were slung close up under the deserted nest. they made no effort to get back to their old quarters, but sat content on the edge of the basket, three little odd owl-like figures; while the old birds, their minds at rest again, foraged for them all day, from dawn till dark, chasing moths and flies along the garden paths, in vain attempts to satisfy their insatiable needs. under the eaves above the flycatcher's tree there is a martin's nest. at least, martins built it, but there was a dispute this year about the tenancy. it is not a new nest. it is in fact a tenement of many years' standing. and while two rival couples of martins were still discussing the question of proprietorship, a pair of prowling house sparrows stepped in and took possession. perhaps they were the arbitrators--who knows? and now these house sparrows, bent on fitting a warmer lining to their stolen habitation, cast covetous glances on the young flycatchers' basket, and when the parent birds were away--sometimes even under their very eyes--the unscrupulous brigands carried off the hay by handsful. fine fellows, these country sparrows: so very different from their grimy, scurrilous, soot-stained cousins of the city streets, with even a note of music on their ready tongues, and with plumage of such pure white and velvety black, of such rich warm tones of chestnut, that you would say they were among the handsomest of birds, might perhaps even go the length of wondering what strange species they might be. and now the men, rising reluctantly from their lair among the grass, unship the long blades of the machine. it goes slowly jingling up the field, and through the gate at the far end, ready for more mowing on the morrow. the sun low down in the west, showing for a brief space through the trees his face of fiery gold barred with the dark branches, throws far across the grass the shadows of a group of tall elms out in the meadow, whose green heads tower a hundred feet into the clear, pale blue. motionless they stand, or seem to stand. the light wafts of scented air may flutter the leaves upon their lofty crests, but have no power to sway their giant branches. from far up among their green crown of foliage floats a goldfinch's song--a pleasant sound, a note of summer and green fields and open country. pleasant, too, is the slow clink of a whetted scythe, sounding faintly from a distant meadow, where some tired haymaker, perhaps for the last time in the long summer day, is putting a better edge upon his worn old blade. along the hedge yonder a man is finishing off the ragged edges the machine has left, and the swish, swish of the grass that falls before his sweeping strokes has almost as sweet a sound to-night as the vesper of the song-thrush over there, high up among the branches of a hedgerow elm. the gentle nurse of the foundling flycatchers is moving slowly across the meadow, the light of sunset on her white dress, sweet face, and graceful figure. she is carrying a great handful of oxeye daisies, gleaned from the new-mown hay--adding now a tall spray of quaking grass, now a leaf of bright red sorrel, and looking now and then with wistful eyes at the flowers for whose brief life she thus provides a little longer span. the sun is down. the long day's work is ended. in the combe yonder, the little sleepy hollow that dies away among the quiet hills, the purple shadows deepen, and the last faint lingering glow fades slowly from the cliffs along its southern verge. no clink of scythe-blade now, no sound of toil. the last note of labour and of daylight is the shouting from some distant farm, where the last load is being cheered into the stack-yard. a restless corncrake cries among the long grass of the next meadow that stands waiting for the scythe. far off among the elms beyond the church an owl hoots. it is the hour of rest; the hour when, over the blue vault above, "... the brooding twilight unfolds her starry wings, and warm hearts bless with tenderness the peace that evetide brings:" --the peace of god, for this broad hollow in the hills. slowly on the quiet landscape falls the restful stillness of the summer night. [illustration: a west country reaper.] winscombe: harvest home. it is strange to sit, this bright september morning, under the shadow of a noble row of limes, and listen to the whirr of the iron mower as it rattles round and round the wide meadow yonder. it is late for haymaking. among the branches overhead are the red and gold of autumn, and the grass at the feet of the old trees is strewn with withered leaves. these fly-catchers that flit across the lawn and sail back to their stations along the fence will soon be leaving us. it cannot be long before the chiff-chaffs, now calling so blithely in the limes, are silent. the clear, sweet singing of the robins is far more in keeping with the spirit of autumn, than the sound of the machine. but the rain and the sun between them have brought a noble aftermath to gladden the hearts of the farmers, whose case will, after all, not be quite so evil as they feared. it is a strange experience to hear, in the pauses of the iron reaper, the mellow sound of bells that are ringing for the harvest home. strange to cheer the last load into the stack-yard, and to assemble for a harvest festival, while fresh-cut hay is still lying in the fields. towards the grand old tower on the hill-slope yonder, that for so many ages has kept watch and ward over the parish, the village folk, in all their holiday attire, are trooping across this pleasantest of mendip valleys. as we make our way with them along the green country lanes, we can see how the hedge-rows are beginning already to wear the hues of autumn. the old man's beard is all grey with its feathery seeds. dogwood and guelder rose are bright with wayside fruit. the banks are gay with st. john's wort and golden rod and tall canterbury bells. pausing a minute under the old churchyard yew, that for unknown centuries has spread its dark arms over the dust of the forefathers of the hamlet, the little knots of villagers file into the church. the porch is hung with oat sheaves and red apples; and over the door are hung boughs of wild hedge-row plums, bullace, not sloes, so thickly clustered and with so rare a bloom that they might pass easily for grapes. there are but few farmers in the congregation. the hay is "down" in the meadows; that is one reason. some farmers, too, have no mind for thanksgiving--forgetful that half a loaf is, at any rate, better than no bread at all. but some at least of the villagers have agreed to carry out the injunction expressed in the wheaten letters that lie on a green fringe of ferns all along under the south wall--"honour the lord with thy first "fruits"--for the windows are heaped with fruit and vegetables, with apples and 'taters, and huge marrows--the best of each man's field or garden. the pulpit is draped with heather and brown bracken, hung with grapes and apples, and long trails of bryony; while the font, with which generations of parishioners have made early and perhaps not altogether agreeable acquaintance, is lost in a great pile of ferns and flowers. the chancel is a very bower of green. lectern and reading-desk are wreathed with creepers and corn sheaves and trophies of the harvest. the hour of service is drawing near. the chimes, that just now were swinging softly overhead, break off into the homing-bell. the rest of the congregation troop slowly in. young village beauties, conscious of admiring glances, are scattered here and there--bright reliefs of light and colour among the darker costumes of the men. the choir-boys, conscious too, but more sheepish as they run the gauntlet of less sympathetic eyes, muster under the tower, where presently the tall curate joins them, and the curtain is drawn across like a sort of gigantic conjuring-box. young folks they are, for the most part, that fill up the benches. yet there is a good sprinkling of the older generation. that is a fine sample of a west country farmer yonder, that burly red-faced figure, glancing idly at the tablets on the wall in "memory" of long-forgotten yeomen, "late of this parish," or the stony figures weeping silently into colossal urns--that doubtless are as great a wonder to him now as when he was a boy. the bell stops. the whispers cease. a solemn hush falls on the gathered worshippers. and now the vicar, from his station under the tower, calls on his flock to join in the thanksgiving hymn- "come, ye thankful people, come; raise the song of harvest home." two and two the choir-boys pass, singing, up the aisle, their clear tones mingling with the deeper voices of their elders. the old men, no longer strong enough to swing a scythe or turn a furrow, sit silent. the lines on their reverent faces seem like records of hard times and bitter weather. their working days are done. in the words the choir are singing, they are waiting to "... be gathered in, free from sorrow, free from sin: all upon the golden floor, praising thee for evermore" the sweet notes of the anthem, "i will lift up mine eyes to the hills," roll among the dark rafters overhead. the preacher exhorts us to thankfulness, even for what we may look on as adversity. should we be so ungracious, he asks, as to return no thanks at all because a gift turned out to be smaller than we expected? farmers as a rule certainly have, rightly or wrongly, a reputation for, let us say, not always being so thankful as they might be. it was a yeoman of this very parish who, when congratulated once upon the extraordinary crops, all good alike, replied--"that's where 'tis; 'tis all so good we shan't have nothing to give to the _poor_ stock!" a good discourse, straightforward and hard-hitting, true and telling. we file out under the ancient doorway, and pass in procession under the flags and streamers and mottoes that the villagers have hung at intervals across the green lanes, to the place where, in less serious fashion, the people of the hamlet, of all sorts and conditions, are to meet on equal terms--vicar and lady bountiful and dames of high degree on the one side, and farmers and labourers on the other--for a frolic in the spacious meadow. it is an ideal day for it; the air is warm, the grass is dry. tea in the tent is the first business; a tent brave with festoons and flags and decorations. there is a hint in one of the mottoes at the shortcomings of the season- "may the year '93 be the worst we shall see." follows then a game of rounders, in which the vicar, after much persuasion, agrees to play, if another somewhat elderly pillar of the church will take a hand too. it were long to tell the varying fortunes of the game; how the portly figure of the wheelwright was hampered by the unwonted dignity--as to workadays, that is--of a long frock coat; how the village butcher, glorious in a white waistcoat, forgets it in the heat of battle; how a tall young lady in grey makes the most brilliant of catches; and how the pillar of the church was thrown out by the long curate. and if the vicar plays no very conspicuous part in the game, his boys are the life of it; and it is his daughter too, who, in a far corner of the field, leads a dance of village children, to the old-world ditty, "as we go gathering nuts in may, nuts in may, nuts in may," their sweet young voices sounding clear above the shouts of the players. but the game is ended. the next move is to the tent, hung now with clusters of lamps, and with everything cleared ready for a dance. the band on a daã¯s in the centre, an uncommonly good band too, strikes up a lively air. there is a little shyness at first starting--not more than fifty couples, perhaps, to begin with; a little awkwardness, and a few collisions; but the company is pervaded with such imperturbable good humour that no one cares for any mishap. as the evening wears on the gaps on the seats against the canvas walls grow wider. and when the first square dance is about to begin there is a good deal of active searching for partners. "have you got a 'vizzyvizze'?" says a young farmer to a village belle. the vicar pleads that his dancing days are over; but it is clear that no one takes more delight than he in the innocent merry-making of his flock. a hundred pairs of dancers are footing merrily on the short, dry turf. "warm, b'aint it?" says one sturdy young farmer to another, who stands mopping his brow at the end of the set. but as the summer night wears on, and the revellers settle to their work in earnest, it is a warmer business still. hats are tilted further and further back; waistcoats are loosened; and at length, in the closing reel, hats are tossed aside and coats even are discarded. it is an orderly company, quiet and well-behaved to the very last, breaking off their revels on the stroke of midnight, trooping out of the tent that, with its multitudinous lamps, is bright against the moonless sky, its festoons of flags and creepers showing clearly through the canvas walls. they go their several ways across the wide parish, along the dim, unlighted lanes, to meet no more, under such conditions at any rate, until next year brings round another harvest home. [illustration: country life.] winterhead: aftermath. there are many symbols on the dial of nature to mark the changing of the year. such signs are the brightening colours of the meadows, and the growing hosts of insect life. such a sign is the strange, noonday silence of the woodland; and such, too, is the change in the cuckoo's cry--faltering, even before the longest day. such signs are the gathering of the swallows, the purple mist on the plumed reeds by the river, the blackberry clusters ripening fast along the hedge-row, the butterflies that flutter in through the open windows, seeking already some dark nook in which to hide themselves in good time before the setting in of winter. but plainer even than these, for most of us at any rate, is the altered tone of the hedge-rows--ever ready to answer to the influence of the sunshine. it is under the hedge-row that spring leaves her fairest traces--violets white and blue, and primroses, with their soft, delicate perfume. may crowns the thickets with the foamy fragrance of the hawthorn. june studs the long briar sprays with sweet wild roses, fairest of all flowers of summer. and now, again, these hot summer days are lending new beauty to the country lanes; not of flowers or of fresh young foliage, but of mellow leaves and gleaming berries. there is a special charm about these old west country lanes, worn, sometimes, by the clumsy wheels and toiling feet of many centuries, deep down below the fields on either hand; lanes that lead perhaps to nowhere, or that lose themselves in the meadows; lanes that in our fathers' time were, it may be, king's highways, and that now grass-grown and neglected, with deep ruts and broadening hollows, where water lies in winter, are known only to the birds'-nester, or to village children in quest of nuts or blackberries. for most of us these quests are but memories of childhood. most of us can but echo the lament of the poet: "and blackberries, so mawkish now, were finely flavoured then; and nuts, such reddening clusters ripe, i ne'er shall pull again." and yet, perhaps, though the feast of to-day is for the eye rather than the palate, we welcome as keenly as we ever did, nutting time, or days of blackberry harvest. we think less of the rich, ripe clusters, no doubt, but we are more alive to the beauty of the leaves, of the red stems that show so well among the green shadows, of the withering foliage, torn and ragged, yet touched in the autumn with gold and russet and fiery crimson. the old yew yonder, by the church on the hillside, under whose broad shadow so many centuries of village folk have gathered week by week, when service was over, to talk of the haying, and the weather, and even, it may be, of the business of their neighbours, stands out a dark, funereal mass against the grey masonry behind it. a nearer view would show that its heavy green is relieved by a thousand points of gold, not yet wholly tarnished, but at this distance they are lost in the surrounding gloom. the copper beeches by the manor house, that of late gleamed like metal in the brilliant sunshine, are darkening into black. the larch plantations, marshalled in well-ordered phalanx along the old road half up the hill, have long since lost their freshness, and the leaves of this great pollard oak, whose maimed boughs throw a shadow none too wide, are bright no longer. for centuries has the old tree cooled its knotted roots in the black earth of this swampy hollow. signs of age are only too plain to read. the furrowed bark has been split away in patches, revealing underneath the galleries of wood-boring creatures; and the old trunk is scarred with pits that the wood-peckers have been digging, searching for fat white beetle grubs, or for the evil-smelling caterpillar of the goat-moth. and just below the pollarded branches there is a woodpecker's hole, whose well-worn threshold suggests years of occupation. round the broad base of the tree marsh plants are growing--spearwort and water-plantain, broad blades of iris, and cool green plumes of marestail. in the long grass of the field that stretches far on either hand, there are crimson spikes of orchis, pale marsh valerian, and bright ragged robin, and here and there nods a white plume of early cotton grass. it is a mere thread of water that, loitering slowly through the meadow, seems to pause round the roots of this old tree; the very slenderest of streams. even the reedy hollow where it steals along, a broken line of silver, lost at times among sedges and brooklime and strong meadow grasses, is hardly noticed as it wanders idly through the field. yet the birds know it well. here the snipe lie in the hard weather. here, too, in winter, you may watch the water-rail stealing in and out among the leafless thickets, through the jungle of dead stems of fig-wort, and hemlock, and tall hemp agrimony. on the black mud of the shore you may trace to-day the light footprints of the wagtails that have their lodging in a cranny of the ruined mill in the next meadow, the broad sign manual of the moorhens whose nest is nearer still, and the tracks of many a water-loving bird beside. and, though the listening ear can but just catch the faint tinkle of the tiny ripples that fret among the hemlock stems, there is as much life along this little streamlet as by the mill pool yonder, though the rumble of the old wheel and the plash of the mill-race seem louder, even at this distance, than the low murmur of these tiny waves. there, among the rafters of the boat-house, the swallows build, and white-breasted martins have their nests under the broad eaves of the mill. but it is here, by this oozy margin, that they find the clay to frame their dwellings. the moorhen rides in company with the little fleet of ducks upon the pool, though she draws hastily away when the miller lounges through the door to open the sluice, her nodding head keeping time to the quick beating of her paddles. but it is here that she hides her nest. it is behind the stems of that hazel bush, close down by the stream. last night, when the old bird went off with a splash like a water-rat, there was just light enough to count the seven eggs. but now, when you steal quietly up, there is no old bird on guard. no eggs are in the nest. it is filled to the very brim with something dark, like a black shadow. all at once, as you stand peering down at it from the farther shore, hardly a yard away, the shadow breaks into fragments that struggle over the edge and plunge down into the water--seven fluffy little balls of sable down, each with a touch of scarlet for a beak; seven bold young moorhens, making their first venture into the great world; argonauts born, paddling along the diminutive reaches of their tiny river, and scrambling away into the green jungle on the shore with a skill and readiness that is the heir-loom of untold generations. the sedge-warbler, too, loves the reedy fringe of the mill pond, and he never shows to more advantage than when he balances on one of those tall spears of bulrush. but his nest is here, in yonder bush, whose foliage the cows have cropped so close. a strange song is his, copied now from the skylark, and now from the swallow; and now again you might think that a party of house-sparrows were having a real good gossip down by the water. sparrow-like, too, is the note of a bird that sits motionless on the topmost twig of a maple tree that leans over the brook. his shape and his smart plumage, the flatness of his head and the rich red brown of his back, mark him for a shrike, a butcher-bird. he, too, is fond of this quiet corner. year after year his mate and he come back to the hawthorn bush below the maple, to repair the great nest in which so many families have been reared. on a broad flat stone that serves for a bridge over the meadow ditch near by are strewn some broken snail shells and a half-eaten cockchafer. but that was not his doing. if you look closely at the bush below his perch, the bush that shelters his well-hidden nest, you may discover the butcher-bird's "larder;" may see spitted on the long thorns that help to guard his dwelling, beetles, or bees, or even a young bird, or, it may be, a dragon-fly, who surely must have been taken unaware, since with those strong gauzy wings it is said he can distance even the swallow in his swift career. a man with a pail slung on his shoulder, and with a milking stool in his hand, comes slowly out from the farm buildings, a dog following at his heels; a dog grey and shabby and unkempt, of breed altogether past description. but he is a master of his art, mongrel though he be. the man points to a group of cattle in the far corner of the field. at once the dog goes off to bring them in, heading and turning, and then urging them gently homeward, with marvellous skill and patience, encouraged now and again by his master's strange and inarticulate shouts. a troop of goslings is grazing in the middle of the field, goose and gander standing sentinel at either end of the extended line. the old birds sound a challenge as the dog goes by, and lower their silly heads, and hiss and charge at him; while he, his mind set wholly on the business of the moment, canters past unmoved. an angry gander is by no means an antagonist to be despised. there is something particularly irritating, too, in the style of the attack. we can hardly wonder at the village urchin who, having been sorely harassed as to his unprotected legs by vicious digs of the old bird's beak, tried to soothe his wounded feelings by stoning at long range the unoffending goslings, blubbering out in mingled pain and rage to the indignant farmer who presently seized on him red-handed: "what for they goschicks' fayther bite i, then?" round the old farm yonder, whose weather-stained roofs and walls half ruinous just show among its clustering trees, there is a picture of quiet autumn life. in the spacious stack-yard a party of labourers, whose sunburnt faces glow against the green background of the trees like so many round red autumn suns, are standing about a great waggon, tossing hay to men at work on the fast-growing ricks of new, sweet-smelling aftermath. it is an ancient homestead. a thousand summers, it may be, has hay been cleared from these broad meadows. a thousand times, at the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, have the sheaves been piled in this old stack-yard. the hamlet of three houses is little changed, either in name or character, since the days of edward the confessor, when brictric held it, paying geld for one hide of land; when two villeins, with as many boors and serfs, made up all its scanty population. a pleasant place, this warm autumn afternoon, is the hollow at the back of the farm; a broad space of level grass land, once an orchard, and with a few forlorn old apple trees still standing in it; bordered on one side by a green lane, and on the other by a broken line of hedge-row, through whose wide gaps the thistles and brake-fern are marching down like caterans from the hills, bent on reconquering the pasture-land and turning it once more into a wilderness. all round it rise the hills, robbing it of some hours of sunshine indeed, yet sheltering it from every wind that blows. just showing over a steep brow above are the white houses of a hill-side village, once in the heart of a great mining field--the very place macaulay had in view when he described how "the rugged miners poured to war from mendip's sunless caves." the mines have long been deserted. but here and there among the villages you still may happen on some son of the soil, some time-worn and bent and wrinkled patriarch, who, in his young days, dug for ore among these hills; who remembers the time when a miner, working here for his own hand, could earn a sovereign a day. but although the miners have been gone these fifty years, the whole country side is seamed and scarred with traces of their old workings. there are fields on this farm where the ground is so broken with heaps of rubbish from the pits, and so full of barely-covered shafts, that the land is almost valueless. but there are no buildings to spoil the landscape. there was no machinery but the windlass and the bucket. and here, as ever, nature has done her best to hide the traces of man's ravages. the heaps of stone and earth she has changed to grassy knolls, covered them with lotus and burnet and scented clusters of the thyme, and scattered over them little clumps of dark campanula. under her kindly touch the stony shafts are turned to bowery hollows, green with moss and stone-crop, and long plumes of fern. [illustration: winterhead: an upland pasture.] a bird-haunted spot is this little hollow in the hills. the clump of old scotch firs looking down from the hill-slope yonder is the harbour of crow and magpie, ever the hangers-on of a west country farm. the straggling hedge-rows that part these broad fields are full of empty nests. here, among the red fruit of rowan and whitebeam, the ring-ousel lingers on his southward journey. in this old apple tree, whose withered arms are hung for once with fruit, like little golden balls, is a woodpecker's hole, with marks of the maker's tool about it yet. that stately oak tree, springing straight and tall in the line of the old hedge-row--touched above with a hundred points of light where the pale green acorns hang, and laced below, across its drooping branches, with silver lines of gossamer--is a resting place for all the birds of the air. in the spring the cuckoo alights upon its topmost crown and calls his name to all the neighbourhood. from its leafy crest the magpie looks down, meditating another raid upon the hencoop. the brown squirrels too, love to frolic in its dim green shadows, playing hide and seek among the branches, and racing headlong down its wrinkled bark to scamper over the short turf of the meadow. at this moment two linnets on its topmost spray are filling the air with such a chorus of sweet notes and breezy chattering that you might think a score of birds were in the tree. the sun is sinking low. the shadows of the hedge-row elms are stealing far down the grassy slope. sparrows that have been gleaning in outlying stubble-fields are flying home to roost in the ivy on the old barn wall, or in the sides of the stacks, or in snug tunnels that they have made for themselves in the thatched roof of their thankless lord and suzerain:--quarters infinitely cleaner and sweeter and more wholesome altogether than those of their smoke-blackened cousins in the city. the sun is down. a soft blue mist is gathering in the red heart of the pines. and now "the shadows veil the meadows, and the sunset's golden ladders sink from twilight's walls of grey." [illustration: a grey old house by the sea.] woodspring: a grey old house by the sea. the heat-glimmer is still quivering on the sand, and over the vast mud-flats, bared by the retreating tide, a soft haze hangs. yet the sun, sinking slowly through a cloudless sky, reddens as it nears the low horizon, and the grey grass of the old sea wall is brightening in the glow of sunset. over the long curve of the sand-hills shows a wide sweep of plain, whose level meadows, freshened by the welcome rain, are still a very blaze of gold. against the sky, where, at the far limit of the bay, the ragged hillocks die away into the shore, stands the white shaft of a lighthouse. farther still, across the hazy mud-flats, rise the faint shapes of shadowy hills. the tide is out. a sea of boulders, shaggy with dark weed, look like a herd of strange monsters come ashore to bask upon the sand. there is no sign of human presence anywhere, save a house roof just showing here and there above the sand-hills, the distant hamlets scattered at far intervals over the moor, and the black stakes of fishing nets that stand out on the grey mud like webs of giant spiders. there is no figure on the shore, no stranded boat, no idle sail. nor is there sound, save the low monotonous murmur of the sea. but here and there over the desolate expanse dark shapes of birds are moving. now and then a troop of dunlins careers along the sand. surely they are soon back after their brief northern summer. one can hardly think that they and the brown whimbrels whose musical trill at times falls softly on the ear can have been away at all. now a party of gulls get up with wild stormy crying, and wheel and eddy in the air, now light, now dark on the grey sky of the horizon. all the while to the cliff ledges overhead clamorous daws are drifting, passing to their nests, or settling on storm-worn pinnacles of rock. that shrill pipe was the cry of a kestrel. two rock doves hurrying homeward, cliff-dwellers like the rest, pay no heed. they know him well, too well to fear at any time his beak or claw. here he comes, wheeling round the headland. with wings and tail spread wide, he pauses a moment to hover in the air; then sails slowly by. no shrill clamour from the cliff answers his challenge. no fierce young eyases yet are on the watch for his return. he alights on a ledge far overhead, where his mate no doubt is brooding on her rich brown eggs. over the sea, trembling in the sinking sun, lies a gleam as of frosted silver. suddenly, far out on the grey level, breaks a line of light. a faint sound falls on the ear--the low roar of the returning sea, the first wave of the rising tide. now troops of daws, rising from the fields along the shore, fly homeward--a gathering cloud of dusky figures sweeping towards the cliff, that echoes with their musical clamour. right overhead they go, clustering like bees on ledges and pinnacles and grassy slopes, and settle down to gossip over the experiences of the day. again they rise into the air, and wheel over the sea, and again turn homeward, darkening the cliff as with innumerable points of shadow. once more they rise in eddying crowd. the troop divides. with sharp chorus of farewell one party flies straight over the hill. their resting-place is farther on. they are not dwellers in the cliff. they are making for the low hills to the northward, a ridge of limestone dwindling into such another rocky headland. there, in the shelter of the hills, stand the ruins of a priory, in the niches of whose crumbling tower, or on the dusty floor of its neglected belfry, their sires and they have built for generations their untidy nests. it is an ancient pile. founded now nearly seven centuries ago, its grey walls harboured for three hundred years a handful of monks, black-stoled, black-hooded, darker even than these daws. it has long been an article of faith in the countryside that the old tower was "... built to purge de traci's soul from guilt, of becket foully slain." but in the original letter, still to be read in the cottonian library, in which william de curtenai, grandson of traci, made known to the bishop of the diocese his intention of founding a "monastic house of the order of monks of st. augustine," there is no hint at all of expiation. nor, indeed, have we any evidence that the guilt of murder ever did lie heavy on de traci's soul: though there is an old tradition that, after a brief reappearance at court, he spent the remainder of his stormy life in seclusion on his manor near morthoe, where in the old churchyard by the sea "lie all the tracies, with the wind in their faces." the founder of the priory seems to have had no other object in view than "the welfare of the soul of robert de curtenai, my father, ... and of my mother and myself; also of my wife, my ancestors and descendants." for rather more than three centuries the "worspryng" canons, never probably more than ten in number, lived and died in this grey old house by the sea. we know little of their story; but the document is still in existence to which the last of their priors set his name in acknowledgment that the pope was a usurper, and that king henry alone was true head of the church. two years later all the minor monasteries were forfeited to the crown--"forasmoche as manifest synne, vicious, carnall and abomynable lyving is dayly used and comitted amonges the lytell abbeys and pryories." this was one of the "lytell pryories." its revenues from all sources, whether from rents that were reckoned in horseshoes, or from "arable at iv_d._," or from "wode and waste at j_d._ the acre," amounted to rather under a hundred a year. when the little party of friars turned their backs upon their home, they appear to have carried with them what was probably the most sacred of their relics: one of those small wooden cups which, filled with "canterbury water"--that is, with water containing a minute quantity of the martyr's blood--were sold to visitors at becket's shrine. marvellous are the tales related by the chroniclers of the time as to the virtue of this wonderful water. by its use sight, hearing, speech, reason, and even life were restored. the pavement was in fact still sprinkled with his blood when those supernatural manifestations began, which were to make the martyr's shrine the richest in the world. on the very day of the murder, a blind man on his way to seek aid at the church of st. nicholas, was accosted by "an appearance in the form of a man, who warned him to betake himself to the new martyr of christ." he groped his way to becket's body. he touched his own sightless eyes with the sacred blood, and his vision was immediately restored. this was the first of many miracles. the pious chroniclers record how men, women, and children flocked to the shrine from every corner of the kingdom, some to ask aid, others to return thanks for favours granted: as chaucer puts it: "the holy, blisful martyr for to seke, that hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke." captives, who had been taken by the saracens, travelled all the way from damascus, to return thanks at the shrine of canterbury, because st. thomas had appeared to them in the visions of the night and helped them to escape. five writers of the time did their best to record for the benefit of future ages the miracles of the blessed martyr. these were benedict, sometime prior of christchurch, canterbury, and afterwards abbot of peterborough; william of canterbury, who, perhaps, held office at the shrine after benedict; alan, abbot of tewkesbury; john of salisbury, who witnessed the murder, and whom de traci thought was the man he had wounded; and grim of cambridge,--not a monk, in all probability, nor really connected in any way with becket, but his great admirer. it was grim, it will be remembered, who was wounded in the vain attempt to save the archbishop. the minutest particulars are given in these chronicles. the names and professions, the counties, the native towns of many of the pilgrims are recorded. there are exceptions. in the case of a man who came from "the province of surrey," benedict says "the barbarous name of the town has not stuck in my memory." the miracles were of every imaginable description. a sick monk, near sedan, too ill to leave his cell, was touched with a mere list of the saint's achievements, and in a short time he was able to resume his duties. a monk of byland was dying. he had already received the _viaticum_, when the abbot, having made the sign of the cross in water upon a piece of becket's hair-shirt, caused the dying man's mouth to be opened, and the water administered. instantly, we are told, the sick man recovered speech and appetite. it was a common thing to promise a candle to the saint. there were men who were too ill to go in person to canterbury, and who dated their recovery from the instant that the candle was lighted for them at the shrine. there is a description of five widows who tried in vain to restore life to a child who had been three hours under water. they held him up by the feet; they repeated nine paternosters over him in the name of the blessed st. thomas, but all with no effect. then one of them said to the child's mother: "run and fetch a piece of string and measure the child, and promise to the martyr a candle of the same length." it was done, and the boy at once recovered. the smallest offerings were not disdained. a flemish bird-catcher, having tried in vain for some days to trap a certain falcon, cried out, "o blessed thomas, glorious martyr, i will give thee a penny if thou wilt give me the falcon." benedict tells us that "it came instantly to the bird-catcher, as if used to his hand. we both saw the falcon," he goes on, "and received the money." even more marvellous still are the legends that passed current as to the wonders wrought by the martyr's blood, which in quantities about the bulk of a hazel nut, and largely diluted, were sold to pilgrims under the name of canterbury water. a man, journeying home after visiting the shrine, was belated at rochester. in vain he sought shelter for the night. at door after door he was refused admittance. at last, "for the sake of the blessed martyr," he was taken in. in the night the town caught fire. when the citizens were fleeing, panic-stricken, "the pilgrim, whose faith was more fervent than the material flame, remaining boldly on the roof, called for a spear, or something long. a fork (hayfork, perhaps) was handed up to him. then, taking the reliquary (containing canterbury water) from his neck ... he fastened it to the fork, held it out towards the fire," and thus kept the flames at bay. for "the fire, as if fearing a contrary element, turned aside." finally the whole town was burnt, with the single exception of its one hospitable house. a few drops of canterbury water swallowed or administered externally sufficed to cure the most desperate diseases, and were quite as efficacious as the pilgrimage itself. by its use the blind, the deaf, the lame, the palsied, were cured, and even the dead brought back to life. the precious liquid was sold at first in small wooden vessels, fitted with lids, in which mirrors were sometimes fixed, "_specula mulierum_," as the monkish writer puts it. but as the wood was apt to split, flasks of lead or earthenware were used instead. these were hung from the neck, and came to be regarded, like the palm branch of jerusalem or the escalop shell of compostella, as an emblem of the pilgrimage. it was not an uncommon practice, in old days, to place in a martyr's tomb a small vessel filled with his blood. many such have been discovered in the catacombs. in the kircher museum at rome there is an agate cup, containing the remains of blood, which was found in the catacombs of st. callixtus. a special point of interest attaches to these legends in that there is reason to think that one of these very reliquaries, one of the earliest and most primitive form and still actually containing traces of blood, has been preserved to the present day. forty years ago, or rather more--the actual date was 1849--some workmen, while repairing the interior of a little west country church, at kewstoke in somersetshire, had occasion to remove an old carved stone, which had been built into the masonry. it was apparently the head of a column, worked in caen stone, a material not used elsewhere in the building, and the style was earlier than anything else in the church. in front of this capital is a niche enclosing a battered effigy, apparently the half length figure of a veiled woman. at the back, where it was embedded in the wall, is an arched cavity, about eight inches high, closed by an oaken panel, and containing a small cylindrical wooden vessel, three inches in diameter, and but slightly more in height, broken and decayed, and containing at the bottom a layer of some dark substance, pronounced, after careful examination, to be the remains of blood. it is a bold guess, but still a guess that has much to support it, that this cup was one of the very reliquaries dispersed through the country after becket's martyrdom; that it once held no less precious a relic than "canterbury water"; in short, that the dark layer at the bottom is what passed, seven centuries ago, for the blood of the blessed st. thomas himself. the monastery is now a dwelling-house. the windows of a modern farm look out through the walled-up arches of the priory. quaint gargoyles peer through the mantling creepers of the ruined cloister. grey stems of ivy have sapped right through the crumbling masonry. wallflowers bloom on the worn crowns of the turrets. it is a quiet spot, "here, at the farthest limit of the world." yet it is not strange that a corner so remote should have been chosen for the site of a monastery dedicated "to god, the blessed mary, and the blessed martyr thomas." all four of becket's murderers were men of the west country. de brito and fitzurse were landowners of this district; de traci and de morville belonged, at farthest, to the neighbouring county. this crumbling relic is to us but an item on the shelf of a museum. the great churchman himself is to most of us nothing but a name, a mere figure in a page of history. and although poet and player, past and present masters of their art, have done their best to bring him again before the world; although his counterfeit presentment stands to-day before us as full of fire, of valour, of resolute determination as on that fatal tuesday more than seven centuries ago--yet the becket of the players is but "a fable, a phantom, a show." when the curtain falls upon that last sad scene, we are conscious of no sinking of heart at the remembrance of an awful figure lying white and still upon the bloodstained pavement. the curtain down, our becket is alive again. the actor lives, the martyr is forgotten. there is another figure in the play whose memory lingers in this far-off spot. at the foot of the low blue hills yonder lies the village which was the ancient home of the cliffords. rosamund herself,--the fair girl over whose tomb at godstow her royal lover wrote- "hic jacet in tumba rosa mundi non rosa munda," was born almost within sight of curtenai's tower. when the fair fugitive pleaded, in excuse for wandering out unguarded, that "... there stole into the city a breath full of the meadows," she was, it may be, thinking of the hamlet where, in quiet cloisters, long since gone to ruin, she passed her girlish days. there by the "... river, widening through the meadows green, to the vast sea, so near and yet unseen," there may have come to her in vision some glimmer of the coming time, some forerunning shadow of the "love that is born of the deep, coming up with the sun from the sea." [illustration: the monk's retreat.] kewstoke: the monk's steps. a grey november day, with sad-coloured clouds hanging low over a grey and sullen sea. at intervals there rolls across the water the dull boom of distant fog-guns, echoing like thunder under the heavy veil of mist. from the shore below comes the ceaseless fret of waves sweeping swiftly in across the sand. along the edge of the tide and over the wide mud-flats are scattered the white figures of gulls; and at times there comes faintly up the low musical call of a whimbrel, or the plaintive wail of a curlew. at times, too, there rises in the air a great flock of sandpipers, like a thin smoke-cloud drifting down the shore, until, as they wheel, their snowy breasts and upturned wings gleam for a moment silver white on the grey sky behind them. it is a grey world altogether; grey sea, grey shore, grey shingle. grey, too, are the ragged sand hills, whose shifting ramparts the gales of many winters have piled so high over the old sea wall. below this hollow--a narrow gorge worn deep into the hill--there lies a little hamlet, still half-hidden by the trees, thinned and tattered though they are, and nestling close under the shelter of the hill;--a score or so of white-walled houses, with roofs of red tiles weathered to soft shades of brown and russet, with plumes of blue smoke all trailing seawards, and with a fringe of orchards round it, where the mellow fruit is still glowing on the boughs. high over the roofs of the village rises the grey tower of the church, its turrets just clear above the clustering elms, in whose shadow lies the crowded graveyard, "where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap." a wide stretch of pasture-land divides the village from the sea. yet, in old days--before the coming of the friars to the priory yonder, whose tower shows faintly against the low green hill that dies in a rocky headland by the sea, perhaps even before the legionaries stormed the great stronghold whose ruins crown this breezy hill-top--the little hamlet, now so far above the tide line, was, if antiquaries read its name aright, a place of boats. the fields about it are still below high-water mark. a high spring tide, before a gale from the westward, would even now reach right up to the village, were it not for the sea wall and the sand hills. the sand hills are mere desert now. yet they are pleasant enough in the summer time, when their short turf is bright with rest-harrow and crowfoot, when the great bells of the sea-convolvulus open wide on the hot sand, when tufts of pale thrift blossom in the shingle, and clumps of white campion, and frail flowers of yellow poppy. pleasant then is the sweet breath of thyme and clover. pleasanter still the smell of the sea, blown by soft summer airs over the wide mud-flats and the trampled sand. the little hamlet, high and dry this many a day, is a port no longer. the only harvest of the sea that the villagers can glean in our time is that which wind and wave bring ashore upon this sandy beach. in the broken spars, the splintered timbers, the nameless waifs and strays of wreckage which the storm brings to their doors, the dwellers in the cottages that seem to crouch for shelter behind the old sea wall, find all their winter fuel. there are traditions that many a cargo of spirits was run ashore here in smuggling days. tales are still current of the hiding places where the goods were stored. it is said that even the church tower has in its time afforded sanctuary to bales of lace and kegs of liquor that never paid the king his due. this narrow pass may well have served the "free-traders" as a secret way into the hills. but the long flight of rude stone steps that leads down it towards the village dates from an earlier time. to its use and history no clue remains. it is likely enough that it was the pathway to the camp from the long-vanished port below. there is a legend in the country-side that it led up to the cell of an anchorite, a solitary who inhabited this ravine, and who, with his own hands, hewed and fitted the stones of the old stairway, now worn smooth by the feet of many centuries. half-way up the pass, under the shelter of the limestone cliff, is his traditional dwelling place, a chamber hollowed in the living rock and roughly faced with masonry. who was he? a monk from the old priory yonder,--an outlaw with blood upon his soul? "had you, father, hid away in your heart, some load to bury, that you chose so long to stay, world-forgot and solitary?" it is a quiet spot. the crumbling walls look down through the rocky gateway of the gorge to the village at its foot; over the grey curve of shingle to the wet sands that, as the cloud veil lifts and scatters, are beginning now to shine like silver in the sunlight; to the grey sea, with sails showing ghost-like here and there; to the far shore, whose rugged outline looms faintly through the haze. the brown elms of the village redden in the sunshine. there is a flush of colour on the belfry walls, on the limestone battlements above the pass, on the worn steps of the old stairway winding downward to the sea. yes, a quiet spot. there is no sound but the slumbrous music of the waves, at times the bark of a sheep-dog, a cattle-call from distant meadows, or the chatter of linnets on the hill. on such a scene the old monk looked down. such sounds were in his ears. such rest and calm brooded over his rude dwelling--beast and bird his sole companions, the busy world shut out. was he the father of the village, summoned from his cell to shrieve the dying, bless the dead? was he a surly recluse, fond of solitude and silence? "tell, when all the boughs were bare, did you dread each dreary waking? hewing out your stony stair, were you glad at thorn-buds breaking? did you mark the flashing white on the breast of earliest swallows, or the wavering, yellow light on the cowslips in the hollows? as day grew 'twixt dawn and dark did the shy birds learn to love you? sang the silver-throated lark out of sight in skies above you? when the burning noontide sun made the gorge grow hot and hazy did you wish your work were done? were you ever tired--or lazy? when you sat beside your door in the dusk, you ancient man, you, did the broad-leaved sycamore wave and rustle low to fan you? did you sometimes, in the night, rise and quit your quiet shieling, climbing up the grassy height with a still, expectant feeling? where the wind went whispering by underneath pale stars that glisten, from the open, upper sky did god speak, and did you listen?" from the rocky brow above the hermit's chamber the eye looks out over a wider world. a world no longer cold and colourless. the clouds have lifted from the sea; the sky has cleared; a flood of sunshine covers the whole landscape. it kindles on the red roofs of the village, it gilds the sombre leafage of the elms, it brightens the green meadows, turning all their straight-cut waterways to lines of silver. a tall beech that lifts its stately head above its fellows in the wood yonder reddens in the sunset. and the bright foliage of a row of spanish chestnuts along the path that winds upwards from the shore flames like a river of light among the quiet-coloured elms and larches. a passing sail gleams white upon an opal sea. over the wide west is spread a soft and golden glow; while far hills, range beyond range, are wrought in amethyst upon the lighted sky. [illustration: tintagel.] by coach to tintagel. the traveller from clovelly, making his way by coach towards the northern coast of cornwall, pays no slight penalty, in the early stages of his ride at any rate, for the ease and comfort of his journey. it is but a dull and featureless road that crosses the miles of windswept moorland which fill so wide a stretch of the devonshire marches. we have to leave unseen some of the grandest coast scenery in the county. we miss altogether the pleasant vale of hartland and the precipitous rocks of black mouth; and, above all, we see nothing of the world-forgotten nook of hartland quay, nestling close under its mighty wall of cliff. it is a pleasant mode of travelling. there is a much greater charm about the box-seat of a coach than there is in the cosiest corner of a railway carriage. there is the charm of freshness and the open air, of hills and meadows and deep country lanes. but a man on a coach is not entirely his own master. the coach-ride gives no opportunity for anything like a leisurely survey. there is little time for exploring church or manor-house or abbey ruin. the old encampment, the cluster of grave-mounds, or the ancient cross of which perhaps the traveller may have caught a glimpse in passing, appeals to him in vain. morwenstow is among the spots we have to pass unseen. yet it is well worth a pilgrimage. no picture, either of pen or pencil, can give a fair idea of that grey old tower by the sea, among its gnarled and storm-beaten trees, and set round with old figure-heads,--the sorrowful memorials of lost ships and of drowned mariners. and as at clovelly, kingsley is the central figure of all legends, old or new, so morwenstow is haunted by memories of hawker, for forty years the vicar of the parish. he left his mark there in many ways. he built the vicarage, and above the vicarage door he traced these lines:- "a house, a glebe, a pound a day, a pleasant place to watch and pray. be true to church, be kind to poor o minister for evermore." morwenstow we have to take on trust. but the coach goes through kilkhampton, and here again it is the church that is the centre of interest. outside the old grey walls we are reminded of hervey, sometime curate in bideford, who in this quiet churchyard wrote his once famous _meditations_. within the building lie the ashes of a line of grenvilles;--the greatest of them, indeed, rests not here, but somewhere in the spanish main. one monument is in memory of sir beville grenville, who, after routing on stamford hill a roundhead army twice as numerous as his own, was killed, a few weeks later, in the fight on lansdowne. the field of battle is only four miles to the southward; and there, on the wall of the village inn, may still be seen this inscription, from the monument,--long since destroyed,--which was set up on the scene of conflict:- "in this place ye army of ye rebells under ye command of ye earl of stamford received a signal overthrow by the valor of sir bevill grenville and ye cornish army, on tuesday, ye 16th of may, 1643." as we drove out of kilkhampton a brilliant sunset was flaming in the west, and the shadow of the coast was strangely lengthened on the grassy fringes of the road. by the time we had entered on the last league of the journey, the air, that all day long had been sweetened by the breath of wide sheets of gorse and heather, was blowing cool across the moors. and as we slowly descended the long hill to bude, darkness was fairly settling down over the landscape. morning broke almost without a cloud. it was still summer, but there was a sign of coming change in the great flights of swallows that had assembled in the village street, clustering in thousands on roofs and telegraph wires, as if pausing for rest, or waiting until some coming storm should be overpast. the sea was in quiet mood as we stood on the grassy brow of the cliff that skirts the shore; and they were the very gentlest of waves that rolled lazily in across the shining sand. but on every side there were tokens, only too plain to read, that this is among the most perilous of shores. here a party of men were breaking up the iron frame-work of a wreck. there the life-boat crew, cleaning and painting and overhauling, stood ready by their gear. in many of the gardens by the canal are the battered figure-heads of ships, half hidden among shrubs and flowers. and in the churchyard above the village the white effigy of a turbaned warrior that once looked proudly down from the bows of the _bencoolen_, now guards the grave of thirteen of her crew, lost when she came ashore here on these smooth sands some five-and-thirty years ago. in one of the houses of the village are preserved some arms--cutlases and muskets--that have been recovered from the wreck, so corroded and so encrusted with sand that their original shapes are hardly recognizable. the sun went down behind an ominous-looking bank of cloud. that night the wind roared in the chimneys of the inn, and clouds of driving sand rattled like shot against the windows. next morning found the sea in another temper altogether. great green rollers were thundering up the beach, and leaping over the break-water in sheets of spray. heavy clouds were rolling up from the southward, and altogether it was sufficiently clear that the swallows were well advised to put in for calmer weather. the day's ride began under no pleasant conditions. cold squalls of pitiless rain drove fiercely in our faces as we sat huddled together on the coach, glad to make use of every wrap and rug we had, and forcibly reminded of the old fisherman, who surveying the prostrate forms of his party of holiday makers, lying helpless in the boat, overcome by dire extremity of sickness, muttered softly to himself: "and they calls this goin' a-pleasurin!" but the sun came out again as we went down the long slope into boscastle; and, at length, when we drew up before the inn, the sky was clear. but the wind was blowing harder than ever as we made our way along the strange little harbour; and by the look-out station on the cliff it was as much as we could do to hold our own against the gale. a tremendous sea was breaking on the reefs outside, and thundering against the rocky wall below. before us, far as eye could reach, stretched away the sunlit levels of the atlantic, touched with a thousand twinkling points of light, and shot with changing tones of green and blue and amethyst. boscastle minster lies in an ideal setting in its quiet woodland valley. but some travellers, at any rate, will look with less interest on its massive walls, on the decorated timbers of its noble roof, or on the time-blackened carvings of its beautiful bench-ends, than on the other church of boscastle, at forrabury, a mile or so to the westward. for this is the silent tower of bottreaux, whose bells lie at the bottom of the sea, just outside the harbour. all the world knows the story. how, when the church was first built, the village folk petitioned the lord of bottreaux for a peal of bells to hang in the new tower. how the bells were cast, and were on their way by sea from london. how, as the ship drew near boscastle harbour, the pilot, a tintagel man, heard the chimes of his own village ringing, and thanked god for fine weather and a prosperous voyage. how the captain scoffed: "thank your own skill," said he, "and our stout craft and able seamanship." how the words were hardly uttered, when a sudden storm caught the vessel and dashed her to pieces on the rocks. how only the pilot reached land alive. and how, on wild nights of winter, when a storm is coming up from the atlantic, the fisherman on the shore still hears the muffled tones of the long-lost bottreaux bells, as the unquiet surges swing them in their ocean rest. but the glory of the whole coast is tintagel,--the birth-place of arthur, the palace of king marc of cornwall. though the village of tintagel is half a mile or more inland, the ruins of the ancient stronghold stand partly on the brink of a cliff that overhangs the sea, but mainly on a bold headland almost surrounded by the waves. some of the masonry is older even than the days of the round table, for in st. juliet's chapel there are, it is said, traces of roman workmanship. tintagel was still inhabited, either as a fortress or a prison until early tudor times; but leland describes it as having wholly gone to ruin. "it hath bene," he says in his gossiping _itinerary_, "a marvelus strong and notable forteres, and almost _situ loci inexpugnabile_, especially for the donjon that is on the great high terrible cragge. but the residue of the buildinges of the castel be sore wether-beten an yn mine." standing on the brink of the tremendous cliff, with the waves and the wave-girt rock before, with the wind-swept downs behind, where the lonely church seems to crouch upon the short turf like a storm-driven sea-bird, and with the whole air full of the fretful murmur of the sea, we look down upon a page of old romance. his must be a dull soul who, when the stern lines of the headland are dark against the glowing west, cannot people the old halls with shadowy figures, with the shapes of arthur and his knights, who, more than all other heroes, have been so "magnified by the purple mist the dusk of centuries and of song." as we look over the perilous verge we have no eyes for the dark hues of the rock, for the whiteness of the leaping foam-cloud, or for the beauty of the blue levels of "the unquiet, bright atlantic main." we have no ears for the croak of the raven, or the wail of the herring-gull, or even for the thunder of the sea. our souls are with the past. as we climb the steep pathway to the summit of the headland, we think of uther pendragon and of merlin. we see sir bedivere stooping beneath his burden. we hear the clink of "... harness in the icy caves and barren chasms," when "... all to left and right the bare, black cliff clanged round him, as he based his feet on juts of slippery crag that rang sharp-smitten with the dint of armã¨d heels." we see in fancy the prostrate figure of the guilty queen. we see "wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, the dragon of the great pendragonship blaze, making all the night a steam of fire." we hear the shock of that last battle in the west when "... friend and foe were shadows in the mist, and friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; and some had visions out of golden youth, and some beheld the faces of old ghosts look in upon the battle." and when at length we stand within the windswept ruin we remember that it was here king marc of cornwall kept his court. it was to this sea-girt rock that tristram of lyonesse, the peerless hunter, harper, knight, brought home his master's bride, iseult of ireland. within these very walls stood the two helpless, hapless lovers, caught all unaware in the fatal mesh of the enchanter. for among the treasures on board the ship that brought them to tintagel was a golden cup, with a love-potion in it, prepared by the bride's mother, for iseult and king marc to drink upon their marriage day, "and for ever love each other." but, alas, iseult and sir tristram, in all innocence, drained the magic cup. the subtle potion fired their veins; "... their hands tremble, and their cheeks are flame as they feel the fatal bands of a love they dare not name." in fancy we see that other chamber, far off upon the coast of brittany, where, after long years the knight lay dying. we see him "... weak and pale, though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, propt on pillows on his bed, gazing sea-ward for the light of some ship that fights the gale on this wild december night." we see iseult standing in the moonlight, the spray of the sea-voyage on her cloak and hair. we hear her singing, in sweet voice and low, the promised "... tales of true, long-parted lovers, joined at evening of their days again." we catch the last low murmur of the dying knight:- "now to sail the seas of death i leave thee- one last kiss upon the living shore." _printed at the office of the publisher, st. stephen street, bristol._ a drake by george! by john trevena new york alfred a knopf mcmxvi contents chapter i. something about the family ii. exhibition day at windward house iii. the captain makes history iv. changes in the establishment v. george tackles the labour problem vi. honourable intentions vii. scandal and exposure viii. a tangled inheritance ix. a subtle sinner's success x. the first person singular paramount xi. some leading incidents xii. a splendid bargain xiii. wasps and other worries xiv. the grabbers xv. a new house and the same old furniture xvi. george takes control xvii. ploughing the ground xviii. sowing the seed xix. reaping the harvest xx. the gleaners chapter i something about the family rumour, introducing the newcomer as a celebrity, began to fly about immediately captain drake appeared upon the scene and distinguished himself not only by blocking the single narrow street of highfield with a presence weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, but by addressing passing men, women, and children in a voice which sounded from the church at the top of the hill to the post office at the bottom; top, middle, and bottom being comparative terms when applied to the great hills of highfield. rumour provoked excitement when it suggested legal influences were at work about a couple of old semi-detached cottages belonging to an absentee landlord. the man who found it necessary, on account of his bulk and stentorian voice, to acquire two cottages would have plenty of money; and wealth was much the shortest cut to fame that highfield knew of. rumour passed into a condition almost hysterical when builders arrived, demolished the two old cottages, erected a gabled villa of suburban type, and set up against the street a massive noticeboard, which looked as if it had been designed for some important railway station; but instead of yielding such information as "mazeworthy junction. change for the asylum," it bore the inscription, "windward house. captain francis drake, master." finally, three vanloads of furniture were dragged up the hill, and the family arrived to take possession of the parish; for it became at once evident that captain drake regarded himself as "old man" of the place, the vicar as his sky pilot, and the male inhabitants as crushers, jollies, flatfeet, and shellbacks, all of whom were amenable to his discipline. in any case the captain was respected by everybody, whether they had the privilege of knowing him or not--he was one of those men who had to be known thoroughly and at once--when those vanloads of furniture drew up alongside windward house. such fumed oak had never been seen before in highfield. there were vases from china, ivory images from india, living trees of the forest in flower-pots from japan, with curiosities from all corners of the earth. there was also a large cage full of cats, another cage of monkeys, yet another of parrots, and a giant tortoise, its carapace completely covered with newspaper cuttings relating to the numerous voyages of the old sailor who, in hours of leisure, had committed to the press columns of adventures wherein fiction was once more proved to be far more interesting and instructive than truth. birds and beasts are not usually classed as furniture, but they were announced as such in "the inventory of my possessions" duly posted upon the noticeboard by the worthy captain whose capacity for self-advertisement was much too great for a little country parish. the first visitor to step aboard windward house was the dismal gibcat, and he came as usual with a scowl and a grievance. the dismal gibcat occupied a house about a mile from the village in the company of a wife who was more dismal than himself; he called himself a gentleman in reduced circumstances, and could spell the word embarrassed with ease; he ruled the parish with his scowl, and spent all the money he could get in enjoying lawsuits with his neighbours. this gentleman inquired for mister drake with a fearful emphasis, and received the information that the admiral was shaving. but a door at the top of the stairs stood open, and a moment later the master himself appeared in a state of fury, half clothed and shouting tremendously, "captain, you rascal! captain francis drake, late of the mercantile marine, descendant of the immortal admiral, author of 'tortoises: and how to treat them,' 'comments on cats,' part owner of the sailing ship _topper_, now unfortunately lying at the bottom of the persian gulf. captain francis drake, always at the service of the admiralty, but never at the beck and call of geese and asses." "willie, dear, you knew your name never was really francis," called the troubled voice of mrs. drake from somewhere in the parlour. "stand off the bridge, maria. don't argue with your superior officer," roared the captain. he carried a shaving brush which might have been mistaken for a mop; and, as he brandished it, flakes of lather fell around like surf from a tidal wave. his immense face resembled the bay of biscay in a gale; dark and lowering above, masses of foam below. removing the field of stubble was a tempestuous operation at the best of times: members of the crew kept apart from the quarterdeck, where the captain gasped and struggled, scattering lather upon pictures, cats, and furniture. the dismal gibcat could not have pronounced his insult at a more unfavourable moment. "i have called to tell you that board must be removed," he said rather nervously; for he had begun to realize that his scowl was directed against an individual who was not going to be reduced by it. "you give sailing orders to me--tell me to hoist blue peter on my board! how long have you been harbour-master?" the captain shouted as he crashed downstairs. "we are proud of our scenery," continued the dismal gibcat. "that board is an eyesore. it can be seen a mile away. it completely destroys the local amenities, and, in my capacity as chairman of the parish council, i advise you to remove it at once." "local amenities are pretty little things, but they aren't half as good as englishmen's rights. it's a pity you didn't make a few inquiries about captain francis drake, at places where's he's known, before you started on this little voyage of piracy. if you had found out something about him, and his way with mutineers, you might ha' tossed up, heads i don't go, tails i stay away. it's no use trying to scare me with rocks what aren't marked upon the chart. i've cast anchor here, i've paid my harbour dues. i've got notions about landscape what perhaps don't agree with yours; but i reckon most passengers would rather find a moorage opposite my signal station than sail half a knot with a face like yours. you can drop overboard, mister jolly roger--and take my local amenity with you!" so saying the captain plunged his shaving brush full into the face of the dismal gibcat and drove him discomfited from the premises. the same evening he posted the following notice: "captain francis drake will be pleased to receive the names of all parishioners who desire him to remove this board, in order that he may attend to each grievance personally. he begs to notify friends and neighbours that the parrots are shedding their feathers just now, also that he possesses a barrel of tar. _verbum sap._, and god save the king!" the hint was sufficient, for the dismal gibcat had been seen upon the road with his scowl so thoroughly lathered that it looked almost like a grin. not a complaint was received. indeed the vicar went so far as to declare the noticeboard was a distinct acquisition to highfield. such was the beginning of the absolute monarchy of captain william drake. he dethroned the dismal gibcat from his chairmanship and converted the parish council into a monologue. he became vicar's churchwarden, and kept the key of the church in his pocket. he introduced a flower show, at which only vegetables were shown, judged the exhibits himself with a tape measure, and awarded prizes according to length and circumference. he collected money for the building of a parish hall, where the inhabitants might assemble upon winter evenings, to drink gassy liquors and listen to his yarns. his voice stormed continually. even when darkness had fallen, a muffled roar sounded from windward house, where captain drake would be reading the newspaper aloud, denouncing every form of government, and declaring that nothing sailed between the british empire and disaster except the ships of the mercantile marine. and during the night his snores sounded like distant traffic, except when unable to sleep; and then he would sit up in bed and sing hymns for those at sea, until cattle ran about the fields, and cocks began to crow, and dogs set up a howl in every farmyard. his untruthfulness, which harmed nobody, was due entirely to a powerful imagination. voice and body, alike tremendous, made him conceited to such an extent that, had he been ushered into the presence of any sovereign, except the king of england--whom he regarded as an equal--he would perhaps have given majesty permission to be seated, and might even have encouraged him to speak with a certain amount of familiarity. after having commanded a ship for a number of years, he was intolerant of even the mildest form of opposition; while the knowledge that he had succeeded in this life supplied him with an extra personality of self-confidence. his tyranny was quite a good thing for highfield. it caused the inhabitants to remember--and some to discover--there were other places on the map no less important. it was responsible for certain improvements, such as the introduction of telegrams and an evening post. but it did not succeed in impressing upon the people the fairly obvious fact that some other country would in time become so jealous of their territory as to lay siege to the church, general store, and post office, with the idea of breaking open poor-box and till, and escaping with loose cash and stamps; for highfield, being in the middle of devonshire, therefore at the centre of the universe, evinced a fine contempt for foreign countries. captain drake was fond of his joke, but he simply made a braying ass of himself when he declared other countries beside england possessed a mighty army, although the same listeners were well able to accept the statement that he had once adopted a mermaid. on this single matter the captain was a pessimist; and, as he believed in appealing to the eye when the appeal to the ear failed, he prepared and set up another noticeboard, upon which he had painted in large letters with his own hand, "the enemy will be in highfield tomorrow;" and he whipped small boys who threw stones at it; and, when their parents grumbled, he threatened to whip them too. the mild vicar entirely lost his temper upon this occasion, and told the captain plainly he was stirring up evil passions in the parish and corrupting the morals of the young. "that board may tell a lie for a good many years; but it will speak the truth at last," came the answer. the family at windward house consisted of the captain and his wife, their nephew george, with the two servants, kezia and bessie. mrs. drake was a lady of substance, having spent by far the greater part of her life in a position which, when not recumbent, had been sedentary: when travelling with her husband the compartment they occupied had a singularly crowded appearance. she and the captain were devoted to each other, in spite of the fact that he had not fallen in love with her until he had made sure she did possess a comfortable income, even though it was derived from trust funds in which she enjoyed a life interest only. "you commenced, my love, as the loadstone of my career," remarked the captain upon the occasion of their silver wedding, "and have continued as the pole star of my existence." having no children, they adopted the son of the captain's younger brother, who had died at an early age, after having attempted almost every form of livelihood, and trying none which did not make him poorer. george was apparently making it his business in life to defeat this record. he had occupied thirty years in seeking to discover the most restful method of leaning against a wall, and the least embarrassing manner of keeping the hands at ease within his trouser pockets. he had been sent to school, but ran away. he had been exiled to canada, but had returned as a stowaway. he had been placed in business, but dismissed at the end of a week. mrs. drake often wondered why george had been created. most human pegs can find a hole somewhere, but george was neither square nor round; and shapeless holes are somehow not provided. kezia had entered mrs. drake's service at a very early age, and was determined upon remaining with the family until the end. she knew nothing about herself, except that she was a respectable person and belonged to the church of england. she did not know her age, but believed she had been born in exeter since the building of the cathedral; for she recalled, as her earliest experience, falling upon her face beside the west front of that building on a cold winter's day, and being picked up by no less a person than the dean, who had made a joke about the ungodly and slippery places, which was published in a local paper, quoted in the press of the country as a witticism of the duke of wellington, and translated into most of the european languages in consequence. at all events, kezia had belonged to the church of england ever since. she was not sure of her christian name, but felt certain it was biblical, and rather fancied, "'twur one of job's young ladies;" and she did not oppose mrs. drake's preference for kezia. nor did she know her surname, but had an idea her father had been called tom by his wives, of whom he had two; and, as she could remember two mrs. toms, it seemed probable that the first had been her mother. she had always got along very nicely without a surname, which was not nearly so necessary to a woman as to a man: she really did not want one, unless the man who belonged to it had a voice and figure like her dear admiral. she had looked with enthusiasm upon that massive form, and had listened in admiration to that mighty voice, until she felt that an ordinary man with a normal voice would quickly make her dull and peevish. bessie had not yet become a person of importance. she was quite young, fairly good looking, and still growing, which was alarming since she was already out of proportion with the doors of windward house. neither she nor her master made a dignified entry into the parlour; for bessie had to stoop, while the captain was forced to turn sideways. mrs. drake just fitted when nobody flustered her. bessie knew the whole history of herself and family; and was proud of the fact that her father owned a fishing smack, while both her brothers would have entered the navy had they not suffered from an incurable tendency to reject rations at the first rolling of the ship. now that the captain was settled in the haven of highfield, he had solved all his difficulties except the one problem of finding a place in the world for george. about twice a week he created a thunderstorm about his nephew, who remained in the attitude of an admiring listener until the tempest of tangled metaphor concerning starvation ahead, rudderless vessels, and vagabonds begging their bread, had died away along the village street; and then the cunning rascal would either place a trembling hand to his forehead declaring he had not much longer to live, or shuffle towards the door with the announcement that it might just as well happen at once, and drowning was the best way he could think of, as he could not afford to purchase fire-arms or poison; besides, a watery grave was the proper ending for a drake. he generally added it was the man whom he venerated, the man who was content to remain in a humble position when he should have been first lord of the admiralty, the man who was the british empire's principal asset--his uncle--who had driven him to this. then the captain, who was a soft-hearted old simpleton where his family was concerned, would take george by the shoulders, press him into a chair, give him money to buy tobacco which might ease his nerves, beg for his forgiveness, and behave like a beneficent providence until wind and weather were favourable for the next thunderstorm. as a matter of fact, the captain loved his nephew, who supported his opinions and flattered him continually. besides, george was fond of cats, and respected the monkeys, and would frequently take the tortoise for a stroll. mrs. drake, on the other hand, made no secret of her contempt for an able-bodied man who seemed to regard windward house as an hotel where he could receive board and lodging without payment. she reminded george constantly she had no money to leave, and when she was gone he would find himself dependent upon charity; but george would beg her not to worry, as he had no intention of outliving anyone who was so good to him. mrs. drake then stated that, in her opinion, he would in a future state of existence be separated from his uncle and herself, and for that alone he ought to feel ashamed. and george admitted he was ashamed, but even an ever present sense of shame was better, he thought, than a separation from his uncle and aunt in this life. mrs. drake had a good reason for not insisting upon george's departure. doctors had warned her that the captain's immense size was not a healthy symptom: upon his last voyage he had been discovered unconscious in his cabin; and although he declared subsequently this was nothing more than a fit of exhaustion easily to be explained by his first mate's habit of answering back, it was nevertheless accepted as a danger signal which made retirement necessary. even the unprofitable george might be of service should a similar fit of exhaustion seize upon the captain in his house. chapter ii exhibition day at windward house "mansion and grounds will be thrown open to the public on sunday afternoon, between the hours of three and five, for the inspection of the rare and costly antiquities collected during his numerous voyages by captain francis drake, who will personally conduct parties. as the hall carpet is of inestimable value, having formerly covered a floor in the yildiz palace, visitors are earnestly requested to wipe their boots." "i think you have forgotten, william," said mrs. drake, when her husband had posted this notice, "how you bought that strip of carpet at an auction sale for eighteen pence. the piece you bought from turkey is in bessie's bedroom." "ah, yes, my dear, but it might just as well be in the hall, and for the purpose of exhibition we can quite easily imagine it _is_ there," replied the most capable showman. by twenty minutes past three, which was punctual for highfield, a respectable number of villagers had gathered beside the noticeboard as though awaiting an excursion train: old men and young, women and children, stood huddled together like so many prisoners of war, all very solemn and anxious. one little boy was sobbing bitterly because a report had reached him concerning another little boy who had been invited beyond that gate and introduced to the giant tortoise, which had displayed since then a singularly well-nourished appearance. therefore he was vastly relieved when the captain announced that, owing to the size of the crowd, which was adopting a closer formation every moment, children would not be admitted that afternoon, but a separate day would be arranged for the little ones, when they could play in the garden and feed the animals; an ominous invitation which made the little boy cry yet louder. the yellow leaf, who wore a coat not much younger than himself, as the father of the people, and related to everybody within a ten mile radius, stepped first into the house. he was, however, better dressed than the wallower in wealth, who was believed to own a mattress so well stuffed with gold and silver pieces that it could not be turned without the aid of crowbars. the gentle shepherd paused on the threshold to scrape the soles of his boots with a knife. the dumpy philosopher nervously unfastened a collar which was borrowed. the ladies wore all the finery they possessed. "you are now, ladies and gentlemen, standing in the hall of windward house, upon the priceless carpet used by a former sultan of turkey as a praying mat," began the captain. "must ha' been a religious gentleman," said the yellow leaf approvingly, as he tapped his stick upon the threadbare patches. "and fond of a quiet smoke," added squinting jack, pointing to some holes obviously caused by cigar ends. "what size of a place would this yildiz parish be?" inquired the gentle shepherd. "palace, my dear old fellow. it's the windsor castle of turkey, where the sultan prays and smokes, and signs death sentences of his christian subjects." "amazing small rooms," remarked the dumpy philosopher curtly. "the turks don't cover the whole of their floors like we do," explained the captain. "when the sultan wants to pray, they spread a mat like this before the throne, and he comes down on it. when he's done praying, they roll up the mat and chuck it out of the window, for the sultan never uses the same bit of carpet twice. i happened to be passing underneath his window when this particular mat was thrown out, so i picked it up and nipped off with it, though christians are forbidden by the law of turkey to touch anything the sultan has even looked at." "didn't 'em try to stop ye?" asked a lady. "they did," said the captain grimly. "though boasting isn't much in my line, they did try to stop me--officers of the army, ministers of state, officials of the court, men in the street--but turks have enormous noses, while i own an uncommon big fist; and when one big thing, my dear, aims at another big thing, they are bound to meet. you can see the bloodstains on the carpet yet," declared the captain, indicating a corner where bessie had upset the furniture polish. "i do wish poor dear william wouldn't read so many newspapers," sighed mrs. drake in the background. "now, my dear friends and neighbours," continued the showman, warming to his work, "although fully conscious of my own unworthiness, i beg to draw your attention to this pedigree of my family, framed in english oak, and most beautifully decorated in the national colours by one of our leading artists. it commences, you see, with the name of my illustrious ancestor, sir francis drake, the mighty admiral who, almost unaided, sent the spanish _armada_ to the bottom of the irish sea. the head of the family has been honoured with the name of francis ever since: the same name, ladies and gentlemen, and the same undaunted spirit. boasting is painful to any member of the drake family, yet i would say--give me the irish sea and some english ships; give me a hostile navy, such as was faced by my immortal propogand ... my imperishable protogent ... my eternal prognosticator--that's the word, dear people--and if you think i'm boasting, i am very sorry for your opinion of devonshire manliness and courage." "you ha' forgot to mention what you might do to the hostile navy," reminded squinting jack. "send it to the bottom," roared the captain. "i can't bear to listen when he gets near the pedigree," murmured mrs. drake. "he will not remember he made it all up. and he has made me promise to put francis on the gravestone." "wur queen elizabeth one of your descendants too?" inquired the gentle shepherd in great awe. "not exactly: she was not, what you would describe as one of my forefathers," explained the captain. "her illustrious name is here inserted within brackets as an indication that the drakes do not claim to be of the blood royal; but, as you will remember, queen elizabeth knighted sir francis, and there is a pleasant tradition in the family that she once flirted with him." "ain't that wonderful!" gasped one of the ladies. they entered the parlour, where george was crushing flies with a cork against the windows. it was his habit to display some form of activity when his uncle was about. "the pictures," resumed the captain, "are chiefly good examples of the oleographic school; with here and there a choice engraving taken from the illustrated press: marine landscapes, depicting sea breaking upon rocks, being a prominent feature. the young lady picking sunflowers was painted by my wife at the age of seventeen, and is the only example of that period which survives." "the flowers are dahlias," mrs. drake corrected somewhat sharply. "my dear, anybody acquainted with our simple wayside plants could tell that at a glance. i am afraid, ladies and gentlemen, the only flowers i can name with absolute certainty are sea anemones and jellyfish. the grandfather clock is unique," hurried on the captain. "it strikes the hours upon a gong, chimes them upon bells, and is also provided with a burmese instrument which discourses sweet music at the quarters. a clock like this relieves the unnatural stillness of midnight, and gets the servants up early. a barometer is affixed to the case; this wind gauge records the velocity of the draught between door and window; while the burning glass registers the amount of sunshine received in this portion of the room daily. twice during the twenty-four hours this wooden figure winds up an iron weight which, becoming detached at a certain point, falls upon a detonating substance contained in this iron vessel. the explosion occurs at noon and midnight." "ah, now i knows it ain't always cats," muttered the dumpy philosopher, who lived about a hundred yards away. "about four hours behind, ain't it, captain?" remarked squinting jack. "it does not profess to be a timekeeper," replied the captain. "any ordinary clock will tell you the time. this does more--it instructs and entertains. it keeps us alive at nights. i like a clock that announces itself. last sunday evening, when in church, i distinctly heard the explosion, the clock being then seven hours slow, and it seemed to me a very homely sound." "i hope mrs. drake ain't nervous," said one of the ladies. "no, indeed," came the reply. "i lived for ten years next door to one of the trade union halls. i find it very quiet here." "i reckon this would be another clock," said the gentle shepherd, staring at a grandfatherly shape in the corner. "no, my friend, that is an egyptian mummy." "one o' they what used to go about on christmas eve in the gude old days what be gone vor ever!" exclaimed the yellow leaf with great interest. "not a mummer, but a body, a corpse--dried up and withered," explained the captain. "same as i be nearly," murmured the yellow leaf; while some of the women screamed and some giggled, one hoping the creature was quite dead, another dreadfully afraid there had been a murder, and a third trusting she wouldn't have to adorn some parlour when she was took. "can he do anything, captain--sing and dance, or tell ye what the weather's going to be?" asked squinting jack. "'tis a matter of taste, but i couldn't fancy corpses as furniture," observed the dumpy philosopher. "what i ses is this," commented the wallower in wealth, "if i wur to dig bodies out of churchyard, and sell 'em to folk as genuine antiquities, i would have the policeman calling on me." "you mustn't dig up christians--that's blasphemy," said the captain. "this chap was a heathen king, one of the pharaohs you read of in the bible, and he died thousands of years ago. he may have known jacob and joseph--and i bought him for five bob." "ain't that wonderful!" exclaimed a lady. "it do make they children of israel seem amazing real," admitted the gentle shepherd. "the remarkable object occupying the centre of the mantelpiece is a russian ikon. it used to hang upon the quarterdeck of a battleship which was lost in the baltic," continued the captain. "i suppose 'tis useful vor navigating purposes," suggested the dumpy philosopher. "it is what the russians call a holy picture. they say their prayers to such things," shouted the captain angrily. "a queer lot of old stuff here along," said the gentle shepherd. "a few articles are priceless," declared the proprietor. "these two vases, for instance. they were looted from the royal palace at pekin by an english sailor lad who had intended them as a present for his sweetheart; but, as he couldn't carry them about, he sold them to me for ten shillings. an american gentleman offered me a hundred pounds for the pair, but i wouldn't part with them for five times that amount. these blue dragons are covered with a lustre known as glaze, which is now a lost art. this portfolio of pictures also comes from china: there are more than fifty, and each represents one of the various kinds of torture commonly practised by chinese magistrates upon people who are brought before them, charged with such offences as forgetting to pay local rates or being polite to foreigners. here is the usual punishment for omitting to lick the dust when a big-pot passes--being impaled upon three stakes above a slow fire without the option of a fine." "nice pictures to look at on a sunday evening," said squinting jack. "the curiously twisted spike, which bears a close resemblance to iron, and is indeed almost as heavy as that metal, was given me by an egyptian fellah, who said he had discovered it in the assyrian desert," resumed the captain with somewhat less confidence. "it is supposed to be a horn of that extinct animal the unicorn, but i don't guarantee it. according to a mate who sailed with me once--a chap who knew a lot about animals, and had taken prizes at dog shows--the unicorn had a hollow horn, and this, you see, is solid." "the egyptian fellow had you, captain. it is iron, and there's a mark upon it that looks to me like a crown," declared the wallower in wealth, who had commenced prosperity as a wheelwright. "don't that go to show it is genuine? ain't the lion and unicorn the--the motto of the crown of england?" demanded the yellow leaf. "the beast wouldn't have a crown stamped on its horn when he drawed breath," said squinting jack. "i b'ain't so certain. i ha' seen rummy marks on a ram's horn," answered the gentle shepherd. "there are wonderful things in nature," said the captain. "when i was off the coast of south africa, i watched a big fish flap out of the water, climb a tree, stuff itself with fruit, and then return to its native element. it may be the unicorn was adopted as one of the supporters of the royal arms, because it had this mark of a crown upon the base of its horn." "some volk ses there never wur no unicorns," remarked the dumpy philosopher. "plenty believe creation started after they were born," retorted the captain sharply. "the lion and the unicorn are the royal beasts of england--any child knows that--and when all the lions have been shot, lots of people will say there never were such creatures. if unicorns never existed, how is it we possess pictures of the beast? how do we know what 'twas like? how do we know its name, and how do we know it had only one horn bang in the middle of its forehead?" "that's the way to talk to unbelievers," chuckled the yellow leaf. "i make no manner of doubt there wur plenty of unicorns; aye, and lions and four footed tigers, and alligators too, in this here parish of highfield, though i don't seem to able call any of 'em to mind." "'tis an iron spike sure enough, and 'twur made in birmingham," whispered the wallower in wealth to his nearest neighbour. "the little creature in this glass case is a stuffed mermaid, supposed to be about three months old," the captain continued, indicating a cleverly faked object, composed of the upper part of a monkey and the tail of a hake. "i did not see it alive myself, but was told by the inhabitant of sumatra, from whom i bought it, he had found it upon a rock at low tide crying piteously for its mother. he took it home, and tried to rear it upon ass's milk, but the poor little thing did not live many days. it was too young to show any intelligence." "the ass's milk might ha' made it feel a bit silly like," suggested squinting jack. "don't it seem a bit like slavery to ha' bought it?" asked a tender-hearted matron. "and a bit blasphemous to ha' stuffed the poor mite?" complained another. "oh no, my dear ladies. these creatures do not possess immortal souls," replied the captain. "how be us to tell?" inquired the dumpy philosopher. "only creatures who can pray possess immortal souls," declared the captain piously. "when we pray we kneel. mermaids cannot kneel because they have no legs." "there used to be a picture in the schuleroom of a camel on his knees," began squinting jack; but the captain hurried off to the next object of interest, which was a snuffbox composed of various woods inlaid with mother of pearl. "a tragic and mysterious relic of the french revolution, found in the hand of a duke while his body was being removed for burial," he said in his most impressive manner. "this box is supposed to possess a most remarkable history, but it has not been opened since the original owner's death." "will ye please to go on and tell us all about it," requested the yellow leaf. "it is the mystery of this box that nobody knows its history," came the answer. "why don't ye open it, captain?" "the second mystery of this box is that the secret of opening it is lost. it is alike on both sides, so that you cannot tell which is top and which bottom." "i'd open 'en quick enough," said the wallower in wealth. "and smash they lovely pearls all to pieces!" cried a lady indignantly. "'twould be a pity to spoil a couple of mysteries," said squinting jack. "that's how i feel about it. as it is, this snuffbox is a genuinely romantic antique; but if we discovered its history--which i was assured by some gentleman in paris is most astounding, although entirely unknown--it might lose a considerable part of its value. i have charged my wife to present this box to the president of the french republic after i am taken from her. she is not bound to present it personally, but may either entrust it to the registered post, or hand it to his excellency the french ambassador at his official residence by appointment, whichever course may be most pleasing to her," said the captain handsomely. a number of curiosities sealed up in bottles were exhibited, and then the wallower in wealth delivered a little speech he had prepared beforehand. he began by mentioning that his cottage stood near the garden of windward house, and went on to explain how, upon certain evenings, when shadows were lengthening, his soul had been soothed by distant strains of sweetest music. his wife, who had no ear for harmony, ventured to attribute these sounds to the rival choirs of cats on the roof and owls in the trees; his mother-in-law, who was superstitious, gave all credit to the pixies; his daughter, who was sentimental, had gone so far as to suggest angelic visitors. but he was convinced the sounds proceeded from windward house. and he concluded by imploring the captain to entertain the company by a few selections upon his gramophone. captain drake replied that nothing so commonplace had ever disturbed the silence of his abode. "oriental music of the most classical description is played here," he said, approaching a large black case upon gilded legs and throwing back the lid. "this, ladies and gentlemen, is the musical box, formerly in the possession of an indian potentate, and bestowed upon me in return for services which i could not mention without appearing to glory in my sterling nobility of character, which was one of the phrases employed during the ceremony of presentation. the maharajah offered me the choice of three gifts--a young lady, an elephant, and this musical box. being already married, and having no room in my ship for a bulky pet, i--somewhat to the astonishment of my generous benefactor--selected the musical box. there are only two others like it in this world; one being in the possession of the dalai lama of tibet, while the other unfortunately reposes at the bottom of the atlantic. the small figures dressed as chinamen--these boxes were made in china, but the art is now lost--play upon various instruments after the fashion of a military band. in a small room such as this the music is somewhat harsh; but when heard from the garden it is, as our friend here has said, exquisitely beautiful; the more so when the parrots sing in unison." "i thought parrots was like women; they just talked," said the dumpy philosopher. "they don't sing like nightingales," the captain admitted. "but their notes blend very pleasantly with instrumental music. before we go outside i will wind up the box; but here is one more interesting relic i must show you. this star beneath the glass case, although its rays are now sadly tarnished, adorned at one time the coat of his majesty king george the first. its history is fully set out upon the parchment beneath. the thing does look worth twopence, i admit, but then you must remember it was made in germany, where they have always been fond of cheap decorations, which could be worn at court, and then hung upon christmas trees to amuse the children. according to this parchment, which supplies us with documentary evidence--the writing is somewhat blurred, as i was forced to use an uncommonly bad pen--this star was worn by his majesty upon his arrival in england. the maid of honour, whose duty it was to rub up the royal decorations, took the wrong bottle one day, and used her own matchless preparation for the skin instead of the usual cleaning mixture; and when all the pretty things turned black she passed them on to a jew, and told the king she was very sorry, but she had accidentally dropped all his hanoverian decorations down the sink. what he said with the usual month's notice i can't tell you, but probably he didn't care much, as he could buy stars and crosses and eagles by the gross from the toymakers of the black forest cheap for cash. "this particular star was cleaned by a patent process and sold to a tailor, who stitched it on to a magnificent coat he had made for a young duke who had just stepped into the title; and he, after a time, passed on coat and star to his valet, who parted with them to a quack doctor, well known as the discoverer of a certain cure for cataract. he had already made about a score of people totally blind when he was called in to attend a lady of quality; and when this lady's sight was destroyed, her relatives invited the quack either to have his own eyes forcibly treated with his ointment, or to clear out of the country. he soon made up his mind, sold the coat and star to a pedlar, and returned to germany, where he entered the diplomatic service and blinded a lot more folk. "the pedlar made his way up to scotland and, meeting a very shabby old fellow upon the road, sold him the coat and star after the hardest bit of bargaining he had ever known in his life. this old chap turned out to be the first duke in all scotland, and he was driven to buy the finery as he had been commanded to appear at court. when he got to london in his ramshackle old coach, he rubbed up the star, put on the coat, inked the seams a bit, then went to the palace, where he found the king playing dominoes with one of the english dukes. 'gott in himmel!' cried his majesty, 'his grace has got my old star. i know it's mine, for 'twas made in dear old sharmany.' the scot was trying to explain that the star had been made to order by his village blacksmith, when the english duke chimed in, 'and he's wearing one of my cast-off coats!' at this point the manuscript breaks off abruptly. "that's the true english history of this old star, which i purchased for sixpence from a sailor in whose family it had been an heirloom for the last two hundred years." "ain't that wonderful!" exclaimed a lady. "it do seem to make they old kings and druid volk wonderful clear avore us," murmured the yellow leaf. the captain led his guests into the garden, while george, after laboriously collecting a handful of dead flies, followed, ready to support his uncle if necessary, but still more anxious to support himself. "my cats are famous," said the captain, approaching a building which had been once a stable, and was now divided into two compartments; one with a wired front for use in summer; the other closed and kept warm for winter quarters. "i have now succeeded in obtaining a highly scientific animal, combining the sleek beauty of the pure persian with the aggressive agility of the british species. for the last twenty years i have supplied cats to the ships of the mercantile marine, and by so doing have saved much of the commerce of this country; for a single rat will destroy five shillings' worth of perishable cargo in one day; while a single cat of my variety will readily account for fifty rats, not to mention mice innumerable, during the same period. if you will reckon sixty cats, let us say, supplied by me annually, each cat accounting for fifty rats, again not reckoning mice innumerable, every day; if you will add a dozen cats supplied, again by me, to dockyards and custom houses swarming with vermin of every description, each rat doing damage to the extent of some shillings daily, with smaller vermin doing the same according to size and jaw power; if you will add sixty ships to twelve dockyards, and add, let us say, twenty cats supplied from my stock to foreign countries, reckoning in such cases in francs or dollars instead of shillings, and making due allowance for the different tonnage of vessels or dimensions of dockyards, if you will remember i have also supplied most of the cats at present commissioned to kill rats and mice upon the ships of the royal navy; and if you will include in your estimate the grimalkins i have sold, or given, to millers, warehousemen, wholesale grocers, and provision merchants...." "i reckon, captain, that will come to about quarter of a million pounds a year, not taking into account shillings and pence," broke in squinting jack to free the captain from his obvious difficulty. "that is a moderate estimate; still i will accept it. quarter of a million pounds annually for twenty years, friends and neighbour! have i not done my part in liquidating the national debt?" "cats aren't what you might call nearly extinct animals same as they unicorns. us ha' got more home than us knows what to do with," remarked a lady timidly. "us drowns 'em mostly," observed a matron who looked capable of doing it. "not cats like these--the latest triumph of scientific inbreeding," the captain shouted. "oh no, sir! ours be bred all nohow," said the timid lady. "don't the monkeys tease 'em, captain?" asked the gentle shepherd. "the simians have sufficient intelligence to understand that my felid㦠are famous for the claws. beneath that tree," continued the captain, "about three paces from the side of my nephew, you see the giant tortoise, which is the greatest antiquity that i possess--next, of course, to the egyptian mummy. that tortoise, my friends, has lived in this world during the last five hundred years." "ain't that wonderful!" gasped a lady. "i captured it upon the beach of one of the galapagos islands, where it had just succeeded in laying an egg." "him lay eggs! then all i can say is he'm the funniest old bird i ever did set eyes on," cried a lady who was famous for her poultry. "how did you manage to get hold of his birth certificate, captain?" asked squinting jack. "tortoises live for ever, if you let 'em alone--that's a proverbial fact," stammered the captain, somewhat taken aback. "you can tell his age by--by merely glancing at his shell. this tortoise has his shell covered with tarpaulin to prevent the newspaper cuttings from being washed off by rain; but if it was removed you would see that the shell is yellow. it is a well known scientific fact that the shell of a tortoise is black during the first century of its life; takes on a bluish tinge for the next two hundred years; and becomes mottled with yellow when it approaches the enormous age of five hundred years." "same as me," said the yellow leaf sadly. chapter iii the captain makes history one day george entered the churchyard and set his face towards a big sycamore, with the resolution of setting his back against it. he had been tempted by the wide trunk and smooth bark for a long time; but his attempt to reach the tree failed entirely because it stood upon the unfrequented side of the churchyard, and was surrounded by an entanglement of brambles and nettles some yards in depth. determined to reach that sycamore somehow, george complained to his uncle about the abominable condition of the churchyard; and captain drake reprimanded the vicar for "allowing the resting places of our historic dead to become a trackless jungle;" and the vicar once more implored the sexton to give up the public-house; and the sexton declared there were no such blackberries in all the parish as could be gathered from those brambles. the matter would have ended there had it not been for captain drake, who visited the territory, explored to within fifteen feet of the sycamore, then called a meeting of parishioners and, with the aid of diagrams, showed how the foremost line of nettles was advancing so rapidly in a north-westerly direction as to threaten the main approach to the vestry; while a screen of brambles had already reached a nameless altar tomb whereon the youth of the place by traditional right recorded their initials. the seriousness of the weed peril had not been realised until then; as the dumpy philosopher remarked, they had all been asleep and thus had been taken unprepared; but, when the parishioners did realise it, an army of offence was raised quickly; the nettles were eradicated and the brambles uprooted; that portion of the churchyard was thrown open to the public; and george attained his resting place beside the sycamore. he had lounged against it several times before his eyes fell upon an inscription which appeared familiar, although obscured by moss and yellow lichen. as the tombstone was not more than three yards away, he was able to reach it without much difficulty. reclining upon the turf, he summoned up energy to open his pocketknife and to scrape away the lichen until the full meaning of the discovery burst upon him. later in the day the yellow leaf met squinting jack, and said, "i saw mr. drake running like wildfire down the street this forenoon. if i hadn't seen 'en wi' my own eyes, i wouldn't ha' believed it." "i saw 'en too wi' my own eyes," replied squinting jack. "and still i don't believe it." captain drake would have run too had there been less of him. george had never been a liar--the poor fellow had no imagination and rarely picked up a newspaper--still his story sounded too impossible to be true. they reached the newly discovered tombstone; the captain read the inscription; and in a voice trembling with emotion murmured, "amelia drake, of black anchor farm, in this parish." the portion of stone which bore the date of her departure had sunk into the ground. "george, my lad," cried the captain, "this is the grave of my long-lost great-grandmother." "the missing link," added the nephew, with the joyous certainty of one about to negotiate a loan. "our pedigree is now complete. i am certain my father used to speak of a rumour which insisted that his grandmother's name was amelia; and now we have discovered she lived in this parish, at black anchor farm, which no doubt had passed to her husband--who is down on the pedigree as having been probably lost at sea--from the lineal descendant of the great founder himself. the name of the farm proves that. you see, george, the reference is to a black anchor, a new freshly tarred anchor, not to an old rusty red one. i must have the stone cleaned. and we will show our respect by planting roses here." "if it hadn't been for me, this grave would never have been discovered," said george, ready to produce a statement of his bankruptcy. "that's true, my lad. it's the best day's work you have ever done in your life." "skilled labour, too," reminded george, still advertising. "i won't forget," his uncle promised. black anchor farm was situated about two miles from the centre of the village. it was not a place to covet, consisting of a mean little thatched house; stable and barn of cob walls propped up by pieces of timber; and half a dozen fields which brought forth furze and bracken in great abundance. people named slack occupied the place; the man was a lame dwarf who tried to work sometimes, but honestly preferred poaching; the woman went about in rags and begged; while the children were little savages, kept from school by their father, and trained to steal by their mother. the captain refused to be discouraged when he visited the home of his ancestors and discovered a hovel; but wrote to the owner for information, interviewed the vicar, turned up the registers, and consulted the yellow leaf. the letter was answered by a solicitor, who expressed his sorrow at never having heard of the family of drake. the vicar mentioned that the name anchor occurred frequently in the neighbourhood, and was undoubtedly a corruption of anchoret, which signified a person who sought righteousness by retiring from a world of sin. he considered it probable that the site had been occupied formerly by the cell of a hermit who had distinguished himself by wearing a black cloak. although the captain gave days and nights to the registers, he could find no entry concerning his family, of whom most, he was convinced, had been lost at sea, apart from the funeral of amelia drake. the yellow leaf, after remaining some days in a state of meditation, distinctly recalled a tradition concerning a lady (the captain thanked him for the lady) who had lived alone at black anchor farm for a number of years, receiving no visitors, and leaving the place only to obtain fresh supplies of liquid consolation. the end of her history was so unpleasant he did not care to dwell upon it, but apparently this lady was discovered at last ready for her funeral, and according to report it was a pity she had not been discovered earlier. still the captain refused to be discouraged. his nobility of character would not permit him to disown the memory of his great-grandmother, although he thought it terribly sad she should have sunk so low. if she, during recurring fits of temporary insanity, had disgraced the great name, he had added lustre to it. if the former country residence of sir francis drake had fallen into a ruinous condition, it should be his privilege to restore it with a few magic touches of the pen. he resolved to devote the remaining years of his life to the writing of _a history of the parish of highfield_. "the vicar was not altogether mistaken, my love," he remarked to mrs. drake. "he associates the name of black anchor with a hermit who wore a dark coloured vestment of some description, and no doubt he is right. my unfortunate great-grandmother did live there entirely alone, and would naturally be regarded as a hermit by the superstitious people of this parish. and we need not be surprised to discover that she always wore black--silk or velvet, i presume--the last poor remnants of her former greatness. it is an established fact, i believe, that elderly ladies generally wear black." as a compiler of history the captain was in many ways well equipped. he wrote rapidly, which was of great importance, because the least relevant chapter in the life of a parish required a vast number of words. he possessed a gift of making the past real because he owned a powerful imagination. while confidence in his own abilities freed him from a slavish adherence to facts which could serve no useful purpose. realising the importance of concentrating upon some particular feature, in order that the narrative might be made continuous, he had not the slightest difficulty in selecting that feature. the keynote of the entire work was sounded by the opening sentence: "although the parish of highfield is but little known to englishmen, and occupies an extremely small portion of the map, being entirely excluded from the standard atlas used in schools--in our opinion unjustifiably--it must nevertheless remain for ever famous on account of its associations with the sublime name of drake." the opening chapter dealt with the destruction of the spanish _armada_. the second gave an account of the arrival of sir francis drake in highfield parish, fully describing his purchase of a site and the erection of a stately manor house, of which unfortunately nothing remained except a few fragments "fraught with sweet elizabethan memories." the site was still known as black anchor, which was undoubtedly the name conferred by the great admiral upon his country residence, because he regarded it as a place to which he could retire from the world, where he could muse amid the solitude of nature, where he could rest, or, in the phrase of the seaman, "cast his anchor." it was here that queen elizabeth visited him, and, according to some authorities who seemed to deserve serious attention, it was here, and not in london, that the queen conferred the honour of knighthood upon this magnificent bulwark of her throne. the third chapter was devoted entirely to the royal visit, concerning which tradition was happily not silent. it was indeed a simple matter to follow the queen's progress towards its culminating point, which was unquestionably highfield manor, as black anchor farm was known in those days, through the adjoining parishes, all possessing manors of which some had survived to the present time, but most had fallen down, at each of which the royal lady had enjoyed a few hours' slumber. several pages were allotted to this habit of elizabeth, who was apparently unable to travel more than five miles without going to bed; and in these the author sought to prove the existence of some malady, a kind of travelling sickness, no doubt exaggerated by the roughness of the roads and constant jolting of the coach, so that the physician in attendance felt himself compelled to advise his royal mistress to sleep at every village through which she passed. the peculiarities of monarchs, remarked the author, are more conspicuous than the virtues or vices of ordinary people. the nervousness of king charles the second was no less remarkable than queen elizabeth's recurring fits of somnolence: he was continually retiring into cupboards, standing behind doors, or climbing into oak trees, owing to a morbid dread of being looked at. king charles had secreted himself inside a cupboard within the boundaries of highfield parish, but this was not to be regarded as a coincidence, for a patient inquiry into local traditions elicited the fact that, wherever queen elizabeth had slept in the best bed of the manor house, king charles had climbed a tree (usually the common oak, _quercus robur_) in the garden. as the writer was dealing with the parish of highfield only, it would be outside the scope of his work to give a list of villages, in devonshire alone, which claimed to possess pillows upon which elizabeth had deigned to rest her weary head; but he was satisfied that the highfield pillow had been stored away in precisely the same cupboard used by charles during one of his secretive moments. both these interesting relics had been destroyed, as was customary, by fire. the fourth chapter flourished the drake pedigree, copied from the original document in the author's possession; and went on to give a pathetic account of amelia, the lonely and eccentric lady who was the last representative of the famous family to reside at highfield manor. three facts concerning her could be stated with certainty: she was of a singularly retiring nature, she was accustomed to wear a black silk dress upon all occasions, and she was murdered by some unknown ruffian for the sake of certain valuable heirlooms she was known to possess. it appeared probable that she was a poetess as, according to local tradition, she could frequently be heard singing; while her fondness for cats, a weakness which had descended to her great-grandson, was a clearly marked feature of her character. the fifth chapter was a triumph of literary and artistic handiwork. even mrs. drake, who did not approve of the undertaking because she had to meet the expenses of publication, felt bound to admit that, if william had not chosen to become a great sea-captain, a certain other william, who had written plays for a living, might conceivably have been toppled from his eminence; for nothing could have been more thrilling than the story of a family vault, "filled with the bones and memories of the greatest centuries in british history," becoming first neglected, then forgotten, and finally overgrown by brambles and nettles: a vault, let the reader remember, not containing rude forefathers of the hamlet, but members of the family of drake; a vault, not situated in the ethiopian desert, nor abandoned within some abyssinian jungle, but built beneath the turf of an english churchyard hard by a simple country bethel. this vault became entirely lost! summer followed spring, autumn preceded winter, year after year, while the nettles increased, and the brambles encroached yet more upon the consecrated ground, until the very site of the famous vault was lost to sight--this sentence being the one literary flaw upon an otherwise perfect chapter--and the oldest inhabitant had ceased to tell of its existence. here the _history of the parish of highfield_ was interrupted by some chapters dealing with the birth, education, early struggles, voyages, adventures, success, and retirement of captain francis drake; together with an account of mrs. drake and her relations; with a flattering notice of george drake, esquire, who was later to win renown as the explorer of highfield churchyard and the discoverer of the long-missing vault. it was shown also how the captain had been guided by providence to the village, formerly the home of his ancestors, and how "the lure of the place had been nothing but the silver cord of an hereditary attraction stretched through the centuries to reach the golden bowl of his soul." mrs. drake objected to this sentence, and the printer made still stranger stuff of it; but george upheld his uncle's contention that poetical prose could not be out of place in a work dealing with the origin and progress of a wayside village. at this point the author interpolated, by means of footnotes, a few remarks, which he owned were unconnected with the purport of his work: domesday book alluded to highfield in one deplorably curt sentence; the church contained nothing of interest; an oak tree, which had formerly shaded the village green, no longer existed; the views were local, charming, and full of variety; the streams contained fish; botanists would discover furze and heather upon the adjacent moorland; the name of the place was derived probably from two anglo-saxon words which signified a field standing in a high place. the author arrived at that fateful day when george, led by his interest in arboriculture to inspect a magnificent specimen of sycamore upon the south side of the churchyard, found his progress checked by tangled growths which, to the eternal disgrace of the parish, had been permitted to conceal "the precious memorial and cradle of british supremacy upon the main." mrs. drake opposed this sentence still more strongly, but the captain pleaded inspiration and retained it. there followed a stirring account of "the wave of indignation that burnt with its hot iron the souls of the villagers, when their attention had been drawn to a state of neglect which threatened to deprive them of the obvious benefits of their own burying ground, and was rapidly making it impossible for the mourner to drop the scalding tear or the fragrant flower upon the sepulchre of some dear lost one." a vivid page described the destruction of brambles and nettles, the removal of five cart loads, the subsequent bonfire in which "these emblems of thor and woden melted into flame and were dissipated into diaphanous smoke clouds." the style unfortunately became confused when the author dealt at length with the actual discovery, and represented himself as head of the family kneeling in humble thankfulness beside the mouldering stone marking the hallowed spot where drakes lay buried. the work included with an account of windward house, a description of the furniture, a complete list of the antiquities, among which, owing to a printer's error, appeared the names of kezia and bessie; with a reference to the cats, monkeys, parrots, and giant tortoise. then captain drake lay down his pen, put aside the well-thumbed dictionary, and, calling wife and nephew, informed them solemnly, "the last words are written. i have rounded off my existence with a book." nothing much was said for some minutes. the author was obviously struggling with emotion; mrs. drake put her handkerchief to her eyes; george smiled in a nervous fashion and trifled with the coppers in both pockets. kezia and bessie were called in and the news was broken to them: the parish of highfield now possessed a history. "this," said the captain gently, "is one of the great moments in the thrilling record of a most distinguished family. i feel as the sublime founder must have done while standing with wooden bowl in his hand gazing across the sparkling sea." then he murmured brokenly, "heaven bless you all," and stumbled from the room. when the publisher sent in his estimate, mrs. drake was quite unable to understand how a newspaper could be sold for one halfpenny. the leading item, which was a charge for sufficient paper to print one thousand copies, came as a revelation to her; for she had always supposed that paper, like string and pins, could be had for nothing. as the publisher pressed strongly for a few illustrations of local scenery, the captain was compelled to sacrifice, for economical reasons, three chapters of his voyages, together with the whole of his valuable footnotes. when george suggested that the history of the parish itself did not appear to be treated with that fullness the captain was capable of giving it, the old gentleman replied, "what we lose in the letterpress we'll make up by the pictures. i quite agree with the printer, my lad: the beauty and dignity of my work will be enhanced considerably by the addition of a few engravings." six photographs were therefore taken exclusively for this volume, by the son of the postmistress who was an expert with the camera; and reproduced by the usual special process upon a particularly valuable kind of oriental paper. the frontispiece represented captain francis drake in a characteristic attitude. the five other illustrations depicted windward house from the southeast; present day aspect of black anchor farm; george drake, esquire, discoverer of the missing vault; stone marking site of vault and bearing the name of amelia drake; and finally, captain francis drake in another characteristic attitude, with mrs. drake in the background. the lady, having shifted behind her husband during the moment of exposure, has disappeared entirely. two copies were sold. the vicar bought one out of a sense of duty, while the dismal gibcat purchased the other, to discover whether there was anything in it which would justify him in bringing an action for libel. both were disappointed. chapter iv changes in the establishment one doctor had promised captain drake eighteen more months of life; another, less generous, refused to allow him more than twelve; he presented himself with ten years, and then he did not die from natural causes. the dismal gibcat had his revenge at last. he murdered captain drake before the eyes of the village, in the full light of two oil lamps; and, instead of being hanged for it, he stepped into the dead man's place, and ruled the parish with his scowl as he had done in the good old days when a pair of old cottages had occupied the site whereon windward house now stood; although he had the decency to attend his victim's funeral, and to declare he had always respected the captain, who undoubtedly belonged to that class of mortals, none of whom are ever likely to be seen again. war for a right of way led up to the murder. the dismal gibcat owned a field, across which people had walked since the world began, according to the testimony of the yellow leaf, who was the final court of appeal in all such matters. when a stone coffin was disinterred, or a few roman coins were turned up, the yellow leaf was invariably summoned to decide the question of ownership. he might confess that the stone coffin had been made before his time, although he would give the name of the mason, and narrate a few anecdotes concerning the eccentric parishioner who had preferred this method of burial. while he would possess a clear recollection of the thriftless farmer who had dropped the money while ploughing through a hole in his pocket. the yellow leaf declared he had crossed that field thousands of times when he was a mere bud, and went on to state that, if the people allowed the dismal gibcat to triumph over them, they would find themselves back in the dark ages, bereft of all the privileges which magna charta, the post office, and captain drake had obtained for them. the dismal gibcat began by ploughing the field and planting it with potatoes. then he lay in wait for the first trespasser, who chanced to be the vicar on his way to baptise a sick baby. undismayed by the importance of his capture, the dismal gibcat informed the vicar he was committing an unfriendly act by trespassing across his vested property. the vicar, with some warmth, asserted there was a path. the dismal gibcat, with exceeding dullness, replied that a man who had received his education at a public school and an ancient university ought to be able to distinguish between tilled land and thoroughfare. the vicar declared that, if there was at the moment no path, it could only be because the dismal gibcat had maliciously removed it, although he did not use the word maliciously in an offensive manner. the dismal gibcat replied that, as there was no path, the vicar could not walk along it; and, as he was obviously trying to make one--with a pair of boots quite suitable for the purpose--he was committing an act of trespass, and by the law of england a trespasser might be removed by force. the vicar explained that he could not stay to argue the matter lest, while they were quarrelling, the poor little baby should become an unbaptised spirit. the dismal gibcat declared that his vested rights were more to him than baptised babies, and ordered the vicar to get off his potatoes by the way he had come. finally the vicar abandoned a portion of his christianity and threatened to hit the dismal gibcat upon the head with his toy font. civil war having thus broken out, the entire population of military age, headed by captain drake and the yellow leaf, promenaded across the field and trampled out a new pathway. the dismal gibcat replied by putting up barbed wire entanglements. then the captain called a meeting of the parish council, to be held at seven-thirty in the schoolroom; little dreaming, when he set out a few minutes after eight to take the chair, that he was about to perform his last public duty. the dismal gibcat attended the meeting without any idea of doing murder: he brought no weapon except his scowl, which was possibly a birthmark, and a tongue which disagreed with everybody out of principle. he presented his case to the meeting and asked for justice. the chairman promised he should have it, and went on to inquire whether the dismal gibcat would give an undertaking to remove the entanglements and allow the public to make free use of the pathway. the dismal gibcat replied that, by so doing, he would be committing an injustice which must fall most heavily upon all those of his dismal blood who might come after him. "then, sir," the chairman cried in his most tremendous voice, "the matter must pass from our hands into those of a higher tribunal. we shall appeal to the district council, and that body will, if necessary, carry the case further, even to the court of county council itself." silence followed, during which every parishioner save one in that crowded schoolroom felt thankful highfield had a leader capable of carrying their grievances to the foot of the throne if necessary. about the district council little was known, beyond the fact that it had never yet interfered in any parochial affairs; while the dumpy philosopher seemed to be the only person primed with information concerning the county council. "it make roads and builds asylums," he explained. "the gentlemen what belong to it are called esquire; and they'm mostly in parliament." the dismal gibcat had the wickedness to declare that he defied all councils. there never had been a right of way across his field, and there never should be. out of simple goodness of heart he had refrained from interfering with the homeward progress of a few weary labourers, although they had not asked permission to trample down his pasture; and now he was to be rewarded for this mistaken kindness by having a strip of territory snatched from him by a person--a fat, vulgar person--one he was sorry to call an englishman--whom they had been foolish enough to elect as their chairman--a man who had written a book about himself--a common creature who claimed to be a descendant of sir francis drake--a man who styled himself captain because he had once stolen a fishing boat--a coarse bullying brute of a gasbag. the chairman had been struggling to find breath for some moments. at last he found it, and released such thunders as had never been heard before. even the dismal gibcat quailed before the volume of that tempest, while a few nervous parishioners left the schoolroom with a dazed look upon their faces. george detached himself from the wall and implored his uncle to be calm, but his words of warning were lost in that great tumult. the shocking nature of the scene was considerably enhanced by the fact that the dismal gibcat, for the first time within living memory, actually tried to smile. "a right of way has existed time out of mind across that field. sir francis drake and queen elizabeth walked there arm in arm," the captain shouted, magnanimously ignoring the insults, and fighting for the people to his last gasp. "path warn't hardly wide enough, captain," piped the yellow leaf, who was for accuracy at any price. "i tell the chairman to his face he's a liar. he has never spoken a word of truth since he came to highfield," cried the dismal gibcat. again the captain opened his mouth, but no sounds came. he stretched out an arm, tried to leave the chair, then gasped, fell against george, and bore him to the floor. the leader of the people, the great reformer, the defender of liberty, lay motionless beneath the map of the british empire like cã¦sar at the foot of pompey's statue; murdered by the dismal gibcat's smile in the village schoolroom, upon the fifth of april, in the seventy-fourth year of his age. at the inquest it was shown by one of the discredited doctors that his heart had really given way a long time ago, and nothing but indomitable courage had preserved him in a state of nominal existence: he sought to impress it upon the jury that the captain, from a medical point of view, had been a dead man for the last ten years; but, as everybody knew, this statement was made by an arrangement with the coroner to prevent a verdict of wilful murder against the gibcat. "'tis like this right o' way business," commented squinting jack. "he ploughs up the path and ses us can't walk there because there arn't no path. and doctor ses as how the captain wur a corpse when he come to the meeting, and you can't kill a man what be dead and gone already." the dismal gibcat did all that was possible to atone for his crime. he sent a wreath; he did not smile again; and in the handsomest possible manner he removed the barbed wire entanglements, and dedicated a right of way across his field to the public for ever, as a memorial to the late captain, whose life would remain as an example to them of truth, and modesty, and childlike gentleness. highfield ceased to progress when the captain had departed. the historian would have found no deed to chronicle, although he could hardly have omitted the brilliant epigram, attributed to the dumpy philosopher, "captain put us on the map, and now we'm blotted out." local improvements were no longer spoken of. mrs. drake continued to live in highfield, although she took no part in public affairs, and immediately removed the notice boards which she had never much approved of. george resumed his disgraceful habits of loafing in fine weather, and keeping the house clear of flies when it rained. his aunt disowned him once a week, but he bore up bravely. she threatened to turn him out of the house every month, but the courageous fellow declared he should not be ashamed to beg hospitality of the vicar who had loved and reverenced his dear uncle. george explained that he was leading a singularly industrious career, but it had always been his way to work unobtrusively: he fed the giant tortoise, controlled the monkeys, taught the parrots to open their beaks in proverbs; he attended all meetings of the parish council; sometimes he sneered at the dismal gibcat. above all, he managed the cat breeding industry, although it was true he had at the present time no more than six cats in stock. "that's because you have been too lazy to look after them," mrs. drake interrupted. "you let them out to roam all over the place; dozens have been shot or trapped; while the others have made friends with common village cats. you know how particular your uncle was about the company they kept." "i'm expecting kittens soon, and i'll take great care of them," george promised. "your uncle used to make a lot out of his cats before we came here. you do nothing except ask for money to buy them food, which you don't give them. if it wasn't for kezia the poor creatures would be starved," said mrs. drake. she realised that the only way of ridding herself of george would be to regard him as a lost soul haunting windward house, and to destroy the place utterly; as she could not afford to do that, an idea occurred of inviting an elderly maiden sister to share her home. miss yard replied that the plan would suit her admirably. so mrs. drake broke the news to kezia, who had become a person of consequence, accustomed to a seat in the parlour; and kezia told bessie she was going to allow mrs. drake's sister to live in the house for a time; and bessie went to her mistress and gave notice. "you don't mean it," stammered the astonished lady. "why, bessie, you have been with me fifteen years." "kezia ses miss yard's coming here, so i made up my mind all to once." "i don't know what i shall do without you, bessie." "you can't do without me, mum. i'm not going exactly ever to leave you. i'll just change my name, and go across the road, and drop in when i'm wanted." "you are going to be married!" cried mrs. drake. "that's right, mum. may as well do it now as wait." "i hope you have stopped growing," said the lady absently. "i don't seem to be making any progress now, mum. six foot two, and robert's five foot three, and has taken the cottage opposite. robert mudge, the baker's assistant, mum. he makes the doughnuts master wur so fond of vor his tea." "i remember the doughnuts," said mrs. drake softly. "i used to put out two, but the dear captain would not content himself with less than half a dozen." "he told bob to exhibit his doughnuts. master said he would get a gold medal vor 'em. but he can't find out where the exhibition is." "i hope robert mudge is worthy of you, bessie." "he ses he is, mum. he goes to chapel in the morning, and church in the evening, and he never touches a drop of anything. and he keeps bees, mum." "it all sounds very nice. i hope you will be as happy as i have been," said mrs. drake. "thankye, mum. i wouldn't get married if it meant leaving you; but now that miss yard's coming here i may as well go to robert. just across the road, mum. if you ring a bell at the window i'll be over in no time--if i b'ain't here already, mum." "you have always been a handy girl, bessie. the dear captain had a very high opinion of you, but he was so afraid you might not be able to stop growing." "thankye, mum. bob ses 'tis his one ambition to get great like the captain; not quite so big, mum, but like him in heart; at least, mum, as gude in heart. i don't know, mum, whether you would be thinking of giving me a wedding present?" "of course i shall give you a present, bessie." "well, mum, me and robert think, if 'tis convenient to you, furniture would be most useful to us." "you shall have some of captain drake's furniture; and you shall have more when i am gone," the old lady promised. bessie married robert mudge a month later. mrs. drake furnished the cottage; george presented the bride with a kitten; while miss yard, who had not yet completed her preparations for departure, sent a postal order for five shillings, together with a bible, a cookery book, and pair of bedsocks. kezia gave the wedding breakfast, and mrs. drake paid for it. the honeymoon, which lasted from saturday to monday, was spent somewhere by the sea. then bessie settled down to her new life, which meant sleeping upon the one side of the road and taking her meals upon the other. miss yard was a gentle old creature who knew nothing whatever about a world she had never really lived in. for nearly half a century she occupied a little house just outside the little town of drivelford; during weekdays she would scratch about in a little garden, and twice each sunday attend a little church, and about four times in the course of the year would give a little tea party to ladies much engrossed in charity. sometimes she would go for a little walk, but the big world worried her, and she was glad to get back into her garden. it must have been rather a mazy garden, as she was continually getting lost in it; having very little memory she could not easily hit upon the right pathway to the house, and would circle round the gooseberry bushes until a servant discovered her. one awful day she lost her servant, luggage, memory, and herself at a railway junction; and was finally consigned to the station-master, who was not an intelligent individual; for, when miss yard assured him she was on her way to the seaside, he was quite unable to direct her. nobody knew how that adventure ended, because miss yard could not remember. she accepted her sister's invitation gladly, because a letter came frequently from the bank to inform her she had overdrawn her account. miss yard did not know much about wickedness, therefore when a servant told her it was time for a cheque she always smiled and signed one. she could not understand why no servant would stay with her more than a few years; but, being a kind-hearted old soul, she was delighted to know one was going to marry a gentleman, another to open a drapery, and a third to retire altogether. it was not until she engaged a rather shy little orphan, whose name of nellie blisland was good enough to tempt anybody, as a lady-servant-companion-housekeeper, that the bank stopped writing to her; and then miss yard, who comprehended a passbook with some assistance, wondered who had been leaving her money; and at last arrived at the conclusion that nellie was a niece who was living with her and sharing expenses. but this discovery was not made until mrs. drake's invitation had been accepted. miss yard's memory underwent all manner of shocks, when she found herself installed in the parlour of windward house. she perceived her sister clearly enough, but where was nellie, and what was george? she had completely forgotten captain drake until she turned her spectacles towards the egyptian mummy; and then she asked questions which caused mrs. drake to use her smelling salts. "this is george, our nephew. he does nothing for a living," said the widow severely. "our nephew," repeated miss yard, in her earnest fashion. "his name is percy, and he came to see me last year, but he seems to have altered a great deal. what is it he does for a living?" "nothing whatever," said mrs. drake. "i've got a weak back," george mumbled. "he's got a weak back, maria. he must try red flannel and peppermint plasters," said miss yard with barbaric simplicity. "stuff and nonsense! he's got the back of a whale, if he'd only use it. this is not percy, our real nephew, who for some reason never comes near me, but my nephew by marriage. he's not your nephew really." "i'm sorry for that. i like nephews, because they visit me sometimes. what's the name of this place, maria?" "highfield, and it's eight hundred feet above the sea," said george, in a great hurry to change the subject. "i hope it's somewhere in the south of england. the doctor told me i was not to go near yorkshire," said miss yard. "you are in devonshire, just upon the edge of dartmoor," george explained. "that sounds as if it ought to suit me. i can't explain it, but i was so afraid this might be yorkshire. where is nellie? i do hope she wasn't lost at that dreadful railway station." "nellie is upstairs," mrs. drake replied. "i wish somebody would go and bring her. i don't know what she can be doing upstairs. my memory is getting so troublesome, maria. before nellie came to live with me i had quite forgotten she was percy's sister." "but she isn't," said mrs. drake. "percy's only sister died as a child." "did she!" exclaimed miss yard. "i wonder how long i shall remember that. how many children did my brother peter have?" "he never married," replied mrs. drake. "then nellie must be poor dear louisa's daughter." "that would make her percy's sister. nellie is your companion. she is not even so much related to you as george." "now i have quite forgotten who george was," said miss yard. at this moment nellie herself appeared with a load of luxuries, such as footstool, shawl, wool slippers, and various bottles to sniff at, which she had just unpacked. miss yard fondled the girl's hands, and told her that somebody--she could not remember who--had bees trying to make trouble between them by spreading a malicious story about nellie's birth and parentage; but she was too muddled to know what it meant. mrs. drake had been aware that her sister's intelligence was not high, but was dismayed at discovering her mental condition was so low; and she quickly repented of the new arrangement, which could not be altered now that miss yard had disposed of her house and most of her belongings; bringing just sufficient furniture to equip a sitting room and bedroom, and to replace those articles which mrs. drake had bestowed upon bessie. her sister's furniture soon became a source of anxiety to mrs. drake, as she did not like to have things in the house which did not belong to her, and she also foresaw difficulties should the partnership be dissolved at any time by the death of either her sister or herself. so she took a sheet of notepaper and wrote upon it, "if i depart before sophy, all my things are to belong to her for her lifetime;" and this document she placed within a sandalwood box standing upon the chest of drawers in her bedroom. then she took another sheet of notepaper and commanded her sister to write upon it, "if i die before maria, all my things are to belong to her." miss yard obeyed, but when this piece of paper had been stored away within the japanese cabinet standing upon the chest of drawers in her bedroom, she took a sheet of notepaper upon her own account, and wrote, "when i am gone, all my things are to belong to nellie;" and this was stored away in the bottom drawer of her davonport, as she had already forgotten the existence of the other hiding place. and this was the beginning of the extraordinary will-making which was destined to stir up strife among the beneficiaries. chapter v george tackles the labour problem the following summer percy taverner visited his aunts. this gentleman, who was younger than george, would in due course inherit the money left by the late mr. yard to his sons and daughters, of whom the two ladies of highfield were now the sole survivors. therefore percy had nothing to lose by being uncivil, although as a matter of fact he had only neglected mrs. drake because he disliked her husband. his aunt sophy he loved with good reason, for he made a living by mortgaging his fruit farm, and when the borrowed money was spent he had only to explain matters to miss yard, and she would pay off the mortgage and immediately forget all about it. percy was not an idler like george, but he possessed little business capacity, and had selected a form of occupation about which he knew nothing whatever; and as he would be quite a rich man when his aunts departed, he did not take the trouble to learn. nor did he care to consider such examples of longevity as the giant tortoise and the yellow leaf. miss yard was delighted to see percy, but greatly distressed when he declined to kiss his own sister; at least he was willing, but nellie positively refused. the usual explanations were gone through, and the good lady tried hard to understand. "of course you are right not to kiss nellie as she's your cousin. young people who can marry must not get into the habit of kissing each other," she said. mrs. drake was inclined to be chilly towards percy, but thawed quickly when he revealed himself as an attentive and obliging young man. she was quite sorry he had to sleep across the road in bessie's cottage because there was no spare room in windward house; and was almost indignant when percy declared upon the second day he could not stay until the end of the week, as he dared not neglect his tomato plants. "your foreman can look after them," she said. "i have not seen you for years, and after all there's nothing like one's own relations. it's a pleasure to have some one to talk to, for your poor aunt sophy is getting so stupid, and george is no company at all. what do you think of george?" she asked suddenly. "not much," replied percy with a laugh. "i want to speak to you about george," mrs. drake continued. "you're the head of my family, so i should like your advice about the good-for-nothing creature. he is getting on for forty, and has never done a day's work in his life. he sleeps here, and takes his meals, and grumbles, and begs money--and, my dear percy, he has been seen coming out of the public house. he does nothing whatever. he won't even dig up the potatoes." "he knows you can't leave him anything?" asked percy. "of course he knows it. he will have the furniture and all the curiosities collected by the captain; i think that's only right, and besides, i promised my husband he should have them. but the things won't be of much use if he hasn't got a home." "he can sell them," said percy. "second-hand furniture goes for next to nothing," replied mrs. drake. "that depends," said percy. then he pointed to the mantelpiece and continued, "if i were you, aunt, i should wrap those two chinese vases in cotton-wool, and put them away." "are they really valuable? my dear husband thought they were, but i'm afraid he didn't know much about such things, and he would exaggerate sometimes. he used to say they were worth a hundred pounds apiece." "he was under the mark," said percy. "i'm not an expert, but i know more about chinese vases than i do about tomatoes, as a friend of mine deals in the things, and i've picked up a lot from him. i believe those vases are worth a heap of money." "well, that is a surprise!" cried mrs. drake. "i shall take your advice and pack them away. don't mention it to george." "certainly not," said percy, somewhat indignantly. "and now what can you suggest?" mrs. drake continued, waddling to the mantelpiece and flicking a disreputable blowfly from one of the vases. "i have told george plainly a hundred times he must do something for a living, but he won't take a hint. i suppose you wouldn't care to give him employment? he ought to know something about fruit, as he spends half his time leaning against an apple tree." "he wouldn't work under me. besides, i'm doing a losing business as it is. it's a jolly difficult problem, aunt." "will you open his eyes to his folly and wickedness? if you can't make him ashamed, you may be able to frighten him. tell him, if he works, i will help him; but, if he won't work, i'll do nothing more for him." "all right, aunt. i'll shift the beggar," said percy cheerfully; and he went out to search for his victim. george was reclining upon a seat which his uncle had dedicated to the public for ever, to commemorate the return of the drakes to highfield. when he saw the enemy approaching he closed his eyes; for his cunning nature suggested that percy would respect his slumbers unless he came as a special messenger. when the footsteps ceased, and the ferrule of a stick was pressed gently against his ribs, george realised that a certain amount of trouble awaited him. "i was sound asleep. it's a tiring day, and i've been a long walk," he explained amiably. "sit down, old chap, and look at the view; but if you want to admire the sunset, i should advise you to go higher up." "i don't want to admire the sunset," replied percy. "i've been having a talk with aunt maria----" "and i've been to black anchor," broke in george. "i don't suppose you've read my uncle's history of the parish. it's a classic, and there are nine hundred copies at home. people called slack were living there when we came; a regular bad lot and a disgrace to the village." "friends of yours?" asked percy. "not likely! they were no better than savages. the man hobbled off one day and has never been seen since, and the woman was sent to prison for stealing, and the children were taken into a home. the farm has been without a tenant for the last two years, and now an old man named brock has taken it." "perhaps he would give you a job," suggested percy. "that's a good idea. i'm sorry i forgot to ask him when i went over this afternoon," said the amiable george, perfectly well aware in which direction the wind was blowing. "unluckily the old chap hasn't any money. he cooks the grub while his grandson drains the bogs. everybody's talking about it; they can't get over the idea of two men running a farm without a woman. sidney, the young chap, wants to go into the navy, but he sacrifices his future to help his grandfather. funny idea that! now if my uncle had been alive he would have got young brock on a training ship, i warrant." "funny idea he should want to do some good for his grandfather?" "no; but it's queer that a chap who wants to go into the navy should come to black anchor with all its associations of us drakes," said george loftily. then he added, "i'm rested now, so i'll take a stroll." "just as you like. we'll sit here and talk, or we'll stroll and talk," said the pestilential percy. "go on then," said george sourly. so percy in his capacity of ambassador delivered the ultimatum: aunt maria had borne with her husband's nephew for a great number of years, postponing vigorous action out of a mistaken kindness, but she was now firmly resolved upon the act of expulsion. "it's for your sake entirely," he continued. "naturally aunt wants to see you settled in some business, as she knows she can't leave you anything." "except the furniture," remarked george indifferently. "that's not exactly a fortune," replied percy, wondering how much his cousin knew about chinese vases. "my uncle promised i should have the furniture," said the monotonous george. "every man should work," observed percy virtuously. "i could manage tomatoes," retorted george. "i shall be a rich man when the aunts die, while you will have nothing. i don't require to build up a business. don't you want a home of your own, wife and children, and all that sort of thing?" "no," said george. "what do you want then?" "board and lodging, and some one to look after me," replied the candid cousin. "aunt maria has said her last word. she won't keep you in idleness any longer. and i'm going to stay here until you leave the place." "they never brought me up to do anything," argued george for the defence. "they did their best, but you wouldn't work." "they ought to have made me. i was young then, and it was their duty to make me submit to discipline. now i'm middle-aged." "thirty-eight is still young." "with some men; not with me. my habits are formed." "when you find something to do--" "that's just what aunt maria says," george interrupted bitterly. "she never suggested anything but once, and then she said i might have gone abroad as a missionary if i hadn't been unfit for the job. it's all very well to talk about doing something in this beastly overcrowded world, but what can a middle-aged bachelor do except put his trust in providence? my uncle was at least practical: he did suggest i should turn pilot or harbour-master, although he knew the very sight of the sea puts my liver out of order." "you might open a shop to sell fruit and flowers; and i'll supply you." "i don't understand buying and selling, and i can't do accounts. you would take the profit, and i should have the losses." "you must make up your mind. aunt is perfectly serious," declared percy. "i don't want to offend her, and of course i couldn't abuse her kindness," said george slowly; "but just suppose i did refuse to leave home--suppose i insisted upon staying here and leading the sort of life that suits my health--what could she do?" "if you were rotten enough for that, i suppose she could appeal to the magistrates for an ejectment order," replied percy hazily. "she is much too kind for that. besides, i am her nephew." "only by marriage. you are not a blood relation; you can't claim to be dependent on her." "i was thinking what a scandal it would make in the parish. aunt and i don't get on well together, but i'm sure she would never turn me out." "you ought to have heard her just now. i had no idea aunt maria could be so determined. she will give you money--she will help you--but go you must." "did she say where?" "that's for you to decide. isn't there any sort of job that takes your fancy?" "i like railways. i always feel at home in a big railway station," george admitted. "station-master,--or traffic-manager--might suit you." "do you know i really believe it would," said george brightly. "now we've found it!" exclaimed percy. "i'm going the day after tomorrow, and you had better come with me. we will travel up to waterloo, and you can see the directors there about getting a job as station-master. i don't know if there's a premium, but, if there is, aunt will pay it. you might get a small suburban station to start with. we'll go on friday--that's a bargain, george?" "right, old chap! it's a long time since i had a holiday," came the ominous reply. mrs. drake opened her heart and purse when she discovered george was about to accept a position as station-master. miss yard said she was sorry to hear he was giving up tomatoes, then in the same breath implored percy to keep away from junctions where people were lost and trains collided with distressing frequency. kezia mended linen, packed, and uttered many a dark saying about men who left their homes on friday in the pride of life and were not heard of again. percy assured his aunts they might always rely upon him to settle any difficulty. while george basked in popularity, like a sleek cat upon a windowsill, and took all that he could get in the way of cash, clothing, and compliments. "you must come here sometimes. i expect you won't be able to get away for a year or two; but when you do get leave remember this is always your home," said mrs. drake warmly. "i feel sure we shall soon meet again," said george hopefully. "a year anyhow: you cannot expect a holiday before then. i'm sure the railway will be lucky to get such a fine looking man, though it's a pity you stoop, and i wish you were not quite so stout. perhaps the king will get out at your station some day; and you will have the honour of putting flower-pots on the platform and laying down the red carpet. you may be knighted, george, or at the very least get a medal for distinguished service." george was not thinking about honours much; for he had glanced towards the mantelpiece and discovered that the pair of vases were missing. "i have put them away," explained mrs. drake. "they are wrapped up safely in a box underneath my bed." "i was afraid percy might have taken them," said george cautiously. "he did advise me to put them away, as he thought perhaps we ought to take care of them," mrs. drake admitted. "i hate the chap," muttered george. "i was afraid aunt sophy might break them. she is always knocking things over. she takes an ornament from the mantelpiece, and when she tries to put it back she misjudges the distance. it's the same with tables and teacups. she has broken such a lot of crockery." "uncle said i was to have the vases and everything else that belonged to him," said george firmly. "oh, you needn't worry," mrs. drake replied. "now that you are really going to work for your living, i will let you into a little secret. when i married your uncle he insisted upon going to a lawyer and making his will leaving everything to me, although the dear fellow had nothing to leave except his odds and ends. so then of course i made a will leaving everything to him, although i thought i had nothing to leave; but the lawyer explained that any money i should have in the bank, together with the proportion of income reckoned up to the day of my death, would go to him. then we adopted you, so i went to the lawyer again, and he put on something called a codicil, which said that, in the event of uncle dying first, everything that i left would go to you." "then there is no reason why i should work for my living," said george cheerfully. "how are you going to live upon the interest of two or three hundred pounds?" "a man of simple tastes can do with very little," declared the nephew. fruit grower and prospective railway magnate went off together on friday morning, but the only despatch to reach windward house came from percy, who announced he had reached his mortgaged premises in perfect safety, after leaving george upon the platform of waterloo station surrounded by officials. this might have signified anything. mrs. drake supposed it meant that all the great men of the railway had assembled to greet their new colleague upon his arrival. what it did mean was that percy had freed himself of responsibility at the earliest possible moment, abandoning his cousin to a knot of porters who claimed the honour and distinction of dealing with his baggage, which probably they supposed was the property of a gentleman about to penetrate into one of the unexplored corners of the earth. not a postcard came from george. he disappeared completely; but mrs. drake was delighted to think he was attending to his new duties so strenuously as to be unable to write; while miss yard remembered him only once, and then remarked in a reverential whisper that she would very much like to visit his grave. it was the fourteenth day after the flight of george into the realm of labour; and during the afternoon mrs. drake set out upon her weekly pilgrimage to the churchyard, accompanied by kezia, who carried a basket of flowers, and bessie with a watering pot. nellie had settled miss yard in her easy chair with the latest report of the society for improving the morals of the andaman islanders, and had then retired to her bedroom to do some sewing. the giant tortoise was clearing the kitchen garden of young lettuces; the monkeys were collecting entomological specimens. one of the intelligent parrots exclaimed, "gone for a walk;" a still more intelligent bird answered, "here we are again!" then george passed out of the sunshine and entered the cool parlour. "oh dear! i'm afraid i had nearly gone to sleep," said miss yard, rising to receive the visitor, and wondering whoever he could be, until she remembered the churchwarden had promised to call for a subscription to the organ fund. "do please sit down," she continued and tried to set the example; but she missed the chair by a few inches and descended somewhat heavily upon the footstool. the visitor helped her to rise, and was much thanked. "you will stay to tea? my sister will be here presently," miss yard continued, while she fumbled in her reticule, and at last produced a sovereign. "you see i had it all ready for you. i remembered i had promised it," she said triumphantly. george pocketed the coin, and thanked her heartily. he mentioned that it was very dusty walking, and he was weary, having travelled a considerable distance since the morning. then he proposed to leave miss yard, who shook hands, and said how sorry her sister would be not to have seen him; and went to his bedroom, which he was considerably annoyed to find had been converted into a place for lumber. "maria, you have missed the vicar!" cried miss yard excitedly, the moment her sister returned. "i gave him a sovereign for the andaman islanders, and he told me what a lot of sleeping sickness there is in the village." "what are you talking about? the vicar can't have been here, for we saw him in the churchyard, and he never mentioned any sickness in the village." "perhaps i was thinking of something i had just read about. one gets muddled sometimes. but the vicar--or somebody--has been, and there was nearly a dreadful accident. he caught his foot in the hearth rug, but luckily my footstool broke his fall." at that moment footsteps descended the stairs. with a feeling that the sounds were horribly familiar, mrs. drake hurried into the hall, there to discover her nephew, who appeared delighted to be home again upon a thoroughly well earned holiday. "george, i have prayed that you wouldn't do this," she cried. "it's all right, aunt," came the cheery answer. "though perhaps it _was_ rather silly of me to start work upon a friday. the railway profession is very much overcrowded just now, and there's not a single vacancy for station-master anywhere. they have put my name on the waiting list, and as soon as there's a job going, they will write and let me know. i am quite content to wait, and i may just as well do it here as in expensive lodgings." "how long do you expect to wait?" "can't tell. it may be a slow business, but it's sure. a station-master told me you may have to wait year after year, but promotion is bound to come at last--if you live long enough." "then you may do nothing for years." "i'm not going to take anything; i owe it to my uncle's memory to occupy a respectable position. still, if i can't get a terminus after a few months' waiting, i'll put up with a small junction. rather than not work at all, i would condescend to act as a mere inspector," said george with dignity. "i wish the vicar would shave off his moustache," miss yard murmured. chapter vi honourable intentions every evening at nine mrs. drake drank a cup of coffee. this was a custom of some historical importance, and it originated after the following manner: captain drake had a great liking for a small glass of whisky and water after his evening pipe; but, during the first few weeks of married life, refrained from divulging this weakness to his wife, who could not understand why he became so restless at the same time every evening. the captain explained that, when he had finished smoking, he suffered from an incurable longing to arise and walk about the house. mrs. drake advised him to take exercise by all means, and the captain did so, wandering towards the dining room at nine o'clock, and returning about ten minutes later in a thoroughly satisfied state of mind. but one evening the lady heard him whisper to the servant, "water, my child! water!"--the captain never could whisper properly--and upon another evening she distinguished the creak of a corkscrew, while every evening she was able to detect a subtle aroma which could not have been introduced as one of the ordinary results of walking about the house. "so you are fond of whisky," she said sharply. "well, not exactly fond of it, my dear," stammered the captain. "really i don't care for whisky, but i like the feeling it gives me." "i don't like hypocrisy, and i dislike still more the feeling it gives me. in future we will drink together. when you take your glass of whisky, i will have a cup of coffee," she replied. after the arrival of miss yard at windward house, she too was offered the cup, but declined, as she abhorred coffee. "but it's cocoa," explained kezia. "why do you call it coffee then?" asked miss yard, who had quite enough to perplex her poor brain without this unnecessary difficulty. "mrs. drake used to have coffee once, but, as she never cared for it much, she took to cocoa. she has drunk cocoa for twenty years, but we always call it coffee." bessie and robert stayed every evening to drink coffee, which was generally cocoa, but sometimes beer. one evening nellie was so late that kezia declared she should wait for her no longer. it was thursday, and nellie, who sang in the choir, had gone out to attend the weekly practice. suddenly robert withdrew his head from a steaming bowl and declared he heard voices in the garden. all listened, and presently nellie's laughter passed in at the back door, which stood open as the night was warm, but nellie did not accompany it. robert made a signal to the others, and they tiptoed out like so many conspirators, to discover the young lady enjoying a confidential conversation with somebody else who sang in the choir, and whose voice had been described by the schoolmaster-organist as a promising baritone. it looked as if it was promising then. a few minutes later kezia and bessie appeared in the parlour, and asked mrs. drake if she had any objection to sidney brock drinking a cup of coffee. "who is sidney brock?" demanded mrs. drake, like a learned judge of the king's bench. "he'm the grandson of eli brock, and he sings in the choir." mrs. drake expressed her approval, but required to know more about the family before she could issue a permit to sidney entitling him to drink coffee. "they'm the new folk to black anchor," explained bessie. "mr. brock used to keep a post office, they ses, but it failed, and now he'm farming wi' sidney, and they ha' got no woman, and they took black anchor because 'twas to be had vor nothing nearly, and 'tis wonderful, robert ses, what a lot they ha' done already." "the post office failed!" exclaimed miss yard, who had been listening intently with a hand behind her ear. "what a pity! now i shan't be able to write any more letters." "mr. brock's post office, miss," cried bessie. "it was a shop as well, but it didn't pay." "how much does he want?" asked miss yard, searching for her reticule. "nothing, miss." "what's he come for then? i hope he hasn't brought a telegram." "he's one of the choirmen, sophy," exclaimed mrs. drake, adding, "but i don't know why he should come here." "he's just brought your nellie home," said kezia. "oh, i am so thankful!" cried miss yard. "i knew nellie would be lost, going out these dreadful dark nights." "she only went to choir practice, miss. sidney is her young man now, and they'll make the best looking couple in highfield," said bessie. "how silly of you to tell her that!" said mrs. drake crossly. miss yard said nothing for a few moments. she stared at the mummy, then at the grandfather clock, which was no longer in working order; and presently her poor old face began to twitch and tears rolled down her cheeks. she tried to rise, but kezia restrained her with kindly hands, saying, "don't worry, miss. sidney is a very nice young man, and i'm sure nellie couldn't do much better." "she never told me," sobbed miss yard. "perhaps she did, but you know you don't remember anything," said mrs. drake soothingly. "my memory is as good as yours. i can remember you eating a lot of chocolate on your fifth birthday, and being suddenly sick in the fender. nellie has run away and got married--and i never gave her a wedding present--and i can't get on without her. you know, maria, i never did like that fat woman at the post office." "what has she got to do with nellie?" "you told me nellie had to marry the man because the post office failed--and that woman opens my letters and reads them." "call nellie and tell her to put miss sophy to bed," ordered mrs. drake. "the young man's waiting outside," kezia reminded her. "ask him in, and give him a cup of coffee. and, when she has gone to bed, tell him to come in here. i want to see what he is like. get nellie, quick!" cried the lady; for miss yard had got away from her chair and was knocking things over. nellie appeared in full flower, to scold her mistress for not remaining dormant until her usual bedtime; but on this occasion miss yard rebelled against discipline. "you have deceived me," she said bitterly. "you have been a little viper. everybody in this house deceives me, and keeps things from me, except george. he is the only gentleman here. he's the only one who knows how to behave properly. when i hit my head upon the door, he was sorry for me; but you laughed, and my sister laughed, and everybody's laughing now except george. he knows how hard it is to walk out of a room without hurting yourself." "it's so easy to laugh somehow," said nellie. "why did you marry the postman without telling me?" "i have not married the postman, and i'm not thinking of getting married; and what's more i won't marry while i have you to look after," nellie promised. "but you went out and got lost, and some man found you, and they all say you married him." "there wasn't time," said nellie. "now come away to bed, and we'll talk about it in the morning." "i hope we shall be able to forget all the malice and wickedness. maria, do let us try to begin all over again," said miss yard earnestly. "this evil speaking and slandering is so dreadful. you tried to take away poor nellie's character; you heard kezia say she was a regular bad girl; and that horrid bessie, who will _not_ stop growing, said it was because the woman at the post office couldn't sell her stamps, and then the postman tempted her to run off with him." "but he didn't succeed," said the laughing girl, as she conveyed miss yard towards the stairs. as they disappeared george entered the house, and observed to his aunt that the night was warm. mrs. drake felt cold towards her nephew, whose letter of appointment had not yet arrived, but she thawed sufficiently to inquire whether he knew anything about the brocks. george became suspicious, and answered guardedly: "the old man is a marvel. he cooks the food and keeps the house tidy, and puts in a good day's work as well upon the worst farm in the parish. but the people don't like him much." "why not?" demanded mrs. drake. "they think it's queer a man should do a woman's work; and some of them say it's not quite decent." his voice died away into a gasp of amazement, for that moment kezia announced sidney, and that young fellow appeared upon the carpet. george had been about to give him a remarkably good character, but was now disposed to reconsider his decision; especially when mrs. drake, after a few preliminary remarks, introduced the name of nellie. george immediately withdrew to a back window and began to search for flies. "she is a very good girl, and my sister is wonderfully attached to her," mrs. drake resumed. "same here," said sidney promptly. "i don't know whether you are engaged to her," said mrs. drake. "well, we don't exactly get engaged. we just walk together until we can get married, and then we do it," exclaimed sidney. "i hope you won't ask her to marry you while my sister is alive." "nellie wouldn't leave miss yard, and 'twould be no gude my asking her." "do you think the farm will pay?" was mrs. drake's next question. "we'll get a living out of it, sure enough," replied sidney cheerfully. "the last folk left it in a pretty bad state--they let the bog get into the best field, and the whole place is vull of verm--but there's plenty of gude soil. 'twill take a year to get straight, and after that we shall go ahead. grandfather's past seventy, but he's vor ten hours a day yet." "an example for some men," commented the lady, with a shrug of her shoulders towards the fly killer. "the finest man in the world--that's grandfather. there ain't hardly a job he can't do, whether 'tis man's work or woman's work." "how old are you?" "past nineteen." "would you marry a girl older than yourself?" "if her name wur nellie blisland, i would." "i hope you will get on," said mrs. drake in her kindliest fashion. "you may come in any evening for a cup of coffee with the others, and tell your grandfather to stay to supper with you on sundays after church." "thankye kindly," said sidney. "that's what i call a man, though he is only nineteen," observed mrs. drake, when she and her nephew were alone again. "oh yes, he's a nice boy, a clever boy. a bit mealy-mouthed, and all that sort of thing," said george indifferently. "do you know anything against him?" "i can see what's going on. the old man is one of the best, but sidney isn't quite straight. this singing in the choir, you know, is just a blind. nellie's not the only girl." "do you mean to say the boy is a humbug--like you are?" "find out for yourself," replied george fiercely, and stalked out of the room. local rumour was brought to windward house every day by robert, but mrs. drake had no direct communication with him. she inquired of kezia concerning sidney's character, and kezia appealed to bessie, who knew quite as much as her husband, although she could not speak with his authority. robert declared he liked sidney, and had never seen him with more than one young woman at a time; but he admitted some rather unkind things were being said against the two occupants of the lonely farm, especially by the women, who were of opinion that old brock had disposed of his former relations by means of those illegal methods which made the ordinary sunday newspaper such interesting and instructive reading. at all events, a man who was independent of female labour could not expect to be regarded as a christian, even though he did attend church and had grown a patriarchal beard. the brocks, in short, were not like other men; they were therefore mysteries; and anything of a mysterious nature was bound to be intimately connected with secret crime. these things robert admitted, quite forgetting--if the fact had ever dawned upon him--that it was the custom in highfield, as in other places about the forest of dartmoor, for the parishioners to revile each other amongst themselves, and to defend one another against all outsiders. in the bad old days a certain vicar of highfield had been a notorious drunkard, and was so hated by his people that he could hardly appear in the street without being insulted; but when the authorities sought to procure evidence against him, all were for their vicar, and the very men who had carried him home drunk the previous night swore they had never known him the worse for liquor. mrs. drake did not know of this peculiarity, and was therefore forced to the conclusion that mr. brock had a past, which was not wonderful considering his age; and that, if nellie married sidney and went to live at black anchor, it was quite possible she would not have a future. so she instructed kezia not to encourage the young man, and advised nellie to fall out of love as tactfully as possible. in the meantime, george appeared to be passing through the throes of reformation. although actually the same unprofitable person, he succeeded, by a skilful change of methods, in making his aunt believe industry was now the one and the only thing he lived for. he displayed a passion for railways; talked of little but express trains and timetables; constructed a model of a railway station out of a few packing cases; and drew caricatures of locomotives. he fumed every morning because the long expected letter from headquarters still failed to arrive. mrs. drake, who was easily deceived, quite supposed george had turned over a new leaf; and he had done so, but without changing his book. he had not the slightest intention of quitting windward house, but he could see no prospect of carrying out his programme by persevering in the old methods. he continued to idle away his time; but he did so in a different fashion. his next step was to develop the programme, and to indulge a few of the leading items to the other person whose name was writ large upon it. this was no easy matter, since opportunity, resolution, and guileless speech would have to be obtained simultaneously. george's eloquence was of the meanest description; he was master of no honeyed phrase, while his method of expressing affection for another consisted in advertising the virtues of himself. one afternoon he was lying beneath a favourite apple tree, when a fine specimen of the fruit fell upon his chest. he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked round. then he ate the apple and listened. the silence was profound; he seemed to be indolent monarch of a lazy world. george remembered that, shortly before sleep had gently touched his eyelids, mrs. drake and kezia had passed out of the garden. miss yard would be contentedly muddling through the maze of some missionary magazine. while the only other person in the house might be sitting beside a window at the back. george comprehended that the falling apple had been a call to seize the opportunity; resolution he seemed to have acquired by devouring it; eloquence alone was wanting. but big words, he knew, could never fail brave people. fortune was smiling in the kindest way from the little upstairs window, where nellie's head was bobbing over a sewing-machine, which she fed with yards of summer-cloud material. george went on steadily reforming and strenuously gazing; but nellie did not condescend to throw a glance in his direction. "there's a nice view from your window," he said at last; an unfortunate beginning, as the girl could see little except himself. "lovely," she said, without looking around. "are you sewing?" george inquired gently. "learning the typewriter," she replied. george wanted to go into the house and procure a glass of cider, but dared not lose the opportunity. "nellie," he said, making as many syllables possible of her name, "do you mind me talking to you a little about yourself?" "i can't prevent it unless i shut the window, and don't want to do that," she said. "i wanted to say that--to remind you that my aunt is not going to live for ever," george continued. "that's not talking about me." "ah, but i'm coming to you presently." "you can stay where you are," she said coldly. "miss yard won't live for ever either," said george, more confidently. "she can't leave you anything, because all her money goes to my beastly cousin percy. i know she is always promising to leave you money, but she can't do it." "i am to have her furniture anyhow," said nellie, removing her hands from the machine, and turning at last towards the window. "oh no! i get that. aunt sophy's furniture is to go with the rest." "is that really true?" asked nellie, who had good reason to be suspicious of miss yard's promises. "yes, it all comes to me," said george eagerly. "i shall have the furniture, and the house, and the cash my aunt leaves. the two chinese vases aunt keeps underneath her bed are worth a thousand pounds; that's a great secret, and i wouldn't tell any one but you. the other things will fetch five hundred pounds. then i shall have the money that aunt leaves--perhaps another five hundred. then the property will bring another thousand. so you see, when the old ladies die, i shall have pots of money." "it will mean more to be you then than it does now," said nellie darkly. "yes, i shall be quite rich. you see, there's no reason why i should work, as aunt is well past seventy." "but i thought you were going to do something great and wonderful on the railway?" "that was an idea, but i can't afford to leave the place; that's another secret, nellie, and i wouldn't tell any one but you. i am so afraid aunt may give away the vases. she's getting a bit queer in her memory too, and she's always giving away things. when i went to see about a job on the railway she sent a lot of my things to a rummage sale. she has given kezia the bed she sleeps on, and a lot more things; but they all belong to me, and i shall claim them when she dies." "she has promised me the round table in the parlour," said nellie. "of course i don't mind what she gives you," said george awkwardly. "many thanks. now i must go and put on the kettle for tea. you have told me such a lot about myself." "yes, and i've got still more to say. i shall have quite three thousand pounds--and my tastes are very simple. i don't expect much, and i don't ask for much. it's my own belief that i can put up with almost anybody." "now i'm in for it!" nellie murmured, with a scorching glance at the somewhat dejected figure in the garden. "i have always flattered myself," george rambled on, with the feeling that eloquence had come to him at last, "i can get along anyhow with anyone." "you mustn't be too complimentary. flattery alone is not worth much, you know," she said carelessly. "i mean all that i say, and--and i'm not so idle as they make out, but what's the good of breaking your back when you are coming into thousands? it's only taking a job from some other fellow. i can draw quite well, and paint, and prune roses, and i shall have all my uncle's famous furniture, and the house, and the money--" "oh, for goodness' sake, don't keep on talking about me," cried nellie. "if you won't let me say anything more, i'll write it all down," said george delightedly. "i have tried, but it's so hard to find a word to rhyme with nellie, while nell is just as bad. now if your name had been mary, there's dairy, and fairy, and hairy--" "and wary," laughed the girl, as she ran away from the window. chapter vii scandal and exposure squinting jack declared there were some things better than a murder. he referred to the mystery which surrounded the unnatural tenants of black anchor farm. they had received a visitor, who was neither honest gentleman, nor respectable lady; but a woman with bold red cheeks. she had driven through highfield, staring at the inhabitants and smiling at their dwelling places; her driver had inquired of the first gentleman in the place--george being set up above the vicar because he did no work--which of the lanes ahead would be most likely to lead towards black anchor; and a few days later this same red-cheeked lady had been driven back through the village, staring and smiling as before. her clothes where the saddest part about her; for she was dressed in the height of fashion. so far the dismal gibcat had defended the brocks because every other person was against them; he admired their poverty and loved their humility; he prophesied kindly concerning their future, and sent them superfluous vegetables. the three stages of manhood were at last represented in highfield parish by righteous men: old brock, young sidney, and his middle-aged self. but the vision and visit of the painted lady caused two vacancies. the dismal gibcat drew the line at well dressed women. the yellow leaf was consulted because of his knowledge of the world's history, and he gave it as his opinion that the atmosphere of highfield had been deprived by the nameless visitor of a considerable amount of moral oxygen: in the first place she belonged to a higher class than the brocks; in the second place she came upon a secret mission, and in the third place she entered a house which it was notorious contained no other woman. she could not be a relation; while, if she had come as a friend, all he could say was heaven preserve highfield from such friendships. "some poor folk do have rich relations, though mine ain't come along yet," said squinting jack. "what would you be saying about me, if i wur to receive a visit from a young lady wi' red-hot painted cheeks?" inquired the yellow leaf. "i should say you wur lucky," replied squinting jack. "her cheeks wur warmish, i allow; but i wouldn't exactly call 'em painted," observed the dumpy philosopher. "you'm mixing it up wi' doorpost paint. ask your missus if her cheeks warn't plastered wi' cosmetics," said the yellow leaf crossly. "i'd rather not," retorted the dumpy philosopher. "there be two ways of looking at pretty nigh everything, a gude way and a bad way," urged the gentle shepherd. "there be ladies who take a kindly interest in young men, and try to help 'em along a bit. us knows the brocks ain't got much money, vor they ha' took the poorest farm in the whole parish. maybe this lady is helping young sidney a bit, and her come along to see how he wur doing." the others listened doubtfully, then turned to hear the oracle's opinion. "i ha' heard tell o' such ladies, but i ain't seen one of 'em; and i wants to see a thing avore i believes--ay, i wants to see it two or dree times," said the yellow leaf. then he asked, "how old do you say her wur?" the dumpy philosopher fancied the region of twenty; the gentle shepherd thought the neighbourhood of forty; while squinting jack suggested second childhood. "you can tell an old lady when you sees one," replied the yellow leaf, "and you can tell a young maid when you sees one; but when you can't tell whether a woman be old or young, then you'm looking at something what ain't respectable. 'tis old folk what be charitable, and she warn't old; and when young ladies be charitable to young men, their charity ain't far away from home, i reckon. they brocks ha' no woman to mind vor 'em; 'tis because they don't dare to; 'tis because this lady wouldn't like it, and they can't tell when she may be coming. she'm a jealous lady vor certain, and she won't have no woman to black anchor 'cept it be herself. and she couldn't come to the farm if they had another woman, vor her wouldn't have the face to do it." this was one of the longest, and quite the wisest, of all the opinions stated by the yellow leaf. although it could hardly add to his reputation, it destroyed entirely the credit of the brocks. "the old man don't hardly ever come into the village, 'cept it be to church, and he don't pass the time o' day to no one," said the dumpy philosopher. "now i come to think of it, young sidney has a funny, uneducated sort o' way of answering," added squinting jack. "they'm mysteries," concluded the yellow leaf, "and i hopes to live to see 'em all exposed to the vull light o' day." robert passed this scandal to bessie, and she hurried it across to kezia, who carried it while still fresh into the parlour, and presented it to both the ladies. miss yard expressed no interest, but mrs. drake was painfully distressed. she was ageing rapidly, and beginning to lose her memory too; she had forgotten what a very favourable impression the boy had made upon her. "are you quite sure she did go to black anchor?" mrs. drake inquired. "yes, aunt," said george, who was busy designing locomotives. "she asked me the way--at least the driver did. they were both strangers to me." "quite a young gal, warn't she, mr. george?" appealed kezia. "not more than eighteen, i should think. but she wore a wedding ring; i saw it distinctly." "yes, mum; i saw her drive past, so bold and staring. they say she's an actress, mum." "how awful! i suppose she's his wife." "well, mum, us all hopes she is." "the wretched young man! how can he be so wicked!" "is anybody wicked?" asked miss yard vacantly. "never mind, sophy. it's nobody you care about. has she been told? you know who i mean." "oh no, mum. we wouldn't like to say anything much to her. but of course she mustn't go out with him any more." "of course not," said george vigorously. "i suppose i must break it to her," said mrs. drake. "and he sings in the choir too--miserable wretch!" "i warned you, aunt," said george. "he must never come into the house again. ask robert to tell him." "oh no, mum! we couldn't drink coffee with him now. he seemed such a nice young man too. robert thought him almost like a gentleman." "it's often these nice young men who turn out the greatest humbugs," said mrs. drake severely. "what is she saying? i do hope there are no such things in the house," miss yard cried anxiously. nellie was thoroughly well told. kezia, bessie, and robert were alike eager to play the part of candid friend because they liked her so much; indeed, they somewhat overwhelmed her with candid affection. according to bessie, the mysterious lady had been overheard imploring sidney to return with her; while robert declared the young man had confessed the whole truth. kezia could invent nothing, so contented herself with moaning over life's tragedies like the chorus of a greek play. nellie, being a wise maid, argued with nobody, and smiled at everyone; but her eyes made people sorry for her; and because of their sympathy they brought yet other charges against sidney. nellie waited for choir practice, when she hoped to hear a healthier story. she expressed no gratitude when the heroic george offered to accompany her to church, lest the dragon sidney should abduct her forcibly and add her to his collection in the cupboard at home. he explained these references according to the best of his historical information, quoting the story of bluebeard at some length. he was still talking when nellie escaped from the house, and went to church by herself. during practice the other members of the choir shrank from sidney, as if afraid he should make some evil communication; and they practised the hymns, which were of a penitential nature, at him. it was never the custom in highfield to allow even one sinner to go unpunished. "at last!" exclaimed nellie, when they were out of the church and alone together in dartmoor wind and darkness. "of course you know what i am going to say?" she added. "you'm going to say this place be vull o' liars," suggested sidney. "oh no, indeed! our friendship is quite over, and you are not to come near windward house again." "what's it all about, nellie?" "you know perfectly well. i'm walking with you this evening just to hear what you have to say." "you think i'm a bad lot?" "i'm getting dreadfully certain of it." "because you've heard tales. i know you'm the prettiest maid in the world, but if a stranger wur with us he wouldn't believe me if i said so, vor 'tis too dark to see you. you can't be sure of anything you'm told. i'm not the best chap in the world by a long way, but if you could see me 'just as i am,' as we wur singing in church just now, you might fancy i b'ain't quite what folks make me out to be." nellie was disturbed by this speech, and still more by the manner in which it was uttered. she had an uncomfortable feeling that sidney was trying to bring himself down to her level, although her birth and education were undoubtedly superior to his. "i suppose it's easy to sing like that, especially as you must have had no end of practice," she said crossly. "now you'm out o' tune, nellie." "miss blisland has discovered you have made a fool of her. you asked her to--to--well, you know what, when all the time you are married--" "here, i say, steady! i didn't know it had got to that," he broke in sharply. "then who was that girl who came to see you?" "she's not a girl. if you want to know her age, i'll tell you. she is forty-three--and i'm nineteen. is it likely i'd be married to a lady old enough to be my mother?" "who is she?" "a very kind lady who has done a lot vor me. her name is mrs. stanley." "then she is married!" "her husband's been very kind to me too." "and i suppose you are very fond of her?" "well, that's natural, considering what she's done vor me." "you love her!" cried nellie, getting out of patience with his coldness. "there's someone i love better." "and that's yourself," she snapped. "'tis the pretty maid i'm going to marry, and that's you." "if you dare to say such a thing again," gasped nellie, "i'll--i'll run away." "you can run t'other end of the world, but i shall come and fetch ye back," declared the bold youth. "what's to prevent me from marrying someone else?" "yourself, i fancy." "but i never did like you much, and now i hate you," she said, troubled again by his accent, which recalled her own superior education. "if you won't hate me any more than what you do now, i shan't grumble," replied the confident young man. then he asked gently, "won't you come out sunday afternoon?" "no, i will not." "i could tell you a tale what might make us sweethearts again," he continued. "i expect there is hardly any sort of tale that you don't know. but why don't you?" "i'm going to make you believe in me and trust me." "tell that to mrs. stanley--i'm sure she's a widow." "i trust her, and she knows it. i told her about you, and she wanted me to promise not to marry till i'm twenty-five." "by then, i suppose, she'll have become sick and tired of you," said nellie, who was rapidly forming highfield opinions about mrs. stanley. "she doesn't mind who i marry--" "how perfectly unselfish!" "so long as 'tis the right sort o' maid." "i hope you'll find her. goodnight; i'm going now," said nellie, standing beside the garden-gate of windward house. then she added rather faintly, "i'm sorry you ever came to highfield." sidney struck a match and, making a lantern of his hands, turned the light upon her face. "oh, nellie darling! there's a tear upon your cheek!" "don't be rude and wicked," she murmured, searching for the gate handle, which she generally found quite easily. "the beautifullest tear from the loveliest eye in the world!" "what's wrong with the other eye?" she asked trying to laugh. "it's still more lovely. nellie, you are--just nellie, and that means everything. you shall trust me, and i'll make you love me, if i have to work a thousand times harder than i do on the farm." "will you have nothing more to do with mrs. stanley?" "i can't do that." "you mean she won't give you up!" "she's the best and kindest lady in the world. but you come first, and that's where you'll be always." "i must be second too. it's no good, sidney. i'm not going to be talked about and laughed at--no girl can stand it. besides, mrs. drake has forbidden me to speak to you, and my poor mistress would go crazy if she knew what has happened. i have a good home, and i must think of my future. leave me alone, please, and let me forget you. but i must give up the choir and sit at the bottom of the church, for i--i can't sing any more." "is that you, nellie?" called kezia; and the faithful band of protectors and consolers appeared, putting the false sidney to flight. george was so pleased when nellie did not go out upon sunday afternoon, that he presented her with a picture of his latest locomotive, very handsomely designed, but without cylinders. he began about this time to take an interest in his personal appearance, with the result that mrs. drake, who was not at all prejudiced in his favour, remarked to kezia that mr. george was undoubtedly the best looking man in the place, which, after all, was not much of a compliment. kezia, who was a drake in everything but surname, and contemplated assuming that to supply her own deficiency, agreed, and went on to mention mr. george was regarded as the perfect pattern of an english gentleman by highfield, where all geese were swans. mrs. drake was simple enough to believe george was preparing himself for the duties of station-master, and he more than suggested this was indeed the case; having the impudence to hint at negotiations for various stations where it would be his business to receive all manner of royalties; but the letters he received were of such a confidential nature that he was not at liberty to show them to his aunt. he convinced her they were all typewritten, and this was quite sufficient for his purpose, because the old-fashioned woman supposed letters written by machinery could emanate only from departments under the immediate control of ministers of state. the cold-blooded george had drawn up a programme of his career under such items as courtship of nellie, annihilation of sidney, conciliation of aunt, guarding of the furniture, departure of aunt sophy, contract with nellie, departure of aunt, marriage and retirement. with fine prophetic instinct a date was appended to each one of these events: miss yard had but a single year of life remaining, while three more years were allotted to mrs. drake. so far the programme was well ahead of time, owing to the visit of mrs. stanley. the careful mind of george was troubled concerning his forthcoming marriage and subsequent retirement. he asked himself frequently whether it could be prudent to enter into a matrimonial alliance with nellie, or indeed with any girl; was a wife preferable on the whole to a housekeeper? george sought the opinion of the dismal gibcat, who replied that the house presided over by a wife was bound to be respectable, while the house ruled by spinster or widow was not; besides, a housekeeper could not be scowled at with impunity, whereas a wife might easily be taught all the accomplishments of her husband: that was to say, if the husband found it necessary to slander another man, or to deprive some woman of her character, the partner of his joys and sorrows would slander these persons too; whereas a housekeeper might find it her duty to defend them. then george consulted the yellow leaf, who was of the decidedly robust opinion that men and women should not only marry as early as possible, but should keep on doing it as often as the law allowed; and even if they did offend against the law sometimes it was better to err upon the right side. he alluded to his own brilliant example of marrying at eighteen, with the happy result that the entire population of the village were more or less related to him; and he went on to declare he had already appointed a successor to his present wife, who had been bedridden for some years. although george had some doubts remaining, he arrived sorrowfully at the conclusion that it would be his duty to make nellie happy, if the ladies of windward house should respect his programme and depart from the world according to scheduled time. the question of his retirement remained the only point to be disposed of. should he conclude a life of usefulness as the most respected parishioner of highfield, or favour a wider circle? certainly it would be more agreeable to retire in a village, where respect came automatically, than to run the risk of being dishonoured in some town, where standing at corners or musing beside lamp posts might be wrongly construed as revealing instability of character. it might, he feared, become necessary to commence his retirement within the next few months, for mrs. drake was clearly in a restless frame of mind, and the impending failure of his negotiations with the railway company might induce her to issue the expulsion order which percy would be called upon to execute. in such case george decided his health would be forced to suffer a breakdown, although it might be possible, now mrs. drake's powers were growing defective, to assure her his career upon the railway was finished; but, unfortunately, owing to his inability to serve full time, he enjoyed no pension. a wet day assisted george in making a discovery which, although not altering his programme, seemed to promise an extension of the indefinite time limit. "i want to go to the sea. aunt sophy worries so about her friends, and i can't make her believe she hasn't got any. she will forget all about them if we go away. when are you going to your station?" asked mrs. drake, while miss yard looked up plaintively and wanted to know what she had done now. "oh, nothing. i'm telling george we are going to the seaside directly he is ready to leave." "i think you had better not wait," said george warningly. "you promised to go this month," his aunt said fretfully. "changes have occurred, with the result that i have now broken off the negotiations." "then i have done with you!" "i'm so glad somebody else has broken something," said miss yard happily. george left the room, and returned presently with an armful of plans and diagrams. "i knew they existed, and at last i have found them," he remarked triumphantly. "take away your rubbish!" said mrs. drake. "my uncle made these plans. these diagrams were the solace of his closing years," said george; and directly he had spoken his aunt's face softened, and she fumbled for her spectacles. "my dear uncle charged me to carry out the work if he should not live to complete it. these are his plans for a railway to link up the scattered parishes of this moorland region. it is my earnest hope," said george, "that i may be permitted to undertake the work which is to give dartmoor a railway and highfield a station." "i had forgotten all about it," mrs. drake murmured. "i did not forget," said george reprovingly. "i should have acted long ago, if i could have found these precious plans. here is the prospectus in dear uncle's writing. he shows how simple and inexpensive it would be to build a railway across the dartmoor, without a single viaduct, tunnel, embankment, or cutting. it was his intention to make highfield station a terminus, as he could not see his way to surmount the steep drop into the valley without going to considerable expense. now you can understand why it is no longer my intention to occupy the poorly paid position of station-master. i aim at higher things. i mean to be a railway magnate." "what can you do?" asked mrs. drake, much impressed by those relics of her husband. "i shall communicate with my railway friends; i shall float a company, and appoint a board of directors; i shall pass a bill through parliament." "whatever is george doing?" inquired miss yard. "making a railway," replied her sister. "i wish i could do something half as useful," sighed miss yard. george borrowed five pounds for postage stamps, converted his bedroom into an office, and fed the village with false news which percolated into the ears of mrs. drake by means of robert the dripping tap and kezia the filter. george had anticipated this, and, knowing the truthful ways of the village, was not greatly astonished when robert informed him in confidence how engineers had already been seen taking the level of the dartmoor heights; while the parishioners had sworn to tear up the railway as fast as it was made, unless they received ample compensation for this cynical infringement of their rights. what he had not anticipated was the action taken by his aunt. left to herself she would have remained credulous to the end; but kezia declared mr. george was not spending his days letter writing; while bessie stated the postmistress had told her mr. george had bought no stamps lately. "i have looked into his room and seen him writing," said mrs. drake despairingly. "he wur doing poetry, mum," said kezia sadly. "oh, i'm sure he's not so bad as that," cried the lady. "i don't want to say too much, mum, and i ain't going to say anything against mr. george, whom you might call a member of the family," continued kezia in the voice of doom, "but i saw a lot of the paper he had wrote some of his poetry on." "i saw it too, mum," chimed in bessie. "and, mum, at the end of the first line wur six kisses." "crosses, mum," exclaimed bessie, as an expert in this form of literature. "and the second line--oh, mum, i don't know as how i can say it." "shall i do it vor ye?" asked bessie eagerly. "no, bess, i'll do it. he said, mum, his heart wur all jelly." "think of that, mum!" gasped bessie. "oh no! not jelly again. we had yesterday," cried miss yard, who liked to be consulted concerning the bill of fare. "i do hope the poor creature isn't going off his head," said mrs. drake. "don't you see, mum, that word wur meant to sound like the word at the end of the first line what he wrote in crosses. and you know, mum, there's someone in this house whose name do have the same sort of sound as jelly." "ah, but she b'ain't so soft," added bessie. "and he wrote she was so bewitching, drinking cocoa in the kitchen. that was a rhyme, mum." "i have heard quite enough," said mrs. drake wearily. "i wish to goodness i had never seen the fellow," she murmured. the following week she visited the captain's grave, staying longer than usual, and scribbling industriously on scraps of paper the whole evening. next day the exodus took place, kezia and nellie accompanying the ladies to the seaside, while george remained in solitary possession. as any pretence of industry was no longer necessary, he settled down to enjoy a honeymoon with indolence, until a letter arrived to waken him completely. it appeared that mrs. drake had written to percy, informing him of all george had said and not done; also asking for information about the floating of companies and the construction of railways, as, she explained, george had decided to build one across dartmoor, and was inviting miss yard and herself to become debenture holders. percy's answer had crushed the poor lady entirely. he explained that, as george of course was perfectly well aware, to obtain a position as station-master it would be necessary to enter the service of the railway company as a clerk, and work upwards gradually. as for building a railway, that was not the recreation of a single individual, but a superhuman undertaking, which in the first place would require to be discussed by some of the greatest financial magnates upon earth for half a century--at least such was his own impression--before parliament could even be approached; and then another half century would probably be demanded for the arrangement of preliminary details; and after that a new generation would have to begin the work all over again. while the suggestion of a railway across dartmoor could appeal only to a parliament with a sense of humour. accordingly mrs. drake disowned her nephew. she ordered him to depart from highfield, declaring also her intention of not returning to windward house while he remained there. for his maintenance she was prepared to allow the sum of ten shillings weekly so long as she might live. should he delay in taking his departure, percy would instruct some gentleman learned in the law to hasten the eviction. and if he took anything in the house away with him, he would thereby forfeit all benefits under her will. this letter made the world seem cold to george, who strongly suspected percy had dictated the punitory clauses. it was clear that his reign as first gentleman of highfield was over. not being of that faint-hearted disposition which abdicates without a struggle, george wrote a touching letter which was also, he considered, a complete vindication of his conduct; for, as mrs. drake must have been aware, he had suffered from his spine since childhood. then he packed his belongings and travelled an hour's journey into the next parish, where he arranged with the landlord of a wayside inn, which bore the hospitable title of "drink and be thankful," to accommodate him with board and lodging upon especially reduced terms; and from this alcoholic address he despatched a daily apology for his existence to mrs. drake, each document more poignant than the one preceding it. his aunt sent a cheque for a quarter's allowance, which george cashed gratefully; but she did not write. that business was entrusted to percy, who sent an ultimatum, giving george forty-eight hours to retire from the "drink and be thankful," and warning him that, if at any future time he should be discovered within twenty miles of highfield village without obtaining a permit, his prospects would be marred considerably. george pronounced a malediction against percy and all his tomatoes. then, as compliance seemed necessary--for he was terribly afraid his aunt might destroy her will--he decided to make a farewell visit to highfield, in order that he might muse amid the scenes of his former slothfulness, and inform the villagers he was going away to oppose on their behalf the promoters of the dartmoor railway company. george was not surprised to discover the door of windward house standing open, as he supposed bessie would be cleaning; but he was considerably astonished to behold miss yard nodding in the parlour, with nellie on her knees hard by extracting the indifferent lady from a web of wool which, with amazing thoroughness, she had wound about herself. george made a sign to the girl not to disturb her mistress, but to follow him as soon as possible into the garden. "what's the meaning of this?" he asked, hastily, adding that he was not at all sorry to see her. "miss sophy was so miserable i had to bring her back. when we went away she thought she was going back to her old home; and then, when she couldn't recognise anybody she kept on saying she was forsaken. she would stop people in the street and ask them where she lived, and if they didn't remember her. as she got worse every day i had to bring her back. aren't you living here now?" asked nellie. "no," said george sadly. "you gave me no encouragement." "so you waited until i was out of the house, and then you ran away!" "my aunt and i have now agreed to differ. how did you leave her?" asked george pompously. "oh, very well. in fact, kezia said she had not seen her in such good health for years." "miss yard is breaking up, i think," said george, thinking of his programme, which was suffering sadly from interference. "indeed she's not. she is just mazed after the journey, as they say about here. then you are really not going to live here again?" "not for the present. but i shall write to you, nellie, at least once a week, and i shall think of you nearly every day." "thank you. are you going to turn blacksmith?" "why do you ask a ridiculous question?" "we have been playing at rhymes lately; and the only rhyme i can find for your name is forge." "nellie," said george heavily, "it is frivolous conduct like this which breaks a man up completely." "i'll be serious then. when are you coming back?" "not until the place becomes my own. my aunt has injured me; she has upset all my plans. i do not intend to speak to her again until she has asked for my forgiveness." "there goes the gate!" cried nellie. "it's sure to be bessie. if you don't want to be seen here--run!" she laughed. "i do not stir for elizabeth mudge." "or budge for any man," sang teasing nellie. then her note changed, for the postmistress appeared from behind the rhododendrons. "why, it's mrs. cann! and she's got a telegram!" "vor you, miss blisland. very bad news, miss. terrible news. but she wur an old lady, and 'tis better to be took avore you knows where you be than to see it coming. i hopes and prays as how i'll be took the like way--selling a penny stamp, or licking a label, or doing some poor soul a gude turn by giving her an old-age pension." she went rambling on, while nellie tore open the telegram and read, "mistress passed away in her sleep. kezia." she shivered slightly, then handed it to george. "cruel bad news vor you, sir, especially as we'm all so sorry to hear you be a leaving us," said the postmistress. "i had meant to go away," replied the self-sacrificing and sorrowful reprobate. "but i'm afraid i shall have to change my plans now." chapter viii a tangled inheritance george formally took over windward house, with the exception of his aunt's bedroom, the door of which was locked. bessie admitted she held the key, but was not going to give it up to anybody except kezia. in the meantime, miss yard wandered about the house, declaring that maria had always been able to look after herself, scolding nellie for wearing black, "and making yourself look so small i can't see you," driving away bessie by waving her hands and calling "shoo!" but delighted with george because he looked bright and cheerful. "maria has been making up the past again," she said plaintively. "she told me i was good for nothing, and she wouldn't have me here any longer. she keeps all my friends away from me--and now she has hidden my money." "we'll look for it," said nellie, glad of the excuse to lure her back into the parlour. "i expect it is hidden in one of the usual places--inside the clock, or on top of the bookcase." "it's no good looking there, nellie. i have searched the whole house--and my cheque-book has gone too. my sister takes everything away from me." a pleasant quarter of an hour was spent in searching for the missing bag of money, which had been secreted with more than usual ingenuity. these games of hide-and-seek were of daily occurrence, as miss yard would hide away everything she possessed, and then accuse the others of robbery by violence. on this occasion the little bag containing her spare cash had been deposited behind the register; george made the discovery after noticing a heap of soot upon the fender; and miss yard was more delighted with him than ever. "percy always does the right thing," she declared. "he wrote to that horrid man who said he was going to come and live here. nellie, remind me tomorrow to pay off a mortgage on his railway." "percy grows tomatoes, aunt. i am george, and i'm here to look after you," explained that gentleman uncomfortably. "how silly people are!" said miss yard. "of course it's tomatoes, and not railways. i don't know why they talk about railways, but i suppose it's because nellie and i missed a train the other day. everybody mixes up george and percy, but one is quite as good as the other. one quality only, and that's the best. now i wonder where i read that." then she opened the canvas bag and gave george ten shillings because he was so clever; and she gave a sovereign to nellie because she was so good; but she refused to give bessie a present, as she felt positive that young woman had conspired with mrs. drake to hide away her money. "i must write to maria and tell i've found it, and ask her to forget the past like i do and begin all over again," she said, shuffling to her writing table, where nearly every day she wrote letters which nellie subsequently destroyed. "don't try to make her understand," said this young lady to george. "i have told her mrs. drake is dead, and she quite realised it, but a minute later had forgotten all about it. it's no use worrying her. she has no memory, and hardly any mind, left; but she is perfectly healthy and enjoys life thoroughly. really, it isn't such a bad state to be in after all." george rather looked forward to the funeral, as he meant to enjoy a settlement with percy, who arrived only just in time to join the others in the churchyard. mrs. drake's bedroom had been opened the day before: george discovered the will, while kezia made off with the box which had always stood upon the chest of drawers. after the ceremony they returned to windward house. presently george and percy went into the garden to discuss business, assuming a brotherly affection, although george felt sure percy entertained nothing but evil thoughts concerning him. "that was rather a nasty letter you wrote to me, old chap--about clearing out of the place, you know," he began reproachfully. "aunt asked me to write it, and of course i had to. i don't want to rub it in, george, but you deceived the old lady badly, and you've been a frightful slacker," replied percy. "if it comes to deceit, i expect you put your best tomatoes on top of the basket," said george, opening a line of attack which made percy cough uneasily, before he attempted to point out the difference between deceiving hostile tradesmen and affectionate relatives. "what do you propose doing?" he asked. "this is my home," replied george firmly. "somebody must be here to look after aunt sophy, keep up the property, and look after the servants." "i suppose the place belongs to aunt sophy now, and in that case it will come to me," said percy sternly. "grab it all, old chap!" exclaimed george mockingly. "it's like this," said percy sharply. "i'm one of the trustees of the yard estate, and hunter is the other. i dare say you have heard the aunts mention hunter; he's a partner in martin and cross, the family solicitors. i needn't go into the details of mr. yard's will, but of course you know aunt maria enjoyed only a life interest in her share. aunt sophy now inherits the lot, but she can't touch the capital, all of which comes to me at her death. that's the position." "and here's mine! oblige me by running your eye over this, my dear chap," invited george, producing his aunt's will. percy did so, frowning considerably, and when he had finished tried to mutter a few words of congratulation. "not so bad," chuckled george. "the whole place is mine, and everything in it. aunt sophy is now my tenant." "there's no mention of the house," objected percy. "read this--'all i die possessed of.' the property belonged to aunt; left her by my uncle." "but she bought the ground and built the house," cried percy. "out of income," said the triumphant george. "i suppose you'll be sending this to martin and cross?" "it goes this evening by registered post. aunt sophy won't leave highfield. she will be enjoying the use of my house and my furniture. in return she can give me board and pocket-money. quite a decent scheme, old chap. everybody satisfied! no grumblers!" "i didn't know anything about this will," muttered percy. "you can't object to my staying here now--you can't order me out, my dear old chap. nice little property, isn't it?" cried george riotously. percy had not much more to say, especially as he seemed in a hurry to catch a train which would carry him towards london and mr. hunter's office. immediately he had departed, kezia approached and asked, "can i speak to you vor a minute, please?" "certainly," replied the prosperous george, following her into the dining room, where bessie towered beside the table upon which reposed the sandalwood box taken from the late mistress's bedroom. george could not help noticing what a quantity of waste paper appeared to be lying about. "this wur lying on the top," explained kezia, presenting a slip upon which was written in his late aunt's handwriting, "this box is the property of kezia, who has served me faithfully since her childhood." "i ha' been wi' her forty years, and i don't know how i shall get along without her. i feels as though she can't be gone vor ever, and will soon be coming back again maybe," kezia continued. "she knows what be going on. she can see me, and you, and mr. george, and she can tell what he'm thinking of," added bessie. "went just like the captain, all to once and no fuss. she said to me many a time, 'i wants to go like him, kezia, nice and quick.' so she did, poor dear! lay down, and went to sleep, and never woke up again this side jordan. and the last thing she said wur, 'kezia, i ain't felt so well as i be feeling now vor i can't tell ye how long.'" "they'm always like that," said bessie. "what are all these papers?" asked george. "these be mine," said kezia, taking one bundle. "those belong to bess. this one is vor miss sophy. and this one is vor nellie." "wasn't there one vor mr. percy?" inquired bessie. "here's something on the floor," said george. he picked up the scrap of paper and read, "i should like percy to have something to remember me by. he can take the pair of silver candlesticks given me by his mother as a wedding present." "he can't have them," said bessie, looking across at kezia. "no, that he can't," said kezia, staring rather uneasily at bessie. "what are all these papers?" george demanded, feeling in his pocket, to make sure that the will was safe. "will ye please to read 'em?" replied kezia, extending her bundle. george opened the first and read, "i want kezia to have all the furniture in her bedroom, also six dining room chairs, my sofa, and the largest bookcase." the second paper included, for kezia's benefit, much of the furniture in the parlour, together with "the pair of silver candlesticks given me by louisa as a wedding present." the third paper mentioned most of the articles in mrs. drake's bedroom, with the grandfather clock, the chinese vases, "and anything else mr. george does not want." and so the lists ran on, until kezia had been left everything in the house several times over. then bessie proffered her bundle with a sorrowful smile. first of all she was to have the bed she had once slept on, then all the furniture in her bedroom, much of that in the parlour, half of that in the dining room, with "the pair of silver candlesticks given me by louisa as a wedding present," most of the ornaments including the chinese vases, the egyptian mummy, and "any other little thing mr. george does not care about." nellie was to have the round table in the parlour, which had been already bestowed upon both kezia and bessie. while sophy was requested to take the musical box and "the pair of silver candlesticks given me as a wedding present by louisa." "this is a nice business!" george muttered. "seems to be rather a lot of mixing up, don't it!" said bessie. "i can see what has happened," george continued. "poor old aunt never had much of a memory, and, when she put away one of these papers in the box, she forgot about the others. some of them were written when i was a child--the ink is beginning to fade--while others are quite recent." "she would write 'em in the evening. i've seen her doing it. and when she went into her bedroom, she would put it into the box quick and lock it up. she wouldn't let no one touch that box," said kezia. "you see she wanted to leave you something to remember her by, and she never looked into the box to see what she had written." "i suppose we mustn't take the things now?" asked bessie hurriedly. "nothing wur to be touched, bess, while miss sophy lived. even mr. george warn't to touch anything," said kezia with unnecessary irony; since, according to these scraps of paper, george had nothing to take. "i have the will which was made soon after i came to live with my uncle and aunt. there is no mention of miss yard," said george firmly. "mrs. drake wrote a paper and gave it to miss sophy. and miss sophy wrote a paper and gave it to mrs. drake. here it is!" exclaimed kezia, diving to the bottom of the box, which contained brooches and other trinkets dropped in from time to time. "you see, mr. george,' if i die before maria, all my furniture is to belong to her.' and 'tis signed sophy yard." "what did my aunt write on her paper?" cried george, as a horrible thought flashed across his mind. "just the same. if she died avore miss sophy, everything she possessed wur to belong to her." "and she has died before aunt sophy after all," george muttered. "why, so she has! i never thought of that avore," said bessie. george refused to discuss the matter further, pointing out that nothing could be done during miss yard's lifetime, although he had no intention of remaining inactive until then. escaping into a quiet place, he sought to find a solution of the problem thus suddenly presented to him. by a properly attested will the entire furniture of windward house had been left to him; this furniture had been left also to miss yard by a rough kind of agreement; the same furniture had been bestowed upon kezia by means of a number of scraps of paper which were certainly not legal documents; while the greater part of the furniture had been also bequeathed to bessie by means of similar scraps of paper. the conclusion arrived at by george was that the will must prevail over all other documents, although it was difficult to see how he could prevent pilfering; and his final wise decision was to preserve silence concerning these scraps of paper in all his subsequent dealings with messrs. martin and cross and mr. percy taverner. "i feel sure kezia and bessie cannot claim anything, but i'm afraid the lawyers may say the will is cancelled by the document given to aunt sophy," george muttered. "but then they needn't know anything about it. all the business will be done through the trustees and myself. they don't know, and i shan't tell them. i'd better strike up a friendship with percy; i'll conciliate him; i'll sacrifice the pair of silver candlesticks." he went home, sealed the will in an envelope, and addressed it to messrs. martin and cross. then wrote to percy, explaining his discovery of a scrap of paper written by their late aunt, expressing a wish that the candlesticks should be given to him upon her death. "of course they are mine really," he wrote, "but i feel that i ought to respect her wishes, especially as the candlesticks were given her as a wedding present by your mother." kezia and bessie remained chattering vigorously after george departed from them, but neither ventured to speak upon the subject which threatened to convert friendship into rivalry. it was true, owing to an unfortunate slip of the tongue, bessie mentioned how grand the silver candlesticks would look upon her mantelpiece; but kezia merely replied that mrs. drake had been very generous to mr. george in leaving him a will as a remembrance of her, although she presently administered a rebuke by speaking about her future retirement, when she looked forward to reading her books of religious instruction by the light of wax candles set in the candlesticks aforesaid. to which bessie replied somewhat feebly they wouldn't be of any use to miss yard because she used a reading lamp. she could not trust herself to say more, but, when gathering up her share of the testamentary documents preparatory to departure, another idea occurred, and she asked, "who do the house belong to?" "mrs. drake said to me a lot of times it wur to go to miss sophy." "who gets it when she dies?" "i don't know. if nobody else wants it, i don't mind taking it," said kezia. "mr. george is sure to ask vor it," said bessie, moving slowly towards the door. "well, he won't get it," replied kezia sharply. bessie crossed the road and welcomed robert from the bakery with the announcement that a domestic crisis was impending. robert studied the documents, and agreed with his wife they would certainly be called upon to fight for their rights. then he asked for information concerning george, and bessie replied, "he ain't to get nothing." "didn't mrs. drake leave 'en a will?" questioned the cautious robert. "kezia ses it ain't really a will. it's a codicil, and that means he gets nothing 'cept the little bit o' money in the bank, and he'll have to pay out all that vor the funeral expenses. miss sophy gets the house, and me and kezia has the furniture." "then mr. george is ruined!" exclaimed robert. "best thing what could happen to 'en," said bessie. robert had his tea, then went out into the village to report. since the days when he had first gazed upward, fascinated by the altitude of bessie's windswept features, he had acted as an intermediary between windward house and the general public, bringing the scandal, fresh and greasy as his own doughnuts; and bearing to the village green--which was not so green as it sounded, for the signpost represented a rising sun--valuable items of information regarding mrs. drake's most recent act of charity, or miss yard's latest partition of a tea service. on this occasion he brought news which was to set all the tongues wagging: george drake, the most respected man in highfield, the sole gentleman, the fearless idler, was now a homeless fellow, a destitute person, without a scrap of inheritance he could call his own. the drake whom they had honoured as a swan was hardly worth the price of a goose. a gentleman was not defined by the worthies of highfield as a man of good birth, but as one who declined all labour. george had fulfilled this definition admirably. an idler, it was argued, possessed ample means, and for that cause he was respected. highfield required nothing further of him, except that he should wear decent clothing and not be seen with his coat off, digging potatoes or nailing two pieces of board together; even the picking of peas was a dangerous pastime, while mowing the lawn would have meant an irremediable loss of caste. it could honestly be said of george that he had done nothing disgraceful; he had kept his hands clean; he was far more of a gentleman than his uncle had been. and now he was exposed as a common impostor who had been wearing an order of chivalry to which he was not entitled. "i always thought," said the wallower in wealth, who, above all men, had respected george, "that when mrs. drake died he would have her money." everybody in the place had thought the same; and were now to realise that george had bitterly deceived them. "he don't get nothing," declared robert. "the furniture comes to bessie, and the house goes to miss yard." "what do old kezia get?" inquired a charitable voice. "what me and bessie like to give her," replied robert. george went to sleep that night sure of his position as the most popular man in highfield parish; for everybody knew how the odious scheme of a dartmoor railway had been brought to nothing owing to his strenuous opposition. nor did he suppose, upon going into the village the following morning, that his glory had departed. he was therefore unpleasantly surprised to be greeted by nodding of heads, and no longer by hands uplifted to the forehead. highfield nodded to equals, and touched hats to superiors. george did not like the omen. the yellow leaf was enjoying a large slice of bread upon which butter, cream, and jam were piled in lavish quantities; and when george inquired after mrs. y. leaf, he received the answer, spoken with some asperity: "her be tedious this morning. ses her be going quick, and i be to hurry after; but i tells she i b'ain't agoing to hurry." "would you like to buy my giant tortoise? i'll sell him for five shillings," george continued. "what would i do wi' a tor-toys?" asked the yellow leaf with great deliberation. "it's a nice friendly animal," explained george. "would he make gude eating?" asked the yellow leaf. "might be a bit tough, but he'd make splendid soup," said george. "i ha' no craving vor gigantic tor-toyses, thankye. and if i did crave vor 'en, how be i to know he'm yours to sell?" "of course it's mine. everything belongs to me," said george sharply. "then you have been told lies." "i ha' heard another tale." "i hears plenty o' they. don't ye ever think o' driving that old toat of a tor-toys into my garden, vor if you does i'll kick 'en." and with these words the yellow leaf withdrew into his cottage, munching severely at his bread and jam. bessie has been talking, thought george, as he went along the road, to pause beside a potato patch where squinting jack was whistling as he worked. he looked up and nodded, then went on digging, while george drew near and remarked: "i'm selling off the animals." "sorry i b'ain't a butcher, sir," said squinting jack. "i've got a very good half persian cat for sale at two shillings," george continued. "how much would ye charge vor the whole cat?" asked squinting jack. "i mean it's part persian." "which part?" asked the humourist. george laughed somewhat feebly, while squinting jack continued, "i've got a whole english cat what you can have vor nothing." by this time george had discovered he was not so well liked as formerly, and the reason was not far to seek: kezia and bessie were advertising their own triumph and trumpeting his misfortunes. george went a long walk, climbed a steep hill, and sat upon the summit, trying to work out a plan of campaign which might enable him to obtain the victory over all his enemies. "why not shift the responsibility?" he muttered at length. "that's the plan right enough--shift it on to percy. he wants to run the whole show--why not let him?" george meditated yet more deeply, rubbing his head which was nothing like so dense as his relations had supposed. "percy means to do me, so it's my duty to do him. when you want to catch anything you set a trap. and now i've got it!" george shouted exultantly. "i'll tempt percy with the furniture--i'll get him to buy it! then i shall have the cash, while he can settle with kezia and bessie, and all the rest of the beastly, selfish, money grabbing crowd." chapter ix a subtle sinner's success mr. hunter of messrs. martin and cross sent george a very civil letter, acknowledging the will and announcing that the papers necessary for obtaining probate would be prepared in due course. as a valuation of the furniture would be required, he proposed to send down the man usually employed by his firm for that purpose, his knowledge being extensive and his fee moderate. one other point mr. hunter wished to refer to. he had gathered, from an interview with mr. percy taverner, that miss yard's mental condition left something to be desired: although in several respects a person competent to do business, she might be described as susceptible to the influence of a superior intelligence, and could therefore be prevailed upon to act in a manner contrary to her interests: she would--to put the matter plainly--sign a cheque if ordered by some other person to do so. mr. hunter understood further that miss yard positively declined to leave highfield house, which was now mr. drake's property by virtue of the phrase "all that i die possessed of" contained in the codicil to the will of mrs. drake deceased; and at her age it might perhaps be inadvisable to press her. the position was somewhat a delicate one, as he understood mr. drake's financial position was not possibly quite so strong as could be wished; and he might be desirous of selling the property. or, on the other hand, he might be inclined to allow miss yard the use of the premises upon the undertaking that she provided him with board and lodging, and paid a peppercorn rent. both mr. percy taverner and himself, in their joint capacity as trustees of the yard estate, agreed that in such case it would be absolutely necessary to appoint some trustworthy person as the manager of miss yard's affairs, such person to be given the charge of the lady's cheque-book, and to give an account of all moneys spent. mr. taverner had recommended for this purpose miss nellie blisland, whom he believed to be a thoroughly trustworthy young person and one, moreover, not only firmly attached to miss yard, but highly favoured by the lady herself. "more of percy's dirty little ways," was george's comment. "he thinks i shall wheedle money out of aunt sophy like he does himself. i'm quite satisfied that nellie should be appointed; but i should like to be told for certain that he didn't squeeze her hand when he said good-bye. i saw him looking sideways at her anyhow. now for the trap--and i don't care which of 'em tumbles into it." he wrote to mr. hunter, quite agreeing with all that gentleman had said. it was unfortunately true that his financial condition was somewhat embarrassed at the moment, while his physical state did not encourage him to hope for any considerable increase of income likely to accrue from his professional duties of civil engineer. the position, as mr. hunter had admitted, was somewhat delicate, since miss yard would be living in his house, enjoying the use of his furniture; and would probably continue to do so until her death, by which time a great quantity of domestic utensils would have been destroyed, much valuable crockery broken, while the whole of the furniture would have suffered deterioration owing to wear and tear; furthermore he would have no control over the servants, who might conceivably indulge in a certain amount of pilfering--indeed a few articles had already unaccountably disappeared. he could not, of course, allow miss yard, whom he regarded with feelings of utmost affection, to be disturbed, or even to be troubled by any suggestion that her tenancy of windward house should be brought to a close; but it was perhaps a pity mr. hunter had not suggested that miss yard should purchase the furniture--with the exception of a few articles he would wish to retain because of their sentimental value--for the sum which might be quoted by the professional valuer. george did not press the point in the least, but he would remind mr. hunter, under such an arrangement, mr. percy taverner might very likely benefit. the appointment of miss nellie blisland as custodian of miss yard's bank account met with his entire approval. he had watched this young lady carefully, and could assure mr. hunter that miss yard's interests would be perfectly safe in her hands. as mr. hunter prowled and sniffed through these elegant sentences, he discovered nothing of a suspicious nature. on the contrary, mr. george drake appeared to him a very obvious gentleman indeed. he wrote to percy, requesting another interview, and when the tomato merchant arrived mr. hunter spread george's letter before him and asked him what he thought about it. "nothing until i've heard your opinion," replied the cautious percy. "you have the advantage of knowing mr. drake." "it's no advantage," declared percy. "what sort of a man is he?" asked mr. hunter. "as this is a privileged communication, he's the most useless, good-for-nothing chap in the country," replied percy; and he went on to narrate the tragical history of his cousin's deception and indolence. "then he is, in your opinion, unscrupulous?" "that's right. if he wants miss yard to buy the furniture, it's because he hopes to benefit by it." "naturally," said the lawyer. "there's nothing unscrupulous in that. under the will of mrs. drake he becomes possessed of a certain amount of property; and, being a poor man, he is anxious to convert this property, or a portion of it, into cash. there is apparently no opening for fraud but, should one exist, you may be quite sure i shall discover it in the course of negotiations." "what do you advise?" asked percy. "first of all i should like to know whether he has written to you?" "i had a note from him, offering me a pair of silver candlesticks. it appears he found a scrap of paper left by my aunt, expressing a wish that i should have them, as they were given her as a wedding present by my mother. i don't want them just now, as i live in lodgings, so i wrote back and said they had better stay in the house until miss yard dies." "it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have destroyed that piece of paper. yet mr. drake has communicated its contents to you," said mr. hunter, putting on his eyeglasses and again searching the letter for any possible stratagem or pitfall. "i don't say george is altogether bad. i suppose he can respect his aunt's memory to a certain extent," replied percy. "his standpoint appears to me not unreasonable," the lawyer continued. "the furniture belongs to him, and his argument, firstly that he will be unable to realise upon it during miss yard's lifetime, and secondly that it may deteriorate to some extent in value before her death takes place, is quite a sound one. it is possible that miss yard may live to well over ninety, and his financial position may become intolerable before then. i understand the furniture is valuable?" "most of it is rubbish; but there are two chinese vases which, i believe, are enormously valuable. captain drake probably looted them during one of his eastern expeditions. i have described them to crampy, the well known expert, and he says they may be worth almost anything." "mr. drake is careful to mention there are a few articles he would wish to retain because of their sentimental value. for sentimental read pecuniary," said mr. hunter, in the shocked voice usually adopted by a lawyer when he discovers another person trifling with the truth. "but the goods are his, he is aware of their value, and naturally he wishes to retain them. these vases throw a new light upon the position. the best thing he can do is to sell them at once: then, if they are as valuable as you suppose, he can retire from windward house, and live upon the interest of his capital." "leaving miss yard in possession of the house?" "exactly--if he will agree to that course." "then you are going to advise miss yard to buy the furniture?" "i think not, and i will give you my reasons. in the first place we ought not to perplex miss yard with matters of business she cannot understand. in the second place it might not be safe for her to become the owner of the furniture. miss yard, i understand, does exactly as she is told; she is completely under the control of servants; if an entire stranger entered the house and introduced himself as a relation, she might give him anything he liked to ask for. it would be easy for mr. drake, if he is unscrupulous as you suggest, to visit miss yard and induce her to sign a will leaving him the furniture she had previously purchased from himself." "on the other hand," said percy, "we shall never get george out of windward house while the furniture belongs to him. he is too much afraid of the servants stealing things." "i had thought of that difficulty," said mr. hunter in his most omniscient manner. "what i am going to recommend is that you should make mr. drake an offer for the goods." "george wouldn't sell to me," said percy. "it cannot matter to him whether you or miss yard purchase the furniture. if you do so, it will be upon the understanding that mr. drake leaves miss yard in undisturbed possession of the premises at a rental to be agreed upon. by this arrangement she will be left in a position of absolute security. while, if you decide not to purchase, mr. drake may sell the contents of one room after another according to his need for money." "i'll think over it, and let you know," said percy. "during the course of the next few days we shall be receiving the figures from the valuer," mr. hunter continued. "i shall then be in a position to advise you as to the sum you should offer mr. drake. you agree with me, i think, that i have suggested a way out of the difficulty?" "i am always ready to take your advice," replied percy. "but i believe george hates me and, if i made him an offer for the furniture, he would smell something fishy." "he will receive a complete assurance from my firm that his interests are being adequately protected," said the lawyer, with a dignity that seemed to make the windows rattle. a few days afterwards the expert sent in his report, and mr. hunter was considerably astonished to read that the contents of windward house, excluding the articles belonging to miss yard, were valued for probate at the sum of â£220 5s. 3d. he sent for the valuer, requesting another interview with percy at the same time; and, when they came together, an explanation of these figures was demanded; the lawyer mentioning that, according to his instructions, the late captain drake had died possessed of a great number of valuable antiques. "most of them worthless. at all events, it's no easy matter to value such things as an egyptian mummy and a stuffed mermaid for purposes of probate." "how about the russian ikon and the indian musical box?" asked percy. "there is no market price for articles of that description. they might fetch a few shillings, or a great number of pounds. it would depend upon history and association, or upon rivalry between collectors. i value the ikon at ten shillings, and the musical box at five pounds. it's all guesswork, but i doubt whether you would get much more. as for the mummy, i simply throw it in with the oleographs." "why the odd threepence?" asked percy. the valuer coughed and said nothing. "mr. taverner and i are particularly interested in a pair of chinese vases," began mr. hunter cautiously. "which were kept in a box under mrs. drake's bed," added the more reckless percy. "those things!" exclaimed the valuer disgustedly. "i remember them well, for i thought mr. drake was getting at me when he pulled out the box and unwrapped those vases. there's your odd threepence, sir!" he continued, turning towards percy. "and dear at the price." "you have made a mistake, my friend. i'm not an expert, but i would give five hundred pounds for those vases without having another look at them," said percy. "then i wish they were mine!" cried the valuer. "perhaps you would describe these vases for mr. taverner's benefit," the lawyer suggested. "they're not worth describing, sir. they are the sort of things exchanged by hawkers for a rabbit skin. a pair of green vases about eighteen inches high, with red cabbages meant for roses splashed across them." "we need not trouble you any further, i think," said percy. "it was the most difficult job i've had in my life. i value plate and furniture, not the contents of museums," the man protested. "you have done your work excellently, as usual; and you have also given us the information we require," said mr. hunter, as the valuer took his hat and his leave. "of course you see what has happened," began percy at once. "mr. drake had concealed the vases. i shall write pretty sharply to remind him he must not play these tricks with the law," said mr. hunter. "he's a bigger fool than i took him for, if he thought he could deceive the valuer--not to mention you and me," said percy. "mr. drake is no fool: on the contrary, he seems a clever fellow. he did not suppose he could deceive the valuer, nor did he make the attempt. he simply produced the pair of worthless vases without comment." "then what is he playing at?" "in the first place he tries to evade the death duties as far as possible; and these fall upon him rather heavily, as he was related to the deceased only by marriage. mr. drake would naturally prefer to receive one thousand pounds for the vases rather than nine hundred. in the second place, he is anxious to discover how much we know about these vases. it is true they belong to him, but he is by no means certain of their value. if we make a fuss about the vases he will guess they are genuine; whereas, if we make no inquiry, he will evade the duty and at the same time be satisfied that you are not scheming to get hold of them." "i never thought of such a thing!" exclaimed percy. "the best thing we can do is to send down an expert in china. i shall first write to mr. drake, informing him that he must produce the vases." "send crampy! you needn't write; i'll go and see him," cried percy eagerly. "we could not get a better man than mr. crampy; but i'm afraid his fee will be rather high." "he'll do it for a guinea if i ask him. crampy is a great friend of mine. he told me to keep an eye upon the vases." mr. hunter being perfectly agreeable, percy snatched his hat and made off, muttering as he reached the street, "for poor old george's sake i must tell him not to value them too high." george in the meantime had nothing much to worry about, although somewhat disgusted at the low figure placed upon the furniture. he and mr. hunter wrote to each other every day like a couple of lovers; george always hoping that the lawyer enjoyed a continuance of perfect health; while mr. hunter trusted himself to anticipate a complete cure from the backache which had blighted mr. drake's existence for so long. kezia and bessie were moderately happy while taking stock of the goods which appeared to belong to them under the joint tenancy created by the scraps of paper; but there was obviously a certain amount of coldness arising between them at the prospect of a day of settlement. george was not much accounted of by either, although the interference of the valuer was bitterly resented, and george had much difficulty in making them understand that, whenever a person of quality departed this life, the government required a perfect stranger from one of the state departments to set a price upon the furniture, in order that statistics as to the national wealth might be obtained. although they were both prepared to fight for the possession of the egyptian mummy, which robert was especially anxious to see set up against the wall of his parlour, and kezia had long regarded as the joy and inspiration of her spiritual existence, neither of them showed the slightest interest in the chinese vases which they regarded as vulgar. vases to kezia and bessie were--vases; that is to say, conspicuous objects set upon either end of mantelpiece or dresser, to be replaced by others when broken. any little village shop, or travelling cheap-jack, sold artistic vases, such as those mr. george had lately purchased to delight his eyes, of a beautiful bright green painted with lovely roses. as kezia and bessie were quite prepared to make george a free gift of all the rubbish in the house, they assured him, in the kindest possible fashion, that the vases with hideous dragons on them were his, together with the tortoise and cats, and any other little thing he might like to have as a remembrance of his aunt. george did not thank them much, but then he had never been demonstrative. letters from the lawyer and expert reached george by the same post; the one informing him the vases must be produced; the other announcing the day upon which the valuation would be made. when mr. crampy arrived he was received at the door by bessie, who spent most of the day regarding her own home from the windows of windward house and, as no visitor was expected by any one except george, who as usual had kept his own counsel, she said, "not today, thankye," and would have shut him out; but, perceiving that the gentleman appeared somewhat agitated, she added with less severity, "have ye come vor anything?" mr. crampy had a nervous manner and spoke somewhat indistinctly; but bessie was able to gather he had come all the way from london to inspect their china. "please to step inside," she said. mr. crampy did so, and bessie led him like a lamb into the kitchen, where she announced to kezia, "gentleman come to see the cloam." "that's one lot on the dresser," gasped kezia, wondering how many more inquisitors would arrive. "the best dinner service is in the pantry," she added. mr. crampy grew more nervous, but managed to explain he had come to see a certain mr. drake. "i beg your pardon, sir, i'm sure," said bessie, "but i fancied you said something about china." "yes, i have come to see a pair of vases," stammered mr. crampy. "best tell mr. george a gentleman wants to see 'en," said kezia, when the situation threatened to become painful. a minute later mr. crampy was left to cool in the dining room. presently george descended the stairs, carrying a large white candle beneath each arm. he apologised for the stupidity of the servants, then locked the door, and placed the precious bundles on the table, with the announcement, "i didn't show these things to the other man for, to tell you the truth, i was afraid he might place a ridiculously false value upon them. i expect you know what's what in this particular line?" "i am supposed to have a very fair knowledge of chinese porcelain. a great deal of it passes through my hands," said mr. crampy, who was now perfectly composed. george removed a quantity of twine, unwound some yards of linen, removed clouds of brown paper, then abstracted from a bushel of fibre the vase heavily swathed in cotton-wool; and this he handed to mr. crampy with the utmost reverence. the expert paused a moment to adjust his glasses; then he drew aside the wool and gazed at the vase with the love and tenderness of a father regarding his firstborn child. his lips moved to mutter repeatedly the single word, "undoubtedly!" "a dream, isn't it?" remarked george. "glazed porcelain, moulded in relief with dragons--belonging probably to an early period of the tsing dynasty, about the end of the seventeenth century." "and they've been knocked about like a couple of twopenny teacups," added george. "do you know, mr. drake, how they came into your late uncle's possession?" asked the expert, caressing the glazed surface with tender fingers. "my uncle had a yarn for everything. he would have said they were a present from the emperor of china. the only thing i'm concerned about is the price you mean to put upon them." "porcelain of this class has its own value," replied mr. crampy. "were these vases to be offered for sale, they might fetch a thousand pounds or, on the other hand, they might be knocked down at five hundred. i am here to value them for purposes of probate, and that means the lowest possible value i can put upon them. is the other vase in a perfect condition?" "just the same. not a mark upon it. shall i unwrap it?" "oh no! it is quite sufficient to have seen the one. i think i may value them, for legal requirements, at five hundred pounds; but, mr. drake, if you are willing to accept a thousand pounds, i will hand you a cheque for that amount before i leave this room." "there's a big difference between the figures," said george. "i don't say you would get more than a thousand pounds for these vases. but i am in the trade, i know how to get to work and secure a profit on the transaction." "it sounds a very liberal offer, but i won't decide offhand." "there is no hurry whatever," said the expert hastily. "if nothing better comes along i'll write and let you know," said george, tingling with happiness and excitement. nor did his triumph end here. a few mornings later came a letter from mr. hunter, and george read as follows: "with reference to so much of the furniture and other articles--excluding the pair of chinese vases, to which you probably attach a sentimental value--as belonged to your late aunt, i have had an interview with mr. percy taverner, and i am now authorised on his behalf to make you an offer of â£200 for these effects. although this sum is less than the amount of the probate valuation, you might feel disposed to accept the offer, having regard to the fact that it would save you the expense of removing the furniture and holding a sale by auction and the auctioneer's commission on a sale. i shall be glad to hear from you when you have considered mr. taverner's proposal." "i've caught 'em!" cried george exultantly. "i baited and set my little trap and i've caught, not only slippery percy, but that two-faced, double-tongued, pill-gilding, thimble-rigging, gammoning, diddling hunter!" chapter x the first person singular paramount "this is easier than catching flies," was george's comment, when the cheque for the furniture arrived, together with a document which pretended to be a receipt, but was unable to disguise the fact that it was also an agreement; for it contained a clause, by which george undertook to quit windward house within three calendar months, and to accept miss yard as his tenant for life at a yearly rental of thirty pounds. he looked forward to a busy day without flinching. some forms of labour were fascinating, and quashing lawyers was one of them. george did not write to mr. hunter returning thanks, but walked into the market town and opened an account with the post office savings bank by paying in the comfortable cheque. returning to highfield, he lured nellie into the garden, and informed her he was piling up money in a reckless fashion. "two hundred pounds this morning," he said. "another two hundred next week. and so it will go on." "where's it all coming from?" she asked. "money aunt left me. they don't know what a lot she _did_ leave. it's a great secret and i wouldn't tell any one but you. i'm refusing money--that gentleman who called the other day begged me to accept a thousand pounds, but i wouldn't look at it. i can retire any day now." "from what?" she laughed. "from business. making money is business, and i'm making it like the mint." "did you really get two hundred pounds this morning?" "look at this, if you can't believe me," george replied, showing her the bank book. "it's nothing--just a flea bite--what the french call a game of bagatelle. still it would give many an honest soul a start in life." "you had better lend the money to your cousin," suggested nellie. "i'd let it perish first," cried george. "whatever made you think of such a thing?" "mr. taverner wrote to miss sophy this morning--she shows me all her letters now--and asked her to lend him two hundred pounds, as he had suddenly discovered another mortgage he had forgotten to pay off." "the fellow's a ruffian!" exclaimed george, not without some admiration for percy's methods of finance, which compared favourably with his own. "he had learnt the profession of begging, and isn't ashamed to practise it. i think he might wait until miss sophy is dead." "percy has no moral sense," said george, with the utmost severity. "he has visited here, and i have entertained him; but he has never given me anything except superciliousness, and on one occasion a cigar which was useless except as a germicide. i have never yet heard your opinion of him." "he's a name and nothing else," she said. "i did have an idea he wanted to be something to you." "what rubbish! he never even looked at me properly. when he didn't gaze at my boots he stared over my head; and he spoke to me like a gramophone." "you didn't exactly like him?" george suggested. "i positively dislike him." "you never looked at him softly with your nice blue eyes?" "my eyes are not blue." "they seem very blue sometimes, but i'm not good at colours. i am glad you don't like percy. it has removed a great weight from my mind. i had a dreadful suspicion, nellie, and--and i was afraid it might interfere with my sleep; but i won't say anything more about it now. don't you think we had better meet this evening, when it is getting dusk," george rambled on heavily, "and go a little walk, and talk about plans?" "i have no plans," said nellie. "i shall just go on living here until miss yard dies, and then i shall pack up my belongings--including the round table in the parlour--and disappear from highfield forever." "not you," said george. "i have a quantity of plans, nellie; a lot for you as well as for myself." "tell me all about them." "this is not the time." "can't you speak while we stand here in the sunshine?" "it would be easier if we were walking about in the dark." "that might be bad for me," she reminded him. "when a couple talk in the dark, other couples talk about them. i will listen to some of your plans--with a decided preference for those about myself. you shall tell me four," she said, tapping the first finger of her right hand. "what is plan number one?" "about aunt sophy," replied george promptly: "unless there's a sudden change in temperature," murmured nellie, "i am to be frozen out again." "you come last," said tactless george. "just as i expected, and perhaps a little more," she answered. "aunt sophy must die," said george firmly. "that sad event should happen any time now. the first plan is to get rid of her." "let it be done decently," she begged. "i don't want her to die, for, of course, one is always sorry to lose old relations. aunt maria's death was a great shock to me," george explained. "but for aunt sophy it would be a happy release, especially as i cannot be master in my own house while she lives. she ought to have gone before aunt maria." "i suppose she forgot." "do you notice any signs of breaking down?" "in yourself?" asked nellie gently. "in aunt sophy. i--i don't much like to be made fun of, nellie." "i was trying to cheer you up, as this is not miss sophy's funeral. don't worry about the dear lady; she is perfectly well and thoroughly happy; her health has been much better since we came to highfield; and i shall be quite astonished if she doesn't live another twenty years. she is a great admirer of the giant tortoise--" "he's over five hundred years old," cried george in anguish. "that makes miss yard the smallest kind of infant." "if she lives another two years, i must give her notice. i cannot have her upsetting all my plans--though i quite agree with you she is a dear old lady." "plan number two!" cried nellie. "that concerns myself," said george. "you should have been number one," she said reproachfully. "i had to put aunt sophy first, because i cannot arrange my own future while she occupies the house. i don't want to say too much about myself." "i know," said nellie sympathetically. "that's your way. but you should try to be a little selfish sometimes." "you are quite right, nellie; we must think of our own interests. i have wasted far too much time bothering about aunt sophy, kezia, bessie--" "and me!!" cried nellie. "do let me come in somewhere." "not with them. you come in a class by yourself." "the fourth," she murmured. "as aunt sophy is so good and religious we cannot want her to live on, knowing how much happier she will be in the next world; and then i can settle down as the big man of highfield--quite the biggest man in the place, and i hope the most respectable. mr. and mrs. george drake, of windward house, in the parish of highfield and county of devon, esquire, as the lawyers say." "how unkind! you introduce mrs. drake, and then ignore her. you married her at one end of your sentence and divorced her, for no fault whatever, at the other end." "married ladies are not credited with separate existences," explained george. "they generally insist upon taking one." "by lawyers, i mean. they are not distinct entities like spinsters and widows." "i see: while i am single i have a personality, when i marry i lose it, when i am a widow i regain it. you could not have improved upon that sentence." "why not?" asked george. "in its repetition of the most important letter in the alphabet. now for plan number three." "but i have said nothing about myself yet!" cried george. "don't try. you are finding it very disagreeable, i am sure; and after all i can guess. this house ought to be converted into a mansion, and you mean to do it. this village sadly needs a squire, resident magistrate, pillar of uprightness; and you fully intend to supply that want." george nodded, and hoped she would go on talking like that, blinking after the fashion of a tomcat who has just enjoyed a bowl of cream. "i have all sorts of plans for my future, but they are not properly arranged yet. aunt sophy blocks them all. i am not ambitious," george blundered on, "but i do mean to have a comfortable home, luxurious armchairs, piles of cushions, deep carpets, felt slippers, and good cigars. i don't care how simple my food is, so long as i have good tobacco, and the very finest tea obtainable. i should like to turn the parlour into a tea house, with a divan at one end where i could lie and smoke--sometimes." "a dream of turkish delight!" laughed nellie. "what is the third plan?" "concerning finance, and there i can't be beaten," replied george promptly. "i thought you were rolling in money." "it is coming in nicely now," george admitted, "but after a time the flow will cease; while i shall still be spending. the problem before me is how to invest my capital so that i shall be certain of a comfortable income. government securities are treacherous things, and i have very little confidence in railways. the secret of wealth is to invest your cash in those things which everybody must have. now every man must buy tobacco and drink beer; they are necessities of life. and every woman must carry an umbrella. what is a woman's principal necessity next to an umbrella?" "no respectable girl would even think of anything except umbrellas," replied nellie. "but most girls are not respectable, i'm afraid, and, though it is a horrible confession to make, they cannot be happy unless they are constantly supplied with chocolates." "is that really the truth?" asked george, with much interest. "it is, indeed. my kind of girl must have chocolates, just as your kind of man must drink beer." "now that you mention it, i seem to remember there are an extraordinarily lot of sweet shops in every town." "and i should visit them all, just as naturally as you would go into the public houses." "that's a very valuable suggestion," said george. "i shall invest the whole of my capital in beer, tobacco, umbrellas, and chocolates. you see, nellie, that will practically cover the prime necessities of either sex. a man goes to work with a pipe in his mouth, and he walks straight into a public-house. a woman comes out with an umbrella, and the first thing she does is to buy chocolates." "there are sure to be exceptions," said nellie. "a bishop, for instance, might not go to his cathedral with a pipe in his mouth, while a cabinet minister would probably walk straight past several public-houses." "but they all smoke and drink at home." "i don't fancy somehow that bishops drink beer." "bottled beer," said george eagerly. "surely some are teetotallers!" "then they drink cocoa, and that's chocolate melted down. on the other hand, plenty of ladies drink beer. you can see them carrying jugs--" "not ladies!" cried nellie. "well, charwomen--they are ladies from a business point of view. i can see myself making tons of money," said george delightedly. "if only aunt sophy--" "do please let the poor old lady live on and enjoy herself. you wouldn't like to be hunted out of the world to suit anybody's plans. and now," said nellie, "we reach the fourth subject, which i flatter myself has some connection with a certain person who is quite used to being regarded as an afterthought." "three persons--kezia, bessie, robert. they must go, all of them." "really this is the last straw!" cried nellie. "i was almost certain i should be at least honourably mentioned." "but i am talking to you, not about you. i'm telling you my secrets--and i wouldn't do that to anyone but you. nellie, you don't think i am playing with your affections?" "i'll not listen any longer. i couldn't expect to come first, but i did hope to be placed last." "if you would walk after dark--" "i'm not a ghost; besides, i will not be ashamed to stand in the light." "then we might talk about something that means love," said george, who, being wound up for that sentence, was bound to finish it. "oh, george!" exclaimed one of the parrots. "i wonder what it would be like," said nellie, when she had done laughing. "you teach those birds to say things," he muttered crossly. "they are so intelligent. that one can say, 'nellie's the belle of the ball.' even that sort of compliment is better than none." "i am thinking, nellie, that you like chocolates. i had better get you some," george continued, believing it might be threepence well invested. "that wouldn't be a bad idea." "and you would take them as a compliment from me?" "i'll take all i can get," she promised. "you know, nellie, i'm older than you, but i'm reliable. i'm not much good at silly talk, but i do mean what i say. i can quite understand some men would say very silly things to you, but i can't." "people will talk rubbish when they are in love," she admitted. "it's a very serious matter. i wouldn't joke about such a thing," said george. "of course, when a man tells his own particular girl she is a star, a flower, an angel, and a goddess, he is only joking; but most girls are so sweet tempered they can take a joke." "i never made a joke," cried george. "and i hope you will never try." "but i'm full of affection." "i have never seen any one quite so seriously in love as you are." "i'm so glad you can see it. you have quite sensible eyes, nellie, and i think you may improve a good deal as you get older. i am easy-going, and you are pleasant, so we ought to get along very well." "you are so much in love," cried nellie, "that you can't help saying silly things. you regard the person that you love as the most angelic creature possible; and angels are always masculine in spite of lovers' talk." "i take people as i find them; i never look for their faults," said the virtuous george. "try! if you could discover a few faults in the person that you love, it might help you to stop saying, 'i am,' and to begin learning, 'thou art,'" replied nellie, as she ran off towards the house. "there, george!" cried one of the parrots; while the giant tortoise thoughtfully advanced one millimetre. "she is not nearly serious enough," said george, "and i'm afraid her words sometimes have a double meaning; but she is useful and quite ornamental. she pours out tea beautifully, and i do admire the way she puts on aunt sophy's slippers." the next duty--a more simple one--was to win the sympathy of miss yard. every evening, when fine enough, the lady walked once round the garden and, upon returning to the house, was packed into her chair till supper time; although she refused to remain quiescent, and would wander about the room hiding her valuables in secret corners. on this particular evening she fell asleep and, when george entered the parlour, she did not recognise him until he had introduced himself. "i shall soon be getting quite stupid," she said. "i was just going to ask you to sit down and wait for yourself. but i'm thankful to say my memory is just as good as ever." "then you remember percy?" began george, seating himself close beside her. "oh dear yes! i often hear from percy. he tells me he has a fine crop of potatoes." "tomatoes." "he dug up two hundred pounds' worth last week. i had a letter from him this morning telling me that." "and you remember mr. hunter?" george went on. "i've just sent him a subscription for his new church," replied miss yard. "ah, that's somebody else. i mean mr. hunter, your family solicitor." "oh, yes, i remember him quite well. he came to see me when i lived somewhere else. it must have been a long time ago, because he's been dead for years." "he's back again at his office now, and has written to me. he tells me i am to leave you," said george solemnly. miss yard gasped and looked frightened at this message from the grave. she seized george's arm and ordered him to say it all over again, more slowly. "mr. hunter is afraid that, if i live here, i may rob you; so he says i must go out into the world and make my own living. that's impossible at my time of life," said george warmly. "you wouldn't do such a thing," cried miss yard, almost in tears. "you are so kind to me; you find my money when the others hide it away. if i break anything you are always the first to run for the doctor--i mean when i bump my head. i shall write to mr. hunter and tell him his new church will never prosper if he does this sort of thing." "it is hard to be ordered out of my own house," said george. "whatever can the man be thinking of! i really cannot understand a clergyman being so wicked. perhaps i ought to write to the bishop." "he's a lawyer, aunt," george shouted. "now why didn't you tell me that before?" said miss yard crossly. "of course, lawyers will do anything. the people who did my father's business were the only honest lawyers i ever came across. this house belongs to me, and you shall stay here as long as you like. if you'll find my cheque-book i will write to this man at once--i mean, if you will bring my pen, you shall have a little present, for you are always so thoughtful. i am so sorry your poor dear mother didn't leave you much." george had not time to correct her error; besides, it was useless. he brought her writing materials after a vain search for the cheque-book, for nellie had taken possession of that, and said, "i don't want to confuse you, aunt, but i suppose you will be leaving nellie something?" "everything i have," replied miss yard earnestly. "i am leaving her the house, and all the furniture, my clothes and jewels, and as much money as i can save. i could not rest if i thought dear nellie would be left unprovided for. you will look after nellie, won't you? i should be so pleased if you would adopt her as your daughter." "i'm not quite old enough," george stammered. "nonsense, you look quite elderly," said miss yard encouragingly. "and nellie is such a child." "if i had been younger i might have thought about marrying her," said george awkwardly. "now that would have been a nice idea! what a pity it is you are not forty years younger." "you are thinking of someone else," cried george despairingly. "oh, i'm sure you are sixty. your mother married when i was quite a girl. i do remember that, for i got so excited at the wedding that, when the clergyman asked her if she wanted the man, i thought he was speaking to me, and i said, 'yes, please,' and poor louisa gave me such a look, and i went into hysterics. girls can't go into hysterics in these days like we used to do. it's funny how well i remember all these things that happened in our young days, but then for an old woman my memory is wonderful. what were we talking about before you mentioned your mother's wedding?" "about mr. hunter, the lawyer who has ordered me to leave you," replied george, deciding to say no more of his matrimonial intentions. "i never heard of such impertinence in my life. he will be telling me next i don't own the place," cried miss yard, stabbing with her pen in the direction of the ink pot. "what am i to say to the wretch?" "remind him i am your nephew, and i have every right to enjoy your hospitality. tell him i am indispensable to you. then you might add something about the wickedness of depriving an orphan of his home, and conclude by mentioning that you will never consent to my leaving you." "i'll tell him, if he persecutes you any more, i will put the matter into the hands of my own solicitor," miss yard declared, scribbling away briskly, for her greatest delight, next to chattering, was letter writing. "i wouldn't do that," said george piously. "it sounds too much like a threat, and after all we must try to forgive our enemies." "thank you for reminding me. that's a beautiful idea of yours. i wish i was a good and clever old woman like you are." george was stooping over her at the moment, and this compliment made him groan. "it's my poor back," he explained. "oh dear!" exclaimed the innocent old lady. "when you have gone to bed, i shall send nellie to wrap you up in red flannel. we old people cannot be too careful." miss yard wrote letters to all manner of persons, living, dead, and imaginary; but very few found their way to the post office. george took possession of the letter to mr. hunter and despatched it himself; and, knowing exactly when the answer would be received, he took the precaution of going out to meet the postman. by this time he was prepared for action, as the cheque for two hundred pounds had been cleared, and the amount was deposited safely to his account. there were two letters, and one was addressed to himself. miss yard's was merely a note, acknowledging the receipt of her communication and mentioning that mr. taverner would shortly be writing with a view to clearing away the misunderstanding which had arisen since the death of mrs. drake. george opened a phial of malice and poured out its contents upon the name of percy. then he examined his own letter, which was bulky and of a strongly acid tendency. mr. hunter was astonished and pained to think that mr. drake should have taken advantage of the age and infirmities of miss yard to such an extent as to have made her the instrument of his plans; as it was perfectly evident mr. drake had dictated, or at least had inspired, the letter which had been addressed to his firm by miss yard. mr. hunter earnestly desired to avoid anything of an unpleasant nature, and he hoped therefore mr. drake would not venture to repeat an experiment which suggested a state of ethics with which he had not previously been acquainted; and would adhere to his undertaking, given as a condition to mr. taverner's purchase of the furniture, namely, to leave miss yard in undisturbed possession of the premises bequeathed to mr. drake by his late aunt, and better known and described as windward house. mr. hunter had also just been informed, to his soul's amusement, that mr. drake had not yet subscribed to this form of agreement, nor had he acknowledged the receipt of a cheque for two hundred pounds forwarded him some days previously. mr. hunter continued to be sorry to the end of his letter, which was a memorable piece of philosophic morality, suggesting that the lawyer's office had been quite recently taken over by some institution for reforming wicked people. george expressed a hope that mr. hunter some day might be sorry for himself. he had under-rated the powers of the lawyer, who had now proved himself to possess the ordinary malevolent, orphan-baiting, legal soul. however, george had no intention of surrendering without a struggle. he took his pen and obliterated the highly offensive clause which referred to his expulsion from windward house. he then added his signature and composed an epistle complaining bitterly of the oriental methods of oppression which were being brought to bear upon him. he mentioned that he was an invalid englishman residing in devonshire; and laid particular stress upon the fact he never had been an armenian living somewhere in the turkish empire. he especially desired to draw mr. hunter's attention to the phenomenon that the present age was democratic, and british workmen--with whom he did not disdain to be associated--were becoming impatient of high-handed methods. he enclosed the receipt and regretted the delay, which had been unavoidable owing to the insertion of the clause--now deleted, as mr. hunter would observe--which seemed to strike far too harshly against his personal liberty. he had given this clause his serious attention for some days, but had arrived at the conclusion, regretfully, that it involved a principle he was quite unable to accept. messrs. hunter and taverner, in their joint capacity as trustees of the yard estate, had apparently conspired--he did not use the word in an objectionable sense, although in his opinion it had but one meaning--to secure his eviction from premises to which he was legally entitled. they had offered him a wholly inadequate sum of money for the furniture, and this offer he had accepted with the sole idea of rendering miss yard a kindness; but now, it appeared, the money had been intended as a bribe to induce him to quit his home. was this altogether legal? was it honest? could it be respectable? he felt compelled to remind mr. hunter, again regretfully, that a bribe was something given to corrupt the conduct of poor but decent men. then he went to miss yard and told her the lawyer was still tormenting him, and he was very much afraid it might soon be necessary to go away and find some hiding place. "has the man written to me?" asked miss yard, when the whole matter had been recalled to her memory. "don't you remember? he said you were a silly old woman, and you had no business to interfere." "where is the letter? find it for me, george, and i'll do something," she cried indignantly. "you were so angry that you threw it on the fire. don't worry, aunt; i shall know how to defend myself. the man tried to bribe me to leave you, and now he's threatening to send me to prison by means of false evidence." "i wish you would let me write to my own man, what's his name?" "that would lead to expense, and you must not spend money on me. if i don't go away i'm afraid the man may come to highfield with a gang of ruffians, and break into the house--and i won't have you worried." "i'll give you some money," said the generous lady. "where's my cheque-book? tell nellie to find my cheque-book." "thank you, aunt. a little money will be very useful. this man is just a blackmailer, and if i hide for a few weeks he will forget all about me. then you can write and invite me to come back," said george tenderly. "i'll write this moment," cried miss yard. "but i haven't gone yet. you are mistress here and, if you like to invite me, of course, i can come and stay as long as you care to have me." "and if that horrid man tries to turn you out again, i shall let percy know about it, and i shall get advice from hunter--i wonder how i came to remember his name. do write to hunter and tell him all about it," miss yard pleaded. "to please you, i will," george promised. that evening he received a letter in strange handwriting, and bearing the illegible postmark which signified that it came from london. george opened it and, perceiving the signature of mr. crampy, expert in ancient porcelain, read the contents with interest: "since visiting you i have spoken with several collectors about your pair of vases, which, i have no doubt whatever, are excellent specimens dating from the tsing dynasty, although i admit forgeries of this period are exceedingly difficult to detect. my object in writing is to warn you against being imposed upon, and to remind you of your promise to give me first refusal up to a thousand pounds, which sum i am still perfectly willing to risk. "it is highly probable some wealthy collectors may call upon you as, when the existence of such vases as you possess becomes known, there is invariably a hue and cry after them. i enclose, on a separate sheet of paper, a list of names; these are all gentlemen whom you can trust absolutely. the two against whose names i have pencilled the letters, u.s.a. are, i know, very keen to get your vases. if you should do business with any of the gentlemen on my list i get a commission. i don't suppose you will let yourself be humbugged, but i beg you not to make any offer in writing unless you intend to stick to it, as any of these collectors would convert your scrap of writing into a stamped legal document at once, and then sue you for breach of contract if you tried to get out of it. "so long as you refuse to part with the vases for less than a thousand, you'll be all right." chapter xi some leading incidents "i do hope there's nothing wrong with mr. percy, vor miss sophy ha' got a letter from him, and she's crying something shocking," remarked kezia, as she handed george a communication informing him that, not only mr. hunter, but the entire firm of martin and cross, had been outraged by the unspeakable conduct of mr. drake, who had dishonoured the title of gentleman by breaking his plighted word, and had stained his own name for ever by repudiating a contract. during the whole course of his professional career mr. hunter was thankful to say he never before received a letter suggesting that he--a solicitor--was capable of conspiring with another to deprive a third party of his lawful inheritance. he banished the sinister reflection, and enclosed a fresh form of receipt, containing the clause which mr. drake unaccountably regarded as oppressive, after having expressed his entire approval of the conditions contained therein, and he pressed for its execution at once or, failing that, the immediate return of the cheque for two hundred pounds. mr. taverner had specifically mentioned he would not purchase the furniture unless mr. drake gave an undertaking in writing to withdraw from windward house; and now that mr. hunter had become more intimately acquainted with mr. drake's character, he was bound to confess that mr. taverner had displayed remarkably shrewd judgment. "i trapped him, but he doesn't know it; i have trod upon his corn, and he doesn't like it; now i'll make a fool of him completely," george muttered. then miss yard came trembling and half tumbling downstairs, supported by nellie, and weeping bitterly in quite a joyful fashion. "percy has got a new tomato and he calls it emily," she announced. "emmie lee," corrected nellie. "you mustn't allow that to upset you," said george. "but he's going to bring her to see me, and he wants me to write to her. oh dear! i do pray it may be a blessing to him." "try not to cry any more, or you will have such a headache," said nellie soothingly. "i should not have thought," remarked george, "that tomatoes were worth crying about anyhow." "all the information was there, but rather too condensed," explained nellie. "mr. taverner discovered in one of his glass-houses--" "oh, no, nellie, you are silly, child. it was at a garden party." "you begin breakfast, and let me tell mr. drake in my own rambling fashion," said nellie, coaxing the lady into her cushioned chair, then slipping into her own place behind the tea tray. "mr. taverner discovered his foreman had cultivated a particularly fine tomato plant unawares, and he made up his mind it was a new species, so he means to introduce it to the market under the name of emmie lee." "he's full of dirty little tricks like that," george grumbled. "and she's the great-grandchild of a clergyman, so there cannot be anything wrong with the family," sobbed miss yard. "you must stop crying at once," said nellie sternly. "my dear, i will cry and be happy." "the truth of the matter is, percy has got a young woman?" george suggested. "that's it," said nellie. "and he's naming the new tomato after her." "because it matches her complexion, i suppose. what has he got to be married on?" "it's not love, he says. it's money. i am so thankful." "it is love, miss sophy. love on both sides, at first sight, and all the way." "of course it is, my dear. poor dear percy! he was such a gentleman, and he did work so hard. if i could have seen him once more, just to tell him how happy i am--" "now you are not to say anything more until you have eaten your breakfast," nellie ordered, as she rose to supply the old lady with a fresh handkerchief and a piece of buttered toast. that morning george wrote a curt and final note to mr. hunter, announcing his intention of leaving highfield within the next few days, and enclosing the receipt duly signed. he then approached nellie, informed her duty was calling him elsewhere, and explained that, before his departure, a little cheque from miss yard would be acceptable. "you know the rules," she said. "i have to give an account of my stewardship to the trustees." "yes, but aunt sophy owes me rent, and you mustn't allow her generous nature to be restrained if she wishes to add a few pounds by way of bonus," said george. "there are to be no additions whatever," she said firmly. "i'll let miss sophy give you a quarter's rent, but no more. she can't afford it, as her bank account is low." "because she gives all her money to percy. you let her do that," cried george wrathfully. "how can i prevent it? mr. taverner does bleed her frightfully, but he's a trustee, and her nephew." "so he can levy blackmail, grab all his aunt's money, ransack my home! he's above the law, while i'm crushed down by it. the kindest thing i can say about percy is to call him a kleptomaniac, though i believe he's a pirate." "i want you to tell me who really does own the house and furniture. and why are you going? i'm sure you wouldn't leave highfield unless you had to. i promise not to tell anyone," said nellie eagerly. "not even sidney brock?" "you are not to mention his name to me. you know quite well i never see him now that he's given up the choir," said nellie, flushing with shame, indignation, and other things. "i should have said nothing if he hadn't written to you. i saw the postmark was highfield--and of course i felt jealous," said george composedly. "yes, he did write, and asked me to meet him again. just a selfish letter," snapped nellie. "i'm not going to answer it. now i've told you my secrets, and i expect to hear yours." "i never did like the idea of keeping anything from you," said george doubtfully. "especially as mr. hunter would tell me everything, if i liked to write and inform him i cannot undertake my new duties until i have the whole position explained to me." "if you tell kezia and bessie there will be a fearful rumpus." "i won't say a word to either. i don't care much about them, now i see how grasping they are, though it's only natural i suppose. mrs. drake treated them more like relations than servants, and they are quite sure she meant them to own everything." "they know my aunt left a will," said george. "she left about a hundred," laughed nellie. "kezia has fifty, bessie has forty, miss sophy has two, and i have one." "but the will in my favour is the only legal one; and it's the only one the trustees know about." "some of the papers were signed and dated, though none were witnessed. anyhow, they are all later than your will," said nellie. george thought he could see what she was driving at. miss yard would leave the entire property to nellie if she could; and his aunt had certainly left a scrap of paper expressing a wish that her sister should own the house. no doubt nellie has this document hidden away safely. it did not matter much, and yet george felt uncomfortable at the idea of his wife owning the property. "i'll tell you the truth," he said boldly. "my aunt lost her affection for me rather during the last years of her life, as she thought i didn't put my whole heart into my work, and perhaps she didn't want me to own the property. still, she never destroyed the will, and that leaves the house to me." "but who owns the furniture?" "last week it was mine. now it belongs to aunt sophy." "you never gave it her!" "she has bought it. i offered it to her through hunter, and he advised percy to buy it with her money." "that means the furniture belongs to mr. taverner." "aunt sophy paid every penny of the purchase money, therefore it belongs to her. i have you as a witness to prove it." "she advanced the money to mr. taverner. she didn't even know what he wanted it for," cried nellie. "it will come out at her death, when percy claims the furniture. we must keep the cheque, produce it to percy, and demand an explanation. if he refuses to withdraw his claim, we will threaten to expose his knavish tricks before his high-minded emmie, the whole of her virtuous family, and the immaculate firm of cross and martin." "we!" laughed nellie. "do you suppose i will be the accomplice of your villainy?" "this afternoon," said george, "i am going into town, and there i shall buy a sixpenny printed form of will. i shall then insert what is necessary, words to the effect that all the furniture, with everything that aunt sophy dies possessed of, are to come to you. i have kept a copy of aunt's will, which was properly drawn up by a lawyer, so i shall know how to do it. then you must ask aunt sophy to sign it. kezia and bessie ought to be the witnesses. it would serve them right," said george, chuckling vastly. "i'll have nothing to do with it," cried nellie. "then i must work alone as usual. i'm not going to let you be defrauded. the only way to get justice is to help yourself," declared george. "there's hunter now! he would give twopence with one hand and steal your last sovereign with the other. and, if you caught the rascal, he would swear you had dropped the sovereign in his pocket. and he wouldn't rest until he had got back the twopence. hunter stands for justice; he deals in it like percy, who puts his sound tomatoes on top of the basket to hide the rotten ones underneath." "i'm afraid you don't love mr. hunter," laughed nellie. "is it because he has ordered you to clear out?" "he and percy between them hatched the dirty plot. they know i want money--" "a few days ago you were refusing it." "ah, but that was tact. the pair of rascals offered to buy the furniture, if i would promise to leave my own home. that was bribery and corruption. they want to get rid of me; they would like me to starve in a ditch, and they would prefer the ditch to have water in it. hunter's not quite so bad as percy, i think. hunter has to be a scoundrel, or he couldn't make a living. but percy is just a homicidal maniac." "they are afraid you might try to influence miss sophy," suggested nellie, when she had done laughing. "it's percy's doing entirely. he's a common malefactor himself, so he thinks i must be the same. he's not going to have any one else milking his golden goose. besides, he knows how fond i am of aunt sophy, and what great care i take of her. i have saved her from serious injury many a time, and that doesn't suit percy at all. he wants the dear old lady to fall about, and hurt herself, and die of shock, so that he can get her money, which i hope will be a curse to him." "i understand the position," said nellie. "you really are going?" she added. "i must go," replied george gloomily. "it is hard on both of us, but you must try to be brave, for we shall soon meet again. aunt sophy won't live long when she hasn't me to look after her." "thank you for another compliment," cried nellie. "you deserve them all," said george, with more tenderness than usual. he set off presently, carrying the precious vases wrapped up like twin-babies and, arriving at the market-town, he entered the shop of the principal ironmonger, who dealt also in all kinds of earthenware goods, and had the notice, "art pottery a specialty," posted in one of his windows. the proprietor advanced to meet him, and was highly flattered when george remarked he had come to obtain the impartial opinion of a specialist regarding the value of some chinese vases. "if i can't give it ye, sir, i don't know who can. i ha' handled cloam all my life, as my father did avore me, and i'll quote ye a fair market price vor anything you like to show me. they are amazing ugly things, sure enough, wi' they old snakes all twisted round 'em," said the honest tradesman when george had undressed his babies. "they're beautifully glazed," said the owner proudly. "yes, they'm nice and shiny. 'tis done by baking 'em. now you want me to tell you how much they'm worth?" "suppose i asked you to buy them, how much would you offer?" "i might give ye eighteen pence vor the pair, though i should fancy i wur doing ye a favour. some folks like these ugly things--i sell a lot o' they china cats wi' the eyes starting out o' their heads--but i would be satisfied if i got a shilling each vor these old vases." "a gentleman told me the other day they were worth a lot of money--hundreds of pounds in fact," said the astounded george. "i believe ye, sir. plenty o' gentlemen, when they see a bit o' cloam that ain't quite the same as ordinary cloam, will tell ye it's worth money. cloam is wonderful cheap just now, sir. i can show ye some amazing bargains in vases at half a crown the pair, and far better value than these old china things." "but the gentleman, who told me they were valuable, came from london," george protested. "well, sir," replied the little provincial, smiling broadly, "ain't that just where all the vules do come from?" there was another china shop in the town, so george tried his fortune there. this shop was kept by a fat lady, who turned sour when george informed her he had not come to purchase anything; and passed into indignation when he had unveiled the vases. "take 'em away, sir," she said sternly. "i wouldn't show such vulgar stuff in my window if you paid me for it. my establishment is noted for chaste designs--flowers, and birds, and butterflies--little lambs, and shepherdesses--and i deal wi' gentlefolk." "a thing can be ugly, and yet priceless," said george. "it's not the ugliness so much as the obscenity," replied the stout lady, who was herself no gracious object. "they were made, i fancy, by poor benighted heathens; though why people ship such stuff into england, when they can buy cheap and beautiful christian home-made vases from such establishments as mine, i can't tell ye," she declared, handling one of the treasures so recklessly that george darted forward in great terror. "oh, you needn't be alarmed," she went on. "if i did break it, i'd give ye another pair, and something to be proud of. i should smash these nasty old things into crocks and put 'em in my flower-pots." george returned to highfield, wondering greatly. he knew nothing whatever concerning china, and apparently the local experts were no better informed than himself. crampy, on the other hand, had valued the vases at a thousand pounds, although he admitted the possibility of their being forgeries; he was, however, prepared to pay the money and take the risk. before reaching home george had fully decided to secure the thousand pounds before he commenced his pilgrimage. he was absent from the village about three hours, and during that short period all manner of things had happened. the yellow leaf had often noted with regret that a strong leading incident rarely occurred in highfield; but, when one did take place, it was almost sure to be accompanied by another, to the great confusion of the inhabitants who were compelled to discuss two incidents at the same time. the first, and by far the most startling, incident took place quite early in the afternoon. nellie had gone into miss yard's bedroom to look up some mending, and presently seated herself beside the window which overlooked the village street. that letter from sidney worried her, but the knowledge of his loose principles troubled her far more. she remembered the words of his defence, indeed there was nothing much about him she had forgotten, as her memory was much better than miss yard's; and still she could not decide whether to answer the letter or to ignore it; whether to meet him once more or to let him go; whether to go on thinking of him--but that she had to do; or to hate him--though she couldn't. "it's a dreary outlook," she murmured. "little work and no love makes me a dull maid. i'm alone in the world, and somebody loves me, but he's a bad somebody. and another somebody is willing to marry me, but he's a silly old somebody. and i want the bad somebody." "hook it!" shrieked a parrot from the garden, addressing a bumblebee which was threatening to enter its cage. "polly gives me advice," she murmured. "hook it! hook george, and pour out rivers of tea, and put on his slippers in respectable humility. no, thankye, poll! i won't hook it. i'll fish for something better, else, when miss sophy dies, i must find another job, and go on jobbing it," she whispered, looking into the glass, "until i don't look anything like so saucy as i'm doing now." "nellie, where be to?" called the equally saucy parrot. "here she be!" answered the girl from the window. "her's going to write to the bad somebody, and her's going to meet him, and her's going to be a soft dafty little vule and believe his nonsense." while she spoke a rumbling of wheels heralded the approach of the incident, which had already occurred with disastrous results along the more important reaches of the street. nellie remained at the open window out of curiosity until the incident, which was of no importance to her at the moment, became revealed in the form of a young and pretty girl, gazing about in a highly interested fashion as she swept past in an open wagonette; a beautifully dressed young lady, certainly no more than eighteen, who looked quite capable of travelling round the world without an escort. "whoever can she be?" nellie murmured, as she went towards her own room, to get that letter written before she changed her mind again. she could hear voices buzzing in the kitchen, where kezia and bessie were discussing the incident; presently she opened the door and listened, for the air was thrilling with unpleasant sounds of proper nouns and most improper adjectives; finally she went downstairs and presented herself at the kitchen door. "oh, miss nellie!" cried kezia. "did you see the person driving past?" "i did see her," replied nellie. "who is she?" "ah, that's what every one's asking. i shouldn't like to say who she be. see how bold she stared as she drove along!" said bessie. "she warn't so bold looking as that other one," remarked kezia. "she wur just a bit o' painted brass," said bessie. "this gal's terrible young. oh, ain't it awful to see 'em all so wicked! folks are saying they won't ha' much more of it." "where was she going?" asked nellie impatiently. "to black anchor farm. where else would she be going? the driver stopped by the green and asked the way to black anchor." "'tis three o'clock. she can't get away tonight," kezia whispered. "she brought a bag--she's going to stay a long while," muttered bessie, covering her face for shame. "policeman ought to get hold of her and lock her up," cried kezia wrathfully. "ah, that he ought," agreed bessie. "if me and robert wur to have a few words, he'd be round quick enough and tell us to keep our mouths shut. pity i b'ain't an actress! i could do what i liked then. the folks won't stand much more of it. i wish captain drake wur back again; he'd have they brocks out of the country in no time." nellie crept back to her room and destroyed the unfinished letter. then she drew down the blind. the second incident commenced about an hour later, when another conveyance reached highfield and proceeded at once to windward house. a gentleman stepped out and inquired for mr. drake. having learnt from kezia that george was absent, but expected home at any time, the gentleman said he would take a stroll round the village and await his coming. this incident would have passed almost unnoticed, so far as the general public were concerned, had the stranger been of the usual speechless type of tourist, content to stare deferentially at the local antiquities and to wander aimlessly round the churchyard. but he was not, as he himself admitted, within measurable distance of an ordinary man; for he joined a group of villagers, who were discussing the latest tragedy in whispers, and insisted upon introducing himself and asking questions about themselves. in the first place he came from america, and he lost no time in informing his listeners that an american gentleman was the only perfect specimen of humanity to be found upon the face of the globe. in the second place he was a millionaire, and had no bashfulness about advertising the fact. finally, he enjoyed use of the name josiah p. jenkins, and his business premises, or at least some of them, were situated in philadelphia, which, he explained, was the city of brotherly love, where irish toasted english, whites embraced negroes, jews dined with christians, and sharp practice was unknown. by this time the poor little actress, driving in solitary state towards black anchor, was almost forgotten. actresses had occurred before, unhappily, but this was the first occasion during the entire history of the universe upon which a millionaire had walked and talked in highfield. mr. jenkins was bestowing a new tradition upon the village; he was quite the equal of queen elizabeth, who had slept, and very much superior to king charles, who had hidden, somewhere in the neighbourhood. here was an individual who reckoned the weekly wage, not by a few shillings, according to local custom, but by innumerable dollars every moment. the people gazed upon him with reverence, while children approached to touch him, and discover what metal he was made of, while some of the more intelligent made remarks concerning copper which the great man did not seem to understand. the yellow leaf admitted afterwards he was thankful he had lived to see it, although he would have respected millionaires far more had he never set eyes upon the corporeal presence of mr. jenkins. it was wonderful, he added, how quickly these americans acquired a superficial knowledge of the english language. "what might be your occupation, sir?" asked the dumpy philosopher. "railways, my friend, with patent medicines as a side-line," replied mr. jenkins. "i hope you ain't come here to build none, nor make none," said the yellow leaf. "i have come here in my private capacity as art lover, collector, connoisseur. i am awaiting the arrival of one of your leading citizens, mr. drake of windward house." "and here he be, bringing home the washing," cried squinting jack, as george at the moment appeared upon the road with a fantastic white bundle beneath each arm. "don't you believe his tale," whispered the dumpy philosopher to his friends, as the american started forward to meet george. "he'm going to make that railway across dartmoor what'll ruin the whole lot of us--and mr. drake ha' been and brought 'en here." chapter xii a splendid bargain it was the most awkwardly thrilling moment of george's life, when he found himself confronted by the millionaire before the eyes of the elder inhabitants. because of the couple of ridiculous bundles he could not grasp the hand of mr. jenkins; he dared not explain he was carrying the porcelain about with him; so he muttered something about grand weather and unexpected pleasure, then raced homewards with the american ambling at his side. "crampy flung me a line telling me about your masterpieces. i beat the sun this morning in an aeroplane invented by a friend; came to turf on salisbury plain; friend and driver broke rudder and ankle; caught a horse, rode him barebacked to the nearest garage; bought a car, drove it fifty miles; car broke down, sold it second-hand, hired a train, drove here from the station--all so to speak. if i'm not first, i guess i'm a derned good second." "you needn't have hurried quite so much," gasped george, wishing he could exaggerate like that. "i guess, sir, when it comes to business, a man has got to put in his best licks, or some other fellow will pull his foot ahead and spudgel up the goods. cramp has unloosed his jaw-tackle to the crowd. i'm not particular scared of the britishers, who look before they leap, and think before they look, and make their wills before they think; but there's quite a few americans in your london, england, nosing around for something specially ancient to take home. there's wenceslas q. alloway of milwaukee. lager-beer he is, or was, for now he's mostly grape juice for conscience' sake; with an elegant white beard and the innocent ways of an archangel--he's got this collecting craze so bad he'd mortgage his immortality, or a thousand years of it, for a bit of old china, though he'd try to stick in a clause to best the devil, for he's a pretty derned orthodox first baptist on a sunday. i'm a second adventist, and my crowd has just built a church in philadelphia which for size and shape makes your westminster abbey look a bit retrospective." "come inside," said george faintly. "i'm afraid i can't offer you much hospitality, as i'm only staying here with my aunt who is not able to receive visitors." "don't mention hospitality, sir. just give me a sight of your vases, and if they're genuine, you'll be giving me a gorge. wonderful pretty place. i'd like to ship the whole of this township across to america, put up a barbwire fence around, and charge a dollar for admission. beautiful place to be buried in! might i inquire if you are carrying anything specially out of date?" "i've been shopping," replied george. "mr. drake!" called the voice of the postmistress. "a telegram vor ye, sir." george tore open the envelope and read, "just heard from crampy. fifteen hundred if o.k. alloway." "knew he'd switch on to the main track up to time, but he can't begin to best me. guess he's exceeding your speed limit right now, and about midnight his automobile will be killing ducks in this neighbourhood," said jenkins complacently. "i suppose you know something about china?" george suggested, as he ushered the visitor into the dining room. "my knowledge of porcelain extends from my head to my finger ends. when you show me chinese vases i'm at home, sir, i'm surrounded with familiar objects, i'm behind the scenes. crampy knows something, but i can run a saw upon him. when his wells dry up, that's the time, sir, mine begin to flow," said jenkins, ostentatiously producing a long cheque-book and slapping it upon the table. "if you will excuse me a moment, i'll go for the vases," said george. he carried the bundles up to his room, and consulted the list which crampy had sent him. having satisfied himself that the names of jenkins and alloway appeared upon it, he went downstairs with the undraped vases, thankful his visitor had called at the time of day when miss yard and nellie were shut up together, and kezia was occupied in the kitchen. the millionaire stood in the attitude of a clergyman about to receive a child for baptism; and, when george extended one of the vases, he accepted it reverently, then walked to the window, examined it, tapped and stroked it, hugged and adored it, and very nearly kissed it, before turning to exclaim, "these are the goods, mr. drake!" "yes, they are very fine specimens," replied george casually. "i don't say they are unique at present, though that's what they will be when i get 'em across to philadelphia. i guess there's been an empty mantelpiece in the emperor of china's palace for quite a few years." george explained the vases had been discovered by his uncle during one of the anti-foreign riots in china many years ago. "your uncle was a great lad, sir. he saw his chance to loot the pieces, so he repelled boarders and took 'em. i should call your uncle a public benefactor. he removed these vases from the custody of the uncivilised chinee, and conferred them upon the cultured world of art. when the potter turned them on his wheel," continued jenkins, beginning to rhapsodise, "he little thought they were destined, by a far-seeing providence, to find a home in the united states, the illustrious city of philadelphia, the unassuming if somewhat palatial mansion--" "the postmistress again!" exclaimed george, hurrying to the front door. "i hadn't hardly got back home, sir, when there come another. i do hope, sir, it ain't bad news again," said the good woman, as she handed over a second telegram. "it's of no consequence," said george. "i'm very glad it ain't no worse, sir. i hope, sir, you'm going on well," said mrs. cann, trusting that an interpretation of these telegrams might be vouchsafed to her. george cautiously replied that his lumbago was improving daily; then he returned to the dining room and said, "here's a telegram from an american named anderson. he asks me not to deal with any one until he calls, and he offers seventeen hundred." "i don't know the fellow," said jenkins suspiciously. "i would advise you to have nothing to do with him. he may be a crook, a man of straw." "he's all right," said george. "crampy sent me a list of collectors i could trust, and his name is on it. i suppose crampy himself is safe, as a firm of lawyers, who are supposed to be respectable, sent him down here." "crampy is as genuine as the rising sun. he's valuer to your court of probate, he's got a fixed place of business, his name's in the directory. he's just got to tote fair, but he won't get rich till he grows more brain. i've known crampy to pay down big money for a fake." "he made me an offer for these vases," said george. "i'll double it," cried the millionaire, nestling down to his cheque-book. "he offered me a thousand pounds." "then i'll give you two thousand." "i might get even more at a sale," george muttered greedily. "i guess you don't know a great lot about sales," said jenkins pityingly. "if you put these vases up to auction, collectors and dealers would get together and fix the price beforehand. i'm playing my lone hand in this game, for i'm dead set on getting the ornaments, and i don't mind paying a fancy price for 'em. crampy won't go beyond a thousand, and even alloway reckons he's sure of them for fifteen hundred. the other chap offers seventeen hundred it's true, but i have my doubts about him. i didn't mean to bid two thousand, but i've promised to double crampy's offer, and i'm a man of my word or i'm nothing. now, sir--you to play!" "i'll take it," said george. "easy way of making money, ain't it?" said the american jauntily. "if you wouldn't mind wrapping some cotton-wool and paper round the things, i'll take 'em right along with me." "are you going to offer me a cheque?" george stammered. "i was going to, but as you don't know a great lot about me, and perhaps you don't feel like relying on crampy's introduction, and as i must take the pieces right away with me, i'll just hand over the stuff in notes upon your bank of england which, so far as i know, hasn't put its shutters up," said the millionaire, producing a mighty pocketbook. "here you are, sir--four five-hundreds, and may they breed you a bonanza. kindly hand me a form of receipt; and if at any time within the next forty-eight hours the vases should be discovered forgeries, i am at liberty to return them, while you will hand back the money. at the expiration of the forty-eight hours the deal is closed absolutely and, if the things are fakes, i come out spindigo. don't be ashamed of your suspicions, and don't consider my feelings. hold up the notes to the light and take a look at the watermark." "that's just what i was doing," said george feebly. a few minutes later the millionaire departed, george walking with him to the inn where his conveyance waited. here also wise men were discussing the state of decadence towards which the parish was being hurried by moral failures like the brocks and such a despicable plotter as the formerly respected mr. drake, who was undoubtedly scheming to construct that dartmoor railway by means of american dollars. mr. jenkins was seen to drive away by the gentle shepherd, who reported the gratifying intelligence to headquarters, and a hearty sigh of relief went up while a quantity of inferior beer went down. yet nobody sighed so deeply or so joyously as george as he hurried home a man of means at last. rapture lost half its charm because there was nobody with whom it could be shared; for nellie, he found, had retired with a headache, while bessie, upon sentry duty near the bedroom door, repelled the advance of miss yard who was in tears because they would not let her in to see the poor girl's body. "i knew she would go like that. i told her she had a heart, because she was such a good girl, and they always go suddenly. i do hope you won't be the next, george. of course you know poor percy is gone," she wailed. "you were very good in your young days," said george gallantly, "but you are still alive. there's nothing much the matter with percy, except that he's going to get married." "take that woman away," snapped miss yard, "and make her stop growing. she gets worse every day." "i finished long ago, thankye, miss," said bessie. "what a wicked story! she's done a lot since yesterday," complained miss yard. "do let me have one peep at my dear little nellie before they take her away." the young lady herself cried out and hoped they would all be taken away. peace was restored, after miss yard had tumbled down happily, convinced that the age of miracles was not past. george woke the next morning with a sense of prosperity which required a safety valve when the inevitable letter from mr. hunter, who had now shrunk icily into a solitary initial beneath the signature cross and martin, announced, "the probate of your late aunt's will has been granted, and you are now at liberty to draw cheques against the balance of two hundred pounds lying in the bank." george felt sufficiently healthy to dig potatoes, make love, or perform any other menial act. he ate a huge breakfast, then climbed into an apple tree and whistled for half an hour: miss yard, sitting at the window, declared she had never heard the blackbirds sing so beautifully. while thus relieving his high spirits a light carriage could be heard approaching; its wheels rattled down the hill; the driver shouted to the horse; and the conveyance drew up beside the garden gate. "here's another millionaire!" george chuckled, as he dropped from the branches. but there was nobody except the driver, whom george recognised as belonging to the principal hotel of the neighbouring town. "i was to give you this letter, sir, and to bring you this box, and to wait for an answer," said the man. "did a gentleman called jenkins send you?" george faltered, receiving the box with the dignity of an author taking back his rejected masterpiece. "that's right, sir. i was to get back as quick as i can, for the gentleman wants to catch a train. here's the letter, sir; and i was to be sure and take back an answer." george hurried indoors, his knees wobbling; tore open the envelope and read: "it's worse than a falling birth rate, but the vases are fakes. i have examined them carefully with strong glasses and discovered marks which show beyond a doubt they are not more than a hundred years old. these pieces would deceive any amateur and quite a few experts: they fairly hocussed me till i turned on the glasses. this will make your soul sick, i guess, but you've still got crampy. i won't say anything to queer your business; but take my advice and don't hawk the things about, or some other fellow may get notions. your best chance is crampy, right now, while he's innocent. the longer you keep the vases the more they'll smell. kindly return shinplasters by bearer, and pile up my sympathy to your credit." george sprang to the box and wrenched off its lid; but a glance dispelled his suspicions. the vases had not been exchanged for local beauties; they had been returned undamaged but condemned. crampy was honest, and jenkins was genuine; and he himself had lost a fortune. "i don't want to gammon a decent fellow like crampy, but i can't afford to lose a thousand pounds," george muttered, after the driver had departed with the banknotes. "i'll walk over to brimmleton and send him a telegram. if it goes from here mrs. cann will talk all over the village. and on the way back i'll look in at black anchor, and try to find out what young sidney is up to." before starting he told nellie of his intentions, which were still honourable; but the young lady was indifferent to the point of malice. "they are nothing to me, and the sooner they clear out of the place the better," she said firmly. "i'm going to give the lad a little friendly advice. the people are complaining that he's making highfield more like london every day; and naturally they are getting angry about it," said george. "oh, don't talk to me about it," cried nellie. "shall i talk to you when i come back?" "that will depend upon what you have to say." "it can't possibly be good news," said george cheerfully. "i knew sidney was a bad egg the first time i saw him. he never took his eyes off my boots, and that's a sure sign of a nasty character." so george walked to brimmleton, where he was a foreigner, and despatched the telegram to crampy, accepting his offer for the vases and pressing for a reply immediately, as he was very much afraid jenkins might leak a little upon his return to london. then he turned aside to the lonely farm, where half-savage children no longer rolled in the mud, noting with approval the effect of hard labour in the shape of reclaimed land and well drained fields. the brocks, if vicious, were at least not idle; and george was always well pleased at discovering signs of human industry which convinced him that the race was by no means decadent. nearing the house he walked warily; and here a shocking spectacle was presented. he saw a young girl--the same infamous young person--most daintily attired, seated upon a boulder near the door, wearing over her pretty frock a deplorable type of beribboned and belaced apron, perusing a volume with a lurid binding which assuredly was teaching her terrible things. and he saw the old man--the grandfather--approach with a mattock on his shoulder; and he pulled her hair; while she shouted at him--some nameless jest, doubtless, but happily george could not hear the words. presently sidney appeared--for it was nearly dinner time--and the worst happened. the abandoned young creature jumped up and ran towards him, with an expression, described mentally by george as one of ready-made affection, upon her pretty face; and, as they walked into the house, the wicked young man passed his arm around the waist of the shameless damsel. the watcher groaned in spirit, although he could not altogether escape from the idea that the ungodly were not necessarily to be pitied in this world. then he walked to the house and knocked at the door. the scuffling sound of young women in flight caused him to shake his head again. "so 'tis you, mr. drake! you'm quite a stranger," exclaimed sidney readily enough, though in george's opinion his face wore a hunted look. "i'd like to have a few words with you," he replied. "right," said sidney, looking back into the house to call, "tell dolly not to hurry wi' the dinner, grandfather." "dolly!" groaned george, somewhat enviously. he had clung to the hope that the girl's name might turn out to be jane. "you know, sidney, i don't bear you any ill-feeling," he began, when they stood a few paces from the house, although his eyes were stricken with horror at discovering the young woman had been reading a book printed in french. "but there's some very loud talk up in highfield about you and your goings on with the ladies." "we have nought to do wi' highfield volk, and we don't care that much vor their talk," replied sidney, snapping his fingers. "they are threatening to mob you," george whispered. "not they," laughed sidney. "they ain't got it in 'em, and if a crowd did come down along me and grandfather would settle the lot." "it's pretty bad to have young women here--from france too--one after the other. you can't blame the people for being a bit upset." "if that's all you've got to say, mr. drake, i'll thank ye kindly, and tell ye i don't want to hear no more of it. dolly is staying vor a week or two, and when she goes i'll get another," said the young outcast fiercely. "i thought i'd just look in and warn you as i was passing," said george. "you know, sidney, i don't blame you, and i think you're quite right not to give way to them. if i can help you in any way i shall be only too glad. these ignorant people don't understand men of the world like you and me." "i reckon," said sidney, with the deplorable grin of a completely dissipated soul. "i mustn't keep you from your dinner, sidney--and from the ladies. give my best wishes to your grandfather, and my respects to miss dolly. i do hope she is enjoying her visit," said the double-faced george. then he ambled off, trying to smile and frown with the same face, entirely satisfied that sidney would never again be permitted to approach within speaking distance of miss blisland. he was unable to report the result of this visit, beyond mentioning he had discovered things too terrible for words; and, although nellie did appear for one moment inclined to listen, george could do nothing except place a hand across his eyes and declare he could not face her after the scenes of sheer depravity he had been compelled to witness at black anchor. nellie was well aware george would exaggerate if he could; but this did really appear to be a case where exaggeration was impossible. "you do get a lot of these nasty things, mr. george," remarked kezia, as she approached with a telegram which suggested to her nothing except murder and sudden death. "in this case i shall attend the funeral," said george cheerfully, when he discovered the deluded crampy would meet him at the station upon the following day. "who's gone now?" asked kezia. "next week i am going into business," explained george with suitable emotion. "this telegram is from a friend who wants to go into partnership with me." "i hope he ain't coming here then," said kezia, who was beginning to resent the visits of strange gentlemen, because they walked upon her carpets and sat upon her chairs. "what be you going to sell, mr. george?" she asked with much interest. "china," he replied. "i do hope and pray as how you may succeed," gasped kezia; and off she went to inform bessie that mr. george was about to start a cloam shop. bessie quite believed it, as mr. george had always been so fond of handling cups and saucers. miss yard also was fond of tea drinking, but she had no tenderness for china, and would generally release her cup in a vacuum, instead of placing it fairly upon the table; and express a vast amount of amusement at the ridiculous laws of nature when the cup exploded upon the carpet. she was particularly robust that afternoon and insisted upon pouring out tea herself. when the fragments, which filled two small baskets, had been removed, the steaming carpet mopped, and dryness restored, george seated himself beside the old lady, produced a sheet of foolscap covered with writing, and said in his most silvery voice: "circumstances, my dear aunt, will compel me to leave you during the course of the next few days: but i cannot go until i have the satisfaction of knowing you have made a will in our dear nellie's favour." "good heavens--in my presence, too!" gasped the young lady. "i need not remind you of the goodness, the modesty, the unselfishness of our nellie," he continued. "she would serve you for nothing, but nevertheless it is your duty to leave her all you can." "i can't stay and listen to this," cried the distressed beneficiary. "don't interfere. she has always meant to do it, but never will unless we jog her memory," george whispered. "i'll have nothing to do with it," exclaimed nellie; and out she went with a fine colour. "is this something to do with that nasty robbery they call income tax?" asked miss yard. "this is your last will and testament," replied george solemnly. "i know you mean to leave everything to nellie, but you can't do that unless you sign a will. you must die soon, you know; and, if it was to happen suddenly, nellie would get nothing." "i did write out a paper, but somebody has hidden it away somewhere," said the old lady. "pieces of paper are very little good," said george. "this is a properly drawn up will. when you have signed it i can go away quite happy, and i shall know dear nellie will be provided for." "will she have the house, and the furniture, and all my money?" asked miss yard eagerly. "percy gets your money, but nellie will have all that you may leave in the bank, any investments you may make, and the proportion of income up to the time of your death," said george learnedly. "must i write my name somewhere?" "yes, and two witnesses are required; but nellie can't be one," said george, going to the window and gazing along the street for some honest person who could also write. presently the wallower in wealth appeared, prospecting the gutter for any signs of gold dust. "i know he can write, for he signed a petition to uncle in favour of more frequent offertories in aid of the poor and needy," george muttered. then he caught up the will, lest miss yard should scribble her name all over it during his absence, ran out into the street, and invited the scribe to step inside and witness miss yard's signature. "i'll do it on one condition," said the wallower in wealth. "what's that?" said george. "you sell me the musical box. i'll give ye ten shillings vor it." "that musical box is worth fifty pounds," said george. "but i can't sell it." "ain't it yours?" "it has been out of order since my uncle died." "you get it put right, and let me have it vor fifteen shillings, and i'll sign." "miss yard wants you to witness her signature. you won't be doing anything for me." "you'm asking me." "miss yard isn't feeling very well today, and she's in a hurry to get her affairs settled." "i b'ain't preventing her," said the wallower in wealth. "she can't do it without witnesses." "i might spare a pound vor the musical box." "you couldn't get it repaired. that musical box is a lost art." "if i take it wi' all its faults, and miss yard gives me five shillings vor my time and labour, will ye sell me the box vor one pound two and sixpence?" "i can't stay here talking. if you won't come i must get somebody else," said george impatiently. "other folk would want to be paid the same as me," said the wallower in wealth. "then i shall go and ask the vicar." this was a fatal blow, and the bargainer climbed down at once. "i'll stand witness vor half a crown and first refusal of the musical box," he promised. miss yard was unusually silent after signing her will, and paying a fee to both her witnesses. she lay back in her chair with dreamy old eyes which looked as if they were recalling many scenes. while george carried the precious document upstairs to nellie. "put it away and keep it safe until she dies," he said. "i want to say the right thing," she murmured. "you ought not to have made her sign, although she often says it is her intention to leave me something." "you won't forget that i might have acted in a most scandalous fashion," george hinted. "yes, i know!" she said hurriedly. "you could have put your name in place of mine, and she would have signed just as willingly. but it's a horrible business." "all business is horrible. that is why we hire people to do it for us. i was thinking of myself as well," said george heartily. "we are getting along very nicely, nellie--no just cause or impediment, you know! this should mean one of those nice little sums of good money known as capital," he whispered, rubbing his hands. "i must go to miss sophy," said nellie; and she moved towards the stairs like one in trouble. the next day george carried his vases tenderly to the station where, at the appointed time, crampy arrived, and at once inquired: "has jenkins been down?" "he came," replied george, prepared for some such question, "but we couldn't do business." "all cackle, i suppose? that's his way. he'll come into my place to bargain for a piece of sã¨vres; swear he must have it, talk me dizzy; then say he must cross the atlantic and think about it." "he seemed very anxious to buy the vases, but he couldn't quite make up his mind. i didn't exactly trust the fellow," said george. then he went on to describe the millionaire's adventures with aeroplane and motor car between london and highfield. "that was just his ornamental way of telling you he's a hustler. he travelled by railway, and third class all the way. jenkins is an awful liar; but he's honest. i want to catch the up train, due in about twenty minutes, so we had better get to business. if you are ready to hand over the pieces, i am prepared to give you my cheque for a thousand marked accepted by the bank." "jenkins said they were really worth more than that." "though he wouldn't give it," laughed crampy. "i'll just take another look at 'em to make sure." "it doesn't matter," george protested. however, crampy insisted in a courteous fashion: so they walked to the far end of the platform, where george unpacked one of the vases, and the dealer, having put on his glasses, examined it shrewdly until the owner began to suffer from the silence. "do you know, mr. drake, i'm not sure--upon my soul i can't say for certain whether the things are genuine or not." "don't tell me they are forgeries," said george weakly. "they are marvellously well done. still, i've got a horrible idea in my head there is something wrong with them." "jenkins told you?" cried george involuntarily. "so he said they were fakes!" "he didn't go as far as that, but he thought there might be some doubt about them," george admitted. "it looks bad--jenkins is an uncommon smart amateur. still, mr. drake, i'm a man of my word, and i'm going to make you an extremely liberal offer. i'll buy the vases for the price agreed upon. if they should turn out to be genuine, i can make a fair profit. if they must be condemned as forgeries, i may discover somebody with plenty of money but not enough brains to put unpleasant questions. or, if you prefer it, i will sell the vases for you on commission. but, in that case, you stand to lose. it's a gamble so far as i'm concerned." "that's a luxury i can't afford," george muttered. "exactly! here's my cheque! i'm not a philanthropist; i'm willing to do any man a good turn, but i'm far more anxious to do a bit of good for myself. i may lose, but it's just as likely i shall clear a profit. these vases can be passed off, though you couldn't do it--but, mind you, i don't say even now they are not genuine." with a vast sense of relief george accepted the cheque, and gave up possession of the chinese vases. chapter xiii wasps and other worries "have you any idea what we are doing here?" miss yard inquired one morning, while nellie was assisting her to dress. "we came to live with your sister," replied the girl. "i suppose there's some truth in that. but what's the good of staying now maria has gone to the seaside? i want to go home, and see my friends again," declared miss yard, declining the next garment until she should receive a satisfactory answer. "this is your home," said nellie. "then why don't we have tea parties, and why don't we meet every week to knit chest protectors for the people who eat one another?" "because we no longer live in a town full of old ladies with nothing to do." "there was an old clergyman who used to make me shiver with his dreadful stories," added miss yard eagerly. "not exactly. while the rest of you knitted, one of the ladies used to read aloud from a book, written by a missionary who had spent thirty years upon an island in the pacific; and he did mention that, when he first went there, the people were not vegetarians." "and we sent him a lot of mufflers and mittens," cried miss yard. "yes, and he wrote back to say wool was much too warm for people who wore nothing at all." "that's what made me shiver," said miss yard triumphantly. "it wasn't so much what they ate, as their walking about without clothes. they used to go to church with nothing on. it must have been dreadful for the poor clergyman. no wonder his health broke down. we must go back," said miss yard decidedly. "i can't think what made me so silly as to come here. do you remember the lady who lived in a dandelion?" "now you really have puzzled me," laughed nellie. "a little yellow dandelion on a hill. there were no stairs to go up, but i didn't like it much in summer." "i've got it! you mean the bungalow that belonged to miss winter. you didn't like her." "she used to kiss the clergy," said miss yard sadly. "my dear miss sophy you must not libel people. she told you once the only men she ever had kissed were clergymen; one was her father, and the other her uncle. what makes you remember all this?" "percy has written to me, and says he's going to be a missionary." "let me see the letter." "it's on my table. i'm sure percy will make a good missionary, for when he wants money, he's not ashamed to ask for it." "this is an appeal from the society for supplying paper-patterns of the latest fashions to the ladies of the solomon islands." "that's where percy is going. i do hope they will dress themselves properly for his sake." "oh, here it is!" cried nellie, discovering a letter on the carpet. "so mr. taverner is coming here next week." "and he's going to bring me some tomatoes." "he's going to bring his fiancã©e," said nellie. "now i've quite forgotten what that is." "the young lady he's going to marry." "that's what i mean. i get so confused between tomatoes and mortgages." "he has just come into some money most unexpectedly," nellie read. "he arrived at the conclusion long ago that the climate of england is quite unsuitable for the cultivation of tomatoes; and as he is anxious to exploit the capabilities of his new variety, he is going to settle, after his marriage, in tasmania, which he believes is an island with a future. he is coming to highfield to bid his dear good aunt a long farewell. whatever gave you the idea he was going to be a missionary?" "doesn't he say so?" asked miss yard. "no, he is going to tasmania to grow tomatoes." "i suppose i used to know something about tasmania; but then i used to be very good at acrostics, and i can't do them now." "it's an island near australia. but not every one who goes to an island in the pacific intends to be a missionary," said nellie, adding to herself, "this will be delightful news for george." that gentleman was depressed, for he had just received an anonymous communication threatening him with a fearful end upon the day that the first boulder of the new railway was blasted. also crampy had sent him a perplexing note, mentioning that some experts believed the vases were genuine, while others declared them to be forgeries; but, in any case, he had succeeded already in disposing of them. when george had read percy's letter, which miss yard passed across the breakfast table, with the remark that she herself would like to live "in the pacific," if he could find her an island where the police insisted upon the wearing of apparel during divine service, he became highly suspicious, and suggested to nellie in an undertone that percy had selected the antipodes with a view to removing himself as far as possible from the central criminal court. "he's going to grow tasmanias in tomato," announced miss yard. "he means to grow giant tomanias--i mean tomatoes, in--oh, bother!" laughed nellie. "miss sophy has muddled me. why shouldn't mr. taverner grow tomatoes in tasmania?" "what about this money? would anybody leave money to percy unless they had to?" cried george. "it may have been left to his young lady," suggested nellie. "he has robbed someone," said george bitterly, "and now he's running off the earth to hide the swag." "if i wanted to say something nasty about mr. taverner," said nellie, "i might suggest he had become engaged to miss lee because this money had been left to her." "i should be certain of it, if he wasn't clearing out of the country," replied george. "isn't this honey?" complained miss yard. "what makes it taste so bitter?" "heavens, don't swallow them! have they stung you?" cried nellie, perceiving suddenly that the good lady was spreading her buttered toast with a mixture of crushed wasps and honey. "they are not at all nice. did the doctor order me to have them?" "they are wasps, aunt," said george bluntly. "are they the things that turn into butterflies?" gasped miss yard, rising from her chair and showing signs of distress. "don't worry, dear. they are quite harmless. come and lie down, and i'll bring you something to wash out your mouth," said nellie; and she carried off the old lady. while george, always ready to play emergency-man, rushed into the kitchen, acquainted kezia with what had happened owing to her gross carelessness in putting away the honey pot with the lid off, and ordered her to despatch a telegram to the doctor. then he went into the parlour and observed consolingly: "people can live a long time with bullets inside them. wasps can't be worse, especially as they must be digestible." "i am afraid of the stinging parts," said nellie. "perhaps they are worn off," he replied. miss yard lay upon the sofa breathing peacefully, thankful she had made her will, but looking wonderfully healthy. she complained, however, of drowsiness, whereupon bessie, who had rushed across the road at the first alarm, and was then standing in the parlour armed with the brandy bottle and blue bag, exclaimed incautiously, "that shows they'm stinging her. robert ses his father wur bit by a viper, and he drank a bottle of brandy and lay unconscious vor twenty-four hours." "was it really a viper?" groaned the sufferer. "i don't think they will do her any harm," said george. "in some countries the people live on frogs and slugs." "and st. john the baptist always had grasshoppers with his honey," added bessie reverently. "and germans eat worms, and thrive on 'em," george concluded. kezia was crying in the hall, declaring that the jury would bring it in manslaughter. being called upon by bessie to make some valedictory remark to the poor lady, she approached, and blubbered out: "mrs. cann ses, miss, you ain't to worry. she can't hardly open her mouth in the post office without swallowing something; and one evening, miss, taking her supper in the dark, she ate a beetle; and there's more good food about than us knows of, she ses; and it 'twas all cooked, miss, and if it warn't vor the look of such things, we might live a lot more cheaply than we do; vor she ses, miss, 'tis horrible to think what ducks eat, but there's nothing tastier than a duckling, 'cept it be a nice bit of young pork; and she ses, miss, she saw a pig of hers eat a viper--" "there's nothing here about internal wasp stings," broke in nellie, who had been consulting a book of household remedies. "i can't think how it got into the house," miss yard was moaning, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy. "it seems wonderful that it should have run down my throat when i wasn't looking." "are you in any pain, dear?" asked nellie. "no," replied miss yard in a disappointed voice. "they'm always like that," wept kezia. "my poor missus was wonderful well the morning she wur took." "i'm going away too," said the invalid. "will you find me a train, george?" "where to?" asked the obliging nephew. "the place where nellie and i came from. i don't know what they used to call it." "we'll go directly you are well," nellie promised. george brought a railway timetable, a pair of compasses, and a map of the british isles; and delivered a lecture which delighted the old lady so much that she forgot her pangs, and was greatly astonished when the doctor bustled into the room thankful to know he was not too late. "i suppose you want a subscription," said miss yard. "i had a telegram saying you were seriously ill, but i have never seen you looking better," replied the doctor. "yes, i am wonderfully well, thank you. i hope you're the same," said the merry patient. "oh, doctor!" cried nellie, entering the apartment. "miss yard was eating her breakfast--" "and i swallowed a snake! do you know i had forgotten all about it!" cried the old lady. nellie revised this version, and the doctor was professionally compelled to act the pessimist. he advised a little walk in the garden, to complete digestion of the wasps, recommended a stimulant, prescribed a tonic, and promised to call every day until the patient should be in a fair way to recovery. then he departed, and miss yard immediately suffered a relapse brought on entirely by the visit. she was stricken with some mortal disease, and they were hiding the truth from her. she consented to walk round the garden, as it would be for the last time; then, having insisted upon being put to bed, she implored nellie to tell her the worst; and, when the girl declared it was nothing but a little indigestion, the old lady lost her temper, and said it was very unjust she should have to die of a disease that was not serious. "there's nothing whatever the matter," said nellie. "then what's all this fuss about?" asked miss yard. "you are making the fuss." "i didn't send for the doctor. and he's coming again tomorrow. it's not measles, and it's not whooping cough, but i believe it's poison. bessie put poison into the teapot." "why bessie?" "i knew she would do something dreadful if she didn't stop growing. and robert is so short. it must all mean something. he held the teapot while bessie put in the poison. nasty bitter stuff it was too! i suppose i must forgive them, though i don't like doing it. where is george?" "he is packing. he's going away tomorrow." "but he must stay for the funeral!" "there's not going to be a funeral. you know mr. george must leave us; he has told you so lots of times." "tell him to come here. i must give him a present. look in the cupboard and find me something to give george. and pack up all my clothes, for i shan't want them again. send them to that bishop who wrote and said he hadn't got any." "i don't think, really, your clothes are suitable for the ladies of the lonesome islands," said nellie. "you must keep the best things. i want you to have my black silk dress and the coat trimmed with jet ornaments. they will come in nicely for your wedding. perhaps george would like a brooch. tell bessie and robert to come here at five o'clock to be forgiven--but i won't promise. you must write to percy, and tell him i was so sorry not to be able to say good-bye, but the end came suddenly, though i was quite prepared for it. why aren't you packing my clothes--or did you say george was doing it?" "i'll call him. and if you worry me much more i shall swear," said nellie. george came and mourned over his aunt because the time of separation was at hand. miss yard agreed, but almost forgot her own impending departure when george explained he was referring to himself. "oh, but you are not going to die yet. i'm sure that isn't necessary. besides, you are looking so well," she said earnestly. "he is not looking a bit better than you are," cried nellie. "i am about to start on a long journey, aunt," said george piteously. "oh, yes! i remember now about the island in the pacific where the tomatoes grow." "i have been working rather too much lately, and need a rest," he explained; "but directly you want me back you have only to send an invitation." "i shall be left all alone--oh, but i forgot," said miss yard, interrupting herself in a shocked voice. "you must stay, george, to do me a great favour. i want you to bury me in westminster abbey in the next grave to queen elizabeth." "my dear miss sophy!" exclaimed nellie. "don't listen to that child. she is in a nasty cross mood--and somebody has been teaching her to swear. i took a fancy to westminster abbey when i was quite young, and, even if it is rather expensive, i should like to treat myself to a grave there." "i'll see to it," george promised. "you shouldn't say such a wicked thing," cried nellie. "are you suffering at all, aunt?" he inquired, anxious to change the subject. "i don't think so," said miss yard. "it's all going to be wonderfully peaceful. i'm so thankful!" "shall i ask the vicar to call?" george whispered. "of course not," said nellie fretfully. "she would think he had come to prepare her. i am very sorry you sent for the doctor. here's another beastly wasp! do kill it." "is she packing my clothes?" whispered miss yard, peering over the bedspread. "no, and i'm not going to," replied the young rebel. george struck out manfully at the living wasp, knocked it down somewhere, and began to search for the body which was still buzzing. "oh dear!" cried miss yard. "there's such a dreadful pain in my hand." "i knocked it on the bed. she really is stung this time!" george shouted, seizing the insect in his handkerchief and destroying it; while nellie fled for the restoratives which were necessary at last. it was the best thing that could have happened, for immediately her hand was bandaged, miss yard's interest became centred in that, and she forgot there was anything else to worry about. when the doctor called next day, he was advised to say nothing about affairs internally, but to concentrate all his ability, and his bedside manner, upon the outward and manifest sting; with the result that miss yard was pronounced out of danger within forty-eight hours; by which time george had vacated the premises and made room for percy. hardly had he driven away when there came a knock upon the back door, and when kezia went to answer it, she found the wallower in wealth standing there, with twenty-five shillings in his hand and a bargaining expression on his face. having inquired after the well-being of every one in the house, and made a few remarks upon the climate, he stated that he had lately enjoyed a conversation with the blacksmith, who had declared there never was a machine he couldn't mend and, if the musical box were brought to his forge, he would speedily compel it to play all kinds of music. "what's it all about?" asked kezia; and, as she put the question, bessie crossed the road. upon those rare occasions when she happened to be at home, there was nothing going on in the house opposite which bessie did not contemplate from her upstairs window. "mr. drake promised me the musical box," explained the visitor, who had watched the departure of george before setting out on his expedition. "it ain't his, and he knows it. and you knows it too," said kezia warmly, "else you wouldn't ha' waited till he'd gone away." "gone away, has he!" exclaimed the wallower in wealth. "you give me his address and i'll send the money on to him." "that musical box belongs to me," said kezia. this was a critical moment in bessie's career; to have yielded then would have meant the complete abandonment of all her rights in furnishings. she did not hesitate in declaring war upon her ancient ally with two steely words: "'tis mine!" "i'm surprised to hear you say such a thing, bessie mudge; and miss sophy lying ill in bed too," replied kezia. "mrs. drake left me the musical box, and i ha' got writing to prove it, and me and robert are only waiting vor miss sophy's funeral to take it." "mrs. drake said i wur to have all the furniture in the house." "i wouldn't like to have to call you anything," said bessie. "and i'd be cruel sorry to fancy you craved to hear the like," retorted kezia. then they paused to think out new ideas, and to place their arms in more aggressive attitudes. "when furniture be left to more than one person simultaneous, 'tis usual to divide it," explained the wallower of wealth. "half a musical box b'ain't of no use to me." "nor me." "you sell me the box, and i'll give you twelve shillings, and twelve shillings to mrs. mudge, and i'll get it put right at my own expense," said the wallower in wealth, seeking to introduce the peaceful principle of compromise. "i wouldn't take twelve pounds. the captain told me there warn't another box like that in this world," said kezia. "he told me there wur another, but 'twas lost," replied bessie, adding with the same spirit of determination, "i wouldn't take twelve pounds neither. robert ses not a thing in the house can be sold without his consent." "who's robert mudge?" cried kezia, in the voice of passion. "he's my husband," replied bessie. "and who be you?" "i'm his wife." "sure enough! they'm husband and wife. i saw 'em married," said the wallower in wealth, with a distinct impression that bessie was winning on points. "i don't know what's going to happen to us, i'm sure," said kezia. then, in accordance with military strategy, she conquered the enemy by abandoning her position and slamming the door after her. that evening bessie advanced as usual for coffee, which included a hot meal, and during this campaign robert did not accompany her, being detained, according to the best of his wife's belief, in the bakery, working overtime at buns. kezia distrusted this communication, as no festival of buns was impending, and arrived at the conclusion that the assistant baker had absented himself from coffee drinking owing to a bashfulness not uncommon in the time of war and tumults. having, as she supposed, abated the pride of robert, kezia sought to assuage the malice of bessie by small talk concerning miss yard's convalescence, the departure of george, which was positively final like the last appearance of an actor, and the turkish state of things at black anchor. but the musical box remained an obsession, playing a seductive jig for bessie, and a triumphal march for kezia; and at last the former said: "me and robert ha' been talking, and he ses nothing should be took away avore miss sophy dies." "that's what my dear missus said. not me, nor you, nor mr. george, wur to touch anything till miss sophy had been put away," agreed kezia. "didn't mr. george sell part o' the cloam?" asked bessie. "well, bess, i did give 'en a pair of old vases. i know i ought not to ha' done it, but we've got plenty o' cloam, and i wanted the poor fellow to have something, him being a relation." "what us wants to think about is this," bessie continued, "me and you ain't agoing to quarrel. mrs. drake made a lot of mistakes in her lifetime, poor thing, and 'tis vor us to make the best of 'em." "i'm sure i put in a good word vor you many a time," declared kezia. "i know you did," said bessie warmly. "i used to say to missus, 'never mind about me, but do ye leave mr. george and bessie something. i don't care about myself,' i said." "when us come back from miss sophy's funeral, us will divide up the things. first i'll take something." "first me!" said kezia sharply. "you'm the eldest. you can take first," said the generous bessie. then she inclined her head towards the door and whispered, "ain't that someone in the hall?" "'tis only miss nellie," said kezia. "there's a drop o' cocoa left in the saucepan, bess." "i'm sorry us had words today, kezia," said bessie, as she took the drop. "don't ye say anything more about it. i'm sure the dear missus would walk if she fancied we weren't friendly. but i do wish she hadn't got so forgetful like." "that ain't nellie!" cried bessie, listening again. "sounds as if miss sophy had got out of bed and fallen down." "'twas a bump vor certain. i'm agoing to see," said bessie, opening the kitchen door. she advanced along the passage, but was back in a moment. "the hall door's wide open--and i saw a light from the parlour." "there's a man in the house!" screamed kezia. "don't ye go out, bess!" "who's there?" called the valorous bessie, advancing again to the passage. then she shrunk back, crying: "here's a young man--and here's an old 'un. they're carrying something. don't ye go out, kezia." "oh, my dear, i ain't agoing to," faltered kezia, retiring into the far corner of the scullery. "they'm running!" bessie muttered. "one wur youngish, and t'other wur oldish. they ha' gone now. i heard 'em shut the gate." "'tis they brocks," whispered kezia in terror of her life. "'tis somebody who knew miss sophy wur lying ill in bed." bessie took the lamp and went forth boldly, calling a challenge at every step. presently kezia plucked up courage to follow, and they went together into the parlour. the musical box had disappeared: so had the pair of silver candlesticks, the russian ikon, and various other rich and rare antiquities. "oh, kezia; ain't it awful in a christian country!" exclaimed bessie. "go vor policeman! no, don't ye--they may come back again." then kezia's eyes fell upon the mummy, and she cried hysterically, "thank heaven they ha' spared the king of egypt!" chapter xiv the grabbers the constable, an exceedingly able man who was expecting to become a sergeant, gave it as his opinion that a thief had been at work. in support of this theory he pointed out certain prints of hob-nailed boots, which upon examination he discovered to be his own. thereupon he increased his reputation by a shake of the head, and the statement that, even in a small community, mysteries were bound to happen. kezia began to mutter about sidney brock, who had eaten and drunk in her kitchen, and had endeavoured to entice nellie into his harem; while bessie had the effrontery to suggest she had seen two dark shadows, unquestionably substantial, disappearing along the lane in the direction of black anchor. "you can get to london by that road," replied the policeman. "were they walking or running?" he inquired. "when i last saw 'em they was running fit to break their necks," said bessie. the constable twirled his moustache and smiled in a superior fashion; for he was about to make a point. "running with a musical box pretty near the size of a piano, not to mention other articles of furniture," he said. "the box wur big, but not very heavy," explained kezia. "it stood upon legs, four of 'em, but a man could lift it off and carry it." "and the legs would follow after?" suggested the policeman, who believed in making people laugh; but he failed on this occasion. "they would have to walk back for the legs," kezia explained. "how many men did you say there were?" "two, but i wouldn't swear to nothing," replied the tactful bessie. "if policeman wur to go along the lane he might catch up wi' them," suggested kezia. the officer declined, pointing out that it would be a physical impossibility for two men to carry such bulky articles all the way to black anchor, and a moral impossibility to do so and escape detection. then he sought for information concerning the ownership of the purloined property. "'tis mine," came the simultaneous answer. "that wants a lawyer," said the policeman, beginning to show the acumen which was winning him promotion; and when the position had been explained he continued, "maybe mrs. drake left a like paper for miss yard?" "two of 'em," said kezia. "leaving her everything?" "just the house and a pair of silver candlesticks." "what ha' been stolen," added bessie. "and a paper for miss blisland?" went on the policeman, longing for a superior officer to hear him. "her left she the round table in the parlour, but that be rightfully mine," replied kezia. "mine too," said bessie. "likely enough she left a bit of writing for mr. drake?" "he got a bit, but he wouldn't show it to no one," said kezia. "maybe the person who took the things has got about as much right to them as certain other folks," said the constable darkly. "that's all i can say at present, but i'll make inquiries in the morning," he added, as robert came up to find out what had happened. highfield was an honest place, where a farmer did not wait for a dark night to divert his neighbour's water supply, or postpone the cutting down of a hedge, which did not belong to him, to a misty day. the inhabitants therefore were convulsed with horror when informed by robert that an act of real dishonesty had happened: to wit, a pair of desperate ruffians had broken into windward house and departed with much furniture. it became at once obvious to everybody, except the policeman, that the district had been systematically plundered. squinting jack declared, now he came to think of it, eggs had been missing from his hen roost for weeks past; the wallower in wealth swore that a sum not exceeding twenty-five shillings had been extracted from his mattress; while the dumpy philosopher discovered a number of vacancies among the red cabbages in his back garden. this being a matter of morality, the vicar was made the victim of a deputation, headed by the dismal gibcat, an inevitable but unfortunate selection, as this gentleman had not said his prayers in public for some years, because, according to his own statement, a violent fit of nasal catarrh seized upon him immediately he entered the church. the dismal gibcat, encouraged by the silent but moral support of several nonconformists, who were generally credited with loving their neighbours rather more earnestly than themselves, framed an indictment against the brocks: they were aliens who had sprung up at black anchor with the suddenness of toadstools; no respectable female presides in their kitchen; they were visited frequently by women of a certain class; they had already corrupted the young people of the neighbourhood; and were now breaking into houses and removing every article of value. assassination of prominent personages would follow in due course. "you are entirely mistaken," replied the vicar, somewhat stiffly. "it must be well known to the parish that i often visit the brocks." "they do say you'm friendly wi' every one," observed the dismal gibcat bitterly, as he was obviously an exception. "i hope so. at all events i like the brocks--indeed, i respect them." "how about they women and gals?" cried the dismal gibcat. "probably their presence can be explained. as for this robbery, it is ridiculous to suspect the brocks. i may as well mention that i knew something about them before they came here," said the vicar. "they ses you turned sidney out of the choir because he teased the maidens." "that is quite untrue. he resigned and explained his reason for doing so." "well, if they'm friends of yours, 'tis no use us talking; but i believe they took them things as much as if i'd seen 'em doing it. ain't that the general opinion?" demanded the dismal gibcat of his limp supporters. "i takes volks as i finds 'em," replied the dumpy philosopher. "i wouldn't like to say parson goes shares wi' the brocks in everything--in every single thing," observed the dismal gibcat, as the deputation retired, "but i shouldn't be surprised if a lot o' volk didn't think so." during this excitement percy and his young lady arrived, two days before they were expected, and flustered kezia so that she could think of the robbery only at intervals. bessie made no mention of it: neither did robert, though he went to the village shop, purchased a pound of candles, and tried unsuccessfully to buy a bottle of lubricating oil. as it was impossible in highfield to enter into secret negotiations for the purchase of even a penny tin of mustard, the policeman, in the course of his inquiries, heard about it and, having worked out the problem without the aid of pencil and notebook, he proceeded to the bakery and told robert he ought to be ashamed of himself. "for why?" asked the assistant baker, with the assurance of a man who had nine points of the law in his favour. "what did you buy this morning at mrs. trivell's shop?" "bottle o' blacking," replied robert. "sure it wasn't whitewash? what else did you buy?" "penn'orth o' blacklead," said robert cheerfully. "making the case pretty black, ain't you? you didn't buy a pound of candles, of course--best wax candles. but, if you did buy candles, what were you going to do with them?" "i don't know what you can do wi' candles except light them," said robert. "and you didn't buy a bottle of lubricating oil, because mrs. trivell hasn't got any. if you did buy a bottle of salad oil, what would you be going to do with it?" continued the policeman, in his best and brainish manner. "you can do pretty near anything wi' salad oil," declared robert. "among the things stolen from windward house last night were a pair of silver candlesticks and a musical box, out of order, but perhaps it might play a tune if you oiled the works," said the policeman sternly. robert stroked his nose and mentioned that an officer who could put one thing to another like that, was not at all required in highfield parish. "what were you doing when this robbery was taking place?" came the question. "i fancy i might have been giving a hand," robert admitted cautiously. "who helped you?" "i don't know as anybody helped. but it wasn't a robbery, vor mrs. drake left all the things to bessie," said robert cheerfully. "and to other folks as well." "i b'ain't responsible vor that. first come, first served; and other volks take at their peril, i ses." "it's my duty to tell miss blisland you took the things. where have you hidden 'em?" "inside the peatstack. if you'm going to tell kezia, i shall shift the things into town and sell 'em." "that's your affair," replied the constable. "seems you haven't exactly committed a robbery, as you have a sort o' right to the things; and you haven't committed a trespass, as you can go into the house when you want to. so i can't charge you with anything. but i reckon it won't be long before you have the lawyers after you; and then the lord ha' mercy on your pocket, robert mudge." before the constable could reach windward house to report how easily he solved a problem, his wife ran to meet him with cheering information concerning a great fire upon the outskirts of the parish; and, as conflagrations are things no policeman can resist, he mounted his bicycle and scorched towards an isolated farmhouse which was doomed to destruction; as its bankrupt owner had taken the precaution to store plenty of dry faggots, well sprinkled with petroleum, within the well-insured premises. the farmer was sitting upon an upturned pail, which smelt of anything but water, bemoaning his fate, and informing the neighbours that spontaneous combustion would happen sometimes no matter what you did to prevent it, when the constable arrived, sniffing greedily at the clue-laden atmosphere. the farmer replied that the oil barrel had leaked terribly, and there was no preventing that either. the policeman investigated, went on his way to report, and returned with papers in his pocket; and, while teaching the farmer a few cheerless facts concerning the legal meaning of arson, such a trifling affair as the highfield grabbing passed naturally and conveniently from his mind. percy introduced himself to his aunt, kissed her upon both checks according to a family tradition; the bride elect followed his example; and they all talked of tasmania, tomatoes, tickets, and travelling, with a few remarks upon marriage licences, until miss yard rolled off the sofa for sheer joy of motion. "nellie!" she called. "pack my things at once! percy and emmie have got a licence to go to tasmania, and tickets to get married, and i won't stay here any longer." "but this is your home, aunt," mentioned percy. "and there are not many places like that, you know," miss lee added. "i used to have a much better home than this. we had tea parties, and mothers' meetings, and all sorts of nice things. i'm going to forget the past and begin all over again." "miss sophy is quite serious," nellie explained, when percy approached her on the subject. "it's very seldom she keeps an idea in her head, but, when she does, it governs her completely. ever since she was stung by the wasp she has been worrying to get away." "how about taking her back to drivelford?" suggested percy. "that would do nicely. but you must see to it, else mr. drake will; and there will be more trouble between him and hunter." "george has gone for good," said percy sternly. "he told me all he had to do was to go away; there was nothing said in the agreement about the time he was to be away. miss sophy has written already inviting him back." "if he insists upon returning here to live--" began percy. "you will be at the other end of the world, and hunter won't know anything about it," she concluded. "george is a great scoundrel," said percy. "i have only another two weeks in england; but i suppose i must go to drivelford and find a house." miss yard was delighted when nellie informed her that the golden age of tea and talk was about to be restored; and she blessed percy with such tenderness that her nephew felt compelled to make her a most liberal offer. "you know, aunt, the furniture in this house belongs to me. it was left to george, and i bought it from him for two hundred pounds. don't you think the best plan would be for you to buy it from me for--shall we say--one hundred and fifty pounds? i lose and you gain, but that's as it should be." "what an excellent idea!" cried miss yard. "nellie, bring my cheque-book." "you cannot afford to spend so much money, especially as we have a move before us," said nellie quietly. "oh, i'll take a hundred pounds," said percy. "miss sophy cannot afford that either." "that's what she always says, but i tell her i can afford it," said miss yard crossly. percy began to feel uncomfortable, as this was the first time his golden goose had been prohibited from egg laying. he made up his mind that nellie was developing into an offensive young person; honest no doubt, and admirably suited to control miss yard; but with mistaken notions as to the dignity of a nephew and trustee. he sought, therefore, a secret interview with the young lady, in order that he might caution her against any further opposition, and remind her that in all financial matters his word must be the last; and this interview was granted very willingly. "sit down, please," he began, when they had entered the dining room. "if you stand, i shall too," replied nellie, who was holding a small article wrapped in paper. "just as you like," said percy. "is that miss yard's passbook?" "no," she replied. "but if you want to see the passbook i will fetch it. miss sophy has a little over two hundred pounds at present." "another dividend is due next month. my aunt is quite able to pay a hundred pounds for the furniture." "the question is," said nellie, "to whom does the furniture belong?" "to me, of course." "have you what the lawyers call a good title?" "i hope you are not going to be impertinent, miss blisland," said percy sharply. "i know mrs. drake left the furniture to mr. george," she continued, thankful of her promise not to mention those numerous scraps of paper. "and i bought the stuff from him." "with miss sophy's money." "what has that to do with you? i can borrow from my aunt, and of course she does not expect me to repay the money." "but i expect it. i manage her affairs, and i tell you plainly this borrowing must cease. i shall not allow miss sophy to pay you a single penny for the furniture, because it is hers already," said nellie, with all the coldness of a magistrate sentencing a poacher. "the little devil! you had better keep your mouth shut, or i may be tempted to say something rude. i don't want to forget i am talking to a young woman. you have just got to do what i tell you," blustered percy. "but i decline," said nellie sweetly. "then you can look out for another job. i shall tell hunter i have dismissed you for gross impertinence. that's all i have to say. you may go now." "thank you," she said. "but i haven't finished yet. i want to know what is going to be done about the furniture." "i have nothing more to say to you." "you must tell miss sophy, and she will consult me. so i may as well hear your decision at once." "i shall have a sale," replied percy. "my aunt can buy new furniture when she gets to drivelford. after all, it's not so very much more expensive than moving it." "you will do nothing of the kind," said nellie. again percy was tempted to say something rude; and again he yielded. then an explanation flashed across his mind and he began to laugh. "i see what it is! my aunt has promised to leave you as much as she can--" "then why should i object to her buying the furniture?" "all i know is you won't get it. i shall visit the nearest auctioneer tomorrow--" "it's time we changed the subject. i believe this is your property," interrupted nellie, holding out the packet wrapped in paper. "do you think it fair to ask miss sophy to pay for the furniture twice over, when you have just come into two thousand pounds?" she added. "who told you that?" cried percy, snatching the packet and tearing off the covering. "my pocketbook! you stole it from my room. you have been through my letters. you are the most unscrupulous young woman!" "we had better not talk about stealing. perhaps you remember sitting in the garden with miss lee yesterday evening. you did not come in until dark, and you were so much engaged in discussing your plans that you forgot to bring in the chairs. you also forgot your pocketbook. kezia found it and gave it to me. now i return it." "after turning it inside out," he muttered, dropping the lion's hide and assuming the calfskin. "i have not even opened it," she replied. "then how do you know i have come into two thousand pounds?" "a gentleman called crampy told me." "crampy! he couldn't tell you--he wouldn't!" "it must have been one of the parrots then," said nellie gleefully. "let me tell you a story! once upon a time there was an idle gentleman who had made up his mind never to work for his living, because he owned a pair of chinese vases which were supposed to be priceless. this gentleman had a cousin, who knew the vases were exceedingly valuable, and, as he was a bad man, in fact a terribly unscrupulous man," said nellie, opening her eyes widely. "here, i say! you stop that!" bellowed percy. "i'm having my revenge for being called a little devil," she said gaily. "as this cousin was a thorough scoundrel, he determined to grab the vases, so he went to another unscrupulous man called crampy and told him, if he could get the vases cheaply from the idle gentleman, he should have half the profit. crampy agreed, visited the gentleman, saw that the vases were genuine, and offered him a thousand pounds. the offer was refused and crampy went away, beaten on the first round. his next step was to send the idle gentleman a list of collectors who could be trusted; and this was followed by a visit from an american millionaire, josiah p. jenkins, who in his own domestic circle was generally known as bill sawdye." percy forgot himself and swore. "the story is not very clear at this point, but it appears bill sawdye was a sort of handyman employed by crampy for dirty little jobs like this. he offered the idle gentleman two thousand pounds for the vases. this was accepted, bill paid the money, and took the things away." "i don't want to hear any more," muttered percy, gulping like a fish. "but i must have the satisfaction of showing you how well up i am in the latest criminal news," said nellie. "next day bill sent back the vases, swearing they were forgeries, and assuring him crampy was the last hope. the idle gentleman communicated at once with crampy, agreeing to accept his offer. crampy paid the thousand pounds and went off with the vases. he sold them for five thousand, and that left four thousand to be divided between the wicked cousin and himself. it was understood that crampy should pay bill and all expenses. these two scoundrels expect to live happily ever after, but i'm sure they won't," concluded nellie. "i was a fool to have kept crampy's letter. but what right had you to take it out of my pocketbook and read it?" growled percy. "i told you i never looked inside your pocketbook, but you left it unfastened, and there was a good deal of wind in the night. this morning, when i went out to pick sweet-peas, i saw a letter blown against the sticks. i glanced at it out of ordinary curiosity, i read on out of interest, and i finished it out of duty." "now you can hand it over," said percy sulkily. "i intend to keep it for the present. i may even have to send it on to mr. george." "he can't do anything. it was a trick, but a perfectly straightforward business trick. crampy made an offer, and he accepted it." "mr. george is a stronger man than you, though he does pretend to have a weak back. if he knew about this, and could get at you, i believe he would break your head. he would write to hunter anyhow, tell miss lee and all her family--" "do you know his address?" "yes, and i can bring him here tomorrow; and i will too, if you refuse to make over the furniture to miss sophy. that is only fair, as she has paid for it." "if i consent to make my aunt a present of the furniture?" suggested percy. "then i promise not to mention the matter to mr. george." "all right. i'll tell hunter to draw up a deed of gift. of course you understand it would be useless telling george, as he cannot recover the vases or make any claim against me?" "then why are you clearing out of the country?" "the soil of tasmania is said to be ideal for--" "fugitives from justice," finished nellie. "emmie, my darling," said percy, a few minutes after this interview, "i feel quite certain there is something wrong with the drains. i shall tell aunt we are leaving in the morning." "percy is so wonderfully unselfish," said miss yard to nellie that evening. "he has made me a present of all the furniture; and tomorrow he is going to find me a new home." chapter xv a new house and the same old furniture miss yard became uncontrollable, almost dangerous, when percy wrote informing her he had discovered a house situated upon high ground, quite fifty feet above the meadows through which the drivel percolated. the garden soil was a singularly fertile gravel; the view, which was monotonous, consisting chiefly of mole heaps, was fortunately blotted out by lichened apple trees; while the principal reception room had been designed, in his opinion, with a view to knitting parties; and a retired archdeacon had quite recently passed away in the best bedroom. the old lady craved for drivelford delights every hour of the day. she escaped constantly from the garden to begin the first of the hundred miles which separated her from such a respectable abode. when imprisoned in the parlour, she wrote a quantity of letters to old friends, most of whom had travelled far outside the radius of the postal union, inviting them to her first tea party at the lodge, drivelford. the name of the house was really wistaria lodge; but percy had recommended the shorter form as less of a committal. "percy must live with us; he will enjoy the river. don't you remember the gentlemen, in long coats and round hats, who used to sit all day smoking and tasting something out of jars? percy would like that," she said merrily. "mr. taverner is now a married man, and by this time he is a thousand miles away. i suppose you are referring to mr. george," said nellie. "of course i mean george. why don't you listen, child? he can sit by the river with the rest of the gentlemen. he can hand round the cakes, and talk to the ladies. give nice things, and say nice things. i wonder if somebody told me that, or whether i invented it. i used to be clever once; twenty years ago i could have told you what wistaria meant." "it's a creeper," explained nellie. "but mr. taverner as good as says there isn't one." "i'm glad of that. i do not like creeping things. now i'm going to write to george. my memory is wonderfully good today, and yet i cannot remember the name of the lady he married." "my memory is better than yours, but i cannot remember it either," laughed nellie. "when mr. george marries, i shall expect to hear your banns read out." "i could have married once," declared miss yard. "he was a curate with such a funny face, and his nose was just like a cork." "why didn't you?" asked nellie. "i think there was some impediment. i rather fancy he took to comic songs, or perhaps he forgot to mention the matter. why did george go away, if he never means to get married?" "that's a long story, which i cannot tell you now, as i must get on with the packing. don't you write to mr. george. leave that to me." "he is coming with us," cried miss yard. "he is not," said nellie. she went out, locking the door lest miss yard should commence one of her perambulations towards drivelford, murmuring to herself: "kezia goes with us, so there will be no trouble with her; but bessie, of course, stays with her husband. whatever will she and robert say--and do--when we begin to move the furniture? george must come back. he's pretty artful, and perhaps he'll suggest a plan." the artfulness of george was a thing to be reckoned with, so, when nellie wrote, she did not mention that the furniture was now the legal property of miss yard; but merely informed him they were leaving highfield, and requested him to return as soon as possible. she had hardly finished this letter when kezia entered the room, seated herself in the most comfortable chair, as prospective mistress of all she surveyed, and announced her intention of getting to the bottom of everything. "i don't know what's going on, but there's something being kept back what i have a right to know. who stole my things, miss nellie? who come into this house, when me and bess wur sitting in the kitchen, and took my musical box, and my silver candlesticks, what dear mrs. drake left me--snatched 'em out of my hand, as you might say? mr. george had gone away, so it couldn't be him. it warn't nobody here. it warn't the brocks, they ses. that musical box wur so heavy the dear captain couldn't lift it without saying something mrs. drake wur sorry vor. and it went off avore my face as if 'twur smoke." "i'm just as much puzzled as you," said nellie. "perhaps the policeman will tell us all about it when he comes home." "i've got a fancy he took the things himself. he's got a way of hanging about after dark what i don't like," said kezia. "i ha' never trusted policeman, since one kissed me when i was a young gal. 'twas ten o'clock at night, and i wur standing by the gate--and then he begged my pardon, said he'd mistook the house, and 'twas the gal next door he meant to kiss. you can't trust them, miss. they ses he's gone to run in a farmer whose place got burnt down, but it's my belief he's gone to sell my candlesticks." "you mustn't say such things," cried nellie. "and what's all this about going away? mr. percy come here, and i heard 'en tell about finding a house, and miss sophy does nought 'cept worry about packing and getting off, and her talks all day about a place called drivelford. nobody tells me nothing about it." "miss sophy has told you a great deal." "i don't pay no attention to what she ses. mrs. drake said miss sophy wur to die here, and be put away in highfield churchyard, and nothing was to be touched in her lifetime." "but surely miss sophy can please herself!" "mrs. drake said i wur to look after miss sophy," muttered kezia. "and so you shall. we are going away, as miss sophy really ought to live in a place where she can see a few people. we have taken a house in drivelford, which is where she used to live, and we shall go there some time this month. kezia, i want you not to mention this to anyone, not even to bessie," said nellie impressively. "well, i never!" gasped kezia. "i fancied we should never be going away from here, and i don't think it's right. i'm sure mrs. drake wouldn't like it. what sort of a place is this drivelford?" "oh, it's quite a bright little town, and a lot of old people go there to live because the death rate is only seven and a half in a thousand." "what do that mean?" asked kezia. "statistics are beyond me, but i suppose if means that out of a thousand people only seven and a half die." "what happens to the old folk what don't die? how long do the person what half dies bide like that? do he get better or worse? how be us to know whether me, and you, and miss sophy, won't be among the seven? i can't sense the meaning of it." "it does seem rather hard to explain, especially as drivelford has the biggest cemetery i ever saw in my life. you will like the place, kezia. there are plenty of houses and rows of shops--one very big one, called field, stanley, and robinson, where you can buy anything." "i'd like to be among a few shops," said kezia more cheerfully. "ain't stanley the name of that dreadful woman what came to black anchor?" "i believe that was the name, but it is quite a common one. there are no stanleys in drivelford anyhow; but there are three churches and two chapels." "that'll keep us busy on sundays," said kezia delightedly. "and there's an electric theatre." "what's that?" asked kezia suspiciously. "a place where they show pictures." "i won't go there. i've heard a lot of loud talk about them places. i heard of a young woman who went into one, and was never seen again. that stanley woman came from an electric theatre, where there was singing and dancing and showing their legs, you may depend. ah, they'll be weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth some day. is there a dentist in drivelford?" "yes, and several undertakers, and a huge lunatic asylum," cried nellie. "well, perhaps it won't be so bad. there's nothing to cheer a body in highfield. i'll try to put up with it, vor the sake of dear mrs. drake. she said i wur never to leave miss sophy. poor bessie'll fret herself into a decline when she hears i'm agoing away vor ever." "mind you don't tell her. i know you two are great friends, but directly bessie hears we are going to move the furniture, she and robert will be over here claiming all sorts of things." "so they will," said kezia uneasily. "i don't mind about bessie--she's welcome to anything i don't want--but robert's been talking a bit too sharp lately. i can't lay a hand on anything in the kitchen without him saying it belongs to bessie, and telling me to be careful how i touches it." "if it comes to the worst, we might let them have the mummy. miss sophy doesn't really care for it," suggested nellie. "they ain't agoing to have he. i wouldn't part wi' the dear old stuffed gentleman, not vor fifty pounds," cried kezia. "oh dear!" sighed nellie. "i can see very well we are in for a battle--feather beds torn in pieces--carpets rent asunder--you and bessie tugging at opposite ends of mrs. drake's sofa. but suppose robert brings a crowd!" "i won't say a word," promised kezia, breathing heavily with excitement. "they shan't know we'm going vor ever till the vans come. i suppose us couldn't move the things on a dark night, same as they does in towns?" "right under bessie's window!" exclaimed nellie. "why, it will take them a whole day merely to pack the things." "robert won't let a thing be took. he ha' said so many a time. 'not a stick, kezia, is to go out of the house,' he says, 'unless i takes it.' whatever shall us do, miss nellie?" "we had better wait until mr. george comes. then, if he cannot suggest anything, i shall have to write and ask mr. hunter to come down and look after miss sophy's interests." "but the furniture don't belong to she," objected kezia. "at all events she has a life interest in it," nellie reminded her. "sure enough. mrs. drake said it wur to belong to miss sophy while she lived, but no longer. i suppose i'll have to see about letting the house now," kezia remarked, gazing yearningly at the oleographs. "i did think once of living here, when miss sophy wur took, but it's too big vor me, and i'd feel lonely here. besides, i wouldn't want to bring back the furniture. i ought to get thirty pounds vor it, and that's a nice bit coming in every year. perhaps i might sell it, but i fancy mrs. drake wouldn't like me to do that. what would you do, if the place wur yours, miss nellie--would you let or sell it?" the girl seized her letter and fled, being far too kindly a little coward to inform kezia that the house belonged to george. she looked into the parlour, where miss yard was singing away happily and, after bidding her to go on with her warbles for another ten minutes, she ran out of the house; but hardly had turned towards the post office when a voice called from the opposite direction. nellie turned, shading her eyes, seeing nothing at first because she was staring into the glow of the sunset; and then two figures advanced towards her--the policeman and george drake. "i was just going to post a letter to you. whatever has made you turn up again?" she cried. "the bad shilling has saved you a good penny stamp," replied george. "i seemed to have been away quite long enough and, as my lodgings were jolly dull, i decided to accept aunt sophy's invitation to live in my own house again. i ought never to have gone, for as soon as i was out of the house--what do you think the policeman has been telling me?" "about the robbery." "how that miserable robert stole my things, while bessie kept kezia in the kitchen." "that's right, miss. i guessed how it was at once, but couldn't say anything till i'd made sure. i was just coming to tell you when i met mr. drake," said the new sergeant, stroking his moustache complacently. "it doesn't pay to be a rascal here," said george. "this policeman has caught a farmer burning down his house, and robert making off with my property, within the last few days. i hope it won't be long before he gets a murder. i don't mind telling him to his face that he deserves a double murder and suicide." the constable expressed his gratitude for this unsolicited testimonial, and added, "mr. drake thinks, miss, i'd better not go any further in the matter, as there seems to be a sort of doubt as to who owns the furniture." "there is no doubt whatever. i own the things, and i'll see about getting them back without troubling you," said george. "right, sir!" then the policeman bade them good evening and went his way. immediately they were alone, george burst out excitedly, "nellie, there's another girl!" "in your case? well, nobody's jealous," she replied. "a prettier one than ever, but very young, in short skirts, with her hair down, and her name's teenie," he continued, without even hearing her comment. "i think you've come back perfectly crazy," observed nellie. "if you don't believe me, you can just go to black anchor and find out for yourself." "oh, you mean another girl there!" she exclaimed, flushing angrily, and adding, "i don't want to hear any more--but how do you know?" "she travelled in the same carriage with me, and i thought what a dear--i mean passable little thing she was. directly the train stopped i saw sidney, and he called out, 'here i am, teenie darling!' and the little girl fairly shouted, 'oh, sidney dear, how brown you are!' then she jumped out, and they kissed and hugged. i never saw anything more disgraceful in my life. i sat back in the carriage so that sidney shouldn't see me. i suppose they have driven through the village by this time, unless they have the decency to wait until it's dark." "where's your luggage?" asked nellie rather sharply, but determined to change the subject. "first the painted lady, then dolly, now teenie! thirty, then twenty, and now fourteen! the next will be twelve, and after that they'll be coming in perambulators. my word, young sidney is a patriarch!" "hold your tongue," cried nellie, more sharply than she had ever spoken in her life. "i'm sorry, but my feelings ran away with me--she was such a pretty youngster--but of course it's fearfully sad. i had to walk from the station, as i couldn't get a conveyance: the carrier can fetch my box. what's the news? has percy been?" "he came, saw me, and fled," replied the girl more amiably. "i knew he was a coward, but i didn't suppose you could frighten any one." "he wanted miss sophy to buy the furniture. i told him it was hers already. he blustered and threatened; i stood like a tor. he was so rude that i lost my temper; and when i am angry i can frighten anyone. he yielded and ran. the news," continued nellie, "is that we are going to run too." "for a change of air. i'll come with you." "a permanent change. we are going back to drivelford. the house is taken, and the problem before me is how to move the furniture." "so you wrote asking me to come back and do the dirty work?" "if you like to put it that way." "aunt sophy has no right to leave without giving notice. she is my tenant for life. if she breaks her contract i shall claim the furniture--it is mine really, as percy didn't give me a fair price, and now he's gone to tasmania he can't interfere. i have always regarded the furniture as belonging to me in spite of percy's interference. of course, when i say to me, i mean to us." "don't worry," she said. "mr. taverner has signed a deed of gift making over everything in the house to miss sophy; and, as she has signed a will in my favour, the furniture should come to me eventually--if kezia and the mudges don't grab it all." "so you made percy give my furniture to aunt sophy. percy, who has never given away anything in his life except a bad cigar!" "marriage has improved him." "he wasn't married when he came here." "he was on the brink. i persuaded him that, as miss sophy had paid for the things, she ought to have them." "that argument would simply slide off his back. you said he threatened you, and, from what i know of him, it's fairly certain that he swore at you. is it likely he would threaten one moment, and give way the next? his young woman may have changed his vile nature--i hope she has--but you can't reform the stripes off a zebra. you found out something about him--you made him confess how he got hold of that money he wrote telling us about, and why he was clearing out of the country. he has defrauded the yard estate, and hunter helped him. the next thing we shall hear is that hunter has gone to study the business habits and professional morals of the esquimaux. out with it, nellie, or i shall suffer from a horrible suspicion that percy has squared you." "i have spoken nothing but the truth, and you won't squeeze anything more out of me," she said. "when a fellow stays in lodgings," said george, "he must either read novels or go mad. i have been reading a quantity of novels, and they convinced me that women are deceitful beings." "they have to protect themselves against the perfidy of men," cried nellie. "remember poor innocent adam! he was all right as long as he was engaged to eve; but what happened when he married her?" "it's a shame that story was ever invented." "he wouldn't have eaten the apples; peaches and bananas were good enough for him," george continued. "but the serpent started it, and the serpent was the devil in disguise, and the devil is a fallen angel, and all angels, as you told me once, are gentlemen. so the male sex is the most deceitful after all." "why can't you stick to the subject?" said george sourly. "certainly," laughed nellie. "this business about the furniture must be settled finally one way or the other. are the mudges to have anything, and, if not, how are they to be prevented from taking just what they want?" "robert and bessie are not to take a stick from the house, or a stone from the garden; and they must give back the things they have stolen," replied george. "are those scraps of paper worth anything at all?" she demanded. "they are as useless as agreements between nations." "then why don't you tell kezia?" "because the law is so slippery." "that means you are not certain." "i am quite positive; but how can i be responsible for judicial errors? kezia may put her case into the hands of some shady lawyer--worse even than hunter--and some stupid court may make a mistake in her favour. kezia is going with you, so there will be no trouble with her while aunt sophy lives." "but it's not fair to keep her in ignorance." "it's supposed to be a state of bliss." "oh, i can't argue with you. will you answer one question properly?" "i'll try," said george. "how are we to rescue the furniture from the mudges?" "if they don't know you are going to move, and have no suspicions," began george. "they have none," said nellie. "and are not told." "they won't be." "then you can leave it to me," said george. chapter xvi george takes control miss yard shuffled contentedly downstairs, nicely dressed for her evening meal, which usually consisted of thin soup, a milk pudding, and boiling water; peeped into the parlour, drew a deep breath and peeped again, uttered a few exclamations, then shuffled back to the stairs, called nellie, and announced: "there's a great big man in the house!" "it's only old george," whispered the irreverent girl. "i don't know anybody of that name; but there used to be several king georges, and they were followed by william, and then came our dear good victoria, who was taken in the prime of life just when she seemed to have settled down, and after that i don't remember anything," said miss yard. "george is the name of our present king--and of about ninety per cent, of his loyal subjects," said nellie. "what's he doing here? this isn't windsor castle," stammered miss yard. "has he called for a subscription? gentlemen who come here always want subscriptions. does he want to hide? i do hope there's not a revolution. go and show him into a cupboard, nellie, and tell him how loyal we are." "my dear lady," laughed nellie, "you are clean muddled, confoozled, and astern of the times. this gentleman is your much respected relative, george drake." "why couldn't you say so at once, without talking a lot of wicked rubbish about a revolution and the royal family hiding on dartmoor?" demanded miss yard snappishly. "of all the injustice!" sighed nellie; but the old lady had left her. toddling at full speed into the parlour, she embraced george, and said how well she remembered him, though twenty years had passed since they had met. "i knew you at once, directly i looked into the room i recognised your stooping shoulders and your bald head," she added, looking at a portrait on the wall and describing that accurately. "nellie couldn't make you out at all," she continued, "but then she was a baby when you went away. nellie, dear, where are you? come and be kissed by your uncle. i told you he would come back some day." "the soup is on the table," cried nellie as she fled. the mind of miss yard roamed in a free and happy state about the nineteenth century, enabling her, during the progress of a meal, to pass through a number of different periods. while taking her soup and sipping her boiling water, she informed the others that the first railway had recently been constructed, and it ran between highfield and drivelford, and for her part she was very glad of it, as she thought it was quite time the coaches were done away with, and she fully intended travelling by the railway if mr. stephenson would let her. "whoever is stephenson?" inquired george, who ought to have known better. "it's wonderful what things she does remember," replied nellie. "she would forget me if i left her tomorrow; yet she can remember the man who invented railways." "i think you had better go tomorrow," said george, taking the cue. "yes, i should like to be one of the first," miss yard admitted. "why have you put that idea into her head? it may stick, and then she'll drive me crazy," scolded nellie; it being perfectly safe to speak openly before the old lady. "send her off with kezia at once," urged george. "i must go with her." "then take kezia too. if she stays she will split to bessie. even if she tries her hardest not to, she won't be able to help herself. you can't keep anything a secret for long in a place like this. you clear off, and i'll go into lodgings--and read more novels." "won't that look queer?" "it would if kezia stayed: it won't if she goes. i can't put up here with nobody to look after me." "and you will undertake to move the furniture?" "i will," he promised. "very well," she murmured after a pause. "we can't possibly get away tomorrow, as it will take me a day to pack; but we will go the day after." "oh, well, it's no good bothering now," said miss yard in a voice of bitter resignation, pushing back her plate and kicking at her footstool. "they've started without us." george occupied his old bedroom, positively for the last time, and in the morning went out to wrestle with his difficulties. his reception by the villagers was colder than ever because, during his absence, the dismal gibcat had made a speech directed mainly against the man who had dared to interfere with local progress. the dismal gibcat preferred to be in a minority of one, but such was his gift of eloquence that a single speech sometimes swung the majority over to his side; which was an embarrassing position only to be escaped from by repudiating his former opinions. this speech had done its work, as george was presently to discover when the dumpy philosopher and the wallower in wealth approached him with questions concerning the dartmoor railway company. "that scheme is done for. it was one of my uncle's bubbles, but i have pricked it," he replied, groping his way back to popularity. "us wur told a lot of american gentlemen wanted to build the railway wi' something they called a syndicate," said the wallower in wealth. "i told 'em the country is hardly flat enough," said george. "it wur flat enough vor captain drake, and it wur flat enough vor you when you fetched that millionaire down along to look at it," said the dumpy philosopher. "that's all a mistake. mr. jenkins came here to buy a pair of vases," said george, speaking the truth with disastrous results; for the two elders were not quite such fools as to believe a gentleman would travel from london to highfield for the sake of purchasing a shilling's worth of crockery. "they'm out o' cloam in london, i fancy," remarked the wallower in wealth. "and in america," added the dumpy philosopher. "mr. jenkins is a collector of vases," explained george. "he never come to look at mine. there's a proper lot o' cloam in highfield, and he didn't crave to see it. us ha' heard he come to build the railway, and you stopped him from adoing it." "well, perhaps i did," replied george, trying to score a point by lying. "i know you are all against the scheme." "us wur agin it very strong, because it had never been properly explained," said the wallower in wealth. "us hadn't been told they meant to put a terminus in highfield. i ha' been to terminuses. 'tis places where trains start from." "and where 'em pulls up," added the dumpy philosopher. "where they starts from and where they pulls up again. it don't make no difference. i ha' started from terminuses, and i ha' stopped in 'em, so i knows what i'm telling about. a terminus brings a lot of money into a place. when they makes a terminus a town is soon built all round it. there's one or two in highfield who ha' seen waterloo, and that's a terminus. and they ses 'tis wonderful what a big town ha' been built all round it. a hundred years ago it wur just a ploughed field, where that tremenjus big battle was fought what made us all free volk vor ever; and now 'tis all terminus as far as you can see. that american gentleman come here wi' his syndicate...." "'tis something vor levelling the ground, i fancy," said the dumpy philosopher, when his colleague paused. "he would ha' levelled the ground as flat as your hand, and made the terminus; and we would ha' sold our land vor what us like to ask. now you've ruined us, sir. you ha' stopped the terminus--and you stole my musical box," said the wallower in wealth, combining his grievances in one brief indictment. "you're talking like a child. how can i steal my own property?" cried george angrily. "mrs. drake left all your furniture to kezia," shouted the wallower in wealth. "and the rest of it to bessie," added the dumpy philosopher. "they ha' got paper to prove it, robert ses." "why did you offer me money for the musical box, then?" asked george. "to try your honesty," replied the wallower in wealth. "and you warn't honest. you wouldn't take my money because it warn't big enough. then you go and steal the musical box, wi' a lot of other things, from kezia." "and from bessie mudge," added the dumpy philosopher. "and if you don't get sent to prison--" "it won't be for the same reason that you aren't put away in a lunatic asylum," george finished; wondering, as he went on to engage a lodging, how it was his uncle had succeeded in ruling this community of wranglers. a devout widow let religious rooms opposite the churchyard: they were religious because tables were piled with theological tomes, and walls were covered by black and white memorial cards, comforting texts, and discomposing pictures of biblical tragedies in yellow and scarlet which helped to warm the house in chilly weather. towards this dwelling george made his way, knowing the importance of being respectable, although he could not help feeling he had done nothing to deserve those pictures. but presently he swung round, and went off in the opposite direction. an idea had come to him: he remembered the art dyers. that name described a married couple; not a business of giving a new colour to old garments; but the vocation of bread baking, cake making, and specialising in doughnuts. arthur dyer was the stingiest man in highfield; he gave away no crumbs of any kind; had any one asked a stone of him, he would have refused it, but would assuredly have put that stone into his oven and baked it, hoping to see some gold run out. he went to church once a week, no entrance fee being demanded, and always put two fingers into the offertory bag, but whether he put anything else was doubtful. he was also robert's employer. mrs. dyer had learnt in the school of her husband until she was able to give him lectures in economy; and in times past she had implored george, out of his charity, to drive the wolf from their door by finding her a lodger. "she will ask a stiff price, and i shall get nothing to eat except bread puddings," he muttered, "but the game will be worth starvation." george might also have remarked with poetic melancholy he had lived to receive his warmest welcome in a lodging house, when mrs. dyer had taken him in, showed him a bed, certain to be well aired as it stood above the oven, and promised to be much more than an ordinary mother in her attentions. the rooms appeared somewhat barren, but the air was excellent, being impregnated with an odour of hot fat which was a dinner in itself, and might very possibly be charged as one. a slight difficulty arose regarding terms, owing to a sudden increase in the price of commodities and a shortage of domestic labour. everything had got so dear mrs. dyer could not understand how people lived: it seemed almost wicked of them to make the attempt, but then a funeral had got to be such a luxury it was perhaps cheaper to struggle on. that was what she and her husband were doing from day to day, with everything going up except their income. luckily they were still able to sell a few doughnuts: people insisted upon them for their tea. the local doctor spoke highly of them, and most of the babies in the parish were brought up on their doughnuts, with a little beer occasionally--the doctor said it helped. after sleeping in that atmosphere mr. drake would find one good meal a day--a chop followed by bread-and-butter pudding--would be almost more than he could manage. she did not want to make a profit, but if he could pay five shillings a day, she thought with careful management she might not lose much. this matter arranged, george returned to windward house, where the packers were as busy as a hen with one chicken. miss yard, feeling she must be doing something, was pinning sheets of newspaper round the mummy. bessie was hindering kezia from filling all manner of cases with various ornaments and photographs, which it was the custom to take away for the annual outing, although they were never removed from the boxes. bessie felt uncomfortable, as it appeared to her kezia was dismantling the place. "you don't want to take all them pictures," she said at last. "i'd feel lonely without 'em," explained kezia. "you never took 'em last time you went to the seaside. you'm not going to be away more than two weeks." "miss sophy might fancy to be away a bit longer. i do like to have my little bits o' things round me, wherever i be." "what's the name of the place you'm going to?" "miss nellie will tell ye. 'tis worry enough vor me to get ready without bothering where we'm going," replied the harassed kezia. "miss sophy ses 'tis drivelford." "'tis something like that, i fancy," admitted kezia, beginning to break down under cross-examination. "that's where miss sophy come from. it ain't seaside." "a river ain't far off," kezia muttered. george had arrived and, hearing these voices, he tramped upstairs to save the situation. "they are going to drivelmouth," he said. "i fancied miss nellie said drivelford," remarked the futile kezia. "i know she did, and that's where miss sophy come from. why does she want to go back there again?" bessie inquired warmly. "you ought to know by this time it's no use attending to what miss yard says. drivelford is quite a different place from drivelmouth, which happens to be on the sea just where that beautiful river, the drivel, runs into it. there's a splendid sandy beach--and it's quite a new place they've just discovered," explained george. "seems funny, if 'twas there, they never found it avore," said the suspicious bessie. "it has just become popular. it was a little fishing village, and now they are making roads and building houses because doctors have discovered there's something in the air," george continued. "that's what miss nellie told me. there's an amazing big cemetery, and 'tis a wonderful healthy place," said kezia. "you see, doctors recommend the place so highly that old people go there and die. that accounts for the cemetery, which is not really a local affair, for drivelmouth is the healthiest place in england," said george. "miss nellie ses there be a thousand volks, and seven be took, and one gets paralytics," commented kezia. "drivelmouth is a great place for general paralysis. the paralytics are wheeled up and down the front all day. people go there just to see them," said george recklessly. "wish i wur going," bessie murmured. "surely you are not going to take all those things!" george exclaimed, indicating a teaset, dinner service, and a quantity of art pottery. "that's what i tells her. she don't want all them things away with her," cried bessie. "i don't like leaving them behind--wi' thieves breaking into the house to steal. i ha' lost enough already," said kezia plaintively. this was a fortunate remark, as it disconcerted bessie and put a stop to questions, while at the same time it removed her suspicions. it was not surprising that kezia should wish to take away as much treasure as possible. she would have done the same herself. still, she did not like to see that dinner service go out of the house. robert had been about to move that. "how long be 'em going away for, mr. george?" she asked presently, when kezia had gone to gather up more of her possessions. "that depends on the weather," came the diplomatic answer. packing continued steadily: boxes, crates, and hampers were piled up in the hall awaiting transport; kezia had been prevented from leaking; miss yard continually inquired whether the railway was quite finished. the calm of exhaustion prevailed, when there came a defiant knock upon the front door, and the bell rang like a fire alarm. "it must be a telegram," said george gravely. "i hope nothing has happened to mr. and mrs. taverner," said nellie. "why shouldn't something happen to them?" george muttered. "what do they say? is there any hope?" cried miss yard. "we don't know anything yet," replied nellie. "the railway has gone wrong. i was afraid it would--they were so venturesome. you were reading about letters coming without wires." "telegrams," corrected nellie, listening to the voices outside. "yes, the postmen are very wonderful. you said they were using the stuff we eat in puddings, tapioca--or was it macaroni?" "you mean marconi wireless messages, aunt," said george. "i always mean what i say," replied the lady curtly. in the meantime kezia and bessie had advanced together, preparing themselves to face the police inspector, but hoping it would be nothing worse than the tax collector. bessie opened the door, while kezia sidled behind her. the next moment they both groaned with horror. "is miss blisland in?" asked a pert young voice. "she might be," replied bessie hoarsely. "ask her please if she'll come out and speak to me." "oh, my dear, shut the door and bolt it!" kezia whispered. this was done, and they presented themselves in the parlour with woeful faces. "it's her!" bessie announced. "she wants to see you. she's standing on our doorstep!" "who?" cried nellie. "the last of 'em--the one that come yesterday. she didn't tell us her name." "she's ashamed of it," said kezia. "perhaps mr. george'll go and send her off," suggested bessie. "who are you talking about?" asked nellie impatiently. "the wench from black anchor. she ain't no more than a child, but the way her stared on us wur awful." "sent a shiver through me--so bold and daring!" kezia added. "miss teenie, is it?" george muttered. "sit down, nellie; i'll go and talk to her." "i can do my own business, thanks," said nellie, going towards the door. "i'll come with you anyhow," he said. "you will do nothing of the kind," replied the young lady coldly. out she went, while miss yard stood trembling on the hearthrug, and bessie listened at the keyhole, and kezia sniffed beside the window. george was trying to persuade himself that no young woman would venture to trifle with his noble nature. "is it very bad?" asked miss yard. "yes, miss," replied bessie. "she's brought her in--she's taken her into the dining room--she's shut the door. oh, miss, they're laughing!" "i never did think miss nellie would go like this," kezia lamented. "she was here just now," said miss yard simply. "yes, miss, but she's gone now--gone to the bad." "what's it all about?" asked the old lady, appealing to george who seemed to be the only comforter. "i am sorry to say nellie has got into bad company--into the very worst company--and we shall have to be very stern with her." "yes, indeed we must, or she will lose all her money. i know what these companies are. i get a lot of circulars, and i always tell nellie she is to burn them," said miss yard in sore distress. "just listen to 'em talking!" cried bessie. "i can't abear much more," kezia wailed. the next minute miss yard was struggling towards the door, rejecting the advice of george, pushing aside the arms of bessie; declaring that nobody should prevent her from dragging nellie out of the pit of financial ruin. she stumbled across the hall, banged at the door of the dining room until it was opened to her; and then came silence, but presently the old lady's queer voice could be heard distinctly, and after that her bursts of merry laughter. miss yard had fallen into this very worst company herself. kezia and bessie crept silently toward the kitchen. the whole house was polluted. george searched for flies to kill. "oh, i say, what tons of luggage!" cried a childish voice. "yes, we are off first thing in the morning," said nellie; and then followed some whispering, with a few words breaking out here and there: "miss yard wants to be among her old friends again ... a great secret, you know" ... "of course i shan't tell anyone, but sidney will be" ... "i'm so sorry, but it can't be helped" ... "there's such a thing as the post" ... "good-bye! i'm so glad you came." the door shut, george jumped out of the window in time to see the young girl racing down the lane; then he returned to the house and asked sternly, "what's the meaning of this?" "really and truly i don't know," replied nellie. "but i am at least satisfied that highfield needs a missionary." "now you are shuffling. you invited that miserable little creature into my house, you encouraged her to cross my doorstep, i heard you laughing and talking as if you were enjoying yourself. you actually gave away the secret about drivelford. come outside!" said george, as if he meant to fight. "i mean you can't believe a word that highfield says," she explained, following obediently. "that little girl's as good as gold." "to begin with, who is she?" george demanded, scowling like the dismal gibcat. "that is more than i can tell you. she told me her name was christina--sometimes chrissie--but those who love her generally call her teenie." "what did she want?" "she invited me to tea at black anchor farm on sunday. she also promised to chaperon me." "the infamous urchin!" groaned george. "i should have gone," she said steadily. "then you must be altogether--absolutely wrong somewhere. go there to tea! sit opposite that wicked old man, beside that abandoned youth, and positively touching that shameless child who hasn't got a surname! after all that has passed between us, after all your promises to me, after all that i have done for you--all my kindness and self-sacrifice--you would drink tea out of their teapot, and let yourself be talked about as one of the young women of black anchor!" "my suspicions are not quite gone. but directly i saw little miss christina i knew the horrible things we have heard are all lies. she's a young lady. she goes to school at cheltenham." "that makes it worse. you know old brock--he's an ordinary labourer. while sidney is a common young fellow who can't even speak english. they are not fit to lick the polish off your shoes." "but then i don't want the polish licked off my shoes; it's enough trouble putting it on. i do not understand the brocks, and i can't imagine why miss teenie wouldn't tell me her whole name. if i could have gone to black anchor on sunday, i might have found out something." "these dollies and teenies, and painted females, are no relations of such common chaps. and i won't have you speaking to any of them." "really!" she murmured with great deliberation. "no, i won't; and they are not to write either--i heard something about the post. just suppose you had thrown yourself away utterly, suppose you had lowered yourself so fearfully as to have got engaged to this sidney instead of to a christian gentleman--how awful it would have been!" nellie changed colour and gazed significantly at her left hand, which was unadorned by any lover's circlet. "you would not only have lost me, which would have been bad enough, but i should have lost the furniture, all my dear uncle's precious antiquities and priceless curios--" "which would have been far worse," she added. "it would have been dreadful. now i have secured all the furniture to you--" "i did that for myself; i got it from mr. taverner," she interrupted. "but i advised aunt sophy to make her will. of course i was thinking of myself--we must do that sometimes--but i was quite unselfish in the matter. i knew if the furniture was left to you, it would be the same as--as--" "be careful, or you'll spoil the unselfishness," she broke in gently. "things have come to a head now," george continued. "you are going away tomorrow, and, of course, you will never see these horrible people again. we must do something, nellie--we must be reckless, as we are both getting on in life. this is the third of september, and i do think before the month is out we ought to--i mean something should be done. shall we settle on the last day of the month? i have quite made up my mind to live with aunt sophy; it will be good for her, and cheap for us." "this is what the americans call a proposition," she murmured. "then when she dies, there will be the furniture all round us. and kezia can go on living with us, imagining that the furniture is hers, until she too departs in peace. we can teach aunt sophy how to save money, and show her how to invest it for our benefit. it looks to me as if we'd got the future ready-made." "is there anything very serious in all this?" she asked. "well, it's not like a bad illness, or any great disaster. it's comfort, happiness, all that sort of thing. when we are in for a jolly good time, we don't regard that as serious." "but what is to happen on the last day of the month?" "it has just occurred to me we might do the right thing--obviously the right thing. don't you think so, nellie? what's the good of waiting, and wearing ourselves out with ceaseless labour? on the thirty-first of this month, the last of summer, let us make the plunge." "do you mean it?" she asked, with a queer little laugh, which was perhaps a trifle spiteful; but then the lover was so very callous. "i have thought over it a great many times, and i've always arrived at the same conclusion." "but what do you want me to do on the thirty-first?" "to go to church." "i go every sunday." "for a special purpose." "i always have one." "to hear the service read." "will that make any difference to me?" "why, of course it will." "it will change my present b. into a lifelong d.?" "that's a very artistic way of putting it," said george, rubbing his hands. "on the thirty-first?" "it will suit me nicely." "for the sake of peace and quietness i agree. but i want you to promise one thing--don't waste money over an engagement-ring; as, if you do, i won't wear it." "that's a splendid idea! but all the same, nellie, i should never have thought of going to any expense." "you are so economical. it's the one thing i like about you." "and the one thing i like about you," said george, not to be outdone in compliments, "is your willingness to listen to good advice." they parted, with quite a friendly handshake. george went to his bed, and was baked so soundly above the oven that, before he reached windward house the following morning, miss yard and her attendants had departed. chapter xvii ploughing the ground kezia had locked up the house and given to bessie possession of the keys; because she had always been left in charge when the family departed to the seaside, having received her commission as holder of the keys from captain drake himself in the days when she was growing. now there was a husband in command, and one who held decided views regarding property. robert expressed his willingness to undertake the duties of custodian; but, in order that the work might be performed efficiently, he proposed to bessie that they should close their own cottage and retire into luxurious residence across the road. so when george called at his own house, which was occupied by caretakers he had not appointed, the doors were locked against him. he was not refused admittance, as that might have looked like an unfriendly act; his presence was simply ignored. robert, smoking in the parlour, with his feet upon the sofa, heard the knocking; but he struck another match and smiled. bessie, who was preparing the best bedroom, heard the ringing; but she peeped behind the curtain and muttered, "can't have him in here taking things." george retired to his lodgings and stared at the framed advertisements, until he heard dyer singing as he scoured the oven. the baker had been heard to declare that, if he had not known how to sing, he would have lost his senses long ago owing to the fightings and despondings which beset him. as a matter of fact he did not know how to sing, and those who listened were far more likely to lose their senses. george descended, assured dyer it was a sin to bake bread with a voice like that, and went on to inquire affectionately after the business. "going from bad to worse, sir," came the answer. dyer was more than a pessimist; he was not content merely to look on the dark side of things, but associated himself with every bit of shadow he could find. "i don't see how that can be. people may give up meat, they may reduce their clothing; but they must have bread," replied george. "but they don't want nearly so much as they used to," said dyer bitterly, "and they looks at anything nowadays avore they takes it. when i started business a healthy working man would finish off two loaves a day; and one's as much as he can manage now. the human race ain't improving, sir; 'tis dying out, i fancy. they used to be thankful vor anything i sold 'em, but now if they finds a button, or a beetle, or a dead mouse in the bread--and the dough will fall over on the floor sometimes--they sends the loaf back and asks vor another gratis. and the population is dwindling away to nought." "according to the census--" began george. "don't you believe in censuses," cried the horrified dyer. "that's dirty work, sir. government has a hand in that. if me and you wur the only two left in highfield parish, they'd put us down, sir, as four hundred souls." "you have a big sale for your cakes and doughnuts," george suggested. "i loses on 'em," said the dreary dyer. "then why do you make them?" "i suppose, sir, 'tis a habit i've got into." "my uncle used to say he had never tasted better cakes than yours." "captain drake was a gentleman, sir. his appetite belonged to the old school what be passed away vor ever. when he wur alive i could almost make both ends meet. but he gave me a nasty fright once, when he got telling about a tree what grows abroad--bread tree he called it. told me volks planted it in their gardens, and picked the loaves off as they wanted 'em. 'twas a great relief to my mind when he said the tree wouldn't be a commercial success in this country because the sun ain't hot enough to bake the bread. talking about gentlemen, sir, what do you think of the brocks?" "a bad lot," said george, wagging his head. "sure enough! they make their own bread," whispered the baker. "i didn't know they went so far as that," replied the properly horrified george. "some volks stick at nothing. but is it fair, sir? how be struggling tradesmen to escape ruin when volks break the law--" "it's not illegal." "there's government again! i tell ye how 'tis, sir, government means to get rid of me, though i never done anything worse than stop my ears when parson prays vor parliament. i hates government, sir, and i do wish it wur possible to vote against both parties. if i wur to make my own tobacco, or vizzy wine such as rich volk drink at funerals, they'd put me away in prison. why ain't it illegal vor volks to make their own bread? i'll tell ye why, sir: 'tis because government means to do away wi' bakers. they ha' been telling a lot lately about encouraging home industries, and that's how they stir up volks to ruin we tradesmen by making all they want at home." "you are not ruined yet. robert declares you are the richest man in highfield--not that i believe much he says," george remarked, settling down to business. "quite right, sir. i ha' learned robert to bake, but i can't prevent him from talking childish. he'd like to see me out of the business, so that he could slip into the ruins of it. when he sees i'm the richest man in the village he means the poorest. 'tis just a contrairy way of talking. captain drake often looked in to tell wi' me--out of gratitude vor my doughnuts what helped him to sleep, he said--'twur avore he died so sharp like." "i guessed as much," said george. "and he used to tell me, if you wanted to make a man real angry you had only to say the opposite of what you meant in the most polite language you could find. he told robert the like, i fancy." "my uncle generally found the soft answer a success," said george. "he told me once how another captain once called him 'a bullying old scoundrel with a face like a lobster-salad,' and he replied, 'you're a ewe-lamb.' the other man got madder than ever though, as my uncle said, you can't find anything much softer than a ewe-lamb. but robert isn't always calling you a rich man. he's in our kitchen every evening, and he talks pretty freely when he has a drop of cocoa in him." "he ain't got nothing against me. me and the missus ha' been a father to him," said the baker, with suspicious alacrity. "he thinks he has a grievance." "then i suppose he's still worrying over his honeymoon. a man what's been married years and years ought to be thinking of his future state and his old-age pension. he might as well be asking vor his childhood back again." "he says you cheated him out of his honeymoon," said george, who knew the story: how dyer's wedding present to his assistant had been leave of absence, without pay, from saturday to monday; coupled with a promise of a week's holiday, with half pay, at some future date when business might be slack; which promise belonged to that fragile order of assurances declaimed so loudly at election time. "'tis a lot too late now," said the baker. "i suppose a deferred honeymoon is better than none at all," george remarked. "anyhow, robert and his wife are grumbling a good bit and, as i'm staying here, they asked me to remind you of your promise, business being very slack at present." "i ha' never known it to be anything else, but 'tis funny it should be picking up a little just now. i got a big order vor cakes this morning, as there's a school treat next week. me and robert will be kept very busy all this month--but it's a losing business. there's no profit in cakes, nor yet in bread. there used to be a profit in doughnuts, but that's gone now." the cautious george said no more, being content with the knowledge that he had given dyer something to worry about. the baker would certainly not mention the matter so long as robert kept silent; and robert had probably forgotten all about the promise, although many months back george had overheard him assuring bessie it would be time to think of a new dress when master's wedding present came along. "one thing is certain: nobody can get the better of me," george chuckled as he left the bakehouse. "i beat hunter at his own game, i diddled crampy in his, i scared percy out of the country--at least that's my belief--and now i'm going to make old dyer set a trap to catch the furniture snatchers." the mudges, unsuspecting treachery, were glittering like two stars of fashion; robert lolling at ease in the parlour until bessie summoned him to supper in the dining room. if it was their duty to look after the house, it was also their pleasure to take care of themselves. they did not regard george as either friend or enemy; they despised and pitied a poor fellow who possessed no visible means of support, while attributing his presence in highfield to a cat-like habit of returning to a house which might have been his had he behaved with propriety. the only person they feared was kezia, who certainly did appear to have almost as much right to the captain's furniture as themselves. this suspicion was in robert's mind when, the shutters having been closed and the lamps lighted, he stood beside the round table upon which were spread various scraps of paper beginning to show signs of wear and tear. "if we takes all that mrs. drake sees we'm to have, what do kezia get?" he asked. "not much," replied bessie. "if kezia takes all the things mrs. drake said she could have, what do we get?" continued robert. "nought," said bessie. "when property be left this way, volks sometimes share and share alike; or they sells the stuff, and each takes half the money," continued robert. "kezia won't neither sell nor share. she'll bide quiet till miss sophy dies, and then she'll see a lawyer," declared bessie. "our bits o' paper are as gude as hers." "kezia would sooner lose everything than see us take any little old bit of stuff. she'm a spiteful toad." "the nicest thing we can do, bess, is to go on shifting, one bit now and agin. kezia won't notice nothing, if us takes 'em gradual." "where can us hide them?" asked bessie. "we can't put 'em over in the cottage. kezia ain't such a vule as you think. if i wur to take a kitchen spine she'd miss it." "she never found out about the last lot," robert reminded her. "policeman went away sudden and forgot to tell her. we'll have to shift those things, vor rainy weather'll be starting soon, and that musical box will spoil inside the peatstack." "i'll get 'em out avore they comes back home; i b'ain't ashamed of claiming what be rightly ours. i told policeman we'd took what belonged to us, and he said 'twas all right this time, but us mustn't do it too often. i'm going to shift a few more pieces across the way in a day or two." "best wait till miss sophy dies," said bessie nervously. "we'll let the big furniture bide till then. where's miss sophy going to be buried?" "somewhere in london, she ses. said she wouldn't be buried here if they paid her vor it." "that's got it!" cried robert. "when kezia goes to the funeral, i'll shift the furniture." "don't that seem like trying to get the better of her?" "ain't she trying to deprive us of our rightful property? don't she want to see me and you cut off wi' a fry pan? see what's wrote on this paper--'i want bessie to have all the furniture in the spare bedroom.' and on this one--'all the furniture in the dining room.' and on this here--'all the stuff in the kitchen.' ain't that clear?" "sure enough," said bessie. "then there's the house and garden; worth a thousand pounds, i reckon." "it seems as how mrs. drake never left the place to no one, unless it wur to miss sophy. but, i tell ye, kezia means to have it." "parson had best keep his eyes open, or she'll slip off wi' the church," said robert grimly. "if miss sophy ha' got it, 'tis only vor her life. she can't keep it afterwards," explained bessie. "so nellie can't get it, and mr. george ain't to have nothing, and i'll watch kezia don't have it, though i wouldn't mind letting her the attic where they keeps the boxes." "what about mr. percy!" "well, there! i never thought of him. but the house belonged to captain drake, and he didn't like mr. percy, so it don't seem right the place should go to him." "mr. george would know." "'tis him, i fancy, who's been knocking such a lot," said bessie. "go and let 'en in," directed robert. "he can't do us any harm, and he may do us a bit of gude." bessie obeyed, and george entered, beaming in the most sunny fashion, assuring the mudges he too had frequently been deluded into the belief that a loose branch had been tapping against the door, when in reality somebody was knocking and ringing. it was a mistake, he thought, to plant umbrageous perennials so close to the front doorstep, which had been nicely purified since miss teenie stood upon it. their plan of acting the part of caretakers with the thoroughness of ownership he commended highly; as, with autumn approaching, it was necessary to keep the house warm and the furniture dry; and the only satisfactory way of doing so was for robert to smoke his pipe in the parlour while bessie reclined upon the easy chairs which, he went on to suggest, would be her own some day. "us might as well take t'em now as wait vor 'em, robert ses," replied bessie, delighted at the geniality of her visitor. "won't you sit down, mr. george, and make yourself comfortable? i was surprised to hear you had gone to mrs. dyer's. i'd have asked ye to come here, if i'd known you wur going to stay." "thank you very much," said george simply. "i should have been far more comfortable here; but i am not making a long stay, and i felt sure you would be wanting to turn out these rooms." "kezia said you weren't coming back again," observed robert, hoping to obtain raw material for gossip. "what do she know?" snapped bessie. "nothing," replied george. "i had to come back on business in connection with the railway. you see, i'm civil engineer to the company, and i have to prepare a report." "they did say you had given up the railway," remarked bessie, beginning to understand the politeness of george's manner, although she did not know why engineers had to be more civil than other people. "that railway has been in the air a long time, but i shall never rest until i've made it," said george with energy. "everything is arranged now except a few preliminary details, such as issuing the prospectus, collecting the money, and obtaining of parliamentary powers. i have an idea of turning this garden into the terminus, and making the house the station. this will make a good waiting room, while the dining room can be converted into the booking office. the station-master and his family can live upstairs. i shall be station-master, as well as general manager." bessie gulped and robert whistled. "your cottage will do for a goods' station. i shall build a platform round it, put up a crane--" "what about the street?" cried robert. "i shall divert that, if necessary. if i find the church is in my way, it must come down." "but you won't start till miss sophy dies. mrs. drake said nothing wur to happen till miss sophy died," said bessie. "we can't possibly wait for her. we have got to make progress," replied george firmly. "what about mr. percy?" asked the crafty robert. "what has he got to do with our affairs?" "ain't he to have the house and garden?" "the whole of this property belongs to me, and miss sophy is my tenant," replied the far more crafty george; for this was the question he had been leading up to. "kezia won't have it anyhow," robert muttered with satisfaction, removing his boots from the sofa. he wanted to go out into the village and talk. "you never did tell us much about that paper what mrs. drake left vor you," said bessie reproachfully. "it was just an ordinary will, leaving me some money and the house. she couldn't deprive me of that, as the property belonged to my uncle, and he made her promise i should have it. if you don't believe me, you can ask miss blisland," george added lightly. "of course we believes you. i always thought it funny mrs. drake shouldn't have left you nothing," said bessie. "what do you think she meant to do about the furniture, sir?" asked robert boldly. "ah, that's a troublesome question," said george cautiously. "i fancy she meant to leave half to kezia and half to me; but she wur such a kind-hearted lady that she left all of it to both of us," observed bessie. "not all--tell the truth, bess. we ain't going to claim what don't belong to us. she never left you the carpet on the stairs, nor yet the old bed in the attic," said robert severely. "you can't be too honest in business, and that means, if you are too honest, some one else will get the better of you," said george. "if mrs. drake had left the furniture to mr. taverner and myself, as she has left it to kezia and you--" "what would you ha' done, sir?" asked robert eagerly. "i should have looked after my own interests," george answered, as he reached for his hat. the mudges escorted him to the door of his own house, and hoped he would look in any time he was passing. "it's right about the house," said robert, as he too reached for his hat. "and it's right about the railway. i know captain drake meant to build it; he talked a lot about it, and he brought gentlemen down to look round the place; they pretended to be fishing, but we knew what they wur up to. mr. george ain't clever like his uncle. he made a vule of hisself when he said the american gentleman come here to buy a pair of vases--all the way from america to buy a bit o' cloam! everybody knew he'd come about the railway. mr. george ain't clever--that's a sure thing. he can't talk so as to deceive a child. 'twas the american gentleman what put him up to the idea o' turning this house into the terminus. he would never ha' thought of it." chapter xviii sowing the seed next morning george invited the dreary dyer to step into the parlour with a view to continuing the diplomatic conversation commenced the previous day. the baker responded with a certain amount of trepidation, as he thought it possible mr. drake might desire to buy a share in the business, and he did not at all relish the idea of confessing that the profits were considerable. his relief, therefore, was only equalled by his amazement when george inquired: "did you ever buy a penny weekly journal, mr. dyer?" "never in my life, sir," replied the baker. "then you know nothing about picture puzzles?" "never heard of 'em avore, sir." "a penny weekly journal exists upon its picture puzzles," george continued. "the last time i went away i bought one of these papers. the competition interested me, as the pictures represented the names of certain railway stations, and that's a subject i know as much about as any man in england." "i don't know as i quite get your meaning," said the baker. "i'll explain. suppose the picture is intended to represent marylebone. you may be shown a drawing of a little girl eating a mutton chop. of course, you are expected to have some brains." "i wouldn't use mine vor such a purpose," said the baker somewhat sharply. "it's quite simple when you've got the trick. you have to assume the little girl's name is mary, and _le_ is french for the, and there's more bone than anything else in a mutton chop. well, i went in for this competition, and i've won second prize. i don't know why i didn't get the first, but perhaps that was suppressed for economic reasons." "i suppose it would be the same sort of thing as a flower show," suggested dyer. "i got second prize for carrots once. it should ha' been half a crown, but they ran short o' money, so i got only eighteen pence, and i never showed again." "my prize was worth winning," said george, who had really received a solatium of ten shillings. "it was fifty pounds." dyer repeated the amount, firstly as a shout of admiration, secondly as a whisper of covetousness; then he released all kinds of exclamations for some moments; and presently observed with emotion: "education does it, sir! if i could ha' gone to a big school, and to the university, i might ha' gone in vor them pictures too. little gal eating a mutton chop--well done, sir! they'm nought but bone as you ses. you found out her name wur mary, and you talked french, and you learned all about the railways. ah, that's wonderful! but i fancy, sir, you must ha' used a map." "i did it by skill entirely, but of course i had an advantage over my competitors owing to my connection with the railways. now you are wondering why i'm telling you this?" "we all knows you does business in railways," said dyer absently. "i find myself with a large sum of money, and i mean to make a good use of it. i propose spending the whole amount in giving happiness to others; but i want to do it unobtrusively. i intend to give a meat tea to the old folk of this parish, but i shall hand the money to the vicar and request him to keep my name out of it." "perhaps, sir, you'm a-paying vor the cakes ordered yesterday," cried dyer. "don't mention the matter," said george. "you can trust me, sir." "another thing i am anxious to do is to give the mudges a real good holiday. that's what i wanted to see you about, mr. dyer. i know you wish to keep your promise--about the wedding present, you know--but, of course, you can't afford it. my idea is to send them away for a week to the seaside. bessie served my uncle and aunt faithfully for a number of years, while robert was always ready to make himself useful in the house; but i've done nothing for either of them. we could give them the best week of their lives for five pounds." "did you say anything about me, sir?" asked the baker. "yes, because i felt sure you would insist upon contributing something, though i should like them to think the whole amount comes from you. suppose i give three pounds. you can make up the other two." "can't be done, sir. can't possibly be done. besides, sir, business is looking up, owing to your generosity, and i can't spare robert." "it will give you a splendid reputation for liberality. everybody in the parish will know you have given the mudges five pounds and a week's leave of absence." "i works vor my reputation, sir. two pounds would ruin me. i can't tell ye how bad things be; i'd be ashamed to speak the truth, sir; i don't hardly like to think on it. often, when missus fancies i'm asleep, she has a gude cry. she knows we can't pay five shillings in the pound if miller wur to call vor what us owes 'en." "i'll subscribe four pounds, if you will give the other," said george. "where would i get a pound from?" asked dyer, more drearily than ever. "i'd have to borrow, or sell the bed i tries to sleep on, but can't vor all the trouble. a sovereign, sir, is more to me than to any one else in this parish." "i've heard that before, and i believe it." "and it's the truth. twenty shillings might make the difference between pulling down the blinds today, or keeping 'em up till next week." "will you give ten shillings?" george inquired desperately. the baker shook his head like one in pain, muttering something about last straws and poor relief. "will you give anything?" "well, sir, to show my heart's in the right place i'll sacrifice a shilling. i'll grab it from the till when missus ain't looking." "here is the money," said george, counting out five sovereigns. "you had better see robert at once: tell him to get away tomorrow. this is september, and fine weather may break any day." such a rush of philanthropy numbed the baker's faculties; but even in that semi-paralysed condition he remained a man of business. his fingers closed upon the coins, his feet carried him to the door; then he turned back to face this benefactor, who was shedding sovereigns in the reckless fashion of a tree casting its autumnal leaves. the old folk were to be provided with a meat tea; the mudges were to be given a week at the seaside; the donor was to remain anonymous. dyer in all his dreariness could not understand why mr. drake should desire to benefit his fellow creatures at all; but, more than that, he was actually proposing to do good stealthily. where then was the advertisement? "it's a lot of money, sir. you could buy a bit of land vor this," he said at last. "i do not require any land," george answered. "you don't get any profit so far as i can see," the baker proceeded. "i am helping you to give robert and bessie the first real holiday they have ever known; i am enabling you to keep your promise; and i am enjoying the satisfaction of performing an unselfish action." "'tis there i'm beat. why don't ye give the money to robert, and tell 'en 'tis a present from me and you?" "i will, if you like, and tell him your share is one shilling." dyer again moved towards the door; but still he hesitated. "they could do it on less than five pounds, sir." "give them four, then, and keep the other sovereign for yourself," george replied, breaking out into bribery. "what about the shilling?" asked dyer eagerly. "i'll let you off that." the baker became a reformed character at once. he did not profess to understand mr. drake's extraordinary conduct, but he was quite willing to benefit by the eccentricities of any man. his meanness had become a by-word in the parish. now mr. drake was offering to purchase him a reputation for generosity, which was almost as good as an annuity, and was giving him a sovereign for himself. dyer was not the man to shrink from duty that was profitable. "you're the son of your uncle, sir," he said with feeling. "i have always set his example before me," replied george. "i'll spare robert a week from tomorrow. don't ye think, sir, four pounds are a bit too much?" "i couldn't let them do it on less," said george firmly. "and you don't want me to tell 'em part of the money comes from you?" "i want them to think you are keeping your promise." the baker retired, muttering, "he wants to get 'em out of highfield house vor certain. but that don't matter to me so long as i get my profit." george went for a long walk to refresh himself, not bothering about his popularity any longer, as he was contemplating an act which would make future residence in highfield impossible; but he met the wallower in wealth, who demanded his musical box; and the dumpy philosopher, who put searching questions concerning the railway and the amount of compensation for wounded feelings he was likely to receive; and the yellow leaf, who had just lost his wife and was going courting. returning, during the late afternoon, he stopped at his own house, knocked, but received no answer from that side of the street. bessie looked out from the cottage window opposite and invited him to step in that direction. "have ye heard the news, mr. george?" she whispered excitedly. "master ha' given robert three pounds and a week." "three pounds!" cried george fiercely. "us can't make any one believe it. three solid sovereigns, sir! robert ha' got teethache through biting 'em." "i am not surprised," said george. "dyer has been left a lot of money--he told me yesterday. an uncle, who went to new zealand years ago, has just died and left him thousands. he can buy up the whole village if he wants to." "master never told robert he'd been left money. he gave 'en the sovereigns and said 'twas a reward vor the way robert had worked. couldn't spare 'em, he said, but his conscience worried him. they do say the dyers ha' never given away anything avore 'cept the water what they boiled their cabbage in." "when are you off?" "first thing tomorrow. we'm going to my home, so it won't cost nothing 'cept the railway. i'm getting our things together now." "where's robert?" "going round wi' the bread--that's him a-whistling. he'm fair mazed, mr. george." "who is to take care of the house?" "i'll lock it up and take the keys away wi' me. why shouldn't us go? no one won't go near the house, wi' you and policeman about." "i think you ought to wait until miss yard comes back," said george, who knew enough about women to be aware how the spirit of opposition acts upon them. "and lose our holiday! the only real holiday we've had, and the chance to see my folks again. not likely, mr. george! if we don't go tomorrow, master will ask vor them three sovereigns back again. how did you manage to find out he'd been left all this money?" "i was talking with him yesterday and--it just slipped out. you will hear more when you come back." "i'll make robert ask 'en vor a rise. how long be you staying, mr. george?" "i might be here when you return or, on the other hand, i might go tomorrow. do you want me to take charge of the keys?" "somebody ought to go in and open the windows." "i don't mind doing you a favour. if i'm called away i will leave the keys with mrs. dyer." "not wi' she. leave 'em wi' mrs. cann to the post office. you come this evening, and i'll give ye the keys." "all right," said george. "but you know i don't approve of your going after having been left in charge." "if i don't go, robert will, and he ain't going home without me," said bessie. "i wouldn't like leaving if kezia wur here, vor i'd dread her selling some of my things; but robert ha' told the volks the house belongs to you, so there's no fear of any one breaking in, unless it be the brocks. policeman ha' promised to keep his eye on them." george went on to punish the baker, who had succeeded with grievous pangs in handing over three sovereigns, but had failed in his endeavour to part with the fourth. dyer affirmed robert had lied, by no means for the first time; but, when george threatened to call the mudges that they might give evidence upon oath, dyer admitted it was just possible the missing coin might have slipped through a hole in his pocket; so he called his wife to light a candle and to sweep the floor. the elusive piece of gold, however, had passed entirely out of vision, although neither of the dyers could feel surprised at that; the lady declaring it was wonderful how easily things lost themselves; while her husband said he had done nothing except drop money all his life. "very well, mrs. dyer," said george. "when you make up my bill for lodgings and bread puddings, just remember that you owe me a pound." "you wouldn't think of such a thing. you'm too much of a gentleman," cried mrs. dyer. "the missus fancies you meant it, sir. she ain't very humorous," explained the baker. george had a trick of nodding after supper, and that evening he did not wake until it was nearly time to sleep more seriously. remembering that bessie would be sitting up to surrender the keys, he hurried out; but when he entered windward house modestly by the back door--hoping to overhear some scraps of conversation--the house appeared deserted, until he pushed open the kitchen door, to discover the wallower in wealth sipping a cup of something hot beside the fire. "where are the mudges?" cried george. "where's my musical box?" retorted the man in possession. george had made a rule never to use bad language; by an exception then he proved the rule's existence. some men are frightened when sworn at because they never know what may come next; and the wallower in wealth belonged to that class. he sat silent and sulky, while george repeated his question with one more exception. "gone vor their holiday," came the answer. "i looked in to wish 'em gude-luck, and mrs. mudge asked me to bide till you come. keys be in the doors, i was to tell ye." "their train doesn't go till seven o'clock tomorrow morning." "postman told 'em there's an excursion up to london at eleven, so they reckoned they'd go part of the way in that, and get there quicker." "the fools!" cried george. "that train will take them in the very opposite direction." "they was a bit mazed. robert had begun to enjoy his holiday, and bessie wur trying to catch up wi' 'en. now they'll ha' to wait all night outside the station." "what are you drinking?" asked george, sniffing at the fumes. "mrs. mudge said 'twur coffee, but it tastes more like hot whisky and water. i'll give ye thirty shillings vor the musical box." "i'm not going to talk business at this time of night. it's my bedtime and yours too," said george, making a motion towards the door. "there's a drop o' this wonderful nice coffee in the jug." "take it with you." "i won't take it in the jug, lest i forget to bring it back. your very good health, mr. drake--and i'll give anyone thirty-five shillings for that musical box." george hurried into the town next morning, and ascertained from a porter who had relations in highfield, that the muddled mudges had started upon their journey in the right direction shortly after midnight, by obtaining an introduction to the guard of a goods train and travelling--contrary to all regulations--in his van. the porter mentioned that the guard had possibly been influenced by the fact that bessie was carrying a basket of delicacies, while the neck of a bottle protruded from the pocket of robert's overcoat. satisfied on this point, george visited a certain place of business, and interviewed the manager who promised to send up to highfield, very early on the following morning, two furniture vans, with sufficient men to do the packing in one day. the simplicity of working out a plot caused george to laugh aloud; also to treat himself to a luncheon from which bread and margarine pudding was rigorously excluded. on the way home he sighted, in the dip of the road, a pair of strolling youngsters, boy and girl, who looked back often as if expecting somebody; the back of the one, and the beauty of the other, seemed familiar. suddenly the girl took to her heels and raced round the bend, while the boy allowed george to draw up to him. "why does the little girl run so fast?" asked george in a paternal fashion. "she's full of beans," replied sidney. "taking a holiday?" george continued. "i fancied a friend might be coming by the three o'clock train; but i've had the walk vor nothing." "another young lady, i suppose?" "that's right," said the laughing profligate. "well, i'm confounded! it seems to me you are collecting girls," george muttered. "there's plenty. i'll leave ye a few to choose from," said sidney. "i've done my choosing and i'm going to settle down after this month. i suppose you know we are all clearing out of highfield? miss blisland has gone already, and you'll never see her again. you tried to catch nellie," said george, who frequently lost by his silly conversation all he had gained by his cunning. "but she saw through your nasty little ways, my lad. she didn't fancy your harem. nellie is one of the most sensible girls i have ever met, and she's got the makings of a good woman in her." "i reckon," said sidney, like an oaf. "it's a bit of a change to me to marry any one, but i don't mind sacrificing myself," george rambled on. "there's no secret about it. we've taken a house at a place called drivelford, and we're going to let miss yard live with us. you won't get the chance to congratulate nellie, and i shouldn't permit it in any case, as i don't think you are the sort of young fellow she ought to speak to; but i do hope you are feeling a bit sorry for yourself. i'm not perfect, but i do think a man ought to be honest and truthful, and be satisfied with one wife, so long as she does what he tells her." "that's right enough," said sidney. "you see what a callous young fellow you are already. you pretended to be in love with the future mrs. drake; but, now that you have lost her, you don't care a hang." "not that much," said sidney, snapping his fingers. "that's your character," said george bitterly. "why should you care? there are plenty of dollies, and teenies, and painted ladies, cheap for cash as the advertisements say." "here, you mind what you're saying. you're going a bit too far!" cried sidney, rounding angrily upon his oppressor. "i'm not insulting you," george explained. "but i do want to give you a little good advice before we part. i can quite understand that you don't want to hear the truth about your young women, and they wouldn't like to hear it either. that little girl ran away just now because she couldn't face a decent gentleman." "she ran because she wouldn't be introduced to you." "that shows she can't be altogether bad," said george approvingly. "now i must leave you, as i'm going to take the short cut across the fields. i do hope you will remember what i've said. when this new young woman arrives, try to show yourself a lad of courage. send her home again or, if you don't like to do that, send her to me." for some inscrutable reason sidney could not restrain his laughter. "ah, you think i should want to make love to her," said george angrily. "i know your nasty mind. you and your grandfather had better be careful. you haven't got a friend in the parish." "except the vicar," sidney reminded him. "and, if he goes on visiting you, he won't have a friend in the parish either. do you know what they call you in the village?" "do you know what they call you?" sidney retorted joyously. "they call you the mormon." "and they call you ananias!" "well, that beats everything," gasped george, as he dropped clumsily over the stile. "i never tell lies except in the way of business. i always speak the truth in private life." days were shortening, so that by the time george had finished his tea, which included a propitiatory offering of doughnuts, the boom of beetles sounded in the street. as life was dull in the bakery, he decided to spend a tranquil evening in his own house, surrounded by the furniture he had been brought up with. he went and settled himself in an easy chair with one of the copies, still unburnt, of his uncle's monumental work, "a history of highfield parish." but reading grew tedious, and the doughnuts he had consumed so recklessly began to trouble, and the buzzing of flies and wasps became tempestuous. yet these sounds recalled pleasant memories of the past; he had not done much with his life, still he had managed to win distinction as an insect killer. he had eased his uncle's labours by crushing the wasp, and averted his aunt's displeasure by obliterating the blowfly. he rose and went into the kitchen to search for a cork. the lighted candle cast weird shadows as he blundered through the pantry to the larder; discovering at last a cork which smelt of alcohol. that at least would give the wasps a pleasant death. but, while hurrying back to the insect-haunted parlour, he heard a new disturbance: no sleepy buzzing, but the fall of active footsteps. then a handbag was flung recklessly through the open window; banging upon a chair, rolling to the floor. the footsteps died away, and the gate of the garden slammed. with horrible dread of a possible explosion, george crept towards the missile, and touched it gingerly. it was a neat brown bag, ridiculously small to hold a wardrobe, and it bore the initials n.b. "that's what they put in books, when they want to draw your attention to something," he muttered. chapter xix reaping the harvest it would have been extraordinary, after teenie's visit, had nellie not received a letter from sidney, begging her to give him an opportunity of clearing up the mystery which had so long surrounded black anchor farm. the style and spelling of this epistle moved her to the discovery that it would be necessary to leave miss yard in the hands of kezia, and return to highfield, for one night only, in order that she might superintend the packing of the furniture; in place of george, who might quite possibly prove untrustworthy. she replied, not altogether to that effect, without one thought for the ridiculous nature of her expeditionary programme; she could not arrive at highfield until late in the afternoon, she would be compelled to leave early the following morning, while the packers could not reasonably be invited to work from dusk to sunrise. sidney could meet her at the station if he liked: in fact she thought that might be the best plan, "as poor old george does not possess a sense of humour." sidney thought so too; but nellie in her hurry missed the train. she was able to agree with miss yard, who could not travel without the observation, "they ought to do away with railway junctions." there was no good reason for losing all sense of method upon her arrival at windward house. as a methodist, she would have walked calmly indoors, announced to bessie--who was presumably in charge--that she had returned to spend one more night in her old bedroom entirely out of sentiment; and then have gone for a walk, in the opposite direction to black anchor, among the moths and beetles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new moon. but the sight of that open window, the garish lamplight, the cold apparition of george with a murderous cork in his hand, made her hopelessly unmethodical. her mind became so entirely disorganised that everything escaped it, except that stupid necessity of going for a walk immediately. she flung her bag through the window and fled. on the way to black anchor nellie succeeded in persuading herself that she was, if not exactly discreet, at least as sensible as any other young woman in revolt from the severity of everyday life towards a more picturesque and imaginative style of existence. she actually made a plan. as it was night, and sufficiently dark for spying, she would approach the farm among the bogs, flit around it like a will-o'-the-wisp, play watchful fairy at the window, act recording angel at the keyhole, until part at least of the mystery might be revealed. she had no particular wish to discover the secret of sidney's fascination, which attracted to him young ladies of superior birth and education, but she desired very much to learn something about these prepossessing damsels; who they were and why they came; and above all it was her business to ascertain why sidney spoke like a farmer's boy, but looked like a farmer's landlord, and wrote like the descendant of a poet laureate. "how dark it is down here!" she murmured. "lucky i know the geography. i wish i knew my history half as well." then it seemed to her that all kinds of light-footed people were leaping over the bogs and jumping the furze bushes; while the moor on each side twinkled with teasing eyes of local inhabitants sent out to watch the movements of the spy. nellie saw the farm, and knew by the stream of light that all the doors and windows stood wide open. the trackway beyond was dangerous because one window threw a searchlight right across it; but she walked on, having never been taught the art of scouting, and came presently to a colossal figure, carved apparently out of granite, or beaten into human shape by wind and weather, rising from an unhewn boulder halfway to the sky. this was a wonder of the moor never previously discovered, thought nellie; but a moment later she felt certain ghosts were abroad, and this colossus was being worshipped by the local inhabitants, dancing invisibly all over the peat and tussocks: she could detect the smell of incense, see the smoke rising; any moment she might be compelled to witness a human sacrifice. there was a glow of fire undoubtedly. again she fled, while the colossus shook from side to side although there was no wind. "how silly of me!" gasped nellie. "it was old mr. brock, sitting on a rock--bother the rhyme!--smoking a cigar." obsessed by the idea of finding out something concerning this enchanted region, she went on towards the farmhouse, forced to walk along the lighted trackway because it skirted the edges of a bog, where in full swing was the season of grand opera and, from a cool green dais, the bullfrog conductor constrained an enormous amount of energy out of his orchestra--it sounded like tanhã¤user but was more melodious--although the night-jars and owls did their best to mar the performance out of professional rivalry, while the beetles with their trombones were hopelessly discordant. but soon there were other sounds, far pleasanter; a scuffling in the furze-clad regions beyond; an approach, a trepidation, a capture, and a scream: "you beast, sidney! i did think i had hidden myself that time." "i saw the white ribbon in your hair. you looked out just at the wrong moment." "it's my turn to seek now." "i'm going up to highfield." "i don't believe she's coming." "i'll go and find out anyhow." "shall i come?" "no, you stop at home." "i won't spoil sport. if you see her, i'll cut off full lick." "listen! that was grandfather whistling." nellie stood upon the trackway shivering. behind her old mr. brock closed the pass; in front sidney was approaching; on the right side spread the bogs; on the left a jagged wilderness of boulders. from a strategical point of view she was done for. and she had come there to spy! she could only halt in vexation squeezed against a rock until captured, or advance with what little dignity remained to make an unconditional surrender. "boots muddy, hair all anyhow, crushed clothes--and caught in this abominable fashion," she murmured. "in fact i'm so untidy there's just a chance he may not recognise me." she had not the slightest cause for worry. a girl may know when she looks attractive to other girls; but she seldom realises she is most fascinating to a man when her boots are muddy and her hair is all anyhow. there came a rabbit-like scamper up the trackway, and the stampeding teenie screamed again: "oh, i say--you did make me jump! sidney! sidney, you ass! here she is! here's miss blisland! oh, what a lark!" shouted the child with shameless and barbaric jubilation. "don't talk such beastly nonsense," cried the other voice. "it is her!" screamed the child. "yes, it's me," said nellie faintly; and all three stood together, in an atmosphere of amazement and bad grammar. "i thought, as it was such a lovely night--i mean evening--i would stroll in this direction to tell you i'm off again first thing in the morning," explained nellie. "this is splendid! i was just going to start for highfield, but this is far better, as there's no old drake to waddle about and quack. i was hanging about the road all the afternoon. this is teenie stanley--my cheeky young sister." "your sister! and your name isn't brock at all!" cried nellie. "run away, kid, and talk to grandfather," sidney ordered; and the little whirlwind whisked round nellie and departed. "i did have the idea, but thought somehow it wasn't possible," nellie was saying. "you have humbugged everybody, but you never really deceived me; if you had, i shouldn't be here now. i saw through your dartmoor dialect, and all the rest of it. and i suppose dorothy is your elder sister?" "of course she is." "and the much-abused mrs. stanley--" "is my mother who, in spite of local rumour, does not put on local colour." "why ever didn't you tell me before? what was the sense of making such a mystery of it?" "the people in highfield made the mystery. we didn't want them to know we were here." "couldn't they see you, stupid?" said nellie, more cheerfully. "i mean grandfather didn't want them to know who we are; but i should have let out everything that evening--when you were spiteful--if we hadn't quarrelled. you know, nellie, you were rather too cross about mother, and--and i lost my temper because you wouldn't trust me, and i made up my mind you should." "you are nearly as bad as george drake," she declared. "nearly isn't quite." "and who are you, please?" "oh, we are not of vast importance. my full name is arthur sidney stanley. it was a shame to give me such names, as i can't possibly put my initials on anything. that little beast, teenie, always calls me ass. we're not exactly paupers, as we own a big share in a number of stores all over the south. there's one at drivelford." "i've been in it hundreds of times, and distinctly remember seeing you behind the counter." "don't be horrid. i've never been to drivelford in my life, but i'm going there tomorrow if you are." "who is mr. brock?" she asked in a great hurry. "really my grandfather, and the owner of black anchor farm, also the patron of the living. now you know why the vicar condescends to visit us. brock is such a common name in this part of devonshire that nobody could dream he is _the_ mr. brock." "and why did you come here? why have you lived, like a couple of common people, in this ramshackle place, without housekeeper or servant? you simply made the people talk about you. how could they understand a couple of gentlemen pigging it! your mother and sisters coming here naturally made a scandal. even i couldn't believe they were your relations, though i was positive you were much better than you pretended to be. i shall never forgive you for talking to me in devonshire dialect, though i'm quite willing to forget you had supper one sunday evening in our kitchen." "wasn't it fun too!" sidney chuckled. "i wanted grandfather to come, but he drew the line at that. when you know grandfather well--and that's going to be jolly soon--you will guess how enormously he has enjoyed his time here. it was his idea entirely. he loves roughing it, he has spent most of his life knocking about the world, and he's only really happy in a cottage. he declares luxury and high feeding kill more people than any disease. it's only the rustic who lives to be a hundred, he says; and, as he means to score a century himself, he takes a spell of living like a rustic occasionally. he could never get a satisfactory tenant for this place, so he told father one day he'd made up his mind to show the commoners what hard work could accomplish on a dartmoor farm." "where do you come in?" "just here. i hadn't been very strong since leaving school--crocked myself rowing--and the doctor said i ought to work in the open air for a time before taking up anything serious. you can't persuade doctors that farming is work; they look upon it as a recreation. so grandfather suggested i should come along with him. father was willing, but mother was horrified. i jumped at the idea of course. grandfather is the grandest old fellow alive, and i would rather be under him than all the doctors in the world. he wouldn't have a housekeeper, as he likes doing everything for himself when he's roughing: besides, a woman would have seen his papers and letters, and found out who he was; and naturally he doesn't want the people to know that the patron of the living, and biggest landowner in the parish, is grubbing in the bogs down here." "didn't the scandal make him angry?" "he has never heard a word of it." "so that's the mystery!" cried nellie, feeling rather ashamed of herself. "it's jolly simple after all. we are going away before winter, when there's a flood four days a week, and a gale the other three. grandfather owns the place has beaten him. he says a man who tries to farm on dartmoor ought to receive a premium instead of paying a rent. if it isn't bog, it's rock, and, if it isn't rock, it's 'vuzzy trade.' and if you do put in a crop, the moles turn it out; and, if the moles don't turn it out, rabbits, sheep, mice and grubs in millions and slugs in trillions gobble it up completely. now come and be introduced to grandfather, and then i'll take you home. he is sure to growl at you, but you must stand up to him, and then he'll love you. he likes anyone to stand up to him. the vicar got the living by contradicting him. i say, nellie, don't hurry back to drivelford." "are you aware you have not called me miss blisland once?" she demanded, showing no inclination to approach the terrible black grandfather. "quite! and are you aware you have never once called me sidney?" "i must go back in the morning. miss yard will be crazy all night without me. she will think i've been kidnapped," nellie hurried on. "she won't be wrong." "i should like to start at once, though i hate the idea of facing george. i'm a dreadful coward really, and i'm afraid he will think i have treated him badly. he knows of my arrival, but i'm quite certain he is not bothering to look for me." "a kick in the face will do him good," replied sidney disdainfully. "he can't take a joke, though he did try to take me, and i'm much the biggest joke he has ever run against. the truth of the matter is he has made up his mind to get back the captain's furniture, which belongs to miss yard now, and he knows the only way he can get it is by marrying me." "there's grandfather growling! he's telling teenie to go to bed, and she's telling him to go himself. that kid never is tired. now he's chuckling! grandfather likes to be cheeked." "i ought to have gone long ago. it must be getting on for midnight." "and we've got to be up early. i'm coming with you, and you shall introduce me to miss yard, and then i'll take you to my people, and then we'll get married--" "well, of all the precociousness!" she gasped. "do you know i'm older than you?" "you can't blame me for that." "and i expect to be treated with respect. and my father was never anything more than a very poor curate." "well, a curate is a bishop on a small scale, and we are only shopkeepers on a large scale. it's funny that poor curates should always have the nicest daughters." "and i can't forgive you for talking to me like a farmer's boy." "then i won't forgive you for saying horrid things, and thinking worse about my mother and sisters." "of course we might forget. but then that wouldn't be enough. so i can never marry you, sidney--at least, not until miss sophy dies." "she'll have to be jolly quick about it," said the young man fiercely. "she is very kind and considerate," nellie murmured doubtfully; trying to work out the algebraical problem. if a giant tortoise is hale and hearty at five hundred, and a yellow leaf is trying to inveigle a mere bud towards the matrimonial altar at ninety-something, what is the reasonable expectation of life of an old lady who has nothing to die for? "all this time," said sidney, "grandfather is peering at us, while teenie is simply goggling. we have got to pass them, and then--thank heaven!--we shall be alone." "if i let you come with me--" she began. "as if you could prevent it!" "will you stand up to george for me? will you play the dragon, and _not_ get beaten?" "rather! i owe the saint one for his sermons." but sidney was not given the opportunity, for, when they reached windward house, after wasting an extraordinary amount of time in climbing the hill, they found the place deserted; but the key was in the door, and a note lay on the table. they read it with explosions of sheer rapture. why nellie had returned to highfield george, for his part, could not imagine; but he considered her conduct on the whole disgraceful, and begged to remind her that nothing but a satisfactory explanation could avert a rupture. she, in her selfishness, had supposed, no doubt, he would either light a lantern and seek to track her footsteps; or sit up and wait until she should be pleased to return. he had no intention of doing either of these things. a game of hide-and-seek about the highfield lanes at dead of night, after a long and fatiguing day, was not much to his taste; while the rã´le of henpecked lover, awaiting the return of a profligate fiancã©e to the family hearth, was a part he was still less suited for. it was his habit to retire at half past ten. he had retired, utterly worn out and exhausted. in the morning he would give nellie an opportunity for explaining her conduct; and, if the explanation should prove unsatisfactory, he should seriously contemplate asking her to return all the presents he had given her. "what has he given you, darling?" asked sidney. "nothing whatever, dearest." they had learnt a number of words like that while toiling up the hill. "but surely, sweetheart, he must have given you something." "i expect he's thinking of the furniture; but i got that for myself, though he doesn't know how." then they made their plans, but george had also made his. his usual habit was to permit the sun to warm the world before he walked upon it; but on this occasion he had requested mrs. dyer to call him early. nellie, on the other hand, overslept, having nobody to call her, and being naturally tired after so much travelling, romance, excitement and happiness: excellent things but all fatiguing. she woke with a dream of a battlefield where shells of monstrous size were exploding upon every side, each one missing her by inches; nor was this surprising for, upon opening her eyes, she soon became aware that stones were being hurled into the room. "it can't be sidney," she murmured sleepily. "he wouldn't wake me so roughly, even though i am late. goodness--that's a rock!" it was not sidney. it was george, as she discovered by one swift glance. he frowned like an artillery man while adding to his stock of ammunition. "stop it! you've broken the water jug, and my room is flooded," she cried. "so i've got you up at last! you threw your bag into my window last night, so i throw stones into your window this morning. it's what they call the _lextalionis_." "please go away! i'm not dressed yet," she called. "i'm waiting to hear your explanation, and i'm going to stand here, in this very same place where i was first beguiled by your deceitful face at the window, when you sat and worked a sewing machine, like that lady in the bible who got pushed out and trodden underfoot," said george wrathfully; for during the night a suspicion of the truth had reached him. "i'd better get it over at once," nellie murmured. then she wrapped herself in the quilt and approached the window. "here i am!" she said brightly. "what a nasty, hostile, ungrateful expression. and you ought to be in a white sheet instead of that scarlet quilt," said george bitterly. "well, you shouldn't be so rude as to throw stones at me. they were not pebbles either." "it's my house and my window. why have you come back?" "because i wanted to." "that's a woman's answer. did you give your address to that wicked little girl who answers to the name of teenie?" "i might have." "that's another woman's answer. did that young man who wallows in vice write to you?" "a young gentleman known here as sidney brock did write to me." "that's the sort of confession a woman does make. and you actually replied? you had no shame whatever?" "i sent an answer." "then came!" "and saw and conquered," she murmured happily. "what are you muttering about?" "i suppose you would call them my sins. but, if you speak to me again like that, i shall shut the window," nellie replied with spirit. "i'm blest if she isn't going to argue," george mumbled. "i don't want to be hard upon you, young woman, but i can't have this sort of thing," he went on sternly. "you desert my dear old aunt, and come back here, and rush into bad company, and you don't even ask my permission. i'm a liberal and broad-minded chap, but i can't stand that." "how are you going to prevent it?" "by asserting myself, by putting my foot down. here am i working and toiling for you. i have sent robert and bessie away for a well-earned holiday, and presently vans will be coming for the furniture. it's all for you. i don't think of myself at all. i'm saving the furniture, and handing it over to you at great expense, while you are breaking my heart by making appointments with young mormons in the dark, and going to such a place as black anchor at dead of night, and staying there till morning. that sort of conduct makes men commit murder and suicide, and other things they are sorry for afterwards. but i'm not a criminal, and i'm not passionate. i'm practical, and cool, and--and amiable. i have taken quite a fancy to you, nellie. other people don't think much of you, but i can see you have good qualities, only you won't show them. now i want you to tell me why you wrote to young sidney, and why you met him last night. be very careful how you answer, as the whole of your future happiness may depend on it." "i wanted to clear up the mystery," she said. "there is no mystery about shameful wickedness. being about to marry a respectable gentleman, who bears a highly honoured name, upon the last day of this month--" "oh, stop! do please!" cried nellie appealingly. "we are only playing. we have been fooling all along, and you must have known it. i was always laughing and teasing--have you ever seen me serious, as i am now?" "you don't mean to tell me you are trying to get out of it--you are not going to keep your promise?" "what was my promise?" "that you would marry me on the last day of this month." "it wasn't put like that. i promised, in fun, to marry you on the thirty-first of september, and, of course, i thought you would have seen through that joke long ago." "i suppose the point of the joke is that you mean to become a mormon?" "there is no thirty-first of september. and i am going to become a mormon, if you like to put it that way, for i am engaged to sidney brock." "and i'll tell you what i am going to do," george shouted. "i'm going to jilt you." "thanks so much," laughed nellie. george stalked out of the garden, and was not seen again until sidney and nellie had departed, and big vans had drawn up beside windward house to the wonder and dismay of all the village. then he revisited the scenes of his former triumphs and issued certain orders to the packers. after that he hurried off to the town and visited an auctioneer. returning to highfield, he passed behind robert's cottage, demolished the peatstack, and brought to light the musical box, the silver candlesticks, and all the rest of the purloined articles. these were deposited in the vans. a hostile crowd had collected, but george took no heed of anyone; not even the wallower in wealth who sought ineffectually to obtain possession of the musical box by force and without payment. the unhappy dyer had his eyes opened to the exceeding perfidy of his lodger, but he dared not open his mouth as well. the following day bills were posted about the neighbourhood, announcing a sale to be held at short notice, in the market hall of the town, of the valuable furniture and remarkable antiquities formerly in the possession of captain francis drake, by order of the executor of the will of mrs. drake deceased. "i'm sorry for aunt sophy, but she ought to have kept out of bad company," was george's only comment. chapter xx the gleaners when bessie and robert returned to highfield; when the people discovered how the light railway, which originally had been a matter of electricity, and then had degenerated into an affair of steam, was in fact a proposal of gas entirely; when windward house remained empty and unswept, with the giant tortoise lord of the manor; and when the niggardly dyer was attacked on all sides as the confederate of the public enemy--there unfortunately existed no genius of the lamp competent to continue the parochial record from the point where captain drake had closed it. genii of the lantern undoubtedly did exist, and these made another story, a kind of fairy tale, which was not told outside the village. all the water was spilt near the pump. nobody took part in the revolution which followed, causing an alteration in the landscape; at least nobody in particular; but there was not a man, woman, or child of destructive age who did not give a hand towards the general rubbing of the lamp. when the furniture failed to arrive at the banks of the drivel, and inquiry elicited the fact that all had passed into the hands of dealers, kezia fell into a state of melancholy which not even her favourite sunday walk around the cemetery was able to relieve; and when the cruel truth of george's unassailable title to windward house was broken gently room by room, despondency increased upon her to such an extent that she actually paid a visit to the electric theatre. miss yard laughed merrily at the humorous idea of buying new furniture, and told everybody about her provincial escape from the fire which had destroyed everything she possessed, and how a young gentleman called sidney had rescued her from the flames at great personal risk. she was so grateful that she suggested he might become engaged to nellie, and he had done so at once; which showed how absurd it was to say that young men of the present day were rude and disobedient. of course it was understood that the engagement was only to continue during her lifetime. as for nellie, she breathed a great sigh of relief. the loss of the furniture might be a serious matter, so far as kezia's future and miss yard's banking account were concerned; but it meant the total eclipse of george. he could not show his face either in highfield or drivelford; he had done for himself completely. she refused to listen to sidney's proposal of instructing hunter to institute proceedings. "by doing nothing we get rid of him for ever," she said. "anyhow, we can take action against the people who bought the things," he urged. "we shall do nothing of the kind. it would worry the old lady into her grave; and i believe that's your object." "i want to punish the brute for bullying you and preaching at me." "you can't make a thick-skinned creature like george feel anything," she answered. "if he were put in prison, he would congratulate himself upon living free of expense. and if he refunded the money, he would insist upon coming here and living with miss sophy. it would be no use turning him out. he would come back like a cat and make us all miserable. leave him alone, and we shall hear no more of him." she prophesied truly. those who had been honoured by the society, and somewhat doubtful friendship, of george drake were not privileged to look upon him--or on his like--again. after gathering in his harvest, he retired into the privacy of lodgings, having a sum of sixteen hundred pounds to his credit, and spent a couple of years drinking tea, smoking cigars, and trying to make up his mind whether his landlady's daughter "would do." this young lady was of a more orthodox type than nellie. she possessed a head of golden hair, upon which much time and dye had been expended; her eyes were dull; her countenance was flaming. george secretly admired that style of beauty. the young woman could make tea, arrange cushions, fetch and carry slippers, stand in a deferential attitude; she showed unmistakable signs of honesty, and obeyed the call of her mother instantly; she had no conversation, the possession of which was a gift that marred so many women; she giggled respectfully when addressed; nor did she shrink from admitting that gentlemen of mr. drake's magnificence unhappily grew scarcer every year. george became highly delighted with matilda which, he remarked, was a sweet, old-fashioned name, suggesting to him somehow the odour of lilac and honeysuckle. he congratulated himself frequently upon having thrown over that designing young woman, nellie, just in time; and, at the expiration of eighteen months of indolence, he informed her--for in such a matter he disdained all questions--of the social position that awaited her. she was capable of improvement, he admitted, and no doubt she would improve. grace she would acquire by watching him. the heavy tramping about the house might be exchanged for a gentle footfall by the use of more appropriate footwear. he begged her to bear these things in mind, and above all never to forget that out of all the women in the world he had selected her. matilda appeared quite satisfied. so did her mother, who was deep in debt, and had no scruples against adding to the burden, when informed by her future son-in-law that his resources were practically unlimited. "it has just occurred to me i have a property on dartmoor worth a couple of thousand," he said in the grand manner, well suited to his wealth and indolence. "i have not been near it for the last two years. it's a fine house--a beautiful elizabethan mansion--but it has a somewhat peculiar history," he added. "is there a ghost?" asked matilda's mother, who was greatly impressed by everything george said. "there are several ghosts," he replied. "don't ye ask me to live there then," said matilda, with her giggle which ought to have been illegal. "nothing would induce me to go near the place," said george with perfect truth. "i ought to have sold it long ago, but these little things escape one's memory. i will dispose of it at once, and buy a cottage, with a bit of land. i shall keep bees and prune the rose trees; while you look after the poultry and the cow, do the cooking, mind the house, and attend to me." matilda was a poor mathematician, but even to her this did not appear a fair division of labour. already she was running up a little account against her future husband. his courtship was not of that vigorous order she had a right to expect; his indolence seemed to her a type curable only by the constant application of a broomstick; his craving for tea and tobacco, unless checked, might easily become morbid. matilda possessed some wits; not many, but ingenious ones; and, until george was safely tied to her by matrimony, she was going to pretend she had no conversation. when george observed that the dartmoor property had just occurred to his memory, he intended perhaps to say he had thought of little else during the last two years. he had almost succeeded in believing that his disposal of the furniture had come perilously near actual dishonesty; by which he meant to imply his action had been unbusinesslike and foolish; though he had the satisfaction of knowing that nellie had been justly punished for her offences. he had planned to sell, or to let, windward house immediately; but had reckoned without his cowardly nature, which conjured up visions of all manner of people seeking vengeance against him. bessie and robert would be clamouring for his arrest; kezia might have taken her scraps of paper to some solicitor; nellie might have placed the matter in the hands of hunter; the dreary dyer might be forced to bring an action for conspiracy to clear his own mean character. george had been so terrified by these fancies that, for several months, he hardly dared to stir from his lodgings, and could not look a policeman in the face. but now that two years had passed, and nobody had tapped him on the shoulder, he decided it would be perfectly safe to emerge from his obscurity to the extent of communicating with a land agent in exeter, which city was a satisfactory distance from highfield, and instructing him to offer the property for sale by public auction or, should an opportunity arise, to dispose of it at once by private treaty. for sake of convenience george requested that letters should be addressed to him at a certain post office, as he still thought it advisable to protect the sanctity of his private residence. the land agent replied that a sale by auction was generally the most lucrative manner of disposing of a property, and suggested the despatch of a clerk skilled in valuation to inspect the premises. he mentioned also that applications for houses in the highfield district reached his office continually, and he would be pleased to issue orders to view the property which by the description appeared a valuable one. george agreed to everything, but was inclined to lay stress upon the private sale if possible, as he did not wish the local inhabitants to know that the ownership of the house was about to change hands. included in the sale, he mentioned, would be a giant tortoise--or the animal might be offered separately--more than half a thousand years old. this reptile, which would appeal alike to animal lovers and to antiquarians, was a fixture with the garden, above which it browsed one half of the year, and below which it slept for the other half. some days passed, during which george became a prey to various emotions. then came a letter which puzzled him exceedingly. the land agent would be much obliged if mr. drake could make it convenient to call at his office in order that certain misunderstandings might be removed. he did not care to say anything more definite at the moment, as it was quite possible he had read mr. drake's instructions wrongly. if this was not the case, something very mysterious had happened. george thought of all manner of things, but above all he suspected treachery. if he entered the office, he might find himself trapped; with bessie in one corner, kezia in another, dyer in the third, and nellie in the fourth; with that notorious oppressor of widows and orphans, hunter himself, standing vindictively in the centre; not to mention a horde of howling highfielders outside the office. so he decided to take matilda with him. it would be a nice outing for the girl. he could send her into the office to spy out the land; and, if necessary, he could sacrifice her to the violence of the mob. however, no precaution was required for, upon reaching the office and peering anxiously through the glass portion of the door, george discovered one clerk sprawling over a desk asleep, and another reading a newspaper. reassured by these peaceful signs of business as usual, he told matilda to go and look at the shops, and to cultivate a gift of imagination by selecting those articles of dress and adornment which she most desired; then entered, and asked the clerk, who seemed more capable of action, whether his master was disengaged. the reply being favourable, george gave his name, though with less noise than usual, and was immediately invited to step upstairs and to open the first door that occurred. he did so, reproaching himself bitterly for the shameful timidity which had kept him in hiding for two years, and entirely convinced that the purloining of the furniture was a very ordinary and straightforward piece of business. but this fine humour was knocked out of shape when the land agent, after a few preliminary remarks concerning hurricanes and anticyclones--appropriate under the circumstances--remarked courteously: "in what part of highfield parish is the property situated?" "near the end of the village street, just above the post office," answered the astounded george. "so i judged from your description. it sounds a very remarkable thing to say, mr. drake, but--we can't find it." "what the deuce do you mean?" george stuttered. "not find it! not find highfield house! why, it's the only gentleman's residence in the village. it stands out by itself. it hits you in the eye. it's as obvious as exeter cathedral." "then you have no explanation to offer?" "explain! what do you want me to explain?" "why my clerk, also a possible purchaser, both acting on the same day though independently, were unable to locate the property. and why the local residents have no knowledge of its existence." "of course, they went to the wrong village." "there is only one highfield in devonshire. i will tell you precisely what happened. upon receiving your instructions, i directed my valuation clerk to go to highfield and inspect the property. i also displayed a notice in the window. houses on dartmoor are selling well just now, as very few are available, and the district has become highly popular as it is said to be the healthiest part of england. hardly was the notice in the window, when a gentleman called and asked for an order to view the property; and he travelled in the same train as my clerk, though neither was aware of the other's existence; nor did they meet in highfield, as my clerk had left the village--supposing that a mistake had been made--before the gentleman arrived. since then several people have inquired after the property, but i had to put them off until i had seen you. now, mr. drake, surely you can explain the mystery." "mystery--there can't be one. there's the house simply blotting out the landscape! if they couldn't find it they must have been blind and paralysed," george shouted. "my clerk could see no signs of a gentleman's residence in the village, and when he asked one or two of the inhabitants they knew nothing about windward house. he did not press his inquiry, as he naturally supposed you had somehow sent the wrong instructions." "i should like to know what part of the world he did go to," george muttered. "the gentleman who went to view the property, returned here in a pretty bad temper, as he thought i had made a fool of him," continued the agent. "he too inquired of the local inhabitants where windward house might be situated, and received the same answer. they either did not know, or would not tell him." "are you making this up? have you received instructions from people answering to the names of hunter, mudge, dyer, blisland, kezia, brock, to humbug me?" cried george. "certainly not, sir," said the agent sharply. "then i'm confounded! i don't believe in magic, ghosts, witches, evil eye, aladdin's lamp, or pixies. have you ever heard of such a thing in your life? have you ever known a fine, big, well built, modern residence to vanish off the face of the earth, together with the ground it stood on, and the garden around it? do you believe such a thing is possible? because, if you do believe it, i am ruined." and having thus spoken george wiped away the most genuine moisture that had ever dimmed his vision. "i cannot offer any explanation, mr. drake, but it's certain your house has disappeared. don't you think the best thing you can do is to go there yourself and find out what really has happened?" "i won't go near the place," cried george. "i wouldn't be seen in it. i--i might disappear too." "then will you put the matter into the hands of the police?" "i'll have nothing to do with them either," declared george. "shall i go myself and make inquiries of the vicar or some other reliable person?" "all right," said george heavily. "it means more expense, but that's nothing to me now. if my house has gone, i may as well go to my last home at once. it's no use trying to kick against the powers of darkness," he muttered. so the agent travelled to highfield and collected a few details from certain inhabitants, who did not altogether approve of the local revolution, but were not going to make themselves unpopular by refusing to take a rub at the lamp themselves. having learnt so much, it was easy to add to his information by assuming hostility to george and expressing approval of the punishment which had been meted out to him. "mr. drake said one thing and meant another all the time he wur here," explained the dumpy philosopher. "us didn't mind that, but when he started to treat us as human volks wur never meant to be treated, us had to learn 'em a serious lesson. his uncle promised to build us a railway, and they do say he left money vor it; but mr. drake did all he could to stop it from a-running. american gentlemen come here--a lot of 'em--to make the railway; but he said us didn't want it, and he drove 'em away, and he wouldn't let 'em spend a shilling. said they'd come here to buy cloam. said he'd rather see us all starve. said he'd build the railway himself out of his own pocket, and he'd put a big waterwheel atop o' highfield hill to draw the trains up; though us knew he couldn't, vor there ain't enough water coming over in summer to draw up a wheelbarrow. said he'd make highfield house a station and put a terminus in the back garden. i don't know what else he warn't going to do, but he wur talking childish day by day. and when he'd deceived us more than us could bear, he run away." "what he done to poor and honest volk don't hardly seem possible," said the gentle shepherd. "mrs. drake left 'en highfield house, and all the furniture she left to bessie mudge what married robert mudge who works vor arthur dyer. they ses she left part of the furniture to kezia, but bessie ses that part o' the will be so mixed up it can't be hardly legal. mr. drake kept on going away, and coming back again; and one day he come back, and drove miss yard and kezia out of the place; and he goes to dyer and bribes 'en to send robert and bessie away vor a holiday; and when they'm gone he brings up vans and clears out all the furniture; and he breaks into robert's house and steals a lot of his furniture, what he bought and paid vor wi' his own money; and he sells the lot by auction avore us could recover from the shock; and he ain't never been seen nor heard of since. and i fancy 'tis the most disgraceful deed what can ha' happened since the creation of the world." "but he couldn't take the house, nor yet look after it, vor us wasn't going to have him back again after the way he'd used us, and us wasn't going to have 'en letting or selling the place neither, and making money out of our misfortunes," said the wallower in wealth. "he tried to ruin us all, he ha' brought the mudges to awful poverty, and he ha' pretty near drove the dyers into the asylum, and he stole a musical box what ha' been in my family vor generations out o' mind. it wur a fine house, sure enough, but 'tis all gone now. there's nought left but foundations, and there's not much o' them, and you can't see 'em, vor they'm covered wi' grass. the trees be all cut down, and the shrubs ha' got moved, and the garden wall ain't there no longer. the house warn't there one day, and gone the next, as some volk say. it seemed to go so gradual that no one noticed it really was a leaving us. us all knew why it wur going, and how it wur going; but us didn't talk about it much, vor what be everybody's business ain't nobody's business." "the youngsters started it," said squinting jack. "they smashed the windows and got inside. they sort o' took possession of the place and played there every day. they played at soldiers mostly. one lot o' children climbed up into the roof, and defended themselves wi' tiles and laths, while another lot attacked 'em wi' doors and window frames. and when they'd finished play, they took home all the broken stuff vor firewood. that wur the beginning, but in an amazing short time the house began to alter; it wur never the same place after the children got playing in it. when an old woman wanted wood vor the fire, she just went vor it; and when any one wanted a new door or window, they knew where one wur handy. then one or two started building a cottage, and as the cottages went up windward house come down. some mornings us missed a bit o' wall what seemed to ha' fallen in the night, but nobody asked questions, vor us all had a hand in it, but there's no evidence to prove it. you won't find anything worth taking away now, not if you was to search wi' a miscroscope. the house didn't vanish away suddenly, not by no manner of means." "it seemed to me," said the gentle shepherd, "as if it melted." "it vanished in small pieces," added the dumpy philosopher. the wallower in wealth had nothing more to say. the giant tortoise had transferred itself to his garden, having apparently engaged a wheelbarrow for that purpose. either it was anxious to adopt the wallower in wealth, or he desired to study its habits in order that he too might attain eternal life. or possibly he was determined to obtain some compensation for the lost musical box, through the possession of a genuine antique, which might with some propriety be styled the sole remaining item of the captain's furniture. the dismal gibcat said nothing whatever, although at one time he had been exceedingly loquacious. his was the only voice raised in protest against those who pillaged windows and door posts, or flitted at moonlight with joists and floorings. he publicly rebuked a poor old dame whom he caught staggering homeward with her apron full of laths. he explained the law as to wilful damage and petty larceny, and he dealt with the moral aspect of the matter till all were weary. finally he announced his intention of protecting the property of the absentee owner by taking care of it for him: and he removed at least one half of the material and, by judicious guardianship of the same, succeeded in doubling the accommodation of his house. george had no difficulty in speaking like a whale, but when he tried to talk like a sprat he made a mess of things. therefore he could not bring matilda and her mother to understand how a rascally trustee, whose name was hunter, had sold his property and made off with the cash. they were sorry but firm; matilda asserting it cost very little to keep a woman; while her mother pointed out with considerable fluency that matrimony was always less expensive than breach of promise actions. george gave way--having a horror of the fierce light of publicity which beats upon law courts--and became very melancholy. nor was he much restored to gaiety by the joys of married life; for matilda rapidly developed a flow of small talk which astounded him; when george ordered her to bring him a cup of tea she prescribed herself a glass of beer; and when he called for his slippers she threw the dirty boots at his head and told him to clean them. matrimony was not all bee-keeping and rose-pruning for george. still more tragic were affairs at drivelford, where nellie and sidney had come to realise that, for them at least, the married state was unattainable. old ladies can be very selfish sometimes, and in that stimulating atmosphere, which shared with many others the distinction of being the healthiest in the land, miss yard grew no weaker daily. she suffered from a slight cold last winter, but was all the better for it in the spring. indeed in merry may-time she made the shocking suggestion that sidney should teach her to ride the bicycle. with such dispiriting examples as the yellow leaf, whose longevity was becoming a public scandal, and whose conduct was disgraceful, as he would not be refused his right to wed the youngest grandchild of one of his middle-aged connections; and the giant tortoise, who found fresh lettuces more luscious than the weeds of his fifteenth century diet; and the eternal obstacle, miss yard, who was continually giving children's parties because she felt so young herself; with such monuments of senile selfishness before them, nellie and sidney did indeed appear condemned to single blessedness. but happily, according to the latest report from drivelford, miss yard was not feeling very well. she was suffering from broken chilblains. the end note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the lovely original illustrations. see 22485-h.htm or 22485-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/4/8/22485/22485-h/22485-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/2/4/8/22485/22485-h.zip) transcriber's note: in this text superscript is represented with '^' and a macron with [=o] devon its moorlands, streams, & coasts by lady rosalind northcote with illustrations in colour after frederick j. widgery london exeter chatto & windus james g. commin m cm viii deep-wooded combes, clear-mounded hills of morn, red sunset tides against a red sea-wall, high lonely barrows where the curlews call, far moors that echo to the ringing horn,- devon! thou spirit of all these beauties born, all these are thine, but thou art more than all: speech can but tell thy name, praise can but fall beneath the cold white sea-mist of thy scorn. yet, yet, o noble land, forbid us not even now to join our faint memorial chime to the fierce chant wherewith their hearts were hot who took the tide in thy imperial prime; whose glory's thine till glory sleeps forgot with her ancestral phantoms, pride and time. henry newbolt preface the first and one of the greatest difficulties to confront a writer who attempts any sort of description of a place or people is almost sure to be the answer to the question, how much must be left out? in the present case the problem has reappeared in every chapter, for devon is 'a fair province,' as prince says in his 'worthies of devon,' and 'the happy parent of ... a noble offspring.' my position is that of a person who has been bidden to take from a great heap of precious stones as many as are needed to make one chain; for however grasping that person may be, and however long the chain may be made, when all the stones have been chosen, the heap will look almost as great and delightful as before: only a few of the largest and brightest jewels will be gone. the fact that i have been able to take only a small handful from the vast hoard that constitutes the history of devon will explain, i hope, the many omissions that must strike every reader who has any knowledge of the county--omissions of which no one can be more conscious than myself. a separate volume might very well be written about the bit of country touched on in each chapter. this book does not pretend to include every district. i have merely passed through a great part of the county, stopping here at an old church with interesting monuments, there at a small town whose share in local history--in some instances, in the country's history--is apt to be forgotten, or at a manor-house which should be remembered for its association with one of the many 'worthies' who, as prince says--with the true impartiality of a west-countryman in regard to his own county--form 'an illustrious troop of heroes, as no other county in the kingdom, no other kingdom (in so small a tract) in europe, in all respects, is able to match, much less excel.' from the 'tale of two swannes,' a view of the banks of the river lea, published in 1590, i have ventured to borrow the verses that close an address 'to the reader': 'to tell a tale, and tell the trueth withall, to write of waters, and with them of land, to tell of rivers, where they rise and fall, to tell where cities, townes, and castles stand, to tell their names, both old and newe, with other things that be most true, 'argues a tale that tendeth to some good, argues a tale that hath in it some reason, argues a tale, if it be understood, as looke the like, and you shall find it geason. if, when you reade, you find it so, commend the worke and let it goe.' contents sonnet by henry newbolt _page_ v preface vii _chap._ i. exeter 1 ii. the exe 13 iii. the otter and the axe 47 iv. dartmoor 71 v. the teign 89 vi. torbay 106 vii. the dart 119 viii. kingsbridge, salcombe, and the south hams 141 ix. the three towns 155 x. the tamar and the tavy 179 xi. the taw and the torridge 201 xii. lundy, lynmouth, and the borders of exmoor 244 xiii. castles and country-houses 272 list of authorities consulted 315 index 317 illustrations the guildhall, exeter _frontispiece_ exeter from exwick _to face page_ 2 exeter cathedral 5 the exe: tiverton 13 topsham 41 exmouth from cockwood 45 ottery st. mary 47 sidmouth 51 branscombe 61 beer beach 65 seaton headland 67 the windypost, or beckamoor cross 71 yes tor: dartmoor 73 lustleigh cleave 75 wistman's wood 77 widdecombe-in-the-moor 81 sheepstor 83 lydford bridge 84 hey tor 89 fingle bridge 91 chudleigh glen 101 teignmouth and shaldon 103 torquay from the bay 106 berry head 113 brixham trawlers 115 postbridge 119 dartmeet bridge 121 holne bridge 123 fore street, totnes 129 sharpham woods: river dart 133 dartmouth castle 139 salcombe 141 bolt head 146 slapton lea 151 the tamar, near saltash 155 drake's island, plymouth sound 171 brent tor. from lvdford moors 179 tavy cleave 185 brent tor 198 bideford 201 appledore 211 clovelly 215 morthoe 221 bull point: morthoe 223 barnstaple bridge 227 torrington 230 lantern rock: ilfracombe 244 countisbury foreland 255 lynmouth 259 malmsmead 263 lorna's bower 265 waterslide: doone valley 267 doone valley 269 powderham castle 272 berry pomeroy castle 285 compton castle 295 okehampton castle 297 sydenham house 299 bradfield 306 pynes, near exeter 308 devon chapter i exeter 'richmond! when last i was at exeter, the mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle, and call'd it rougemont: at which name i started, because a bard of ireland told me once, i should not live long after i saw richmond.' _king richard iii._, act iv, sc. ii. there are not many towns which stir the imagination as much as exeter. to all west-countrymen she is a mother city ... and there is not one among them, however long absent from the west, who does not feel, when he sets foot in exeter, that he is at home again, in touch with people of his own blood and kindred.... in exeter all the history of the west is bound up--its love of liberty, its independence, its passionate resistance to foreign conquerors, its devotion to lost causes, its loyalty to the throne, its pride, its trade, its maritime adventure--all these many strands are twined together in that bond which links west-countrymen to exeter.' mr norway is a west-countryman, and he sums up very justly the sentiment, more or less consciously realized, of the people for whom he speaks, and especially the feeling of the citizens. not only the cathedral, the castle, and guildhall, bear legends for those who know how to read them, but here and again through all the streets an ancient house, a name, or a tower, will bring back the memory of one of the stirring events that have happened. one royal pageant after another has clattered and glittered through the streets, and the old carved gabled houses in the side-lanes must many a time have shaken to the heavy tramp of armed men, gathered to defend the city or to march out against the enemy. 'exeter,' says professor freeman, 'stands distinguished as the one great english city which has, in a more marked way than any other, kept its unbroken being and its unbroken position throughout all ages. it is the one city in which we can feel sure that human habitation and city life have never ceased from the days of the early cæsars to our own.... the city on the exe, caerwisc, or isca damnoniorum, has had a history which comes nearer than that of any other city of britain to the history of the ancient local capitals of the kindred land of gaul.... to this day, both in feeling and in truth, exeter is something more than an ordinary county town.' the city is very picturesquely placed, and before ruthless 'improvements' swept away the old gates and many ancient buildings, the general effect must have been particularly delightful. 'this city is pleasantly seated upon a hill among hills, saving towards the sea, where 'tis pendant in such sort as that the streets (be they never so foul) yet with one shower of rain are again cleansed ...,' wrote izacke, in his _antiquities of exeter_. 'very beautiful is the same in building;' and he ends with some vagueness, 'for considerable matters matchable to most cities in _england_.' the earliest history can only be guessed at from what is known of the history of other places, and from the inferences to be drawn from a few scanty relics; but there is evidence that exeter existed as a british settlement before the romans found their way so far west. it is not known when they took the city, nor when they abandoned it, nor is there any date to mark the west saxon occupation. professor freeman, however, points out a very interesting characteristic proving that the conquest cannot have taken place until after the saxons had ceased to be heathens. 'it is the one great city of the roman and the briton which did not pass into english hands till the strife of races had ceased to be a strife of creeds, till english conquest had come to mean simply conquest, and no longer meant havoc and extermination. it is the one city of the present england in which we can see within recorded times the briton and englishman living side by side.' in the days of athelstan, 'exeter was not purely english; it was a city of two nations and two tongues.... this shows that ... its british inhabitants obtained very favourable terms from the conquerors, and that, again, is much the same as saying that it was not taken till after the west saxons had become christians.' the earliest reliable records of the city begin about 876, when the danes overwhelmed the city and were put to flight by king alfred. a few years later they again besieged exeter, but this time it held out against them until the king, for the second time, came to the rescue, and the enemy retreated. alfred, careful of the city and its means of defence, built a stronghold--very possibly in the interval between these two invasions--upon the high ground that the briton had chosen for his fastness, and on which the castle rose in after-days. rather more than a hundred years later athelstan strengthened the city by repairing the roman walls. but it is with an event of greater importance that athelstan's name is usually associated, for it was he who made the city a purely english one by driving out all the britons into the country beyond the tamar. it is probable that there was already a monastery in exeter in the seventh century, and that it was broken up during the storms that raged later. in any case, athelstan founded or refounded a monastery, and in 968 edgar, who had married the beautiful daughter of ordgar, earl of devon, settled a colony of monks in exeter. about thirty years afterwards the danes, under pallig, sailed up the exe and laid siege to the town, but were repulsed with great courage by the citizens. beaten off the city, they fell upon the country round, and a frightful battle was fought at pinhoe. a curious memorial of it survives to this day. during the furious struggle the saxons' ammunition began to run low, and the priest of pinhoe rode back to exeter for a fresh supply of arrows. in recognition of his service, the perpetual pension of a mark (13s. 4d.) was granted him, and this sum the vicar of the parish still receives. two years later the danes made a successful assault upon the city, and seized much plunder, but made no stay. edward the confessor visited exeter, and assisted at the installation of leofric as first bishop of exeter, when the see was transferred from crediton. the queen also played a prominent part in the ceremony, for exeter and the royal revenues within it made part of her 'morning gift.' leofric instituted several reforms, added to the wealth of his cathedral, and left it a legacy of lands and books. the most interesting of the manuscripts is the celebrated _exeter book_, a large collection of anglo-saxon poems on very different subjects. to give some idea of their variety, it may be mentioned that, amongst other poems of an entirely distinct character, there are religious pieces, many riddles, the legends of two saints, the scald's or ancient minstrel's tale of his travels, and a poem on the 'various fortunes of men.' seventeen years after king edward's visit, william the conqueror's messengers came before the chief men of exeter demanding their submission. but the citizens sent back the lofty answer that 'they would acknowledge william as emperor of britain; they would not receive him as their immediate king. they would pay him the tribute which they had been used to pay to kings of the english, but that should be all. they would swear no oaths to him; they would not receive him within their walls.' william naturally would not listen to conditions, and arrived to direct the siege in person. for eighteen days the repeated attacks of the normans were sturdily resisted; then the enemy dug a mine, which caused the walls to crumble, and surrender was inevitable. 'the red mount of exeter had been the stronghold of briton, roman, and englishman;' under the hands of the norman here rose the castle of rougemont, of which a tower, a gateway, and part of the walls, stand to this day. in proportion to the size and strength of that castle, however, the remains are inconsiderable, but it fell into decay very long ago, and as early as 1681 izacke writes of 'the fragments of the ancient buildings ruinated, whereon time ... hath too much tyrannized.' in the year after king stephen began to reign, baldwin de redvers, earl of devon and keeper of the castle, declared for the empress maud, and held the castle for three months against the citizens, headed by two hundred knights who had been sent by the king. at the end of this time the wells ran dry, so that the besieged were driven to use wine for their cookery, and even to throw over their 'engines,' set on fire by the enemy. henry ii granted to the citizens of exeter the first of their many charters of privileges, and in the reigns of king john and henry iii the municipal system was very much developed, and the city first had a mayor. under edward i a beginning was made towards the almost entire reconstruction of the cathedral. bishop warelwast, the nephew of william i, had raised the transeptal towers--a feature that no other english cathedral possesses--and since his time the lady chapel had been added, but the design of the cathedral as a whole was evolved by bishop quivil. he planned what was practically a new church, and his intentions were faithfully carried out. before his day the towers were merely 'external castles,' but bishop quivil broke down their inner walls, and filled the space with lofty arches, and the towers became transepts. bishop stapledon spent huge sums in collecting materials, but before much progress with the work had been made he was murdered by a london mob, in the troubled reign of edward ii; and the actual existence of much of the building is due to bishop grandisson, who, sparing himself in no matter, lavished treasure and devotion on his cathedral. writing to pope john xxii, the bishop said 'that if the church should be worthily completed, it would be admired for its beauty above every other of its kind within the realms of england or france.' one of the most beautiful features of the cathedral is the unbroken length of roof at the same height through nave and choir, the effect intensified by the exquisite richness and grace of the vaulting. and the spreading fans gain an added grace, springing as they do from that 'distinctive group of shafts' which, says canon edmonds, 'makes the exeter pillar the very type of the union of beauty and strength.' in the central bay of the nave, on the north side, is the minstrels' gallery, one of the few to be found in england. it is delicately and elaborately sculptured, and each of the twelve angels in the niches holds a musical instrument--a flageolet, a trumpet and two wind instruments, a tambour, a violin, an organ, a harp, bagpipes, the cymbals, and guitars. the choir is unusually long, and from the north and south aisles open chapels and chantries, in some of which the carving is very rich and fine. the bishop's throne is elaborately carved, and more than sixty feet high, and yet there is not one nail in it. during the commonwealth a brick wall was built across the west end of the choir, completely dividing the cathedral. this was done to satisfy the presbyterians and independents, each of whom wished to hold their services here, and the two churches formed by this division were called peter the east and peter the west. the screen in the west front was added after the cathedral was finished; it is covered with statues in niches, figures of 'kings, warriors, saints, and apostles, guardians as it were of the entrance to the sanctuary.' high above them, in the gable niche, is the statue of st peter, to whom the cathedral is dedicated. king edward and queen eleanor kept christmas at exeter in 1285, and here the king held the parliament which passed the statute of coroners that is still law. during this visit the king gave leave to the bishop and chapter to surround the close with a wall and gates, for at this time it was used to heap rubbish upon, and 'the rendezvous of all the bad characters of the place.' edward iii granted his eldest son the duchy of cornwall--a grant that carried with it the castle of exeter, and to the king's eldest son it has always since belonged. henry vi in 1482 visited the city in peace and splendour. margaret, his queen, came about eighteen years later, while warwick's plans were ripening, and the event is marked in the receiver's accounts by the entry: 'two bottles of wine given to john fortescue, before the coming of margaret, formerly queen.' not long afterwards warwick and the duke of clarence fled to exeter, which had to stand a siege on their behalf; but the effort to take the city was half-hearted, and in twelve days the attempt was abandoned. edward iv arrived in pursuit, but too late, for 'the byrdes were flown and gone away,' and a quaint farce was solemnly played out. the city had just shown openly that its real sympathies were lancastrian, but neither king nor citizens could afford to quarrel. 'both sides put the best face on matters; the city was loyal; the king was gracious ... the citizens gave him a full purse, and he gave them a sword, and all parted friends.' richard iii's visit was more eventful. the allegiance yielded him by the west was of the flimsiest character, and in the autumn of 1483 a conspiracy was formed, and henry, earl of richmond, was proclaimed king in exeter. here richard hastened at the head of a strong force, to find that nearly all the leaders had fled, and there remained only his brother-in-law, sir john st leger, and sir john's esquire, thomas rame. so the king 'provided for himself a characteristic entertainment,' and both knight and squire were beheaded opposite the guildhall. before he left, richard went to look at the castle, and asked its name. the mayor answered, 'rougemont'--a word misunderstood by the king, who became 'suddenly fallen into a great dump, and as it were a man amazed.' shakespeare's lines give the explanation of his discomfiture. 'it seems,' comments fuller, 'sathan either spoke this oracle low or lisping.' the next siege of exeter was when the followers of perkin warbeck surged in thousands round the city. their assault was vigorous and determined; they tried to undermine the walls, burned the north gate, and, repulsed at this point, broke through the defences at the east gate. after a sharp struggle in the streets, the rebels were thrust back, and were forced to march northwards, leaving exeter triumphant. three weeks later henry vii entered exeter with warbeck, as his prisoner. the king was very gracious to the city that had just given such eminent proofs of its loyalty, and bestowed on the citizens a second sword of honour and a cap of maintenance, and ordered that a sword-bearer should be appointed to carry the sword before the mayor in civic procession. henry viii gave exeter 'the highest privilege,' says professor freeman, 'that can be given to an english city or borough.' he made it a county, 'with all the rights of a county under its own sheriff.' an act of parliament was also passed to undo the harm done by isabel de fortibus, representative of the earls of devon, when she made a weir about the year 1280--still called countess weir--that blocked the free waterway to the sea. as the tide naturally comes up the river a little way beyond exeter, before the weir was made ships had been able to sail up to the watergate of the city. the first attempts to improve matters after this act was passed failed, but a canal was constructed with tolerable success in the reign of elizabeth. in 1549 came the siege of exeter that followed the burning of crediton barns. the devonshire rebels had been reinforced by a large number of cornishmen, who resented the new prayer-book, and the law obliging them to hear the services in english instead of latin, more bitterly and with greater reason than the people of sampford courtenay. for to them it was more than unwelcome change in the liturgy; it meant also that their services were read in an alien tongue. 'we,' the cornish, 'whereof certain of us _understand no english_, utterly refuse the new english,' was their protest. it is curious to think that more than half a century later english was a foreign language in cornwall. in james i's reign, 'john norden ... constructing his _speculum_, his topographical description of this kingdom,' writes: 'of late the cornishmen have muche conformed themselves to the use of the english tongue;' and adds that all but 'some obscure people' are able to 'convers with a straunger' in english. the bitterness aroused by the religious question was intensified by a report which was 'blazed abroad,' as hooker says, 'a gnat making an elephant, that the gentlemen were altogether bent to over-run, spoil, or destroy the people.' no one could have acted with greater loyalty and courage than the mayor, john blackaller, and his powers were put to a hard trial before the end of the siege. not only was there an active and vigorous enemy without, but within the walls the majority secretly, and some persons openly, sided with the enemy. the most unceasing vigilance and unfaltering resolution were needed to frustrate all plots and plans. one great danger was averted by a certain john newcomb, an ex-miner, who, suspicious of a possible peril, watched diligently for its slightest sign. one day an anxious crowd looked at him 'crawling about on the ground with a pan of water in his hand. every now and again he would listen attentively, with his ear in the dust, and, rising, place the pan on the spot. at last he has it. like the beating of a pulse, the still water in the pan vibrates in harmony with the stroke of the pickaxe far underneath, and the old miner rises exultant.' a counter-mine was hurriedly made, and through a tiny opening it was seen that barrels of gunpowder and pitch and piles of faggots were heaped beneath the west gate. fortunately, this gate stood below the steep slope on which the city lies, and on discovering the enemy's alarming preparations, every householder was ordered, at a given signal, to empty a great tub of water into the kennel, and every tap in the city was turned on. 'at which time also, by the goodness of god, there fell a great shower, as the like, for the time, had not been seen many years before.' a tremendous torrent rushed down the streets, and, being concentrated upon the mine, completely flooded it. there is no place here to speak of the straits to which the citizens were put before a sufficient number of troops reached lord russell to enable him to march to the relief of the besieged. nor is there room for an account of the splendid resistance made by the rebels to the great force pitted against them, which included a regiment of seasoned german _lanzknechts_ and three hundred italian musketeers, besides english cavalry. 'valiantly and stoutly they stood to their tackle, and would not give over as long as life and limb lasted ... and few or none were left alive.... such was the valour and stoutness of these men that the lord greie reported himself, that he never, in all the wars that he had been in, did know the like.' in recognition of the loyalty shown by the citizens under this great trial, queen elizabeth 'complimented the city with an augmentation of arms,' and 'of her own free will added the well-known motto, _semper fidelis_.' encouraged by the queen's protection, commerce increased and prospered. guilds had long flourished in exeter, and it is recorded that as early as 1477 there was a quarrel between the mayor and citizens and the company of taylors. a guildhall existed even before there was a mayor of exeter, but the present building dates from 1464. it has a fine common hall, with a lofty, vaulted roof and much panelling, and the panels are set with little shields, the arms of the mayors, of various companies, and certain benefactors to the city. later was added the cinque-cento front that projects over the footway, and has become so essential a characteristic in the eyes of those who care for exeter. this front was built in 1593, and 'in its confusion of styles--english windows between italian columns--it has all the impress of that transitional age.' many of the trades that throve in exeter formed guilds, and in looking casually at the names of a few of them, one finds that the bakers had already a master and company in 1428-29, and that some years later the charter of the glovers and skinners was renewed. in 1452 there was a dispute as to whether the cordwainers or tuckers should take precedence in the mayor's procession, and later again the guild of weavers, sheremen, and tuckers came still more prominently before the public. 'trafiquing' in wool and woollen goods was the most important trade, and though its zenith was passed in the seventeenth century, it continued to do well till the later half of the eighteenth. defoe speaks of the 'serge manufacture of devonshire' as 'a trade too great to be described in miniature,' and says he is told that at the weekly market 'sixty to seventy to eighty, and sometimes a hundred, thousand pounds' value in serges is sometimes sold.' probably the account given him was a little exaggerated, but lysons quotes the statement that in the most prosperous days £50,000 or £60,000 worth of woollen goods had been sold in a week. many were the petitions sent up to parliament in the reign of william and mary, begging protection for the local wool-trade, and that competition from unhappy ireland might be discouraged. the great hall of the new inn was used as an exchange, and here were held yearly three great cloth-fairs, where merchants from london and from all parts gathered, and stalls and shops in the inn were let to 'foreigners.' the tuckers' hall, built of ruddy stone, still stands in fore street, and the hall has a fine cradle roof with plaster panels. the most powerful of all the companies was incorporated later than many of the guilds, for the merchant adventurers received their charter from queen elizabeth. their power and wealth was very considerable; they cast their lines in all directions, and they secured a monopoly of trading with france. this company supplied with money, and had a stake in, some of sir humphrey gilbert's and captain davis's enterprises, and sir francis drake himself invited the 'gentilmen merchauntes' and others of the city to 'adventure with him in a voiage supportinge some speciall service ... for the defence of 'religion, quene and countrye.'' about charles i's reign the importance of the company gradually declined, and the society was eventually dissolved. during the civil war, exeter was twice besieged, but on neither occasion so rigorously as in 1549. when the war broke out, the earl of bedford appointed the mayor, the sheriff, and five aldermen, commissioners for the parliament. the defences were put in order and arms collected, and amongst other expenses is recorded '£300 for 17 packs of wool taken from mr robin's cellars for the barricadoes.' nevertheless, zeal for the parliament must have been but lukewarm, for when prince maurice's troops surrounded the city, it was surrendered at the end of fourteen days, and after the besieged had suffered no further inconvenience than 'the being kept from taking the air without their own walls.' the next year queen henrietta maria came to a city which was considered a safer refuge than oxford, and here princess henrietta was born, and was baptized in the cathedral with great pomp, 'a new font having been erected for the purpose, surmounted by a rich canopy of state.' charles ii always showed the warmest affection for his sister, famed, as duchess of orleans, for her beauty and charm, and a portrait of the princess given by the king to the city hangs in the guildhall. it is a full-length portrait, and she is represented standing, one hand lightly gathering together the folds of her white satin dress. during the autumn and winter of 1645-46 exeter was gradually hemmed in by bodies of parliamentary troops stationed at posts in the neighbourhood, and with the new year the siege became a closer one. it would seem, however, that there was no very acute distress from lack of food; but fuller, who was in the city at the time, mentions with satisfaction the appearance of 'an incredible number of larks ... for multitude like quails in the wildernesse, and as fat as plentifull ... which provided a feast for many poor people, who otherwise had been pinched for provision.' as the spring advanced, the king's cause lapsed into a condition too hopeless to be bettered by further resistance, and on april 9 sir john berkeley, for over two years the faithful guardian of the city, signed the articles of its surrender, on honourable terms, to sir thomas fairfax. there is no space to speak of later dramatic incidents in exeter--the trial and execution of mr penruddocke and mr grove, leaders of a royalist rising of wiltshire gentlemen, whose speeches on the scaffold are given at length by izacke; nor of the joy that greeted the restoration, when 'tar-barrels and bonefires capered aloft'; nor of charles ii's visit, nor the entrance of the duke of monmouth in 1680 with five thousand horsemen, and nine hundred young men in white uniforms marching before him. one may not even pause before the gorgeous spectacle of william iii's arrival, heralded by a procession in which appeared two hundred negroes in white-plumed, embroidered turbans, and a squadron of swedish horsemen 'in bearskins taken from the beasts they had slain, with black armour and broad flaming swords.' it has been only possible to name the most outstanding points in the history of a city--once more to quote professor freeman--'by the side of which most of the capitals of europe are things of yesterday.... the city alike of briton, roman, and englishman, the one great prize of the christian saxon, the city where jupiter gave way to christ, but where christ never gave way to woden--british caerwisc, roman isca, west saxon exeter, may well stand first on our roll-call of english cities. others can boast of a fuller share of modern greatness; none other can trace up a life so unbroken to so remote a past.' chapter ii the exe 'goodly ex, who from her full-fed spring her little barlee hath, and dunsbrook her to bring from exmore; when she hath scarcely found her course, then creddy cometh in ... ... her sovereign to assist; as columb wins for ex clear wever and the clist, contributing their streams their mistress' fame to raise. as all assist the ex, so ex consumeth these; like some unthrifty youth, depending on the court, to win an idle name, that keeps a needless port; and raising his old rent, exacts his farmers' store the landlord to enrich, the tenants wondrous poor: who having lent him theirs, he then consumes his own, that with most vain expense upon the prince is thrown: so these, the lesser brooks unto the greater pay; the greater, they again spend all upon the sea.' drayton: _poly-olbion_. the river exe rises in a bog on exmoor, beyond the borders of somersetshire. 'be now therefore pleased as you stand upon great vinnicombe top ... to cast your eye westward, and you may see the first spring of the river exe, which welleth forth in a valley between pinckerry and woodborough,' says westcote. but our author has no feeling for the rolling hills, and noble lines, and hazy blue distances of exmoor, and without one word of praise continues: 'let us for your more ease, and the sooner to be quit of this barren soil, cold air, uneven ways, and untrodden paths, swim with the stream the better to hasten our speed.' the first little town that the exe comes to in devonshire is bampton, nowadays best known, perhaps, for its pony-fairs, when (so runs one account) 'exmoor ponies throng the streets, flood the pavements, overflow the houses, pervade the place. wild as hawks, active and lissom as goats, cajoled from the moors, and tactfully manoeuvred when penned, these indigenous quadrupeds will leap or escalade lofty barriers in a standing jump or a cat-like scramble.' cattle and sheep are less conspicuously for sale at this popular and crowded fair, held on the last thursday in october. the first fact recorded of bampton's history is of such ancient date that it may be hoped the vastness of the achievement has been rounded and filled out during the flight of time; for the historian, with unconscious irony, blandly remarks that here 'cynegils, first christian king of the west saxons,' put twenty thousand (or maybe more) britons to the sword. he does not mention how cynegils continued his propagation of the gospel. the nave of the church at bampton is built in the manner most common to this country--that is, early perpendicular, but the chancel is decorated. in many of the churches there is some portion of decorated work. the screen and roof of the church are worth seeing, and in the churchyard are several unusually large and fine old yew-trees, one or two girdled by stone benches. leaving bampton, one passes along a green and fertile valley, the fields interrupted at intervals by copses, where thickets of undergrowth and multitudes of young saplings are struggling for the mastery--a picture of prodigal wealth in plants, bushes, and trees. seven miles to the south is tiverton. tiverton is a small town, but its story is interesting, and incidents cluster round the castle, church, the well-known school, and the former kersies and wool-market, and, besides, it is filled with memories of the melancholy experiences it has passed through--fires, floods, the plague, and at least one siege. the borough was originally granted by henry i to his cousin, richard de riparis (or de redvers or rivers), earl of devon, whose descendants possessed it for nearly two centuries, when, the direct line failing, the borough and title passed to a cousin, a courtenay, in whose family the title still remains. richard de redvers, 'the faithful and beloved counsellor' of henry i, is supposed to have begun the castle of tiverton, and he attached to it 'two parks for pleasure and large and rich demesne for hospitality.' his grandson, william rivers, was one of the four earls who carried the silken canopy at the second coronation of king richard i, after his return from palestine. william's daughter, mary, married robert courtenay, baron of okehampton; and so it was that, when the house of rivers became extinct in the male line, their possessions passed to the courtenays, and mary's great-grandson became first earl of devon of the line of the courtenays. it is not thought probable that the castle as it stands contains work older than the fourteenth century. part of the building of that date remains unaltered, and part has been transformed into a modern house. the old walls are in places covered with ivy, and on the southern side are pierced by one or two pointed windows whose stonework is more or less broken. a round tower at the southeastern angle still looks very solid and undisturbed. at a few yards' distance, on the south of the castle, stand the ruins of the chapel; the walls of three sides are still standing, although imperfect and partly fallen down, and almost smothered in ivy. originally this square tower at the south-west angle was joined to the castle, and two more round towers stood at the northern angles. near the chapel is a low wall, and looking over it one sees a very steep slope to the river, sixty feet beneath. a wide and deep moat surrounded the castle on the other sides. it is said that tiverton suffered both in the civil war of 1150 and also in the wars of the roses, and though there is little evidence to support this assertion, there can be no doubt that indirectly the town must have been disagreeably affected. for baldwin de redvers fortified his castle at exeter, and it is very likely that retainers from tiverton were sent to strengthen the garrison; and when the earl was driven from the country by king stephen, his servants and their families were probably distressed by want, if not by the sword. during the wars of the roses, three successive earls of devon lost their lives, and many of their followers must have fallen too, leaving defenceless widows and children. the earls of devon had many manors, but lived much in their castle at tiverton, and some were buried in the adjoining church of st peter. to the third earl, known as 'the good' or 'the blind' earl, and his wife a tomb was erected, 'having their effigies of alabaster, sometimes sumptuously gilded.' so writes risdon, about the year 1630, and adds regretfully, 'time hath not so much defaced, as men have mangled that magnificent monument.' it has now entirely disappeared. the epitaph it bore was this: 'hoe! hoe! who lyes here? 'tis i, the goode erle of devonshire, with mabill, my wyfe, to mee full dere, wee lyved togeather fyfty fyve yere. that wee spent wee had; that wee lefte wee loste; that wee gave, wee have.' the church is a fine perpendicular building, and has a high embattled tower, with slender crocketed pinnacles springing sixteen feet above the summit. the roof is battlemented, and the tracery in the windows is graceful. on either side of the chancel stands an altar-tomb--that on the north side being in memory of john waldron, on the south of george slee, both benefactors to the town in having founded almshouses. the sides of the tombs are boldly and curiously sculptured, being covered with raised devices, and a deeply lettered inscription is engraved in the top of each. a picture of st peter being delivered by the angel from prison, painted by richard cosway, hangs over a north doorway. cosway was born in tiverton, and the letter that accompanied his gift expressed good feeling and his warm affection for his native town. the most distinctive feature of the church is the very decorative 'greenway' chapel. john greenway was a rich wool-merchant of tiverton, and on the walls of the chapel was inscribed this couplet: 'to the honour of st. christopher, st. blaze, and st. anne, this chapel of john greenwaye was began.' it is interesting to note, of the three saints to whom the chapel was dedicated, that st christopher was the patron of mariners and one of the 'sea-saints,' st blaze the special patron of wool-combers; while st anne particularly presides over riches. an old distich runs: 'saint anne gives wealth and living great to such as love her most, and is a perfite finder-out of things that have beene lost.' so that the help of all three was peculiarly necessary to make john greenway a prosperous man! the chapel is late perpendicular, and it is most elaborately carved and decorated. the roof is covered with different kinds of ornamentation, and the cornice bears the arms of greenway, of the drapers' company, and other devices. along the corbel line are carved scenes from the bible, beneath is a sea of gentle ripples, with several large ships in full sail upon it, and above and beside the windows is a multitude of different designs--merchants' marks, animals, roses, anchors, horses and men; and a very delightful ape sits on a projecting pedestal, close to the porch. the porch is extremely elaborate, both within and without. on the frieze are six panels, each carved with a different scriptural subject, separated from one another by single figures. over the porch are the arms of the courtenays, and above them an emblem and more carving, besides two large niches, now empty, at each side of the door. inside the porch, over the door leading into the church, is a carving of the assumption, and the roof is richly carved with merchants' marks and other ciphers and designs on little shields. the roof inside the chapel is also carved; and in the floor is a brass engraved with the figures of the merchant and his wife--he in a long fur-edged robe, and she wearing embroidered draperies and jewels, and a pomander ball hanging on one of the long ends of her girdle. it is interesting to hear that in this church mendelssohn's wedding march was first played at a wedding. the 'midsummer night's dream' music had just been published as a pianoforte duet, when mr samuel reay, of tiverton, made an arrangement of it for the organ, and the first marriage at which the march was played was that of mr tom daniel and miss dorothea carew, in june, 1847. tiverton was famed in early days for its trade in wool. it is supposed that woollen goods were first manufactured here towards the end of the fourteenth century, and at the beginning of the sixteenth several merchants of the town were making ventures far and wide. baizes, plain cloths, and kerseys were the most important of the manufactures, and there was some commerce in these with spain. traffic in woollen goods was now very brisk in different parts of the country, and during the reign of henry viii special statutes were enacted 'affecting cloths called white straits of devon, and devonshire kerseys called dozens.' in elizabeth's reign trade prospered here as elsewhere; but later friction arose on the question of imports. the manufacturers on more than one occasion tried to introduce irish worsted to weave into cloth, and this was met by the most violent opposition from the wool-combers, who believed that it would take away their work, although it was explained that their work depended on making serge for dutch markets, for which the irish worsted could not be used. the wool-combers had at different times various causes for complaint, and these they vented in riots so serious that (about 1749) the authorities asked for the protection of some troops, who were accordingly sent to tiverton, and, on a fresh uproar not long after their arrival, were called out to quell the mob. towards the latter half of the eighteenth century the woollen trade languished; but in the first quarter of the nineteenth century a new business sprang up--that of producing machine-made lace and tulle. tiverton's merchants marked their prosperity in an admirable manner, for over ninety gifts in land, money, and almshouses have been made. the gifts and bequests were usually intended to benefit the poor, but in a few cases they were for the general good. in addition there remains the memory of about twenty 'benefactions,' many of which were 'absorbed in the tumult of the civil war or generally dissipated by neglect or mismanagement.' greenway founded almshouses, as well as the aisle in the church, and although these dwellings have been altered to some extent, the tiny chapel still attached to them is very picturesque. a cornice contains twelve circles, within each a pierced quatrefoil, and in the centre of every quatrefoil a shield, bearing a coat of arms, a merchant's mark, or other design. the cornice is supported by several rather grotesque animals, and below, in stone letters, this legend: 'have grace, ye men, and ever pray for the sowl of john and jone greenway.' a wide moulded arch forms the doorway, and above are coats of arms and an eagle rising from a bundle of sticks, an emblem attached to the courtenay arms that appears in several parts of st peter's church. on waldron's almshouses is this curious inscription: 'john waldron, merchant, and richord his wife, builded this house in tyme of their life; at such tyme as the walls wer fourtyne foote hye, he departed this world even the eyghtynth of july (1579). 'since youth and life doth pass awaye, and deathe at hand to end our dayes, let us do so, that men may saye, we spent our goods god for to prays.' on one wall is a pack of wool bearing waldron's staplemark and a ship, and below them the words, 'remember the poor.' the greatest gift by far was that of peter blundell, who built and endowed the well-known school that is called after him, and founded six scholarships at oxford and cambridge as a further benefit to the scholars of blundell's. his will dictates most particular instructions regarding the salaries of the master and usher, and as to the actual building, even directing that there should be 'in the kitchen one fair great chimney with an oven.' in 1882 the school was transferred to howden, but the building that peter blundell planned, beneath the steep hill close to the lowman, is long and rather low, the colour a warm, soft yellow, still more softened by stray indefinite tints of cream and buff. the slate roof is high-pitched, the windows are square and mullioned, and there are two porches, each with a window directly above the hooded doorway, and crowned by a gable. the school-house stands back in a yard of plots of grass and pebbled paths, and shaded by great old lime-trees surrounded by a high wall. samuel wesley was at one time head-master here, and was not universally popular, for his scathing wit blighted the esteem earned by his high gifts and principles. many of blundell's scholars have done good work in the world, but perhaps the most famous of them are the late archbishop of canterbury (dr. temple) and r. d. blackmore, the novelist, who were here in the 'thirties, contemporaries and friends, both 'day-boys' and lodging in the same house in cop's court. twenty years before the archbishop came to blundell's, that celebrated sportsman 'jack' russell was here, embarked on a stormy career, perpetually in scrapes due to his passion for sport, which even led him to the point of trying to keep hounds while he was actually at school. contemporaries of blackmore's were two distinguished soldiers and writers on military subjects, sir charles chesney and his brother sir george, the author of that account of an imaginary german invasion which created so much excitement when, under the name of 'the battle of dorking,' it appeared in 1871 in _blackwood's magazine_. fire has caused terrible loss and disaster here, for as many as seven big conflagrations have taken place in tiverton, and in one alone six hundred houses were destroyed, besides £200,000 worth of goods and merchandise. in addition, at least eight smaller, but still considerable, fires took place at comparatively short intervals, so that between the years 1598 and 1788 the townsfolk suffered from this cause no fewer than fifteen times. a curious account exists of the fire in 1598--'when,' says the chronicler, 'he which at one a clocke was worth five thousand pound, and as the prophet saith [a footnote suggests the prophet amos, vi. 5, 6] dranke his wine in bowles of fine silver plate, had not by two a clocke so much as a wooden dish left to eate his meate in, nor a house to couer his sorrowfull head, neyther did thys happen to one man alone, but to many.... in a twinkling of an eye came that great griefe uppon them, which turn'd their wealth to miserable want, and their riches to unlooktfor pouertie: and how was that? mary, sir, by fyer. 'but no fier from heaven, no unquenchable fier such as worthily fell on the sinfull citie of sodom and gomorra; but a sillie flash of fier, blazing forth of a frying pan ... and here was dwelling in a little lowe thatcht house, a poore beggarly woman: who, with a companion, began to bake pancakes with strawe'--here he becomes sarcastic--'for their abilitie and prouission was so good that there was no wood in the house to doe it.... sodenly, the fier got into the pan.' straw lying close by was ablaze in a moment, then the roof, then, alas! by means of an 'extreame high wind,' a hay-house standing near, and 'in less than halfe an hower the whole toune was set on fier.' a terrible picture is drawn of the rapidity and voracity of the flames--people crying for help in every direction, 'insomuch that the people were so amazed that they knew not which way to turne, nor where the most neede was'--and of the number of people who were burned and the desolation of the town. as to those saved, 'the residue of the woefull people remaining yet aliue, being overburdened with extream sorrow, runs up and down the fieldes like distraught or franticke men.... moreouer, they are so greatly distrest for lacke of food, that they seeme to each mannes sighte more liker spirits and ghostes, than living creatures.' the account concludes with a moral pointed in many figures of speech, to the effect that this great trouble was a judgment on the rich, who did not sufficiently consider their poor neighbours, and various cities are exhorted to take warning thereby. 'o famous london ... thou which art the chief lady cittie of this land, whose fame soundeth through al christian kingdoms, cast thy deere eyes on this ruinous towne.... consider this thou faire citie of exeter, thou which art next neighbour to this distressed town ... pitie her heauie happe, that knowes not what miserie hanges ouer thy owne head.' an appeal to the public was made on behalf of these sufferers, and queen elizabeth responded with a grant of £5,000. in the fire of 1612 the destruction was even greater. 'no noyse thundered about the streets, but fire, fire, in every place were heard the voyces of fire.... all the night long the towne seemed like unto a burning mountaine, shooting forth fiery comets, with streaming blazes, or like unto the canopie of the world, beset with thousands of night candles or bright burning torches.' when the civil war broke out, tiverton, though not unanimous, mainly sided with the parliament. after the battle of stratton, however, the triumphant royalists suddenly descended on the town, turned out colonel weare, who was in command of the parliamentary forces, and took possession. many skirmishes must have taken place either in or about the town, for large bodies of the troops belonging to king or parliament moved backwards and forwards in the immediate neighbourhood during the course of the war. culpeper, the herbalist, to illustrate the powers of the plant moonwort, tells of a wonderful incident that occurred to lord essex's horse, presumably when his army was here in 1644. moonwort has (or perhaps _had_) a miraculous effect on iron, with power to open locks or unshoe horses. 'country people that i know, call it unshoe the horse. besides i have heard commanders say, that in white down in devonshire, near tiverton, there were found thirty horseshoes, pulled off from the feet of the earl of essex's horses, being there drawn up in a body, many of them being but newly shod, and no reason known, which caused much admiration, and the herb described usually grows upon heaths.' probably almost all the neighbourhood thought witchcraft a better explanation. it is very difficult entirely to disentangle accounts that seem to contradict each other, but apparently essex moved away from tiverton after a short stay, and certainly the king sent his army to tiverton the same autumn to halt there for a while on its way from plymouth to chard. and as this army was returning, reduced and exhausted, from fighting and long, hard marches in cornwall, it could not have been sent to a town in possession of the enemy. the next year fairfax sent general massie to take tiverton. the governor, sir gilbert talbot, was in a far from happy position, for afterwards he wrote: 'my horse were mutinous, and i had but two hundred foot in garrison, and some of my chief officers unfaithful.' in spite of his disadvantages, he was able to repulse the enemy in their first attack on church and castle, though unable to prevent their gaining possession of the town. two days later fairfax himself arrived, and batteries, furnished with 'several great peeces,' were erected against the church and castle. the actual fighting lasted only a short time, for a shot broke the chain of the drawbridge, and it fell; the parliamentary soldiers rushed across it without even waiting for the command, and the royalists lost their heads and their courage and fled. a copy of a letter that general massie wrote from tiverton to a cheshire gentleman still exists, and in it he refers to a pamphlet, sent with the letter, even the title-page of which throws light on puritan methods of influencing popular opinion against the cavaliers. this startling page runs as follows: a true and strange relation of a boy, who was entertained by the devill to be servant to him with the consent of his father, about crediton in the west, and how the devill carried him up in the aire, and shewed him the torments of hell, and some of the cavaliers there, and what preparation there was made for goring and greenvile against they came. also how the cavaliers went to rob a carrier, and how the carrier and his horses turned themselves into flames of fire. leaving tiverton and following the exe downstream, the wayfarer may ponder two proverbs referring to tiverton, neither of them especially flattering. it used to be, and no doubt is still, considered lucky to start off running directly the cuckoo is heard for the first time in the year, and thirty or forty years ago, if a girl obeyed this tradition, anyone near her would laugh and say: 'run, run! and don't let no tiverton man catch you!' the other saying is cryptic: 'he must go to tiverton and ask mr able.' an interpretation suggested is that this was originally said to a questioner who asked for unattainable information, and that 'mr able' meant anyone able to furnish it. it is not exactly a satisfactory solution, and as to the reference to tiverton, though it may be complimentary, one doubts whether it does not carry more than a suspicion of sarcasm. four miles to the south of tiverton is a pleasant well-wooded valley, in which stands bickleigh. this village was the birthplace of a rascal, who was such a brilliant and talented rascal that his adventures are very interesting. witty, courageous, and full of resource, he had, besides, two strong points in his favour. in spite of a very rough and wandering life, his warm affection for his wife never failed, and--all dogs adored him! bampfylde moore carew belonged to a very old family in the west, and his father was rector of bickleigh. a happy-go-lucky career was foreshadowed at the very outset, for his two 'illustrious godfathers,' mr hugh bampfylde and major moore, disputed as to whose name should stand first, and, as they could not agree, the matter was decided by spinning a coin. a few of the most interesting events in his career may be quoted from a little biography first published anonymously in 1745, thirteen years before his death. carew was sent to blundell's, where for a while he did well, although his tastes led him to be out with 'a cry' of hounds that the scholars of blundell's kept among them, whenever it was possible. on one occasion some farmers complained to the head-master of the damage that had been done in hunting a deer over standing corn, and the boy, to escape punishment, ran away from school and joined some gipsies. carew took very kindly to the life, but repeated accounts of his parents' unhappiness brought him home after a year and a half's wanderings. though overwhelmed with 'marks of festive joy,' the call 'of the wind on the heath,' was too strong to be resisted, and in a short time he slipped away again and went back to his chosen people. he must have been a very finished actor, with a genius for 'make-up,' to have imposed on half the people that he befooled. amongst his first rôles were those of a shipwrecked mariner; a poor mad tom, trying to eat live coals; and a kentish farmer, whose drowned farm in the isle of sheppey could no longer support his wife and 'seven helpless infants.' carew's restless disposition took him to newfoundland, and on his return he successfully played the parts of a nonjuring clergyman, dispossessed of his living for conscience' sake; a quaker--here is a good example of his wonderful gift--in an assembly of quakers; a ruined miller; a rat-catcher; and, having borrowed three children from a tinker, a _grandmother_. carew once wheedled a gentleman, who boasted that he could not be taken in by beggars, into giving him liberal alms twice in one day--in the morning as an unfortunate blacksmith, whose all had been destroyed by fire; whilst in the afternoon, on crutches, his face 'pale and sickly, his gestures very expressive of pain,' he pleaded as a disabled tinner, who, from 'the damps and hardships he had suffered in the mines,' could not work to keep his family. at the death of clause patch, the king of the gipsies, carew was elected king in his stead. before he died, the aged king, feeling his end approaching, bestowed a few last words of advice on his followers, well worth quoting. of begging in the street and interrupting people who are talking, he said: 'if they are tradesmen, their conversation will soon end, and may be well paid for by a halfpenny; if an inferior clings to the skirt of a superior, he will give twopence rather than be pulled off; and when you are happy enough to meet a lover and his mistress, never part with them under sixpence, for you may be sure they will never part from one another.' this is followed by shrewd advice as to the choice of an appeal: 'whatever people seem to want, give it them largely in your address to them. call the beau sweet gentleman; bless even his coat or periwig; and tell him they are happy ladies where he's going. if you meet with a schoolboy captain, such as our streets are full of, call him noble general; and if the miser can be in any way got to strip himself of a farthing, it will be by the name of charitable sir.... if you meet a sorrowful countenance with a red coat, be sure the wearer is a disbanded officer. let a female always attack him, and tell him she is the widow of a poor marine, who had served twelve years, and then broke his heart because he was turned out without a penny. if you meet a homely but dressed-up lady, pray for her lovely face, and beg a penny.' after his election as king of the gipsies, or king of the beggars, as he is more often called, carew was soon involved in fresh adventures. but one day grey ill-luck looked his way; he was arrested and sent for trial to exeter. courage and audacity never failed him, for when the chairman of quarter sessions announced that the prisoner was to be transported to a country which he pronounced _merry_land, carew calmly criticised his pronunciation, and said he thought that _mary_land would be more correct. to maryland he was sent in charge of a brutal sea-captain, and on his arrival, burdened with a heavy iron collar riveted round his neck, was set to all sorts of drudgery. before very long he contrived to escape into the forests, and after some danger from wild beasts he reached a tribe of friendly indians, who received him with great kindness. later he stole a canoe, and, returning to civilized regions, posed as a kidnapped quaker, in which character he succeeded in gaining the compassion of whitefield, the great preacher, who gave him 'three or four pounds of that county paper money.' by the help of several ingenious ruses he was able to get home again, and soon afterwards, aided by a turban, a long, loose robe, and flowing beard, appeared as a destitute greek, whose 'mute silence, his dejected countenance, a sudden tear that now and then flowed down his cheek,' touched the hearts of the benevolent. in an unlucky moment he was impressed for the navy; next travelled in russia, poland, sweden, and other countries, but, returning to england, was again seized, put in irons, and transported. with his usual indomitable spirit and resource, he escaped once more into the forests, and after dangers and hardships reached england. finally, he ended his days in peace where he began them, and was buried at bickleigh in 1758. five miles east of tiverton is a village called sampford peverell, which in the early part of the nineteenth century suddenly sprang into notice through the strange proceedings of a mysterious spirit, known as the sampford ghost. this 'goblin sprite,' as one account calls it, declared itself in a manner well known to psychical researchers, by violent knockings, and by causing a sword, a heavy book, and an iron candlestick to fly about the room. two maid-servants received heavy blows while they were in bed, and there were other strange and distressing phenomena. these manifestations were continued for more than three years. numberless visitors, drawn by curiosity from all parts of the country, came to investigate the matter, but no explanation could be found, and though there were suspicions that the whole affair was a very elaborate hoax, and a reward of £250 was offered for information that might throw light upon it, no single attempt was made to claim the money. sampford peverell is a small place, and rather out of the way, but so long ago as in the reign of edward i it is recorded that john de hillersdon held the manor on a tenure that reflects the unquiet state of the country. he held it 'in fee, in serjeanty, by finding for our lord the king, in his army in wales, and elsewhere in england, whensoever war should happen, one man with a horse caparisoned or armed for war at his proper costs for forty days to abide in the war aforesaid.' hugh peverell held the manor of sandford, near crediton, on much the same terms, but had to provide 'one armed horseman and two footmen.' following down sampford stream for about three miles, one arrives at the point where the stream reaches an opening into the culm valley, and empties itself in the culm. a very short distance beyond is the little town of cullompton, of which the most interesting feature is a fine perpendicular church. an old writer insists that here was formerly 'the figure of columbus, to which many pilgrims resorted, and which brought considerable sums to the priests'; but of this statement i can find neither confirmation nor denial. the tower of the church is high and decorated. within, the roof, richly carved and gilded, rests on a carved wall-plate, supported by angel corbels, and most exquisite is the carving of the rood-screen, which has also been gilded and coloured. a very rare possession of this church is 'a portion of a calvary, and above is an ornamental rood-beam, supported by angels; the golgotha, carved out of the butts of two trees, is now in the tower, and is hewn and carved to represent rocks bestrewn with skulls and bones; the mortice holes for the crucifix and attendant figures remain.' early fifteenth-century figures painted on the wall were discovered when the church was 'restored' in 1849, but they were covered with whitewash! the making of woollen goods throve in earlier times in cullompton, and a rich clothier, john lane by name, and his wife thomasine, added a very beautiful aisle to the church about 1526. the roof of the 'lane' aisle is covered with exquisite fan-tracery, rich carvings, and figures of angels, and pendants droop from the centre. the pillars, the buttresses, and parts of the outside walls are decorated by carvings of lane's monogram, his merchant's mark, and different symbols of his trade. three miles south-east of cullompton is another church famed for its beautiful screen. the plymtree screen is probably unique in bearing on its panels the likenesses of henry vii, his son prince arthur, and cardinal morton. the upper part of the screen is a magnificent bit of carving. graceful pillars rise like stems, and their lines curve outwards into the lines of palm-leaves, overspreading one another, while the arches they form are filled with most delicate tracery, supported on the slenderest shafts. above are four rows of carving, each of different design--one a vine, with clusters of grapes, and this is repeated more heavily on the capital of a pillar in the nave. the screen must have been glorious in gold and vermilion, and gold lines cross each other, making a sort of lattice-work, with ornaments at the points of intersection--a large double rose, a little shield with the bouchier knot, or the stafford knot, or a very naturally carved spray of oak-leaves. below, the panels are painted with saints and angels and bishops. the king, prince, and cardinal appear in a representation of the adoration of the three kings, each one bringing his offering in a differently-shaped vessel. mr mozley, a former rector of plymtree, has written a most interesting pamphlet on the subject, tracing out the likeness of these portraits to other pictures or busts of the three. he points out that, whereas in most paintings of the three kings each has a crown, that of the foremost usually laid on the ground, in this group king henry alone is crowned; the cardinal has none; and the prince, who is represented as very young, is wearing a boy's cap. mr mozley has searched carefully for a reason that would account for the group in this little church, and has found what seems to be a perfectly sufficient connecting link. lord hastings, who married the heiress of lord hungerford, and incidentally acquired the manor of plymtree, was the warm friend and political ally of cardinal morton. the son and successor of lord hastings was a close personal friend of henry vi, and in consequence a colleague of the cardinal, the king's chief counsellor. there is no date on the screen, but from various deductions it is believed to have been painted about the end of the fifteenth century, or a little later, and either during the lifetime or just after the death of the three subjects of the group, and of lord hastings. bradninch lies a short distance to the west of plymtree, and this church contains a very fine screen and an old and remarkable painting of the crucifixion. it was originally placed in an aisle that was built in the reign of henry vii by the fraternity of st john, or the guild of cordwainers. the culm runs past bradninch, at a little distance to the east, and a few miles farther on the river passes under the dark hills of killerton park, a heavily wooded and irregular ridge, rising at either extremity and ending in a decided slope down to the flat space just around. the house is not an old one, although the aclands have been here since the reign of queen elizabeth, when sir john acland moved from the estate at landkey, near barnstaple, where they were already settled in the reign of henry ii. he built a house at culm john (quite close to killerton) that was garrisoned for the king during the civil war, and held out when almost every other place in devonshire had surrendered. but it has since been pulled down. there are many stories of different members of this family, but perhaps the most romance lies in that of lady harriot acland, who, with serene courage, followed her husband through the horrors and hardships of a campaign. in 1776 major acland was with the army that had been sent to crush the american struggle for independence, and his wife had accompanied him. the following extract is taken from a statement by general burgoyne, the general commanding the troops in canada: 'in the course of that campaign, she had traversed a vast space of country in different extremities of seasons. she was restrained from offering herself to a share of the hazard expected before ticonderoga, by the positive injunction of her husband. the day after the conquest of that place he was badly wounded, and she crossed the lake champlain to join him.' when he was recovered, lady harriot continued to follow his fortunes through the campaign, and acquired a 'two-wheel tumbril, which had been constructed by the artillery.' colonel acland was with the most advanced corps of the army, and they were often in so much danger of being surprised that they had to sleep in their clothes. once the aclands' tent and all that was in it was burned, but this accident 'neither altered the resolution nor the cheerfulness of lady harriot, and she continued her progress a partaker of the fatigues of the advanced corps. the next call upon her fortitude was more distressful. on the march of the 19th, the grenadiers being liable to action at every step, she had been directed by major acland to follow the route of the artillery and luggage which was not exposed. at the time the action began she found herself near a small uninhabited hut, where she alighted. when it was found the action was becoming general and bloody, the surgeons of the hospital took possession of the same place as the most convenient for the first care of the wounded. thus was this lady in hearing of one continued fire of cannon and musketry for some hours together, with the presumption, from the post of her husband at the head of the grenadiers, that he was in the most exposed part of the action. she had three female companions--the baroness of reidesel, and the wives of two british officers, major harnage and lieutenant reynell; but in the event their presence served but little for comfort. major harnage was soon brought to the surgeons, very badly wounded; and a little while after came intelligence that lieutenant reynell was shot dead. imagination will want no help to figure the state of the whole group.' not long afterwards lady harriot passed through an even severer ordeal. during another engagement 'she was exposed to the hearing of the whole action, and at last received the shock of her individual misfortune mixed with the intelligence of the general calamity; the troops were defeated, and major ackland, desperately wounded, was a prisoner. 'the day of the 8th was passed by lady harriot and her companions in common anxiety; not a tent, not a shed being standing except what belonged to the hospital, their refuge was among the wounded and dying. 'i soon received a message from lady harriot, submitting to my decision a proposal (and expressing an earnest solicitude to execute it if not interfering with my designs) of passing to the camp of the enemy and requesting general gates's permission to attend her husband.... i was astonished at this proposal. after so long an agitation of the spirits, exhausted not only for want of rest, but absolutely want of food, drenched in rains for twelve hours together, that a woman should be capable of such an undertaking as delivering herself to the enemy, probably in the night, and uncertain of what hands she might fall into, appeared an effort above human nature. the assistance i was enabled to give her was small indeed; i had not even a cup of wine to offer her; but i was told she had found from some kind and fortunate hand a little rum and dirty water. all i could furnish to her was an open boat and a few lines written upon dirty and wet paper, to general gates, recommending her to his protection. 'mr brudenell, the chaplain to the artillery, ...readily undertook to accompany her, and with one female servant, and the major's valet-de-chambre (who had a ball, which he had received in the late action, then in his shoulder), she rowed down the river to meet the enemy. but her distresses were not yet to end. the night advanced before the boat reached the enemy's outposts, and the sentinel would not let it pass, nor even come on shore. in vain mr brudenell offered the flag of truce.... the guard threatened to fire into the boat if they stirred before daylight.' and for seven or eight dark and cold hours they were obliged to wait. happily, when at length she did reach the shore, lady harriot was received with all courtesy by general gates, and had the joy of nursing her husband back to health. a little to the south-west of killerton park lie the well-ordered park and beautiful grounds of lord poltimore. john bampfylde, his ancestor, was lord of this manor in the reign of edward i, but the line of succession has been threatened by an episode, told by prince (in his 'worthies of devon'), that reads like a folk-story. at one time the head of the family was a child, who, left an orphan very young, was given as a ward 'to some great person in the east country.' this gentleman carried the child away to his own home, and, although not going quite so far as the wicked uncle in the babes in the wood, behaved very treacherously to his ward; 'concealing from him his quality and condition, and preventing what he could any discovery thereof, his guardian bred him up as his servant, and at last made him his huntsman.' to any who concerned themselves about the boy, the false guardian 'some years after gave it out, he was gone to travel (or the like pretence), in-so-much his relations and friends, believing it to be true, looked no further after him.' but bampfylde's tenants were more faithful, and one of them, on his own responsibility, rose to the tremendous effort and enterprise of starting off in search of him. his loyalty was rewarded with full success, for he was able to find and identify the young man, and, biding his time, the tenant grasped an opportunity of talking quietly to him, and 'acquainted him with his birth and fortunes, and finally arranged his escape.' and in this way the true heir came to his own again. in the spring of 1646 poltimore house was chosen by fairfax as the meeting-place of his commissioners and those sent by sir john berkeley, and here they discussed the articles of the surrender of besieged exeter, and drew up the treaty that could be accepted by both sides. sir coplestone bampfylde, having 'a vigorous soul,' worked for the restoration with so much zeal that messengers were sent from the parliament to arrest him, and he was forced to hide. but 'his generous mind could not be affrighted from following his duty and honour,' and as the citizens of exeter, by this time very dissatisfied with the government, were beginning to arm, declaring for a free parliament, sir coplestone and other gentlemen composed an address, demanding the recall of the members secluded in 1648, and 'all to be admitted without any oath or engagement previous to their entrance.' he next took his way to london, to present 'an humble petition of right' on behalf of the county to general monk, but was seized by the parliament and flung into the tower. his imprisonment was brief, and charles ii rewarded bampfylde's energy by choosing him to be the first high sheriff of the county of his reign, and later appointing him to other posts of 'trust and honour.' john bampfylde, a descendant of sir coplestone's, was a poet, and among his verses occurs this charming sonnet, on that not unknown event in devon--a wet summer: 'all ye who far from town in rural hall, like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, enjoying all the sunny day did yield- with me the change lament, in irksome thrall, by rains incessant held; for now no call from early swain invites my hand to wield the scythe. in parlour dim i sit concealed, and mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall; or 'neath my window view the wistful train of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves shelter no more. mute is the mournful plain. silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, and vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, counting the frequent drip from reeded eaves.' poltimore is nearly two miles east of the exe, and if a straight line across country were followed to the river, the traveller would arrive almost at the point where the culm flows into the larger stream. the valley here is rather broad, and the river winds between pleasant, rich, green meadows and wooded hills, most of which rise in gentle, easy slopes. not quite two miles north of exeter, the exe turns due south, and is joined by the creedy, running south-west. westcote, in flowery language, describes the scene, painting a picture which would stand good to-day, but that nearly all the mills are gone. cowley bridge, 'built of fair square stone,' stands just above the junction, 'where exe musters gloriously, being bordered on each side with profitable mills, fat green marshes and meadows (enamelled with a variety of golden spangles of fragrant flowers, and bordered with silver swans), makes a deep show, as if she would carry boats and barges home to the city; but we are opposed by exwick wear, and indeed wears have much impaired his lustre and portable ability, which else might have brought his denominated city rich merchandise home to the very gates.' here one may leave the exe to follow the creedy upstream for five miles or so, till crediton is reached. 'creedy' comes from the celtic word _crwydr_, a hook or crook, a name that its tortuous way must have earned. the river runs between crumbling banks of soft earth, and shifts its course a little after any great flood. it is curious to notice the difference after heavy rains between the exe and the creedy, for while the former will be still a comparatively clear brown, even when it comes down a great swirling flood, thundering over the weirs and hurrying along honeycombs of foam, the creedy will have turned to a surging, turbid volume of water, of a deep red, terra-cotta colour, that leaves traces of red mud in the overhanging trees when the river has subsided. the valley is a narrow one, and on the hill-sides are copses and orchards, lovely as a sea of pink and white blossoms, and very admirable on a bright day in september, when the bright crimson cider apples, and golden ones with rosy cheeks, are showing among the leaves, and the hot sunshine, following a touch of frost, brings out the clean, crisp, sweet scent of ripe apples till it floats across roads and hedges. leland remarks that 'the ground betwixt _excestre_ and _crideton_ exceeding fair corn greese and wood. there is a praty market in kirton.' kirton was the popular name for the town. its origin is far to seek, for the saying runs: 'crediton was a market town, when exeter was a vuzzy[1] down.' [footnote 1: vuzz, _i.e._ furze.] however this may have been, it is, at any rate, certain that the bishops of devon were seated at crediton for over one hundred and forty years before, in 1050, leofric removed to exeter. and nearly two and a half centuries before the first bishop settled at crediton, religious feeling was awake, as is shown by the story of st boniface, or, as he was originally called, wynfrith. this saint, the great missionary to the germans, is believed to have been born here in the year 680, and at a very early age he wished to become a monk. his desire was not at once granted, for his father could not bear to part with him, and much opposition had to be overcome before he was allowed to go to school in exeter. after he was ordained, boniface won the respect and confidence of ina, king of the west saxons, but feeling that his work lay in another country, he went to thuringia, to throw his strength into the conversion of the heathen. combining 'learning, excellency of memory, integrity of life, and vivacity of spirit, he was fit for great employment,' says an old writer, and he was chosen archbishop of mentz, becoming the chief authority on all spiritual matters in germany. in spite of the heavy cares and toils entailed by his high office, st boniface still laboured personally among the recalcitrant heathen, and in his seventy-sixth year 'had his death by faithless frisians slain.' eight bishops lived and died at crediton, and the ninth demanded that the see should be transferred from crediton to exeter. the chief reason put forward was that exeter was a strong city, and less likely to be ravaged by irish danes and other 'barbarian pirates,' but professor freeman suggests that leofric also desired the change because he had been educated on the continent, where it was never the custom for a bishop's chief seat to be in a village when a larger town was in his diocese. anyhow, leofric obtained his wish, and was led to his throne in st peter's church in exeter by the king on one hand and the queen on the other, in the presence of two archbishops and other nobles. the palace and park at crediton remained in the possession of the bishops till the dissolution. the beautiful church of st cross stands either upon or close to the site of the original cathedral of the bishops, which, on the removal of the see to exeter, was made a collegiate church, with precentor, treasurer, dean, eighteen canons and as many vicars, besides singing-men or lay-vicars. the present church is mainly perpendicular, though the lady chapel is early decorated, and there are portions of still earlier work. the tower is central, square, and rather low. it is surmounted by four embattled turrets, and battlements run round the roof of the church. the whole building is of a soft rose-red colour, but the walls within were once whitewashed, and are now of a slightly cooler tint. the clustered pillars look as if, over a warm, soft grey, a faint, transparent tinge of rose-colour had passed, leaving a very lovely effect; they are tall and graceful, and delicate carving adorns the capitals. the nave is lofty and unusually long. on the south side of the chancel are sedilia, once elaborately decorated and glorious in vermilion and gold; a design resembling a very large but intricate network in gold spreads over the backs of the sedilia, and a little figure, with faint traces of colour and gilding, stands at one end. on the north side of the chancel is the effigy, lying at full length, of william peryam; and close by is a monument to john tuckfield, engraved with an epitaph full of praise, in which occur these lines, in peculiar lettering and spelling: 'why do i live, in life and thrall, of joy and all bereaft, yor winges were grown, to heaven are flown, 'cause i had none am leaft.' the lady chapel is beautifully decorated. at the south end of the choir is a large tomb, on which lie, side by side, the effigies of a knight in armour and a lady with a wonderful head-dress, large and square. the figures are somewhat mutilated, but the little angels that supported her head can just be distinguished. the tomb is supposed to be that of sir john sully and his wife; he, having fought at crecy and poictiers, lived to give evidence, at the age of 105, in the great scrope and grosvenor controversy. in the south porch is a bit of early english work, a piscina and holy-water stoup side by side, under one arch, with a very slender detached shaft between. the upper portion of the font is late norman, and is dark, shallow, and square. behind the font a small door and tiny staircase lead up to the parvise, where is stored a library that was given for the priest's use. the books include a 'vinegar' bible, an _eikon basilike_, and other treasures. there is a curious account of a miracle that took place in this church on august 1, 1315, while bishop stapeldon was celebrating mass. thomas orey, a fuller by trade, of keynsham, became suddenly blind one day in easter week for no apparent reason. a vivid dream that, if he should visit the church of holy cross at crediton, his sight would return, induced him to journey there with his wife, and several witnesses, afterwards called by the bishop to give evidence, solemnly asserted that when he arrived in the town he was totally blind. two days he spent in the church, and on the third, he being 'instant at prayer before the altar of st nicholas, suddenly recovered his sight.' crediton had for a long time a very important trade in woollen goods, which were made here as early as in the thirteenth century. in the reign of queen elizabeth it was one of the principal centres of the manufacture in the county, and, indeed, caused exeter so much jealousy that weavers, tuckers, and others, petitioned the authorities until it was ordained that the serge-market should be removed from here, and a weekly one set up in exeter, to the great and natural indignation of crediton. 'their market for kersies hath been very great, especially of the finer sort,' says westcote, 'for the aptness and diligent industry of the inhabitants ... did purchase it a supereminent name above all other towns, whereby grew this common proverb--as fine as kirton spinning ... which spinning was very fine indeed, which to express, the better to gain your belief, it is very true that 140 threads of woollen yarn spun in that town were drawn together through the eye of a tailor's needle; which needle and threads were, for many years together, to be seen in watling-street, in london, in the shop of one mr dunscombe.' crediton was once, for a brief but fateful moment, the focus of a very serious movement. during 1549 discontent showed itself in many parts of england, and very gravely in the west, where a rising of devonshire and cornish men brought about the 'affair of the crediton barns,' and culminated in the siege of exeter. the first definite outbreak was at sampford courtenay, on whit monday, june 10. on sunday the book of common prayer was used for the first time, but the people were dissatisfied. they did not care to hear the service in their own tongue instead of in latin, and they resented all the other changes. and when on monday the priest was 'preparing himself to say the service as he had done the day before ... they said he should not do so.... in the end, whether it were with his will or against his will, he ravisheth himself in his old popish attire, and sayeth mass, and all such services as in times past accustomed.' the news of this incident spread; other villages followed suit, and the local magistrates unwillingly recognized that the ferment of rebellion was working, and met together to try and reason the people into a more submissive frame of mind. but the movement was too full of force to be arrested by such gentle methods, and the justices, 'being afraid of their own shadows, ... departed without having done anything at all.' unfortunately, their reasoning had merely an irritating effect, so that, when a certain gentleman named helions tried mildly to enforce some of the remonstrances, a man struck him on the neck with a billhook and killed him. this blow seems to have stirred the mob into taking a definite course of action, and they marched on crediton. news of the disturbance had, meanwhile, reached the king, and sir peter and sir gawen carew were sent down in haste to deal with the matter. from exeter, they and several other gentlemen rode to confer with the people; but the people, having had notice of the arrival of the knights, 'they intrench the highways, and make a mighty rampire at the town's end, and fortify the same' and 'also the barns of both sides of the way.' the walls were pierced with 'loops and holes for their shot,' and 'so complenished with men, well appointed with bows and arrows and other weapons, that there was no passage nor entry for them into the town.' nor would they listen to 'the gentlemen,' but refused all conference. the 'warlike knights' then tried force, but were driven back with loss, by a heavy volley. 'whereupon some one strong man of that company,' says hooker (who must have admired decision), 'unawares of the gentlemen, did set one of the barns on fire, and then the commoners, seeing that, ran and fled away out of the town.' this ended all the trouble in crediton, though the smoking barns served as fuel to the growing spirit of revolt, and the 'barns of crediton' became a party-cry. clarendon mentions briefly that charles i came here on his way into cornwall, and reviewed the troops under prince maurice. about one hundred and fifty years later the distant echoes of war sounded faintly in crediton, for french prisoners of war on parole, napoleon's soldiers, were allowed to live in this town. vague rumours of them may still be heard. the sexton remembers that his mother often told about them, and one of the first people he buried was a man named henry, 'though,' he explained, 'they spell it rather differently.' the melancholy fate of this stranger throws a light on one of the disregarded tragedies in the train of war, for henri was not a soldier, but the son of a french prisoner. for some reason he never went home, and died in the workhouse. amongst the conditions that the prisoners on parole had to sign was: 'not to withdraw one mile from the boundaries prescribed there without leave for that purpose from the said commissioners;' and on some roads a stone was put up marking the limits. one of these stones, of grey limestone, and very like a milestone with no inscription, is still to be seen jutting out from the bank of shobrooke park, on the stockleigh pomeroy road. another witness to the presence of the french prisoners lies in the name that clings to a bit of road running behind the vicarage, for it is still sometimes called the belle parade, and tradition says that here they used to assemble on sundays. returning along the river, one passes through the property of the late sir redvers buller. downes is a white house standing amongst green open lawns sloping to the river, and it has a background of great trees and ample shrubberies. the bullers at one time lived chiefly in cornwall, and downes was originally a shooting-box. a hay-loft stood at one end, and when the house was enlarged the archway under which the hay-waggons were driven was left standing, and now forms part of the drawing-room--a room with an unusually high ceiling. a member of the family has been kind enough to send me notes of one or two incidents in the history of the bullers. 'the whole buller family was at one time reduced to a single individual, john francis buller. he died of the smallpox. his mother insisted on seeing him after death. it was in the days when air was considered highly prejudicial to smallpox patients, who were covered with red cloth, and every window and cranny through which air might enter was carefully closed. to minimize the risk to his mother, who would listen to no dissuasion, all the windows and doors were opened, and a draught of air admitted, with the result that when his mother entered the room the dead man rose from his bed and received her.' mr buller lived to marry rebecca, daughter of the bishop trelawney who was one of the seven bishops sent to the tower by james ii. his arrest created intense indignation in his own county; and he is the trelawney referred to in the well-known fragment, all that remains of a ballad written at the time to express cornish feeling: 'and shall they scorn tre, pol, and pen? and shall trelawney die? there's twenty thousand cornishmen[2] will know the reason why.' [footnote 2: in another version 'underground'--_i.e._, miners.] a later mr buller of downes had a brief but unpleasant experience of the feeling of the mob in regard to the reform bill. 'i recollect hearing that at the time of the first reform bill (1830) the members of the house of commons were threatened with dire consequences if they could not give what the mob considered satisfactory answers to their questions. 'mr buller of downes was on his way to the house in his own carriage, when a crowd stopped him, demanding to know how he meant to vote. he took no notice of their request, but remained quietly seated, when some of the men opened the carriage door with cries of, "pull him out! pull him out!" and were proceeding to carry out their threat, when his servant, who was standing behind the carriage, sprang up to the roof, and, waving his hat, shouted: "what! don't you know my master, squire buller? why, he's always for the people!" whereupon the door was closed again with a bang, the coachman told to drive on, and "squire buller" reached the house without further molestation.' two miles farther on the river passes the village of newton st cyres, or syriak newton, as some of the older writers called it. the church has several interesting features, and escaped the ruthless 'restoration' that so many village churches suffered from at the beginning of the nineteenth century. alders and willows overhang the stream, which winds its way to the south-west, and about two miles farther on one arrives again at cowley bridge. the valley of the exe gets ever wider and flatter, and after exeter has been passed the flatness on either side of the banks increases as the river draws near the estuary. topsham stands at the head of the estuary, and is a pleasant little town, whose great days are gone by. it is difficult to believe that in the reign of william iii topsham had more trade with newfoundland than any other port in the country excepting london. presumably it was at this time that certain dutch merchants came to live here, and built themselves quaint narrow houses of small dutch bricks, painted the colour of bath-bricks. rounded gable-ends are a feature of these houses, which may still be seen along the strand. in many cases the clerk's house, a smaller, humbler dwelling of exactly the same design, stands close to the merchant's, separated by their respective gardens. till wooden ships were superseded, frigates for the navy were built here, but now, although some of the largest ships stop and unload their cargoes for exeter, there is little of the stir and bustle that the town must once have rejoiced in. miss celia fiennes, who rode through england about 1695, mentions topsham in her diary as 'a little market place and a very good key; hither they convey on horses their serges and soe load their shipps w^h comes to this place, all for london.' she also speaks of starcross, on the farther side of the river, 'where the great shipps ride, and there they build some shipps.' in the end of the seventeenth century there sprang from topsham a man of great resoluteness, pluck, and the spirit to fight against tremendous odds in cold blood. robert lyde, mate of the _friend's adventure_, himself wrote an account of his fortunes on board that vessel. lyde's great bitterness against the french is explained by the fact that he had already suffered intensely at their hands. two years before he had been captured at sea by a french privateer, and imprisoned at st malo, 'where we were used with such inhumanity and cruelty that if we had been taken by the turks we could not have been used worse.' the prisoners were almost starved, and their condition was wretched in every respect. 'these and their other barbarities made so great an impression on me that i did resolve never to go a prisoner there again, and this resolution i did ever since continue in.' but when he was for the second time made prisoner--this time on board the _friend's adventure_--there seemed no escape from this evil fate. the crew were all removed from the ship, excepting lyde and one boy, who, under a prize-master and six men, were to help in sailing her to st malo. the idea of returning to the identical prison where he had endured such misery made lyde desperate, and, finding no easier expedient, he determined to pit himself against the seven as soon as he could persuade the boy to join him. the boy, not unnaturally, hung back from such a venture, and before he could screw his courage to the sticking-place they had arrived off a small harbour near brest, and the french had fired a 'patteroe' for a pilot. 'whereupon, considering the inhuman usage i formerly had in france, and how near i was to it again, struck me with such terror that i went down between decks and prayed god for a southerly wind, to prevent her from going into that harbour, which god was most graciously pleased to grant me, for which i returned my unfeigned thanks.' lyde's anxiety to attack the french was now redoubled, and when they invited him to their breakfast, he was so 'ready to faint with eagerness to encounter them' that he could not stay in the same cabin. he went up 'betwixt decks' to the boy, 'and did earnestly entreat him to go up presently to the cabin and stand behind me, and knock down but one man, in case two laid on me, and i would kill and command all the rest presently.' the boy, however, was timid, and when lyde, to spur him into resistance, told all the horrible details of his former captivity, he calmly replied: 'if i do find it as hard as you say when i am in france, i will go along with them in a privateer.' 'these words,' writes lyde, 'struck me to the heart, which made me say: "you dog! what! will you go with them against your king and country, and father and mother? sirrah! i was a prisoner in france four months, and my tongue cannot express what i endured there, yet i would not turn papist and go with them. if i should take my brother in a french privateer, after he had sailed willingly with them, i would hang him immediately."' perhaps at this point the boy began to fear opposing lyde as much as attacking all the frenchmen, for he now consented to help, and was told that if he would knock down the man at the helm, all the others should be lyde's affair. the _sang-froid_ of the ensuing conversation is remarkable. 'saith the boy, "if you be sure to overcome them, how many do you count to kill?" i answered that i intended to kill three of them. then the boy replied, "why three, and no more?" i answered that i would kill three for three of our men that died in prison when i was there.' lyde went on to express a hope that some day a 'man-of-war or fireship' will try to avenge 'the death of those four hundred men that died in the same prison of dinan.' but the boy's fears found the present scheme too merciful, and he protested, 'four alive would be too many for us.' the attack was made when two frenchmen were asleep in the cabin. 'i went softly aft into the cabin, and put my back against the bulkhead, and took the iron crow and held it with both my hands in the middle of it, and put my legs to shorten myself, because the cabin was very low. but he that being nighest to me, hearing me, opened his eyes, and perceiving my intent and upon what account i was coming, he endeavoured to rise to make resistance against me, but i prevented him by a blow upon his forehead which mortally wounded him.' the other man received a heavy blow as he was rising, 'very fiercely endeavouring to come against me.... the master, lying in his cabin on my right hand, rose and sat in his cabin, and seeing what i had done, he called me by most insulting names.' but 'having his eyes every way,' lyde turned on him with a blow which made him 'lie as still as if he had been dead.' he then went to 'attack the two men who were at the pump, where they continued pumping without hearing or knowing what i had done;' but one of the wounded men crawled out of the cabin, and when the men at the pump 'saw his blood running out of the hole in his forehead, they came running aft to me, grinding their teeth as if they would have eaten me; but i met them as they came within the steeridge door, and struck at them; but the steeridge not being above four foot high, i could not have a full blow at them, whereupon they fended off the blows, took hold of the crow with both their hands close to mine, striving to haul it from me; then the boy might have knocked them down with much ease, but that his heart failed him.' the master was by this time so far recovered that he was able to join the other two, so that lyde fought for his life against the three. the boy at one moment, thinking him overborne, 'cried out for fear. then i said, "do you cry, you villain, now i am in such a condition? come quickly and knock this man on the head that hath hold of my left arm." the boy took some courage, but struck so faintly that he missed his blow, which greatly enraged me; and i, feeling the frenchman about my middle hang very heavy, said to the boy, "go round the binikle and knock down that man that hangeth on my back"; so the boy did strike him one blow on the head, and he went out on deck staggering to and fro.' after a further tremendous effort, lyde killed one of the three struggling with him, and the two others then begged for quarter; and at last he set sail for topsham, with five living prisoners under hatches. but his troubles were not yet all passed. exhausted as he was, he dared not rest, and suffered from want of sleep, bad weather, and, when he reached home, a cold welcome. arrived at topsham bar, he had no english colours to run up, and the pilot he signalled feared to come out. lyde did not dare to bring in the ship by himself at night, and was blown off the coast, so that he had the further labour of getting close to the bar a second time. in the end he did succeed in getting safely home. just beyond topsham the little river clyst joins the exe. it has given names to a surprising number of villages and manors, considering the shortness of its course--clyst st mary, clyst st laurence, honiton clyst, and so on. at clyst st george a small estate used to be held on the curious tenure of 'the annual tender of an ivory bow.' about two miles east of the river the land begins to slope upwards to the moorland of woodbury common, and on one part of the heath are the remains of an ancient entrenchment called woodbury castle. 'no castle at all, built with little cost,' says westcote, 'without either lime or hewn stone: only a hasty fortification made of mother-earth for the present to serve a turn for need, with plain ditches, the saxons' usual structure, who commonly lay _sub dio_, with no other shelter or coverture than the starry canopy.' woodbury and lympstone--a village on the edge of the estuary--were once owned by the family of de albemarle, which name was gradually transformed into damarel, and in this guise is not uncommon in the west to-day. two and a half miles farther on is exmouth--a town fortunate in the delightful views on every side. the sea stretches away to the south; on the north-east the hills rise towards woodbury common; on the west lie the broad, shining reaches of the river, and beyond them the beautiful heights of haldon. here 'ex taketh his last tribute with a wider channel and curled waves, shedding itself into the sea.' exmouth has a rather curious history. in the early part of the eighteenth century it was little more than a hamlet, chiefly consisting of fishermen's cottages; but soon afterwards it became a fashionable watering-place--according to report, because one of the judges on circuit was charmed with the sea-bathing here. the town continues to flourish and is greatly patronized by visitors. the strangeness of the history lies in the fact that exmouth should ever have been reduced to such a humble condition, for it inherited great traditions. when the danes descended on it in 1001, they found there a town and a castle, and being 'valiantly repelled by the guardians' of the latter, they revenged themselves by burning the town. in the reign of king john, exmouth was a port of some consequence, and when edward iii was at war with france it was able to contribute no fewer than ten ships for an attack on calais. risdon says there was 'sometime a castle, but now the place hath no defence than a barred haven and the inhabitants' valour.' it is a little puzzling that both he and westcote, writing about the beginning of the seventeenth century, should imply that the old fortress had no successor, for a very few years later exmouth was garrisoned for the king. either a fort must have been erected in the short interval, or some building turned into a tolerable substitute, for in the spring of 1646 'fort exmouth' was blockaded by colonel shapcote, and defended with great courage by colonel arundell. it capitulated less than a month before the surrender of exeter. chapter iii the otter and the axe 'dear native brook! wild streamlet of the west! how many various fated years have past, what happy and what mournful hours, since last i skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes i never shut amid the sunny ray, but straight with all their tints thy waters rise, thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, and bedded sand, that, veined with various dyes, gleamed through thy bright transparence! on my way, visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: ah! that once more i were a careless child!' coleridge: _sonnet to the river otter_. the river otter rises in somerset, and runs nearly due south, bearing slightly westwards till it reaches honiton. here it makes a curve still farther to the west, and from ottery st mary runs southwards to the sea. in westcote's day, when the derivations of names were taken in a light-hearted spirit, it was said: 'the river otter, or river of otters (water-dogs), taking name from the abundance of these animals (which we term otters) sometime haunting and using it.' but the more serious authorities of to-day do not allow that the otters in this river have anything to do with the matter, and say that the name comes from the welsh _y dwr_, the water. it is a rapid and very clear stream, flowing through green and fertile valleys. honiton filled defoe with admiration when he came to it on his journey to the west. he describes it as 'a pleasant, good town, that stands in the best and pleasantest part of the whole country ... and to the entrance into honiton the view of the country is the most beautiful landscape in the world, a mere picture, and i do not remember the like in any one place in england.' beyond this pleasantness there is nothing very remarkable in the town; perhaps its most uncommon feature being a stream of clear water that runs down the street, with square dipping-places at intervals. to the west the town looks over a space of comparatively flat country, but on the north-west it is overshadowed by st. cyres hill, and farther north is the bold height of dumpdon. on the top of this hill are the remains of an oval camp, and a few miles away to the north-west is the better-known camp called hembury fort. the fort stands very high, and looks south to the sea beyond the vale of the otter, and west to haldon and the fringes of dartmoor over exeter. three ramparts surround the fort, which covers a large space of ground, and it is 'divided into two parts by a double agger.... several roman coins, and an iron "lar" representing a female figure three inches high, have been found here.' a great roman road passes by honiton. the fosseway ran from caithness to totnes (according to some authorities, on into cornwall), and crossed the country between exeter or seaton and lincolnshire. it is thought that the romans, in making their famous roads, usually followed the line of still older british ways. in coaching days honiton was well known as a stage for changing horses. gay, who was a devonshire man, a native of barnstaple, says in his _journey to exeter, 1716, from london_: 'now from the steep, 'midst scatter'd farms and groves, our eye through honiton's fair valley roves; behind us soon the busy town we leave, where finest lace industrious lasses weave.' here the poet mentions the one characteristic of the town known to strangers--the lace-making. when or how it was first started is not exactly known, but there is a theory that certain flemings, escaping to england from the persecutions of the duke of alva, settled near honiton and introduced the art towards the end of the sixteenth century. the evidence is too slender to prove that this was so, but there is no doubt that by the beginning of the next century the industry was well established, for in the church of st michael is a memorial brass plate recording that james rodge of honiton in ye county of devonshire (bonelace siller) hath given unto the poore of honinton p'ishe the benefytt of £100 for ever. who deceased ye 27 of july a'o. di. 1617. ætate suæ 50. remember ye poore. so it is obvious that before 1617 there must have been enough lace to dispose of to make the sale of it profitable. about forty years later fuller wrote a spirited defence of lace-making on economic grounds. it was then 'made in and about honyton, and weekly returned to london.' he says: 'though private persons pay for it, it stands the state in nothing.... many lame in their limbs and impotent in their arms, if able in their fingers, gain a livelyhood thereby, not to say that it saveth some thousand of pounds yearly, formerly sent over seas to fetch lace from flanders.' at this time the lace trade flourished greatly, although there was always a difficulty in competing with belgium, because of the superiority of its silky flax, finer than any spun in england. later the workers fell on evil days, for during the american war there was little money to spend on luxuries; and, besides, about this time the fashion of wearing much lace came to an end. in 1816 the introduction of 'machine net' supplanted the _vrai réseau_, the groundwork of the lace made by hand, and this took away work from very many people, besides lowering prices, so that the workers became discouraged, and the quality as well as the quantity of the lace suffered much in consequence. queen adelaide tried to stimulate the dwindling trade by ordering a lace dress, every flower in which was to be copied from nature. the initials of the flowers chosen spelt her name: amaranth, daphne, eglantine, lilac, auricula, ivy, dahlia, eglantine. queen victoria's wedding-dress was made at beer, and of later years there has been a revival of lace-making, especially in the neighbourhood of honiton and of beer; and considerable quantities are made by village women living at home. but lace is not the only thing that comes from honiton. cider is made there, and in the reign of george ii making it must have been a very profitable occupation. defoe notes: 'they tell us they send twenty thousand hogsheads of cider hence every year to london, and (which is still worse) that it is most of it bought there by the merchants to mix with their wines--which, if true, is not much to the reputation of the london vintners. but that by-the-bye.' as cider-making was then in such a prosperous condition, it is easy to understand the tremendous outcry that arose a few years later, when lord bute imposed the enormous tax of ten shillings per hogshead, to be paid by the first buyer. the storm provoked was so violent, the opposition of country gentlemen of all shades of politics so unanimous, that the prime minister modified the tax to one of four shillings on each hogshead, to be paid by the grower, who was thereby rendered liable to the domiciliary visits of excisemen. this alteration was vehemently protested against, and pitt championed the opposition on the grounds that it was an englishman's pride that every man's house was his castle, and denounced as intolerable a bill that allowed excisemen to invade the house of any gentleman who 'owned a few fruit-trees and made a little cider.' the city of london sent petitions to the commons, the lords, and the throne; and the counties of devon and hereford, the cities of exeter and worcester, urged their respective members to make all possible resistance to the tax. lord bute's personal unpopularity increased enormously, and a shoal of squibs, caricatures, and pamphlets appeared, in which he was held up to ridicule and contempt. one caricature represented him as 'hung on the gallows over a fire, on which a jack-boot fed the flames, and a farmer was throwing an excised cyder barrel into the conflagration. in rural districts he was burnt under the effigy of a _jack-boot_, a rural allusion to his name.' an amusing story is told of lord north in connection with this tax. not long after it had been imposed, he and sir robert hamilton came to ashe, near axminster, on a visit--lord north, then a lord of the treasury, distinctly uneasy as to the risk of coming into devonshire, for the county was still seething with dissatisfaction against the government. 'he was one day thrown into great alarm by a large party of reapers, who, having finished cutting the wheat of the estate, approached the house with their hooks in their hands, shouting the usual cry, "we have'n! we have'n!" the portentous words lord north applied to himself, and, pale with terror, considered himself a dead man. sir robert hamilton seized a sword, and was sallying forth to repulse the visitors, when, meeting a member of the household, an explanation took place, by which the fears so unconsciously excited were removed.' it was a most ancient custom in the west--indeed, it is said to be a remnant of the pagan rite of dedicating the first-fruits to ceres--to set aside either the first armful of corn that was cut or else some of the best ears, and bind them into a little sheaf, called a 'neck'. a fragment of the vivid description given by miss o'neill in 'devonshire idyls' must be quoted: 'the men carried their reaping-hooks; the sheaf was borne by the old man. bareheaded he stood in the light of the moon. strange shadows flecked the mossy sward on sundown as he held the first-fruits aloft and waved his arms. '"we ha'un!" cried he, and the cry was long and wailing. the strange intimation fell on the ear like an echo from pagan days. one could fancy the fauns and weird beings of old had taught the cadence to the first reapers of earth. "we ha'un!" cried he, and all the men in the circle bowed to the very ground.... "we ha'un!" cried jonas again, and again the reapers bowed and waved. then the old men took up another strain, at once more jubilant and more resonant, and with an indescribable drawling utterance sang out "thee neck!"--sang it out three times, and twice the waving circle of bright steel flashed.' on leaving honiton, if the river is followed upstream for a short distance, the traveller will find himself close to ruined ottery mohun, the home of two celebrated families in succession. unfortunately, it has been entirely destroyed by fire. a farm now stands among the ruins, and two fine perpendicular archways, and a deeply moulded and hooded arch over the frontdoor, alone bear witness to its former state. in the spandril above the outer archway is carved, 'amid elegant scroll-work and foliage, an arm, vested in an ermine maunch, the hand grasping a golden fleur-de-lys'--the old coat-armour of the mohuns; and on the other spandril 'three lions passant in pale,' the bearing of the carews. the mohuns were a norman family of distinction, but in later days were notorious rather than famous. the old peerage having died out in the middle ages, a member of a cadet branch, by shameless and persevering begging, induced charles i to grant him a barony. this title only survived a few generations, and the fifth and last bearer of it was known as 'the wicked' lord mohun. his life was short--he was barely over forty when he died--but eventful, for he was twice tried before his peers, each time on the charge of being accessory to a murder, and the story has often been told of the desperate duel in which lord mohun was killed by the duke of hamilton, whom he had mortally wounded. spectators burst upon the scene to discover the two principals dying on the ground, and the two seconds fiercely fighting each other. the history of the carews is more interesting. ottery mohun came to them towards the end of the thirteenth century, through the heiress of the elder branch of mohuns, whom john carew married. their names were eminent in camp, court, and council, in one reign after another; but it is only possible to speak here of two, sir gawen, and his nephew sir peter, on whose death the branch that had been settled at ottery mohun for three centuries became extinct in the direct line. there is not even space for the career of another of sir gawen's nephews, to whom queen elizabeth wrote, with her own hand, in regard to his efforts in subduing the irish: 'my faithful george, 'if ever more services of worth were performed in shorter space than you have done, we are deceived among many witnesses.' sir peter's youth was spent very strangely even for that age of hazards and chances. as a child he was sent to school in exeter, where he was so exceedingly naughty that complaints were made to his father, and sir william, who had remarkable ideas of discipline, came to exeter, 'tied him on a line and delivered him to one of his servants to be carried about the town as one of his hounds, and they led him home to mohun's ottery like a dog.' not long afterwards he was with his father in london, when, 'walking in paul's,' they met a french gentleman, an old acquaintance of sir william's, who took a sudden fancy to the boy, and offered to bring him up in france as if he were his own son. the offer seems to have been accepted offhand, but, unfortunately for the boy, the sudden fancy drooped almost as quickly as it sprang up, and, after enjoying life for a brief moment as an indulged page, he was turned out into the stables, 'there as a mulett to attend his master's mule.' here he remained till a mr carew, a kinsman, happened to come to the french court, and near the court gate passed 'sundry lackeys and horseboys playing together, one of whom called to another, "carew anglois! carew anglois!"' this attracted mr carew's attention. he called the boy and questioned him, and finding 'carew anglois' to be his cousin, mr carew took him under his protection, rebuked the fickle guardian, and trained up peter 'for a space ... in the court of france, like a gentleman.' peter, still very young, but extremely independent, was present at the siege of pavia, and as his patron had just died, and he perceived 'fortune to frown upon the french side,' he went over to the emperor's camp, and entered into the service of the prince of orange. five or six years later he came home, bringing with him letters of highest commendation to the king, henry viii, who received him with great favour. sir gawen and sir peter together took a prominent part in 1549, in dealing with the insurrection of devonshire and cornishmen against the reformed religion. sir peter, indeed, was afterwards blamed for being over-zealous, and thereby aggravating the trouble; but he was able to clear himself, and was 'well allowed and commended for what he had done.' in queen mary's reign fresh trouble arose, from which he escaped less easily. many fervent protestants were made uneasy by the symptoms of romish rule that began to appear, and were still more disturbed by the news of the queen's projected marriage with philip of spain, which they felt boded ill for their liberties, spiritual and temporal. the carews were in the counsel of sir thomas wyatt, the duke of suffolk, and others, who planned risings to depose the queen. in a simultaneous movement, the carews were to raise the west under the nominal leadership of lord courtenay, sir thomas wyatt was to raise kent, and the duke the midland counties. but before the preparations were complete, suspicion fell on the carews, and a letter was despatched from the council, directing the sheriff of devon to send sir peter and sir gawen to london. sir gawen, who was in exeter about this time, thought it best to return quietly to his own home, and because his movements now attracted an undesirable amount of attention, he one night 'went out over the walles of the said cytie yn his bowtes.' the account condescends to a touching detail that should appeal to all. even the agitation of flying from arrest on a charge of treason could not keep sir gawen from feeling footsore, and 'for that his bowtes grieved hym he cutt them upon the waye.' sir gawen was arrested a few days later, and suffered a long imprisonment. meanwhile sir peter, in answer to the summons to surrender himself, sent the reply that he had already started for london. but meeting on the way the bearer of a message which assured him that two of his 'dearest friends' here failed him, he turned aside and escaped in a little boat from weymouth. those who interest themselves in dreams and visions may care to hear of lady carew's experience at this moment. the night that sir peter sailed, lady carew dreamed very vividly 'that as he was going aboard his bark, he should fall into the seas and be drowned'; and so great was her trouble on awaking, that she sent a messenger to the seaside to make inquiries for sir peter. and when the messenger arrived at weymouth, he heard the startling news that getting 'out of the boat to enter into the bark, his [sir peter's] foot slided or slipped, and he therewith fell into the seas, and had been drowned if one standing by had not taken hold of him.' notwithstanding several misfortunes on the way, sir peter arrived safely in france, where he lived an exciting and adventurous life for several years, and was then treacherously seized and carried to england and the tower. here the much-abused philip proved himself a real friend, for in an admirable letter to the queen he intercedes for 'pedro caro' and his wife, and sir peter was eventually forgiven by queen mary, and honoured by queen elizabeth. between honiton and sidmouth is an inn called the hunter's lodge (more recently the hare and hounds), and opposite the house is a block of stone, over which hovers a gruesome mystery. it is said that in the dead of night the stone used to stir in its place, and roll heavily down into the valley, to drink at the source of the sid, and, some say, to try to wash away its stain. human blood has given it this power--the blood that gushed upon it when the witches slew their victims, for it was once a witches' stone of sacrifice. five miles to the south-west of honiton is ottery st mary, a pretty little town built on very steep slopes, and full of interesting associations. it lies among 'fair meadows bathed in sunshine; with the otter river winding through them ... yonder are the red devon steers grazing up to their dewlaps in buttercups: beyond them dusky moors melt into purple haze.' by making a slight détour one passes the pleasant lawns and copses of escot. once the property of the alfords, escot was bought in 1680 by sir walter yonge (father of george ii's unpopular 'secretary-at-war'), who built a new and large house and lavishly improved the grounds. but prodigality was the bane of the yonges, and not much more than one hundred years later it passed away from sir walter's ruined grandson, and was bought by sir john kennaway. the streets of ottery are steep and sinuous, and both roadway and footwalk are paved with pebbles and cobble-stones. the manor of ottery was given by edward the confessor to the dean and chapter of rouen, and it continued in their possession during the reigns of nine kings. then the dean, finding that the task of collecting his rents and dues was 'chargeable, troublesome, and sometimes dangerous ... desired to sell it, and met with a very fit chapman, john grandisson, lord bishop of exon.' ottery's greatest treasure is the beautiful church, a miniature of exeter cathedral, and it is to bishop grandisson that its great beauty is due. he did not build the church; indeed, the shadow of a terrible scandal had fallen upon it forty-five years before his rule began. for in the year 1282 'that discreet man, mr walter de lechelade,' the precentor of ottery, was waylaid coming from exeter cathedral in his canonical robes, and murdered by 'certain sons of perdition full of fiendish ferocity.' 'mr walter de lechelade' was probably extremely unpopular locally, because he had obtained the lease for life of the manor and church of ottery from the authorities at rouen, and was allowed to make all the profit he could out of the revenues. it is interesting to note the ecclesiastical manner of dealing with such a difficulty at that date. out of the twenty-one persons convicted of being concerned in the murder, no fewer than eleven were clerics! the vicar of ottery st mary was among the number, and it is sad to say that suspicion fell even on the dean of exeter. bishop grandisson found an early english church. he lengthened the nave, altered the chancel, added a beautiful lady chapel, and raised towers on the already existing transepts. these transeptal towers are peculiar to this church and the other on which he spent his enthusiasm, exeter cathedral. on one tower is a steeple--there was one on the cathedral--the lead scored by cross-slanted lines. the church is of grey stone. the nave and towers are battlemented, and at intervals in the outer walls are niches, now bereft of the figures they held. very graceful stone tracery is in many windows, pinnacles and crosses rise from the roof, and the whole effect is of an impressive building of rich and elaborate detail. the number of consecration crosses is remarkable, for there are thirteen without and eight within the walls, and each marks a spot touched by the bishop with holy oil. every one is a square stone panel, carved with an angel bearing a small cross. some are much defaced, but a few are still perfect, and beneath several of them are the remains of iron supports, showing where a light was burned before the 'cross' on great festivals. the arches of the nave are supported by clustered columns with most delicately carved capitals; and in the nave are two very elaborately decorated tombs--of the bishop's brother, sir otho de grandisson, and of beatrice, sir otho's wife--each under a monumental arch, with hanging tracery and a crocketed ogee canopy. the finely carved and pierced minstrels' gallery in the lady chapel is an exquisite piece of work; but amongst all that is to be most admired is the exceedingly beautiful fan-tracery in the roof of the 'dorset' aisle--an aisle built by cicely, heiress of lord bonville, and widow of the marquis of dorset, who died in 1501. two short pleached alleys of limes stand within the churchyard wall, looking down over a little square into which several streets open, and the old stocks still lie in the shadow of the trees. bishop grandisson obtained a licence to establish here 'a monastery or collegiate church for a fixed number of secular canons ... governed mainly by a warden, a minister, and sacrist, and a chanter or precentor,' and he drew up a most comprehensive set of statutes for their guidance. occasionally he issued additional 'monitions,' as, for example, when the warden had allowed stage-plays to be performed in church during the christmas holidays. it is reasonable to suppose, however, that they were 'mystery plays' or 'moralities.' lord coleridge says: 'the town was dominated by the college. the bridge by which you entered the town from the west was the bridge of the holy saviour. in one of its recesses the sacred light was ever kept burning, inviting those who passed to pray.' henry vi and henry vii both visited the college. the dissolution swept it away, but a part of its endowment was devoted to founding the king's grammar school. many incidents befell fairfax and his troops at ottery. it was chosen for their winter-quarters in 1645, and they arrived worn-out and exhausted and in great need of refreshment. ill-fortune, however, awaited them, as the rev. joshua sprigg, general fairfax's chaplain, tells us in _anglia rediviva_, his account of this army's movements. a mysterious disease broke out, very fatal, so that there were 'dying of soldiers and inhabitants in the town of autree, seven, eight, and nine a day, for several weeks together.' a colonel pickering died of it, on whom the chaplain wrote an elegy. one has heard of blank-verse that is merely 'prose cut into lengths,' but his lines suggest that they must have been on the rack to bring them to the right measure. the author feared that it was the lack of action that had proved fatal. 'must thou be scaling heaven alone, for want of other action? wouldst thou hadst took that leisure time to visit some responsal clime!' but sprigg's deep affection and respect cannot be disguised even by his words. at ottery, sir thomas fairfax received and entertained two envoys from besieged exeter, who came with a view to discussing the possible terms of a general peace; but their mission was, of course, unsuccessful. a pleasant event was the presentation to the general of a fair jewel, set with rich diamonds of great value, 'from both houses of parliament, as a testimonial to his great services at naseby.' the jewel was tied with 'a blue ribbon and put about his neck.' fairfax was staying in the old chanter's house, now the property of lord coleridge, and the ceremony took place in a long panelled room, with deep-set window, then called the great parlour. here also fairfax held a deeply important conference with the 'lord generall cromwell,' when he came to decide the plan of campaign in the west. ottery st mary is able to pride itself on being the birthplace of the poet coleridge, whose family had long been connected with the county. the poet's father was vicar, and master of the grammar school. great as was his genius, coleridge was not in every respect worthy of his birthplace, for in one of his letters he actually announces that he prefers somerset to devon!--evidence which clearly proves the correctness of the popular belief that poets have no judgment. but his real affection for the otter is shown in his sonnet to the river on whose banks he lived in early years. another poem, the 'songs of the pixies,' was inspired by the pixies' parlour, a tiny cave with roots of old trees for a ceiling, that stands halfway up a low cliff overhanging the river, just beyond the town. in this poem are the lines: 'when fades the morn to shadowy-pale, and scuds the cloud before the gale, ere the morn, all gem-bedight, hath streak'd the east with rosy light, we sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews, clad in robes of rainbow hues.... then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam by lonely otter's sleep-persuading stream; or where his wave with loud, unquiet song dashed o'er the rocky channel froths along; or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest, the tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.' ottery has other associations with literature, and it is interesting to remember that thackeray lived near here in his youth, and that ottery is the 'clavering' of _pendennis_, which was written while he was staying at escot vicarage close by. a winter traveller in passing through the lanes near here recalls some beliefs of a past generation: 'the faint chimes of st mary's in distant ottery are playing their christmas greeting over many a mile of moorland. we are passing the old "cob" walls and grey-headed barns of a substantial farmstead. the cocks will crow here all the night before christmas day, according to the beautiful legend of the county, to bid '"each fettered ghost slip to his several grave." the very oxen at midnight will fall down on their knees before the manger. the next turn brings us to the otter rushing along some forty feet below with angry stream.' almost at the mouth of the river is the village of otterton, and here was a benedictine priory, founded in the reign of king john. the prior of this little monastery had certain privileges. amongst others, ten marks had to be subscribed among the tenants for 'a palfrey to be presented to a new prior on his coming to reside in the midst of his flock, and every plough had to plough one acre of land for him annually.' he had the 'right of pre-emption of fish in all his ports, and the choice of the best fish.' conger-eels were specially mentioned in a marginal note. besides this, he claimed every porpoise caught in the sea or other neighbouring waters, but paid for it with twelve pence and a loaf of white bread to each sailor, and two to the master of the boat from which it was caught. lastly, the prior claimed the half of every dolphin. but no prior is likely to have had many chances of asserting this right. the river runs into the sea by the charming little town of budleigh salterton; but it is more interesting to cross the water at otterton, and passing through the village of east budleigh, nearly opposite, to go towards hayes barton, the house where sir walter raleigh was born. fardell, near ivybridge, was the ancestral home of the raleighs, but sir walter's father settled at budleigh. in front of the garden a swirling stream crosses a strip of green; and in the garden, at the right time, one may see the bees busy among golden-powdered clusters of candytuft, and dark-red gillyflowers, and a few flame-rose-coloured tulips, proud and erect. the house is very picturesque; it has cob walls and a thatched roof, and is built in the shape of the letter e; a wing projects at either end, and in the middle the porch juts out slightly. the two wings are gabled; there is a small gable over the porch and two dormer ones over the windows at each side of it, the windows having lattice lights and narrow mullions. dark carved beams above them show up well against the cream-coloured walls. the heavy door is closely studded with nails, and over it fall the delicate sprays and lilac 'butterfly' blossoms of a wistaria. the house has been little altered, and its outward appearance was probably almost the same in sir walter's boyhood as it is to-day. in front of hayes barton is a hill covered with oak-woods, and to the west the ground begins to slope upwards to the high moorland of woodbury common. sir walter had a great affection for his boyhood's home, and later, in trying to buy it back, he wrote to the then owner: 'i will most willingly give you whatsoever in your conscience you shall deem it worth; ... for ye naturall disposition i have to that place, being borne in that house, i had rather seat myself there, than anywhere else.' to realize sir walter at all adequately, he must be contemplated as soldier, sailor, statesman, courtier, explorer, poet, historian, governor of colonies abroad and of very important offices at home--most of all as a seer, for his eyes discerned a light that did not dawn on his contemporaries. he and his half-brother, sir humphrey gilbert, foresaw 'that colonization, trade, and the enlargement of empire, were all more important for the welfare of england than the discovery of gold.' major hume, who is by no means over-prejudiced in raleigh's favour, has said in his 'life of sir walter raleigh': 'to him is due the undying glory of having made the great northern continent of america an english-speaking country. with him it was no accident. the plan sprang fully formed from his great brain. he was greedy of gain, but he spent his money like water in this great project. he knew full well that there was no gold to reward him; that the profit, if any, must be slow, and must accrue mainly to the nation, and not to an individual; and yet he laboured on for thirty years in the face of defeat, disaster, contumely, and disgrace, in full faith and confidence that the great continent was by god's providence reserved for england.' raleigh's biographers have wondered at his immense knowledge of naval matters, and particularly of naval warfare, for the _ark raleigh_, which he had built after his own plans, was admitted to be the best ship in the fleet at the time of the armada. perhaps his genius for absorbing information developed very early, and sir john millais's picture of the two little boys, fascinated by the words of the sailor speaking to them of the breathless adventures he had fought through, the gorgeous sights that he had seen in the lands overseas, helps to explain it. most west-countrymen can tell a tale dramatically, as the sailor is telling it--the picture was painted at budleigh salterton--and it may be that, with raleigh's amazing faculty for gathering knowledge, he learned enough of seamanship as he grew up to enable him to grasp and hoard in his memory every detail of the subject as it came before him in later life. it is impossible to judge any character of a past century without trying to realize in many questions of conduct the gulf that lies between the former point of view and our own, and whatever sir walter's faults were, his genius was incomparably greater. his failings were those of his age, and were more than surpassed by the shortcomings of several of queen elizabeth's very eminent statesmen. raleigh left oxford when he was only seventeen, and joined mr henry champernowne's band of gentlemen volunteers who were fighting for the protestant princes in france. after six years' fighting he left the army and betook himself to the middle temple, where possibly he spent more time over lyrics than over the law, for a biographer, describing this period of his life, passes over his legal acquirements, but says that 'his vein for ditty and amorous ode was esteemed most lofty, insolent, and passionate.' he and spenser were very congenial companions, and later spenser, speaking of their great friendship, said: 'he pip'd, i sang, and when he sang, i pip'd.' sir walter left the temple for the sea, then went to fight in ireland, and at the time of the armada he was lord warden of the stannaries, and responsible for the companies of tinners, who had turned to soldiering. he planned one expedition after another to the new world, and sent them out mainly at his own expense, giving careful instructions to those in charge to observe carefully any plants or produce of any kind that might profit this country, whereas usually explorers searched eagerly for precious metals alone. it was due to these instructions that the potato was brought to england. rumour for long maintained that sir walter actually brought back the plant himself, but, as a matter of fact, the credit of this is due to heriot, a man of science employed by raleigh. he showed it with the other 'commodities' he had collected to sir walter, who took the potatoes with him to ireland, and planted them in his new estate of youghal. and though it was most probably sir john hawkins who introduced tobacco into england, it certainly was sir walter who brought smoking into fashion. in parenthesis, a warning may be given that anyone who wanders from east to west along the south coast of devon will be wearied beyond measure by the numbers of rooms, banks, porches, and gardens, shown as the identical spot 'where sir walter smoked his first pipe.' dr brushfield, in an exhaustive article on 'raleghana,' counts only six places, but _they_ reach from penzance to islington, and one is in ireland. after the last dreary voyage, rendered fruitless by the contemptible double-dealing of james i, and during his trial, sir walter's self-possession and courage showed at their best. 'from eight in the morning till nearly midnight he fronted his enemies with unshaken courage. the bluster of attorney-general coke roared around him without effect. "i want words," stormed the great prosecutor, "to express thy viperous treason." '"true," said raleigh, "for you have spoken the same thing half a dozen times over already."' it was characteristic of his grand views of life that within the four walls of a prison he should undertake no less a work than the history of the world. the unfinished history shows a depth of learning and dignity of style, very wonderful in the writings of a man who spent his life in incessant and absorbing action. it must have been the vast number of the chances and changes of life he had seen around him, and himself experienced, that inspired him to write that splendid apostrophe: 'o eloquent, just, and mighty death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none have dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world have flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, _hic jacet_.' not only in his visions of colonies was raleigh far in advance of his time. major hume quotes his ideas on trade and commerce, the statesmanship displayed in his _prerogative of parliaments_, and his writings on the construction of ships and naval tactics, to show that in each subject he had arrived at conclusions now generally accepted, but only discovered by the public long after his death. this biographer ends by describing him as 'perhaps the most universally capable englishman that ever lived.' sir walter's last lines were written a few hours before his death, in his bible: 'even such is time, that takes on trust our youth, our joys, our all we have. and pays us but with age and dust; who in the dark and silent grave, when we have wandered all our ways, shuts up the story of our days. but from this earth, this grave, this dust, the lord shall raise me up, i trust!' following the coast, 'running eastward with many winding and waving creeks,' sidmouth is soon reached. westcote is philosophical over both sidmouth and seaton: 'in former times, very famous ports (and every place and man hath but his time).' sidmouth was an important fishing town several hundred years ago; it is now a popular watering-place, set among high red cliffs, amidst very pretty scenery, and favoured with a great deal of sunshine. leading inland are very high and steep hills, different in shape from most of the hills in the neighbourhood, for they are neither rounded, pointed, nor sloping, but have a curious square, rather flat-topped look, and scarped sides. farther eastward, one comes to branscombe, a straggling village in a broad hollow where three valleys meet. a stream flows down each combe, and eventually all three join and run together into the sea at branscombe mouth. there is a great deal to admire in the steep sides and irregular curves, softened by the spreading woods in these valleys, and close to the shore a hill rises almost precipitously for six hundred feet. a very short distance further on, the white cliffs of the tiny cove of beer come into view. beer is an exceptionally delightful village, because of its strong individuality. at the top of the inlet the houses are clustered irregularly in little offshoots, but the main street runs down a deep cleft narrowing towards the sea between white gleaming chalk cliffs such as are rare in this county. a rapid stream races down the side of the street, and, dashing over a rock at the edge of the beach, buries itself in the shingle. beer head and the cliff that separates the village from seaton run out into the sea, so that it is completely shut in, and from the water's edge it is impossible to see past those massive walls standing against the sea and sky on either side. the cove is so small that one wonders it counts as a harbour at all, but the beach is covered with many small boats and several heavily-built trawlers. as i saw it, the water was a clear blue-grey, and some sea-gulls were placidly floating a few yards from land, rising and falling as the waves rolled in, and looking as if they must be buried by each one. from beer head there is a splendid view of the coast; to the east, beyond seaton, the landslip, and lyme regis, the line stretches grey and dim in the distance towards portland; westwards, beyond sidmouth's red cliffs, one sees how the land bends southward to budleigh salterton, and still further south towards exmouth. the little inobtrusive haven of beer was in every way convenient for smugglers, and was naturally much beloved by them. not more than seventy or eighty years ago, all the people in the village were supposed to take a share in the perils and joys of the ventures whenever they got the chance. the greatest of their number was a certain jack rattenbury, who began his life at sea when he was nine years old. five years later he had already decided, 'i wished to make a figure on the stage of life,' and joined a privateering expedition. the ship was captured by the french, and rattenbury taken prisoner. he escaped from prison, but not from bordeaux, where for more than a year he was forced to stay, and he then sailed on his own account to america, and back to havre, copenhagen, and guernsey. by the time he reached home again he was only sixteen! his life was an unceasing turmoil: smuggling, privateering, being impressed for the navy, and devising wiles for slipping away again, with the variation of being taken prisoner by french or spaniards. a steep road runs through lovely scenery from ottery to seaton. at intervals it passes through woods, or looks down into the misty, green, undulating country northwards; then, climbing a ridge, the sea, framed in woods, is seen over little hollows in the distant cliffs to the south. the road crosses a common with a few knots of wind-swept fir-trees, and runs steeply down to seaton. on the west side of the bay the cliffs are a creamy white; eastwards, the shades are chiefly buff and pale brown. the variety of their strata make the cliffs interesting to geologists, for here are found layers of different kinds of chalk, limestone, greensand, marls, chert, and interspersed lines of flints. seaton is a pleasant little town without any remarkable feature. in the church is this curious epitaph with the date 1633 a.d.: john starre . . . . . . starr on hie! where should a starr be but on hie? on the east side of seaton is the flat wide valley of the axe. the river is broad and rather important-looking, but it makes a most inglorious exit into the sea, for a huge pebble ridge rises as an impassable barrier, and the river has to twist away farther east and run out obliquely through a narrow channel. axmouth, on the farther side, is a pretty old-fashioned little village, the thatched whitewashed cottages forming a street that curves round almost into a loop, while a chattering stream runs between the houses. in the church is the figure of a tonsured priest, with chasuble, stole, and alb, supposed to be one of the early vicars of axmouth. at his feet lies a dog, and the legend goes that this was not merely the customary image of a dog seen on tombs, but the effigy of his own favourite, whom he desired to be buried at his feet; and as an indemnity for this order he left a piece of ground to be devoted to charitable purposes, called dog acre orchard. mr rogers, in his 'memorials of the west,' tells us that the name remains till to-day. a very short distance beyond is the great landslip which fell in 1839, when about fifty acres of the cliff slid more than a hundred feet to the shore beneath, but in such a way that part of an orchard descended with its growing trees, and they continued to flourish at their new level. more wonderful still, two cottages settled down on to the shore, without falling in pieces. the ground began to slide on the night of christmas eve, and by the evening of december 26 the great mass had fallen. to the west is a great chasm, and the cliff rises high on the seaward side. farther east, no cliff rises beyond the chasm, but little hillocks and sand-dunes slope unevenly to the beach. the undercliff has not in the least the barren look of an ordinary bit of waste ground touching the shore, but is covered with grass and thick undergrowth, oaks and hawthorns, and masses of ivy, and beneath them the long spear-like leaves and scarlet-berried pods of the wild-iris. if one returns to the axe and begins to follow up its innumerable bends, one arrives opposite the little town of colyton, which is not quite on the river. mr rogers says that the name comes from the british _collh y tun_, and has the pretty meaning of 'the town where the hazels grow.' here is a fine church, chiefly perpendicular, well known, among other reasons, for a richly carved tomb, on which is the effigy of a very small lady, a coronet on her head and a dog at her feet, with coats of arms hanging above. the figure was always known by the curious name of 'little choak-a-bone.' the old story said that the lady was the daughter of lord devon and his wife, princess katherine, daughter of edward iv, and that she died because a fish-bone choked her. now this has been corrected, and it is believed that the monument is of the wife of the fifth earl of devon, who lived nearly one hundred years earlier. but no disproof has been brought against the fish-bone! close to colyton are the ruins of an old house of the courtenays, colcombe, which has been partly converted into a farmhouse. here princess katherine occasionally lived during her widowhood. colcombe suffered much in the civil war, for it was garrisoned by prince maurice, who led his troops into several skirmishes with the enemy, and during one of these affairs (it is supposed) the castle was burned down. the poor people living near colcombe must have had a very bad time, with energetic royalist and parliamentary troops on either hand. some sad little entries at this time are quoted from the diary of a serge-maker of colyton, in which he counts up what he lost in cloth through the inroads of the 'lyme men' (parliamentarians), and the 'wostard woole' and 'sarge' torn from him by 'percy's men' (royalists). unluckily, it is not possible to pause among the throng of interesting memories that are called up by almost every step of the way. one may not sketch the career of dr marwood, who journeyed to london from these parts and cured 'a certain noble lord,' a favourite of queen elizabeth, but returned home because, 'finding himselfe much envyed by the court physitians, he thought he was not safe there!'--a naïve reflection on the doctors that reminds one of their contemporary catherine de' medici's creature, rené of milan, who was popularly known as _l'empoisonneur de la reine_. it is only possible to make a brief reference to a manor, nowadays a farm--ashe, where the great duke of marlborough was born. marlborough can hardly be called a son, but perhaps a grandson, of the county, for though sir winston churchill was of dorsetshire, the churchills were an old devonshire family, of whom one branch had migrated to the next county. ashe was the home of the duke's mother, elizabeth, daughter of sir john drake, and here she returned when the civil war was just ended, and the triumphant parliamentarians were making themselves very objectionable, especially to such a fervent royalist as her husband. sir winston was eventually forced to compound for so large a sum that it was convenient for them to live for some years with lady churchill's father. there is, unfortunately, no space to look at the very interesting history of the bonvilles, the ruins of whose old house, shute, in its beautiful park, among deer and woods and magnificent cedars, is close to ashe. the title became extinct in the wars of the roses, for the family suffered beyond recovery, and the last lord bonville had the overwhelming grief of losing his only son and grandson in the battle of wakefield. the great estates passed to his little great-granddaughter, cicely bonville, who, more than forty years later, built the dorset aisle in the church at ottery st mary. the fine building, newenham abbey, stood close to the outskirts of the park, and sir nicholas bonville was a great benefactor to the abbey, but it was founded by two brothers, sir william and sir reginald mohun. the abbey church alone was three hundred feet in length and one hundred and fifty feet in breadth, and now of all the buildings, there remain but a few fragments of walls and the stonework of a chapel window. axminster, not a mile away, was in leland's day 'a pratie quik market town.' it was the scene of one very interesting event, for here the duke of monmouth's followers first met the royal troops under the renowned general monk, then duke of albemarle, and caused them to fly before their inferior undisciplined numbers. albemarle dared not risk a battle, as he became alarmed by the temper of his troops, and feared lest they might go over to monmouth if they did but catch sight of their beloved hero; for the general's troops belonged to the devonshire militia, and monmouth was adored by all the country-people in the west. the general ordered a hurried retreat, without attempting any engagement, and monmouth marched triumphantly to taunton. the callous brutality of sedgmoor, and the atrocious barbarities of the bloody assizes following it, are too intolerable to think of. a ballad has been written called 'the sorrowful lamentation of the widdows of the west', and one wonders whether its obsequious tone is due to the author being a partisan of james ii, who expressed what he thought they ought to feel, or whether the verse-maker was one in their midst, who saw that there was indeed no spirit left in them. i quote a few of the verses: 'alas! we widdowes of the west, whose husbands did rebell, of comfort we are dispossest, our sorrows did excell. here for their crimes they lost their lives, rebellion was the cause, and we confess, that was their wives, they did oppose the laws. when _monmouth_ came ashore at _lime_, it was a fatal day; to carry on that base design, which did their lives betray; and many daily did presume to come unto his aid, _bridge-water_, _taunton_, _dean_, and _frome_, the nation to invade. we said it was a horrid thing, and pray'd them to forbear to take up arms against their king, who was the lawful heir, yet like distracted men they run to cast their lives away, and we their widdowes are undone; this is a dismal day. alas! we had no cause at all, our laws was still the same, that we should to confusion fall, and hundreds thus be slain. they knew not what they went about; confusion did attend, the heavens would not bear them out, since they did thus offend.' chapter iv dartmoor 'dartmoor! thou wert to me, in childhood's hour, a wild and wond'rous region. day by day arose upon my youthful eye thy belt of hills mysterious, shadowy.... i feel the influence of that impressive calm which rests upon them. nothing that has life is visible:--no solitary flock at will wide ranging through the silent moor breaks the deep-felt monotony; and all is motionless save where the giant shades, flung by the passing cloud, glide slowly o'er the grey and gloomy wild.' carrington: _dartmoor_. the region of the forest of dartmoor and commons of devon is one which excites a vast difference of opinion. for some it has an extraordinary fascination, whilst to others it is only, like a beautiful view in the highlands which i once heard depreciated by a native--'just hills.' and the hills on dartmoor are not even very high. yes tor, till lately thought to be the highest point, is only a little over two thousand feet; and high willhayes, its superior, cannot claim to be more than a few feet higher. so there are no towering heights or tremendous precipices to explain its peculiar spell. sir frederick pollock, in paying true homage to the moor, gives the reason that accounts for dartmoor's dominion--its individuality. 'the reader may think fit to observe, and with undisputable truth, that there are many other moors in the world. yes, but they are not dartmoor.' and there is no more to be said. a very truthful and vivid description of the moor has been given by the late mr r. j. king: 'the dusky sweep of hills stretches away with an endless variety of form and outline; in some parts sharply peaked, and crested with masses of broken rock; at others, rounded and massive, and lifting a long line of sombre heath against the sky. the deep hollows which separate the hills are thickly covered with fern and heather, over which blocks of granite are scattered in all directions; and, as in all similar districts, each valley has its own clear mountain stream, which receives the innumerable waterfalls descending from the hill-sides. the whole country has a solitude, and an impressive grandeur, which insensibly carries back the mind to an earlier and ruder age.' '... granite-browed, thou sitt'st in grandeur lone, thy temples wreathed with heaven's unsalted mist; feet in the brine, and face veiled by the cloud, and vestiture by changing nature wrought- titan of earth and sky--silent and proud, even beauty kneeling hath her homage brought. time as a shadow speeds across thy plains, leaving no record of his printless feet; * * * * * and all our generations come and go, as snowflakes on thy shoulders melting slow.'[3] [footnote 3: w. h. hamilton rogers, 'dartmoor.'] let the time or season be what it may, the moor has some fresh charm to offer. in the early summer there is a special soft greenness, and the hot air quivers above and about the rocks; later the hill-sides are coloured by the lilac-pink of the ling and the richer tones of bell-heather; and when the autumn leaves are fading and falling 'inland,' there may come such a day of sunshine and glorious blue sky, with the larks singing on every side among the golden furze-blossoms, that one is able to forget the calendar. and then, amongst the great boulders covered with white lichen that lie along the sides of streams, the leaves of the whortleberries turn scarlet over the little round fruit, with its plum-like bloom. sometimes in winter the snow lies in patches on the hills, among stretches of pale grass and rich, dark, red-brown masses of heather. on the edge of the moor, the springs by the roadsides flow through a sparkling white border into a shining ice hollow, and, looking away, one sees snow-covered heights against a pale blue sky, in the unbroken stillness of distance. perhaps the moor is specially irresistible when the full moon throws its magic over hill and valley, suggesting infinite possibilities. in the clear air the hills look very solemn and impressive, and the long, broken reflections of the moonbeams lie in every stream as it ripples over rocks or breaks against boulders; while the foam gleams and trembles as flakes are torn away by the current and swallowed up by the black shadows. in such a time and place one may learn the meaning of 'a silence that can be heard.' dartmoor rises high above the surrounding country, and keeps his white winter livery lying upon it long time, if not washed away by rain. the air is delicious, but it must be admitted that the moor has a very ample share of wind, rain, and mists. faultfinders have also complained of the bogs, and occasional accidents to travellers' horses have given the mires the significant name of 'dartmoor stables,' although the moor ponies are supposed always to be able to pick a safe path through dangerous places. from a certain point of view, dartmoor reminds one of the mirror of the lady of shalott, for here 'shadows of the world appear.' or, rather, the shadows of a past world are reflected in its wastes, witnessing to prehistoric man; to the tinners, who appear out of the mists of antiquity, and who peopled the moor through the middle ages; to the dawn of christian teaching in the country; and to the normans, with their forest rights and laws. antiquities abound, although there are instances where it is most difficult to decide whether the remains are prehistoric, or merely traces of mediæval mining. 'it is possible that "old men's workings," as the traces of abandoned mines are called in this country, may account for more of them than is generally admitted.' but modern observations have severely excluded any fanciful theories. 'certain stone inclosures which have passed for british fortifications are now more plausibly considered to have been made (at a sufficiently remote time, we may freely allow) for the protection of cattle.' however, after deducting any objects of doubtful antiquity, there remain an enormous number as to which, there can be no question--stone rows, kistvaens, menhirs, large circles of upright stones, forts and barrows, and pounds enclosing hut-circles. it is interesting to read the views of antiquaries at different stages of the nineteenth century, and their flat contradictions of the opinions of their predecessors. a good instance is given in the new edition of that mine of information, rowe's 'perambulation of dartmoor,' where certain verdicts as to the origin of grimspound are quoted. 'polwhele states that it was a seat of judicature for the cantred of darius; samuel rowe, that it was a belgic or saxon camp; ormerod considered it a cattle-pound pure and simple; spence bate was convinced that it was nothing more than a habitation of tinners, and of no great age; while now the work of the rev s. baring-gould and mr robert burnard goes far to show that its construction reaches back into a remote past, and that its antiquity is greater than any former investigator dared to assign to it.' the great numbers of prehistoric people who lived on the moor are very remarkable. 'tens of thousands of their habitations have been destroyed,' says mr baring-gould, 'yet tens of thousands remain. at post bridge, within a radius of half a mile, are fifteen pounds. if we give an average of twenty huts to a pound, and allow for habitations scattered about, not enclosed in a pound, and give six persons to a hut, we have at once a population, within a mile, of 2,000 persons.' perhaps they climbed so high because on the lower slopes the forest was thick, and wild beasts were more to be feared, though, according to tradition, they were certainly not free from danger on the moor; for 'wolves and winged serpents were no strangers to the hills or valleys.' all their possessions that we are aware of belong to the early bronze age, when flint was used in great quantities, and bronze was known, but was rare and very valuable. the amber pommel of a dagger, inlaid with gold pins, and part of a bronze dagger blade, were found in a barrow on hameldon, and a few other bronze weapons have been discovered; flint implements in abundance. great numbers of flint scrapers for cleaning the skins of animals, and small knives for cutting up meat, have been picked up; arrow-heads are scarce, and it would seem that they left very few celts or axes, and spear-heads. of the exceedingly interesting remains, perhaps the most interesting--at any rate, to the uninitiated--is grimspound. the boundary wall, which is double, encloses four acres; it is from ten to twelve feet thick, but not above five and a half feet in height. within the circle are twenty-four hut-circles, and in some of them charcoal and fragments of pottery have been found. a brook, dipping under the walls, and passing through the enclosure, supplied the camp with water. drizzlecombe, near sheep's tor, is rich in a variety of antiquities, for it has three stone rows, a large tumulus, a kistvaen, and a later relic--a miner's blowing-house. one of the avenues is two hundred and sixty feet long, and one is double for a part of the way, and each of the three starts from a menhir, or long stone. near merivale bridge are two double stone rows, but the stones are small. close by are a sacred circle, a kistvaen, a pound and hut-circles, and one cairn, besides the ruins of others that have been destroyed. it would be absurd to pretend to enter on such a wide subject here. some idea of its extent may be gathered by considering one single branch of it: mr baring-gould has stated that no fewer than fifty stone avenues have been observed in different parts of the moor. and hut-circles and ancient track-lines are unnumbered, although very many antiquities of all kinds have been destroyed when granite was wanted for rebuilding churches, or for making doorways or gate-posts, or even for mending roads. the early antiquaries discovered the hand of the druids in certain unusual rock-shapes, now known to be the work of nature--such as rock-basins, which are developed in the granite by the action of wind and rain; tolmens, or holed stones; and logans, or rocking-stones. granite on the moor generally weathers irregularly, and if the lower part of a piled-up mass partly crumbles away, a huge layer of harder granite remains balanced on one or two points, and becomes what is called a logan-stone. in some cases, though the slab is almost impossible to remove, it will rock at a finger-touch. perhaps the most striking example on dartmoor is the rugglestone, near widdecombe, which it has been calculated weighs about one hundred and ten tons; but there are several in the neighbourhood, and a logan called the nut-crackers is perched among the thickly scattered boulders on lustleigh cleave. this lovely little valley lies on the eastern edge of the moor, and the river bovey flows through it. masses of granite crown the ridge; lower on the hill-side is a jungle of tall bracken, and the stream is overshadowed by a wood, crowded with matted undergrowth and with innumerable rocks tumbled together. granite more consistent than that found on most of the tors--that is, 'not broken into the usual layers of soft beds alternating with hard layers'--forms the great masses of rock on hey tor, and these have not weathered into strange, jagged outlines. william howitt wrote a charming description of hey tor in his 'rural life of england,' from which i quote a few lines: 'below, the deep dark river went sounding on its way with a melancholy music, and as i wound up the steep road all beneath the gnarled oaks, i ever and anon caught glimpses of the winding valley to the left, all beautiful with wild thickets and half-shrouded faces of rock, and still on high these glowing ruddy tors standing in the blue air in their sublime silence. my road wound up and up, the heather and bilberry on either hand.' a 'wonder' which has been associated with the druids is the grove of oaks called wistman's wood. it lies close to two bridges, on the slope above the west dart, and at a little distance looks more like a furze-brake than a wood. all the oaks are dwarfs, stunted by the lack of soil and force of the winds. mr rowe quotes from a 'botanical writer,' who examined some of them: 'the bole of this tree was about three feet high, and its total height to the topmost branches fifteen feet. the circumference of the trunk was six feet, and its prime must have been about the date of the norman conquest.' some of the boughs, like the trunks, are immensely thick for the height of the trees, and they are covered with very deep cushions of bright green moss and hangings of polypody, and whortleberries grow upon them. every step between the trees is perilous, among the uneven crowded masses of rocks and half-concealed clefts. many of the boulders are moss-covered, a kind of sedge and long, flag-like grass spring among the crevices and add to the pitfalls, and the whole wood really has the air of having been bewitched. mrs bray's impressions of it are interesting. she found the slope 'strewn' all over with immense masses of granite.... in the midst of these gigantic blocks, growing among them, or starting, as it were, from their interstices, arises wildly, and here and there widely scattered, _a grove of dwarf oak-trees_.... they spread far and wide at their tops, and their branches twist and bend in the most tortuous manner; sometimes reminding one of those strange things called mandrakes, of which there is a superstition noticed by shakespeare- '"like shrieking mandrakes torn from out the earth."' though some of the stone circles on the moor are due to miners rather than to prehistoric man, their antiquity may very well win respect; for, according to the views of the early nineteenth century, it was quite probable that the phoenicians were trading with this island for tin in the year 1000 b.c.! it is unnecessary to say that the reasoning which supports this theory is very ingenious, and later opinions do not allow that the phoenicians ever traded directly with britain at all. the metal, it is held, was brought to the mediterranean coast through the medium of 'the veneti of what is now vannes, and the tin trade was carried through gaul to marseilles.' to take a great leap from the date originally suggested, there is certain evidence that british tin was conveyed over this trade route in the year 40 b.c. the romans taught the britons better methods of mining, and how tin might be used for household needs. another long interval without any mention of the subject brings us to the reign of the normans, when it seems that the mines were almost entirely in the hands of the jews. on their expulsion by edward i, the mines were neglected for a few years, and next a charter was granted to several devonshire gentlemen, at their request, conferring the important privilege of holding plea of all actions relating to the mines, 'those of lyfe, lymme, and lande' excepted. henceforward the devonshire miners were separated from the cornish, and held stannary parliaments on the top of crockern tor. the summit is piled with granite, and out of the rock was hewn 'a warden's or president's chair, seats for the jurors, and a high corner stone for the crier of the court, and a table,' says polwhele; and here the 'hardy mountain council'--twenty-four burgesses from each of the stannary towns--assembled. 'this memorable place is only a great rock of moorstone, out of which a table and seats are hewn, open to all the weather, storms and tempests, having neither house nor refuge near it by divers miles,' wrote prince. it is much to be regretted that nearly all traces of the court have now disappeared, and a report says that the table and seats were carried away to be used for some buildings not far off. it is said that the last parliament was held on this tor in 1749, but for some time before that date the court merely met on the tor, and, after the jurors had been sworn in, adjourned to one of the stannary towns. from the charter of edward i onwards, mining seems to have prospered, with one or two intervals of great depression, and as late as 1861 seventy-four mines were being worked in devonshire. 'streaming' for tin was very much practised in the middle ages, and the sides of valleys all over dartmoor are scored with the works of the tin-streamers, who turned about the streams and examined the beds for 'grain-tin.' many of the ruined 'blowing-houses' are still to be seen on the moor. mrs. bray mentions a curious testimony to the wildness and remoteness of the parts in which some of the miners must have worked: 'a very old woodcut ... exhibited a whole pack of hounds harnessed and laden with little bags of tin, travelling over the mountains of dartmoor; these animals being able to cross the deep bogs of the forest in situations where there were no roads, and where no other beasts of burden could pass.' it was owing to the mines that dartmoor became a part of the duchy, for the 'metalliferous' moors of dartmoor and cornwall had, on that account, long been crown lands; and therefore, when edward iii created his eldest son prince of wales and duke of cornwall, the chase of dartmoor, and the castle and manor of lydford were granted to him with the estates in cornwall. dartmoor has existed as a forest practically from time immemorial, and the date when forest laws were first imposed on it is, in the opinion of the learned, 'lost in antiquity.' the first charter affecting the state of the moor was bestowed in 1204, when king john was compelled reluctantly to grant a charter of forests, disafforesting the lands that had been gradually appropriated by the kings since henry i. surrounding the forest proper are lands known as the commons of devon, and, usually speaking, they are included in any general reference to dartmoor. every parish in devonshire, excepting barnstaple and totnes, has a right to pasture cattle on them for the payment of a small sum. two classes of men have special rights in the moor: owners and occupiers of tenements within the forest, and venville tenants, or owners of land in particular vills, or towns, adjoining the forest. claims and counter-claims as to their exact rights and liabilities have been pressed in successive centuries, but various ancient documents set forth these tenants' rights, 'time out of mind, to take all things that might do them good, saving green oak and venison.' these privileges include pasturing all 'commonable beasts' on the moor, digging turf for fuel, stone and sand for mending houses and lands, and taking heath for thatching, 'paying their dues and doing their suits and services.' the 'suits and services' involved attendance at the prince's courts, and the tenants' help at the time of the bullock and pony drifts--that is, when the herds are driven off the moor by the moormen to a point chosen by the duchy steward, and are there identified by their owners. in the duchy records appear various well-known names that one does not naturally associate with the forest. the conqueror granted it to his half-brother, robert, earl of montaigne; king john gave the earldom of cornwall to his second son, richard plantagenet, afterwards king of the romans. this prince 'much augmented the powers of the stannaries of devon and cornwall, and under his auspices they thrived exceedingly.' for a short time the earldom was bestowed on piers gaveston; thomas cromwell and some others had a lease of the lead-mines on the moor for twenty-one years; the first earl of bedford was 'custos of the forest or chase of dartmoor'; and sir walter raleigh was appointed ranger and master forester, besides being lord warden of the stannaries. the first perambulation of the forest boundaries probably took place in 1224, and others have been made at intervals ever since; yet a long tale of grievances from that date almost up to the present time might be heard from commoners whose rights have been encroached upon. the bounds of property owned by religious houses at certain points were marked by granite crosses, of which a great number are still to be found on the moor. some of them, however, were standing long before the monasteries were built. to take one instance, the cross on sourton down has an inscription which, it has been declared, belongs to the sixth century, and which can still be deciphered when the sun is setting and the rays slant across it. the abbot's way, leading over the moor, is marked by crosses. it ran westwards from buckfast abbey, and divided at broad rock, near plym head, in the middle of the moor--one branch going to tavistock, and the other to buckland abbey. the path cannot now be traced the whole way, but the crosses show the line. beckamoor cross (or the windy post, as it is sometimes called), between two and three miles south-east of tavistock, is a typical dartmoor cross, and a fine example, but it cannot be numbered among the very old ones, for it seems to date from the sixteenth century. perhaps the dartmoor village best known by name is widdecombe-in-the-moor, and its fame is spread by the song 'widdecombe fair;' this is the most popular of devonshire folk-songs, and the air served the devon regiment as a march in the boer war. but widdecombe has more solid claims to consideration, and one of them is the large and beautiful church, with its very fine tower and high crocketed pinnacles, each pointed by a cross. the roof is adorned by 'bosses, carved and painted with heads, flowers and leaves, and also figures or marks which obscurely shadow forth the learning of the alchemist.' the presence of these symbols is explained by a tradition that the church was built by miners. 'on one of the bosses is the combination of three rabbits, each with a single ear, which join in the centre, forming a triangle--a favourite alchemical symbol, called the hunt of venus.' parts of the rood-screen remain, and on the panels are painted saints and doctors of the church, and a king and queen. on october 21, 1638, a terrible storm raged here during service-time. first fell 'a strange darkenesse'; then a terrific thunder-clap; 'the ratling thereof' was much like 'the report of many great cannons.' 'extraordinarie lightning' flashed, 'so flaming that the whole church was presently filled with fire and smoke,' and a smell of brimstone, and a great ball of fire came in at the window and passed through the church. the church itself was much torne and defaced, 'stones throwne from the tower as thick as if an hundred men had been there throwing.' several people were killed and many 'grievously scalded and wounded.' the history of the storm has been told in verse, and the lines were painted on tablets and placed in the church. mrs bray found 'the wildest tales' of the storm floating among the people in the neighbourhood, and, amongst them, 'one story is that the devil, dressed in black and mounted on a black horse, inquired his way to the church, of a woman who kept a little public-house on the moor. he offered her money to become his guide; but she distrusted him, in remarking that the liquor went hissing down his throat, and finally had her suspicions confirmed by discovering he had a cloven foot, which he could not conceal even by his boot.' widdecombe is called cold and bleak, and it is not only with the terrific tempest that its name is associated, for when the snow fell thickly the south devon folk used to look--as perhaps they still do--towards the moor, and say to the children: 'widdecombe hills are picking their geese, faster, faster, faster.' about twelve miles south-west of widdecombe is sheeps tor, a sharply defined height that has given its name to the parish and tiny village that it overshadows. originally it was called shettes tor--that is, steep tor, the word being derived from the celtic _syth_. hidden among the great piles of moorstone heaped upon the tor is a cave known as the pixies' house. mrs bray describes an expedition that she made to sheeps tor, and how, on asking her way to the cave, she was told to 'be careful to leave a pin, or something of equal value, as an offering to these invisible beings; otherwise they would not fail to torment us in our sleep.' grass grows on the lower slopes, but near the summit there spreads a 'bold and shelving sweep of about two hundred feet, the granite ... totally bare, save where it was here and there covered by a coating of mosses and lichens. it lies tossed about in enormous masses in every direction.' the cave itself is in the midst of 'most confused masses of rock, that looked as if they had been tossed about by the fiends in battle,' and the entrance itself is a 'cleft between two rocks.' a story of human interest is also connected with the cave, for here walter elford, lord of the manor, was forced to hide when the country was being searched for him. squire elford was a parliamentarian, and one of the 'secluded' members of the long parliament; but he was so far thrown into opposition by the development of the protector's policy that he reached the point of plotting against him, and in consequence a party of desborough's troops were sent in pursuit of the squire to his own house. fortunately, among the huge boulders the entrance to the cave was very difficult to find, and the pixies' house proved a safe refuge until the search-parties were withdrawn. about fifteen miles from widdecombe, on the north-west side of the moor, lies lydford, whose size is in no way proportionate to its antiquity. 'doubtless,' says risdon, 'in the saxons' heptarchy, it was a town of some note, that felt the furious rage of the merciless danes.' and it is true that in 997 lydford was burned down by them. at this time lydford had its own mint, and money was coined here; and in the domesday book it was described as being taxed equally with london. but the village is very conspicuously a victim of 'the whirligig of time,' and william browne gives a most unflattering picture of its appearance in the middle of the seventeenth century: 'i oft have heard of lydford law, how in the morn they hang and draw, and sit in judgment after: at first i wondered at it much; but soon i found the matter such as it deserves no laughter. 'they have a castle on a hill; i took it for some old windmill, the vanes blown off by weather. than lie therein one night 'tis guessed 'twere better to be stoned, or pressed, or hanged, ere you come hither. * * * * * 'near these poor men that lie in lurch, see a dire bridge, a little church, seven ashes and one oak; three houses standing, and ten down; they say the rector hath a gown, but i saw ne'er a cloak: * * * * * 'this town's enclosed with desert moors, but where no bear nor lion roars, and nought can live but hogs: for, all o'erturned by noah's flood, of fourscore miles scarce one foot's good, and hills are wholly bogs.' the castle is not very large, and is now utterly in ruins, though the walls of the square keep are still standing. in browne's day it was used as the stannary prison, and was denounced in an act of parliament as 'one of the most heinous, contagious, and detestable places in the realm.' for many years after this lydford was a lonely village, generally ignored, in spite of its fine air and beautiful scenery. towards the moor it looks up to an irregular barrier (about a mile or so distant) of very picturesque tors, and in the opposite direction a fertile and pleasant country spreads beneath it. the river lyd winds through scenes that are always delightful and sometimes very striking, but the cascade has been so much praised that, if seen in summer, it is apt to be disappointing. lydford gorge, however, is properly placed among the 'wonders' of devonshire--to use fuller's expression. the gorge is deep and exceedingly narrow, and the sides are precipitous. the river, rushing between blocks of stone, flows so far below the road that from the bridge, where the chasm is only a few yards wide, it is almost invisible. risdon says: 'it maketh such a hideous noise, that being only heard, and not seen, it causeth a kind of fear to the passengers, seeming to them that look down to it, a deep abyss.' a story (that may quite easily be true) is told of a man arriving late one night in lydford from tavistock, to the amazement of lydford people, who knew that their bridge had been broken down. in the darkness the traveller had noticed 'nothing more than that his horse had made a sudden spring; but on being afterwards led to the chasm he was struck with a mingled sensation of horror, surprise, and thankfulness.' from an historical point of view, it is ludicrous to think of lydford and princetown, its neighbour (as one counts neighbours on a moor)--lydford, in all its glory nearly a hundred years before the conquest, and princetown, created by the prince regent. it is, i believe, the highest village in england, and in walking up to it there comes a feeling that this is rather like walking up a gigantic snail-shell, and that, when one reaches the top, it _is_ the very top and end of all things. a tranquillity reigns over the tiny town which even the occasional sight of warders with their loaded rifles does not break; and the workaday world seems to have been left far below. but the desolate moor as seen from this point, the bleak winds, and very frequent rain, brought cold comfort to the french prisoners of war, on whose account the prison was built. their views are probably reflected in a gloomy description of princetown, traducing the climate, which was given by a french writer, quoted by mr r. j. king. 'for seven months in the year,' says a m. catel, 'it is a vraie sibérie, covered with unmelting snow. when the snows go away, the mists appear.' the lot of the french prisoners, however, was tempered by certain alleviations, and very many of them were allowed to live on parole in specified towns, most of which are near the moor. in 1813 a large number of american prisoners of war were added to the eight thousand french at princetown, but for some reason were not at first allowed the same privileges. this may help to account for the aggrieved tone in which one of them refers to his french fellow-prisoners, as well as to the british. andrews wrote a journal which was afterwards published. 'the seigneurs,' he says, 'received remittances from their friends or had money of their own, and were able to support themselves in a genteel manner.' they were allowed to have plays with a stage and scenery once a month, and also 'had their schools for teaching the arts and sciences, dancing, fencing, and fiddling.' he criticises them severely: 'they drink, sing and dance,' and, with a fine allusion to emphasise his point, declares: 'but the americans have not that careless volatility, like the cockle in the fable, to sing and dance when the house is on fire over them.' the french were released after the abdication of napoleon; a year later, peace was signed between england and america, and then, till 1850, the buildings were unoccupied. in that year the decision was made that they should be used as a convict prison, and as a result, one must agree with sir frederick pollock, it 'is the ugliest thing physically and morally on the moor.' it is pleasanter to turn back to the moor itself--to topics less out of character with it. foremost appear stories of magic, black and white, ancient beliefs and legends without end. mr king, whose knowledge of the country was at once vast and minute, is quoted as having said 'that he believed almost every form of superstition or superstitious observances condemned in the penitential of bartholomew, bishop of exeter, 1161-1184, might be found sheltering itself under the dartmoor tors.' (this remark must have been made about the middle of the nineteenth century.) 'the same wild creed has been handed down from generation to generation; the same spots on the lonely moor, and the same gloomy pools in the river, that were shunned by his forefathers, are avoided as "critical" (to use his own word) by the devonshire peasant now ... and whoever may find himself in the heart of its lonely wastes when daylight is closing, and the air seems to fill with '"undescribed sounds that come a-swooning over hollow ground, and wither drearily on barren moors," will scarcely wonder that the spirits of the elder world should not yet have been effectually dislodged from their ancient solitudes.... the pixies, thoroughly mischievous elves, who delight to lead all wanderers astray, dwell in the clefts of broken granite, and dance on the green sward by the side of the hill streams; ... sometimes, but very rarely, they are seen dancing by the streams dressed in green, the true livery of the small people. they ride horses at night, and tangle their manes into inextricable knots. they may be heard pounding their cider and threshing their wheat far within the recesses of their "house" on sheepstor--a cavern formed by overhanging blocks of granite. deep river pools and deceitful morasses, over which the cotton grass flutters its white tassels, are thought to be the "gates" of their country, where they possess diminutive flocks and herds of their own. malicious, yet hardly demoniacal, they are precisely dryden's "spirits of a middle sort"- "too black for heaven, and yet too white for hell, who just dropped half-way down, nor lower fell" --a character which cannot, however, be assigned to their unearthly companions, the wish-hounds. these have no redeeming tinge of white, and belong to the gloomiest portion of the underworld.' a true lover of the moor, and very sensitive to its element of mystery, mr king has put what he has seen and imagined into verse that must be most appreciated by those who know the forest best: the forest of the dartmoors. the purple heather flowers are dark in the hollow of the hill, though far along each rocky peak the sunlight lingers still; dark hang the rushes o'er the stream- there is no sound below, save when the fern, by the night's wind stirred. waves gently to and fro. thou old wild forest! many a dream of far-off glamoury, of gentle knight and solemn sage, is resting still on thee. still float the mists across the fells, as when those barons bold, sir tristram and sir percival, sped o'er the weary wold. * * * * * then through the glens of the folding hills. and over the heath so brown, king arthur leads his belted knights homewards to carlyoun; a goodly band, with long white spears, upon their shoulders set, and first of all that flower of kings with his golden coronet. and sometimes, by the clear hill streams, a knight rides on alone; he rideth ever beside the river, although the day be done; for he looketh toward the western land where watcheth his ladye, on the shore of the rocky cornewayle, in the castle by the sea. * * * * * and now thy rocks are silent all, the kingly chase is o'er, yet none may take from thee, old land, thy memories of yore. in many a green and solemn place, girt with the wild hills round, the shadow of the holy cross yet sleepeth on the ground. in many a glen where the ash keys hang all golden 'midst their leaves, the knights' dark strength is rising yet, clad in its wild-flower wreaths. and yet along the mountain-paths rides forth that stately band, a vision of the dim old days- a dream of fairyland. 'it is the wide extent of these solitary wastes which makes them so impressive, and gives them their influence over the imagination. whether seen at mid-day, when the gleams of sunlight are chasing one another along the hill-side; or at sunset, when the long line of dusky moorland lifts itself against the fading light of the western sky, the same character of extent and freedom is impressed on the landscape, which carries the fancy from hill to hill, and from valley to valley, and leads it to imagine other scenes, of equal wildness, which the distant hills conceal '"beyond their utmost purple rim."' perhaps the scenery of dartmoor is never more impressive than under those evening effects which have last been suggested. the singular shapes assumed by the granite cappings of the tors are strongly projected against the red light of the sunset, which gleams between the many openings in the huge piles of rock, making them look like passages into some unknown country beyond them, and suggesting that idea of infinity which is afforded by no other object of sight in equal degree. meanwhile, the heather of the foreground is growing darker and darker; and the only sound which falls upon the ear is that of the river far below, or perhaps the flapping of some heron's wings, as he rises from his rock in the stream and disappears westward- 'where, darkly painted on the blood-red sky, his figure floats along.' chapter v the teign 'ting (whose banks were blest by her beloved nymph dear leman) which addrest, and fully with herself determined before to sing the danish spoils committed on her shore, when hither from the east they came in mighty swarms, nor could their native earth contain their numerous arms, their surcrease grew so great, as forced them at last to seek another soil, as bees do when they cast; and by their impious pride how hard she was bested, when all the country swam with blood of saxons shed.' drayton: _poly-olbion_. the teign rises, as do most of the rivers in devon, on dartmoor, and starts across the moorlands towards the north. after a few miles it is joined by the wallabrook, and at that point turns eastwards. the moorland country about it is very beautiful, but especially when the heather and furze are in flower together, and far and wide stretches a most royal display of rose-purple and gold. ferns hang over the transparent brown water, with its glancing lights, and tiny ferns and polypodys peer out from the crannies and hollows of big grey boulders. here and there bushy willows grow along the edge, or a mountain-ash shows its feathery, deep green foliage and clusters of scarlet berries. a clapper bridge--that is, a bridge formed out of a single slab of granite--over twelve feet long lies across the wallabrook near the meeting of the streams. beside it grows a mountain-ash, and the quivering and wavering leaves, and their shadows that quiver and waver in the ripples beneath, make a profound contrast to that massive, immovable stone, that from its look may certainly be included among those dartmoor antiquities which sir frederick pollock says 'may very well have been as great a mystery to the contemporaries of julius cæsar as they are to ourselves.' modern opinion, however, denies that these bridges on the moor are of a very great age. close by on the north stands scorhill circle, one of those stone circles over the history of which antiquaries still differ. a little farther down, on the north bank, is a tolmen, and there is a tradition that to creep through the hole brings luck. the rock has, of course, been associated with the druids and their rites, but the hole is really a natural one. about three miles farther down the river one arrives at chagford, and perhaps the two things that a stranger will first notice about this little town are, that the air is very exhilarating and the people particularly courteous. for the rest, though not echoing lord clarendon's remark, that, but for the calamity of sidney godolphin's death, it is 'a place which could never otherwise have had a mention in this world,' one must admit that it is not very remarkable. the moment when chagford came most violently into contact with public affairs was that mentioned by lord clarendon, and most heartily must the inhabitants have wished themselves back in their usual peaceful solitude. sir john berkeley, at that time, 'with a good party, volant, of horse and dragoons,' was descending in 'all places in the surrounding country where parliamentarians were known to be assembled, "dissolving" them, and taking many prisoners.' of one of these 'necessary and brisk expeditions' chagford was the goal, and arriving very early in the morning, still in the dark, they fell upon it before day. the chilly january dawn broke over a much-discomforted town, ringing with shots, the trampling of horses, and the clash of steel, but the royalist troops were sturdily resisted, and godolphin was slain, it is said, in the porch of the three crowns inn. clarendon writes of him: 'there was never so great a mind and spirit contained in so little room;' and in his account of the skirmish he says: 'as his advice was of great authority with all the commanders ... so he exposed his person to all action, travel, and hazard; and by too forward engaging himself in this last received a mortal shot by a musket, a little above the knee, of which he died in the instant.' sidney godolphin, it will be remembered, was one of the celebrated 'four wheels of charles's wain, all devonshire and cornish men, and all slain at or near the same place, the same time, and in the same cause.... '"th' four wheels of charles's wain, grenvill, godolphin, trevanion, slanning slain."' in early days chagford was one of the four stannary towns, the others being ashburton, tavistock, and plympton. risdon mentions that 'this place is priviledged with many immunities which tinners enjoy; and here is holden one of the courts for stannary causes.' the river flows from chagford in a north-easterly direction till drewsteignton stands due north, when it turns to the east. drewsteignton is a large village, and has a granite church, the tower of which is decorated, and the nave perpendicular. in this parish was the barton of drascombe, and in the reign of edward i, walter de bromehall held it 'by the sergeanty of finding our lord the king, whensoever he should hunt in the forest of dartmoor, one bow and three barbed arrows. and it was let at five shillings a year rent.' one would imagine that king edward i can seldom have found time to amuse himself so far west, and the tenant would not find the conditions a heavy tax. the scenery by the river is very fine all about here, and fingle gorge is generally considered to be the most beautiful of the many beautiful glens through which the teign passes. it is a deep ravine with high and steep sides, that are thickly wooded and broken by great boulders. at fingle bridge four winding valleys meet; that is, the combe down which the river sweeps from above curves one way, and the narrow opening into which it disappears twists sharply round in another. a cleft, half hidden in trees, divides the line of hills that shut in the tiny valley-meadow on the west, and a road and a small stream scramble down a less severe descent between the high sides, from the north-east. but from no point near the bridge would it be more possible to see far up any cleeve, than it would be for a ladybird, perched at one end, to trace all the lines of a stag's horn. if in one direction there was a gentle slope and smiling prospect beyond, the peculiar effect would be gone. there is a stillness, and almost a solemnity, in this little opening closed in narrowly on every side by the steep hills rising straight above it on every side, and looking as unchanging as if what they are to-day, that they have been since the beginning of time. besides, there is a feeling of wildness and remoteness which cannot be exactly accounted for by the scenery. a living writer has said that there is that, in a beautiful landscape in a country inhabited from prehistoric time, that there is not in an equally lovely scene in a new country. though no tangible marks of the presence of men may be left, there is an intangible something that makes itself felt though it cannot be defined, and the view is on that account the more interesting, and makes a deeper appeal to the spectator. in fingle gorge, actual though not conspicuous traces of the britons are easily found. immediately above a precipitous ascent to the north are the remains of an old camp, which antiquaries have decided was british. on the opposite height is another camp, called cranbrook castle. 'this camp is of irregular form, circular towards the north-east and south-east, but almost square on other quarters. on its south side it has a high rampart and a deep ditch. on its northern side, the steepness of the hill formed the only defence.' it has been supposed that at this narrow pass the last struggle the damnonians made against the romans took place; but whether this were the case or not, the holders of the camp possessed a supreme coign of vantage, and could have chosen no better place for checking an enemy's advance. as the crow flies, moreton hampstead is about three miles south of fingle gorge, but the roads are rambling. the name was originally moor-town, standing as it once did on the edge of the moor; and the manor, like the barton of drascombe, was held on a curious tenure. 'which manor was the earls of ulster in king edward the first's age, who held it of the king for one sparrow-hawke yearly to be yielded.' moreton is a small place, and in these days perhaps its most marked characteristic is the dancing tree, or cross tree, as it is sometimes called, for it has grown out of the steps that encircled the now broken village cross. this tree, an elm, was pollarded, and the branches so trained that it was possible to lay a dancing floor between them when it was wanted; the floor was then railed round, and a ladder placed to lead up to it. mr baring-gould, in his 'book of the west,' quotes some most interesting references to the tree from a journal kept by an old gentleman living at moreton hampstead, in the beginning of the nineteenth century: '_june 4th, 1800._--his majesty's birthday. every mark of loyalty was shown. in the afternoon a concert of instrumental music was held on the cross tree.... '_august 19th, 1807._--this night the french officers assembled in the cross tree with their band of music. they performed several airs with great taste.' the 'french officers' were prisoners of war, staying on parole at moreton hampstead. 'unfortunately, and to the great regret of the inhabitants of moreton, the tree was wrecked by a gale on october 1, 1891.' about a mile to the north of fingle stands great fulford, an estate mentioned in the domesday book, which belongs to the fulford family. they have owned it continuously since the reign of richard i. many members of the family have distinguished themselves, but the most picturesque figure is that of sir baldwin, who was 'of so undaunted resolution,' says prince, 'that, for the honor and liberty of a royal lady in a castle besieged by infidels, he fought a combat with a sarazen; for bulk and bigness an unequal match (as the representation of him cut in the wainscot at fulford-hall doth plainly show); whom yet he vanquished and rescued the lady.' sir baldwin's name must have been woven in many a romance and ballad in later days. during the civil war, great fulford was garrisoned for the king, but was eventually forced to surrender to fairfax. leaving the river and walking north-east, the wayfarer will come in time to the parish of whitstone, rather more than three miles from exeter. the church has several interesting features. from the south transept a hagioscope slants through the wall to the chancel; and in one of the windows of the north aisle is a bit of very old, though not very beautiful, stained glass. a gallery at the west end bears a series of panels emblazoned with coats of arms. in the chancel is some jacobean carving, and behind the altar there stand a double row of carved eagles, most of them drooping their heads to one side. close to the church is a huge tithe barn, the date of which appears to be between 1450 and 1500. in a little entry-way joining the rectory lie the old stocks, opposite carved panels, and the wood of which is so old that it has almost lost its grain. in the early part of the nineteenth century, the rector of the parish, the rev. charles brown, collected a large amount of varied information concerning the parish into a manuscript volume, and from this record the present rector has most kindly allowed me to make some extracts. mr brown begins by explaining the meaning of the name, derived from the celtic _wad_, a hill or ridge, which became in time _whit_, and _don_, land--whitstone, the hill land. whitstone certainly deserves the name, as it is high, looking towards dartmoor, but the celtic form is more correctly kept by a hill in the parish, which is still called wadaldon, or more commonly waddlesdown. against the entries of burials in the parish register mr brown made biographical notes, pithy, and quite free from that too flattering note often sounded in epitaphs. here are some examples: 'william speare, d.d., buried 1812.... he formed a paddock of 120 acres [of land left him in this parish]. his penuriousness was as remarkable as his taste. often i have seen him in exeter, whither he rode every day, with one spur only, and that tied to his boot with string. '1814.--james hammett, 39, was before he came to reside in whitstone, a follower of joanna southcott, from whom he purchased for half a crown a piece of parchment, which was to entitle him to free admission into heaven. '1820.--james sutton, 82, was for many years sexton of the parish, was buried according to his request near the rectory granary. he said that the rector had been very kind to him; he would lie as near as possible to his house. '1829.--ann hexter, school-mistress at home and mistress of the sunday school many years. was for twenty years occasionally insane, and at last never free from lunacy. '1832.--william earls--poor--humble--honest--was made happy by my present of what he called "multiplying glasses." 'thomas lake, 85, said he had never taken medicine and would not begin at 85. '1833.--john coven, my carpenter, 26 years, never defrauded his employers of a minute's work; but his obstinacy was equal to his honesty. he spent all his gains, openly declaring that the parish should maintain him when he could no longer work. at his death he had received £60, but he gave up to the overseers a legacy of £30. '1834.--john how, 73. having a pension of 4.0 a week, as serj. of marines, once refused a shill. from me, saying he did not want it.' the notes include a compressed but lurid tale: '1835.--thomas snowden, 54. he died the day his son was christened, of apoplexy.' the curate, w. ley, had been present at a festive christening dinner, and had left mr snowden still entertaining a fellow guest. the seizure took place while they were alone. 'mrs s. sent for ley, and, taking him into the room, said: "that's the man who has just killed my husband." that man she afterwards married.' some interesting memoranda from the overseers and churchwardens give a glimpse of hard days in the past. in 1811 an entry shows the churchwardens making an effort to relieve the acute distress caused by the high price of food. wages were particularly low, and a succession of bad harvests raised the price of wheat to famine price, whilst the war with napoleon prevented any grain coming into the country, from france or america. so we find rice and barley sold to poor parishioners cheaper than they could have bought it for themselves. '_account of barley bought for the use of the poor._ april and may, 105 bushels at 13d. per bush.; june, 135 at 11d.; august, 20 at 9s. 6d. sold at 8d. per bush. loss £57 11 2 1/2 four hogs. 12 rice cost 8 15 9 sold for 6 0 5 1/2 loss 2 15 3 1/2' in 1796 there is a cryptic entry: 'paid for a man for the navy £11 13 0.' nothing more, though a few words in reference to the matter would be very welcome. possibly the best explanation is, that at a time when men were being impressed for the navy on every hand, and the government was making immense efforts to get men and money, the parish provided the bounty-money for a man, perhaps a parishioner, who had just joined with or without his good-will. but this is insecure ground, and the meaning can but be guessed at. in 1807 there is a very different, but also unusual, item: 'mr sowden's huntsman for killing a fox, 3s. 4d.' to return to mr brown's 'record,' the memoranda are followed by a long and very interesting list of 'parochial superstitions,' some of which, but not all, are generally known. he also tells one or two stories with a caustic touch where he might have suggested a supernatural atmosphere. '"the parsonage is haunted." this has been asserted for 100 years, at least. it is still asserted, and proved too by the following story, invented by jacob wright, a lively servant of mine in 1814. "'jacob,' said my master, 'come into my room. i am going to lay the ghost--don't be frightened.' well, we went in, and frightened enough i was when i saw the ghost fly out of the window with _master's hat and wig_."' if only mr brown had had enough imagination to omit the word 'invented'! his eyes must have twinkled again while he was enjoying the following speech: 'it is reported that a calf with two heads has been seen in hare lane. hannah splatt says: "though i have walked about as a nurse at all hours, i never saw anything _more frightful_ than myself."' the italics in both cases are his. superstitions are followed by a long list of words that strike him (who must have come from 'up the country') as peculiar, though many of them are commonly used to-day. and he makes one delightful quotation. in mentioning the fact that devonshire people say 'to' where others say 'at'--far instance, 'working to blacksmith's,' or 'living to exeter'--he writes: 'dr atterbury used to say that if he had been bishop of exeter, the devonshire folks would have called him dr to terbury.' rejoining the teign, one descends a valley very beautiful, but less striking than fingle gorge, the sides wider apart and less high, but thickly wooded. it is especially lovely in late march or early april, when the woodbine wreaths give an earnest of what the spring's full touch will bring, and buds are bursting and tiny quilled leaves showing on the hazels scattered among the oaks that form the chief substance of the coppices. near dunsford lies a sea of blue-green daffodil spears, with the pale gold flowers showing among them. these flowers push up among the rustling brown leaves, under interlacing branches overhead, but at a turn of the river a large flat meadow spreads out before one, and here the daffodils indeed 'dance' in their myriads. just beyond is the bridge below dunsford, and here are several tiny islands, each about large enough to hold a sapling and a tangle of overflowing green that trails into the water; and rushing by on each side, after falling over a little weir, the river dashes itself into a line of foam and races on under the archway. some miles down the valley and east of the river is doddiscombsleigh, whose chief feature is its church. the chancel is early decorated, the nave and north aisle perpendicular, and in the windows of this aisle, and more especially in the east window, is some good stained glass--a rarity in the churches in this neighbourhood. the subject, a rather uncommon one in england, is the seven sacraments, and, as the old glass was no longer intact, the window has been lately restored. farther south, and on the other side of the river, is christow, with its granite perpendicular church. in the porch is a tribute to long service--a stone to nicholas bussell, 46 years clark heere dyed xix feb. 1631. tradition says that the stone marks the actual spot where he died, and the wording of the epitaph favours the idea. it may be that he went to church in a very feeble state, perhaps thinking that neither parson nor congregation could get on without him, and with a supreme effort crowned his many years of service. the valley has a solitary look, as if it were very remote from hurry or turmoil, with the green, silent hills rising high towards haldon's moorlands on one side, and to dartmoor on the other. but when the tides of the civil war surged backward and forward, the valley of the teign had its full share of trouble. those who lived there were too near exeter for their peace and comfort, and must have been repeatedly harassed by the troops of one side or the other while they were clattering to or from the city, or quartered in the villages near, and the commotion must have been especially trying when fairfax was beginning the siege of exeter by hemming in the city with his outposts. canonteign house was garrisoned for the king, and was considered 'a strong fort'; but at the end of the year 1645, when the royalist cause was lost, it was taken by a body of troops from the regiment of colonel okey, who after the restoration was executed as one of the regicides. a short account of the affair is given in 'anglia rediviva': 'information being given that the house of one mr davis at canonteen (being within four miles of exeter) stood convenient for a garrison, and might bear a useful proportion towards the blocking up of exeter, hindering of provision from the southams, some more of colonel okey's dragoons were ordered thither to possess the same, who accordingly went and fulfilled their orders, december 21, and were no longer in the house; but monday, december 22, in the morning, the enemy sent a force against it, who stormed the house, burnt the out-houses; yet captain woggan, who commanded the dragoons, behaved himself so gallantly that he beat the enemy off, killed four, desperately wounded a lieutenant-colonel, and took divers prisoners.' the manor of canonteign was bought by the first lord exmouth, who built a new canonteign house near the old one. in christow church is a memorial of the great admiral--the flag flown by his ship during the battle of algiers. a broadside ballad commemorating that splendid fight has a fine disregard for the more pedantic rules of making verse, and the metre is a good example of what is called 'rugged'; but those who are superior to such details will appreciate the directness and air of enjoyment that are very appropriate to the song of a gallant sailor: the battle of algiers. 'come, all you britons, stout and bold, that love your native land. rejoicing in your victory, lord exmouth gave command. lord exmouth will your rights maintain, as you shall plainly see, how we all fought like lions bold, to set the christians free. _chorus._ 'you british tars, be steady, and maintain your glorious name; you will ever find lord exmouth to lead you into fame. 'on the 17th july in plymouth sound we lay, lord exmouth made a signal our anchor for to weigh; we exercis'd our great guns, believe me what i say, that we might do the best we could on that glorious day. 'when we came to gibraltar, for three days there we lay, our cabins there we all knock'd down, our decks we cleared away. that nothing in our way might be, for we their batteries saw, prepar'd to send their burning shot upon our decks below.' here follows a detailed account of the order of the ships going into battle and of the fight itself, finishing with: 'and there's one thing more i relate, which is to be admir'd, at five o'clock that afternoon we set their ships on fire. our rocket-ships and fire-ships so well their parts did play, the algerines from their batteries were forc'd to run away. 'now this glorious action's over, and christians are set free, the algerines are bound down--there's here no slavery; but if they break their terms of peace, lord exmouth doth declare if he should visit them again, not one of them he spare.' chudleigh stands a little above, and to the east of the river. from very early times it has been specially connected with the bishops of exeter, for bishop osbert built a palace here about 1080. in the third year of richard ii's reign the palace was fortified under a licence to bishop brantyngham, but now only a very few fragments of it are still to be seen. the manor of chudleigh was bound to provide twelve woodcock for the bishop's table on the day of his election, but should they be unobtainable, twelve pence was considered a just equivalent! in 1547 bishop vesey alienated 'the manor, town, palace, and limekiln,' and rather more than a hundred years later it came into the possession of lord clifford. the present lord clifford is lord of the manor. at the beginning of the fourteenth century there was a lively trade in woollen goods, which were made here in considerable quantities, and this industry was carried on with varying prosperity through several centuries. in the reign of james i the trade was particularly flourishing, and, though gradually lessening, it was in existence till the end of the reign of george ii. the people of chudleigh are said to have been careful to favour neither side in the civil war--a small and defenceless town, swept through by each party in turn, could hardly take any other course. in january, 1646, while exeter was still holding out against the parliament, fairfax and his army were quartered here. the surrounding country is very pretty, and chudleigh rock and chudleigh glen are particularly delightful. the rock is of blue limestone, and a deep cavern runs far into it, once supposed to be haunted by the pixies. it is still called the 'pixies' parlour.' a stream runs through the glen, and joins the teign just below the town. near chudleigh is ugbrooke park, which, with its hills and valleys, streams, lakes, trees, and deer, has all that is wanted to make a park beautiful. 'fair rosamond' is so well known by that title alone that it is sometimes forgotten that she was a de clifford. in her lifetime, their principal estate was in herefordshire, but later the heiress of ugbrooke brought this property by marriage to antony clifford. perhaps the member of the family who played the most important part in history is sir thomas clifford, afterwards the lord clifford whose initial is the first of the five that together spell 'cabal.' in its early days, he was the leading spirit of that famous council. one branch of the cliffords had settled in holland, and it was probably in staying there with his relations that sir thomas had been brought to the notice of charles ii and first gained his influence over him. lord macaulay is not complimentary in his references to any member of the cabal, but such commendations as he has to give are bestowed on clifford. sir thomas, he says, 'had greatly distinguished himself in the house of commons. of the members of the cabal, he was the most respectable. for, with a fiery, imperious temper, he had a strong though a lamentably perverted sense of duty and honour.' farther on he adds that clifford 'alone of the five had any claim to be regarded as an honest man.' sir thomas started a scheme which was practically the origin of the national debt. several statesmen who enjoyed the king's favour greatly desired the lord treasurer's office, and here charles displayed his usual astuteness; for, being, as always, in want of money, he said to them that the man who should be lord treasurer was the man who could show him a way of putting money into the treasury. the plan that sir thomas proposed to the king, and which was put into execution, lord clifford has most kindly sketched out as follows: 'the first lord clifford of chudleigh was made lord treasurer by charles ii, and recommended the king to seize the money deposited in the exchequer and secured by the allocation of various revenues. these loans had always up to this been faithfully met. by seizing this money, nominally only for a year, he acquired the sum of £1,300,000 at 6 per cent. at the succession of william and mary the public debt was £664,263, and this was probably part of the money so seized; but it was not till 5 william and mary, c. 20, that the authority of parliament was given for a loan to be raised by the then created bank of england, from which period usually dates the national debt. evelyn ascribes the inception of this idea to ashley shaftesbury, who, foreseeing its illegality, and possibly its disastrous results (for many persons were ruined), left it to clifford to propose it to the king. he gave 6 per cent. interest. when the bank of england loan was raised (5 w. and m.) the interest was 8 per cent.' there is a fine picture of the lord high treasurer, by sir peter lely, at ugbrooke, of which two replicas hang, one in the treasury, and the other at ham house, which belonged to the duke of lauderdale, who was the l of the cabal. lord clifford is wearing a crimson robe, under a magnificent flowing mantle of ermine, and in his right hand is the white wand of office. his face shows shrewdness and determination, and a certain geniality, which suggests that, though on occasion he might not have scrupled to act as an oppressor, yet he would always have liked to do so as pleasantly as possible. a remnant of former friendship was shown seven years after the cabal was dissolved. in december, 1680, when the country was still seething against popery, a bill was brought before the house of lords which provided, amongst other things, that all papists of influence should be removed from their own estates to a far distant county. lists of the gentlemen 'selected' in each county were made out (and have been reprinted among the manuscripts of the house of lords), and after the last list is written: 'in addition to the above lists, there was one for devonshire, which appears to have been given to earl shaftesbury ... but which is not forthcoming.' a subsequent collection of the names of those 'selected' in this county follows this statement, but lord clifford's name does not appear among them; therefore lord shaftesbury's reason for 'mislaying' this one list is supposed to be that he had suppressed in it the name of his former friend's son; and no second formal list for devonshire seems to have been made. the bill never became law. at newton abbot the river reaches its most southerly point and again turns east. lysons says that its 'market and fair were spoken of in the reign of edward i;' but there are not many old buildings, and those that there are seem completely swamped by numerous modern ones. the parish church, to the south of the town, contains much that is most interesting; and forde house, a fine jacobean building, welcomed under its roof charles i on two occasions, and, having changed owners meanwhile, greeted william of orange, when, thirty-three years later, he was on his way from torbay. along the northern bank of the estuary lie the two villages of kingsteignton and bishopsteignton, the manor of the first being part of the ancient demesnes of the crown, as that of the second was of the see of exeter. at the kingsteignton 'revel' a curious custom used to be observed, for a part of the proceedings was that 'a ram was hunted, killed, roasted, and eaten.' mr baring-gould gives these details, and adds a village anecdote. 'the parson there once asked a lad in sunday-school, "how many commandments are there?" "three, sir," was the prompt reply--"easter, whitsuntide, and the revel."' bishopsteignton has a church in which there are portions of norman work, and in the parish lie the remains of a bishop's palace, 'from ancient times,' says lysons, 'one of the country seats of the bishops.' it was practically rebuilt by bishop grandisson. i was once given an interesting piece of information relating to bishopsteignton by an old man living near newton st cyres. he said that in a general way the women there used to be very small, and folks said that was because they had been changed by the pixies when they were babies. it is unnecessary to dwell on the fact that teignmouth, besides being a port, is a most flourishing watering-place. the colouring is very rich, and especially lovely when set off by a brilliant sky and glittering blue water. blood-red cliffs lead north and south, and the green of grass and plants, broken by masses of wild-flowers of all tints, here scattered thinly, there in clumps, overlaps and creeps down the face of the rock wherever there is foothold. between teignmouth and dawlish an 'island-rock' of the warmest red runs out into the sea, and through an arch in it the rippling water may be seen beyond. looking down at teignmouth from the hill on the opposite side, the town seems to run very flatly into the angle between sea and river. in the estuary, at low tide, the ships and boats lie in pools among the sand-banks, with the gulls circling and screaming about them. it has been said that 'the cliffs of teignmouth owe their deep-red hue to the slaughter of the inhabitants by the danes in 970, when "the very rocks streamed with blood"'; and the old people confidently assert that the dwarf-elder (called hereabouts 'danes-elder') grows only upon the site of old battle-fields 'where the danes' blood was spilt!' these legends are not altogether baseless, for there is no doubt as to the pitiless brutality which the danes showed in their various incursions into devon between the years 894 and 1013. drayton's image is bold and gruesome: 'when all the country swam with blood of saxons shed.' teignmouth was last troubled by an enemy in 1690, when admiral de tourville, having defeated the united english and dutch fleets off beachy head, sailed down the channel and anchored one night in tor bay. the devonshire militia flew to arms. 'in twenty-four hours all devonshire was up. every road in the county from sea to sea was covered by multitudes of fighting men, all with their faces set towards torbay.' de tourville, upon this discouraging reception, gave up any ideas he may have had of disembarking, and merely sent some galleys to teignmouth, who first turned their cannon on the town and afterwards landed and burned it. the general excitement that this attack created found voice in a ballad called 'the devonshire boys' courage, 1690.' it is utter doggerel, but expresses the contemporary views of the people, and was sung to a tune called 'liggan water,' a title that, according to mr william chappell, refers to an irish stream. i give only a few verses: [illustration: music] 'brave _devonshire_ boys made haste away when news did come from _tinmouth-bay_, the french were landed in that town and treacherously had burnt it down. 'when to the town they did draw near, the _french_ did straightways disappear; because that they had then beat down and basely burnt poor _tinmouth-town_. 'on _haldon-hill_ they did design to draw their men up in a line; but _devonshire_ boys did make them run; when once they did discharge a gun. 'brave blew coat boys did watch them so, they to no other place dare go; for if they had returned again, i'm sure the _frenchmen_ had been slain. * * * * * 'let _monsieur_ then do what he can, we'll still reign masters o'er the main; old england's right upon the sea in spight of _france_ maintain'd shall be. 'no seaman fears to lose his blood, to justifie a cause so good; to fight the _french_, who have begun with burning down poor _tinmouth-town_. 'the _cornish_ lads will lend a hand, and _devonshire_ boys will with them band, to pull the pride of monsieur down, who basely burn'd poor tinmouth-town.' chapter vi torbay 'torbay, unknown to the aonian quire, nothing oblig'd to any poet's lyre ... the muses had no matter from thy bay, to make thee famous till great william's day.... to _orange_ only and _batavia's_ seed remain'd this glory, as of old decreed, to make thy name immortal, and thy shore more famous and renown'd than heretofore.... o happy, happy bay! all future times shall speak of thee renown'd in foreign climes!... muses have matter now, enough to make poets of peasants for torbaia's sake.... king _david's_ deeds were sung, and triumphs too, and why should not great _orange_ have his due? supream in earth, dread sovereign thou art; long may'st thou reign, we pray with all our heart.' avant: _torbaia digna camoensis_. it is impossible for those who have had no better fortune than to see torbay only in prints or photographs to gather more than a very imperfect idea of what its best can be. the cliffs near paignton are red, nearer torquay they are a warm russet, alternating with a rosy grey where limestone comes to the surface; and some of the rocks beneath, shining with salt water, are pink, interlined with white veins. in fair weather the warm tints of these cliffs, chequered by a green lattice-work of plants and bushes, and the rich, full colours of the sea, make a picture that is more easily remembered than described. the great promontories of hope's nose and berry head stand between three and four miles apart at the northern and southern points of this rounded, shallow bay. torquay itself is a new town, and only developed into being one in the early part of the last century. at the time that there was real fear of napoleon making a descent on this coast, fortifications were built on berry head, and houses were wanted for the officers in charge. one authority suggests that torquay was brought into general notice by serving as a lodging for the families of officers in the channel fleet under lord st vincent, who used torbay as an anchorage. but in any case its existence is really due to napoleon. certainly the growth was rapid, for lysons, writing about 1820, speaks of torquay as having been till lately a hamlet,--and even its name is modern. the one important building was the abbey, founded in 1196 by william, lord briwere, and endowed by him with the whole of the manor of wolborough and part of the manor of torre. the probable origin of this great gift is interesting. the abbey was founded soon after the return from austria of the hostages who had been kept there till the ransom of king richard i was paid, and it has been generally supposed that, as the eldest sons of the greatest noblemen were sent, lord briwere's only son was among the number, and that the abbey was a thank-offering, the fruit of a vow made by the father in regard to his son's happy return. lord briwere installed in the abbey seven monks of the premonstratensian order. alicia, daughter of lord briwere, married reginald de mohun, and as, on the death of her brother, she inherited the torre property, it is easily seen how tor-mohun came to be the name of the parish. successive bequests to the monastery made it the richest house of the order in england, though at the time of its dissolution there were only fifteen monks besides the abbot. the peace and prosperity of the abbey were once broken, dr oliver tells us in his 'monasticon dioecesis exoniensis,' by a painful incident: 'in 1390, notwithstanding the abbot's irreproachable life and manners, some malicious person spread a rumour that he had beheaded one of the canons of tor called simon hastings.' the abbot was 'greatly distressed,' and the bishop pronounced the accusation to be a falsehood of the 'blackest dye,' and, besides, declared that he, the said canon, was _alive and well_. but that it should be possible to bring such a charge against an 'irreproachable' abbot in this casual way, and that the accusation should for a moment be listened to, is a view of those days not often opened to one. after changing hands several times, the abbey became the property of the carys (in 1662), and their descendants still live in it. many alterations have been inevitable, but much of the character of the building still remains. parts of the walls of the original church are still standing, and enough of the masonry is left to show the exact plan. it was longer than any other church that has since been built in torquay, and wanted only seven feet to equal the length of exeter cathedral between the west end and the organ-screen. the refectory stretches towards the west; it has been converted into a chapel, and a stone cross rises from the roof. the embattled gateway and the whole of the building near it are of a soft rose colour; beyond stands a tower, duller in tint, and at right angles the old grange, known since elizabethan days as the spanish barn. for the _capitana_, the first ship of the armada to be taken, fell to sir francis drake off torbay, and the four hundred men captured on her were brought to tor abbey and imprisoned in the grange. leaving torquay, and going some miles to the north, and slightly inland, one arrives at haccombe, the smallest parish in england. this year (1908) the population numbers nine. it is also conspicuous for having as its rector the sole 'arch-priest' in the kingdom, and for its independence, for though haccombe church is subject to the jurisdiction of the bishop, it claims to be free from any ruling of the archdeacon. a college or arch-presbytery was founded there in 1341, 'which college,' says lysons, 'consisted of an arch-priest and five other priests, who lived together in community.' the arch-priest, or rector, as he is usually called, is the only remaining member of the college. haccombe passed by a succession of heiresses from the haccombes, who held it in the time of william i, to the carews, during the fourteenth century, to which family it still belongs. on the church door hang two horseshoes, commemorating a victory that george carew, earl of totnes, wrested from his cousin, sir arthur champernowne. a wager was laid as to whose horse could swim farthest into the sea, and the horse of 'the bold carew' won. the story is told in the following ballad: 'the feast was over in haccombe hall, and the wassail-cup had been served to all, when the earl of totnes rose in his place, and the chanters came in to say the grace. 'but scarce was ended the holy rite, when there stepped from the crowd a valiant knight; his armour bright and his visage brown, and his name sir arthur champernowne. '"good earl of totnes, i've brought with me my fleetest courser of barbary; and whether good or ill betide, a wager with thee i mean to ride." '"no barbary courser do i own; but i have," quoth the earl, "a devonshire roan; and i'll ride for a wager by land or sea, the roan 'gainst the courser of barbary." '"'tis done," said sir arthur, "already i've won; and i'll stake my manor of dartington 'gainst haccombe hall and its rich domain." so the earl of totnes the wager hath ta'en. * * * * * the land is for men of low degree; but the knight and the earl they ride by sea. '"to horse! to horse!" resounds through the hall each warrior steed is led from its stall; and with gallant train over milburn down ride the bold carew and the champernowne. 'but when they came to the abbey of tor, the abbot came forth from the western door, and much he prayed them to stay and dine, but the earl took naught save a goblet of wine. 'sir arthur he raised the bowl on high, and prayed to the giver of victory; then drank success to himself in the course, and the sops of the wine he gave to his horse. 'away they rode from the abbey of tor, till they reached the inlet's curving shore; the earl plunged first in the foaming wave, and was followed straight by sir arthur the brave. 'the wind blew hard and the waves beat high, and the horses strove for the mastery; till sir arthur cried, "help, thou bold carew! help, if thou art a christian true! '"oh, save for the sake of that lady of mine! good earl of totnes, the manor is thine; the barbary courser must yield to the roan, and thou art the lord of dartington." 'the earl his steed began to restrain, and he seized sir arthur's horse by the rein; he cheered him with words, and gave him his hand, and he brought sir arthur safe to land. 'then sir arthur, with sickness and grief oppressed, lay down in the abbey chambers to rest; but the earl he rode from the abbey of tor straight forward to haccombe chapel door. 'and there he fell on his knees and prayed, and many an ave maria he said; bread and money he gave to the poor, and he nailed the roan's shoes to the chapel door.' how far this account is accurate it is difficult to say, but the champernownes are still at dartington. some miles south, and a little to the west, about midway between haccombe and torquay, lies kingskerswell, a village not very much heard of nowadays, but once the property of a very distinguished soldier and statesman. 'the lord nicolas de mules (or meoles, or molis), a counsellor of estate, had this manor in the time of henry iii, to whom the king granted other lands to hold by knightly service.... he was sheriff of hampshire and governor of winchester castle, and held the islands of guernsey, jersey, serke, and aureney committed to his trust. in 23 henry iii he was sheriff of yorkshire, and afterwards sent ambassador to denounce war against france, and, being an expert soldier, was upon the king's return to england appointed seneschal of gascoigne, being held in such esteem by henry iii that he admitted james, his son and heir, to have education with prince edward at the king's charge. continuing still in gascoigne, he obtained a signal victory over the king of navarre.' risdon adds the information that sir nicolas took the king 'prisoner in the field.' on his return he took part in the 'war against the welsh,' and must have acquitted himself brilliantly, since hereafter honours were showered upon him. he was made governor of the castles of carmarthen and cardigan, then 'constable of dover castle and warden of the cinque-ports, and the same year sheriff of kent, also governor of the castles of canterbury and rochester; and of sherborne and corfe castle,' in the county of dorset. it is almost bewildering to follow his rapid plunges from one sphere of action to another, and it certainly emphasizes the fact that the strenuous life is no novelty. it contradicts, too, a view rather generally held, that the spirit of restless daring and love of adventure that have distinguished innumerable men of devon belonged solely to elizabethan days--a view that has, no doubt, sprung up because the great lights that shone in that glorious reign have eclipsed all lesser ones. but the poppy of oblivion has fallen on the name of sir nicolas, and he is no conspicuous figure in the most local histories; even prince does not count him among his 'worthies.' from kingskerswell one passes through a fertile and pleasant country, which suggests to the passer-by that the time and labour needed in weeding and chopping down must be almost greater than that spent in sowing and growing plants. the number of orchards here has perhaps given rise to a proverb, said to be peculiar to south devon, but calling to mind tusser's treatise on husbandry: 'if good apples you would have, the leaves must go into the grave.' this explanation of the rhyme has been suggested: 'rather, perhaps, be in the grave--_i.e._, you must plant your leaves in the fall of the leaf.' a road leading south, then to the east, reaches paignton, which stands almost midway between north and south in the bay. the old town was at a little distance from the sea, but latterly new houses have been built in all directions, and have brought it close to the water's edge. paignton has a fine church, chiefly perpendicular, but parts are of earlier work, and there is a most beautiful carved screen. the adventures of a native of paignton--a certain will adams, born about 1612, 'of mean and obscure parentage'--are not to be forgotten. he was, says mr norway, 'one of those "turkish captives" of whom so many were languishing in algiers two centuries ago, and who, there is little doubt, were specially in the minds of the authors of the petition in our litany, "for all poor prisoners and captives" ... and it may very well be that adams' name was coupled with this prayer on many a sunday in paignton church, for the agony of his captivity lasted full five years.' at the end of that time he and his companions, despairing of rescue, set to work on what would indeed have seemed to most people a hopeless venture. they began to make a boat with a keel twelve feet long, but 'because it was impossible to convey a piece that length out of the city, but it must be seen and suspected, they cut it in two and fitted it for joyning, just in the middle.' then 'because boards would require much hammering and that noise would be like to betray them, they bought as much canvas as would cover their boat twice over.' with as much 'pitch, tar, and tallow, as would serve to make a kind of tarpauling cloth, two pipe staves saw'd across ... for oars, a little bread and two leather bottles full of fresh water, and as much canvas as would serve for a sail,' their preparations before 'launching out into the deep' were complete. but even their courage was not the most splendid in the affair. when the prisoners had actually started, they found that the boat was overloaded, so 'two were content to stay on shore.' they were 'content' to return to toil and slavery indefinitely, and to face the bitter wrath and vengeance of their captors, enraged by the loss of so many prisoners. those who escaped had much to endure. their boat leaked, and the salt water spoiled their bread. 'pale famine stared them in the face' writes prince, and they suffered even greater tortures from thirst and heat. 'on the fifth day, as they lay hulling up and down, god sent them some relief, viz., a tortois,' which they came upon asleep in the sea and caught. with strength almost gone, they reached majorca, where, luckily, the viceroy was kindly disposed towards them, and they started home in one of 'the king of spain's gallies.' adams died at a good old age in his native place. the fine cliff called berry head runs far out into the sea at the southern edge of tor bay, and standing back, within the bay, is the small and pretty town of brixham--celebrated for its trawlers, and for being the landing-place of william iii. the red and brown sails of 'brixham trawlers' scattered over the blue-grey waters of the bay seem very familiar, and it is a question for consideration how many exhibitions at the royal academy have _not_ included a picture bearing that title. the fishery is an old one, and in the reign of henry viii the vicar could claim personal tithes in fish equal in value to £340 of our money. fishermen and others gave a very cordial welcome to the prince of orange when he arrived on november 5, 1688. but by no one can he have been more vehemently applauded than by the author of the lines i have quoted at the head of the present chapter--the rev philip avant, vicar of salcombe. the poem, originally written in latin, and translated by the author, takes up almost the whole of his small and rather rare volume, _torbaia digna camoensis_. it is in parts unintentionally amusing, and is interesting as showing how far the frenzied fervour of bigotry may carry a naturally amiable person, for in the narrow intervals between his torrents of denunciation it is clear that mr avant was, in ordinary matters, a kindly-disposed man. a pamphlet graphically describing the 'expedition from torbay to whitehall' was written by another clergyman, john whittle by name, a 'minister chaplain in the army,' and from this pamphlet long extracts are given in a paper on this subject by the late mr windeatt. some of these quotations i am now venturing to repeat: 'the morning was very obscure with the fog and mist, and withal it was so calm that the vessels now as 'twere touch'd each other, every ship coming as near unto the ship wherein the prince of orange was, as the schipper thereof would permit them.... his highness the prince of orange gave orders that his standard should be put up, and accordingly it was done, the white flag being put uppermost, signifying his most gracious offer of peace unto all such as would live peaceably. and under that, the red or bloody flag was set up, signifying war unto all such as did oppose his designs. the sun, recovering strength, soon dissipated the fog, and dispers'd the mist, insomuch that it prov'd a very pleasant day. by this time the people of devonshire thereabout had discovered the fleet, the one telling the other thereof; they came flocking in droves to the side or brow of the hills to view us. some guess'd we were french because they saw divers white flags; but the standard of the prince, the motto of which was, for the protestant religion and liberty, soon undeceived them.... bells were ringing as we were sailing towards the bay, and as we landed, which many judged to be a good omen.' a little later, when they had landed, people 'came running out at their doors to see this happy sight. so the prince with marschal schomberg, and divers lords, knights and gentlemen, marched up the hill, which all the fleet could see over the houses, the colours flying and flourishing before his highness, the trumpets sounding, the haut-boys played, the drums beat, and the lords, knights and gentlemen shouted; and sundry huzzas did now echo in the fleet, from off the hill, insomuch that our very hearts below in the water were even ravish'd for going thereof.' there is an absurd story, here quoted with mild ridicule, that on the prince's landing he was received by the inhabitants of brixham with this address: 'and please your majesty king william, you're welcome to brixham quay, to eat buck-horn and drink bohea, along with me, and please your majesty king william.' the 'and please' must be a corruption of 'an it please,' which does make sense, but the rhyme cannot have been invented until later, for it certainly was not within the power of a fisherman to offer 'bohea,' or any other kind of tea, in those days. 'buck-horn' is rather puzzling, for it gives no clue as to what it might be. anybody who has heard of edible buck-horn (or buck's-horn) at all, would probably think of an obscure and humble salad herb, now practically forgotten, and at no time a dainty to be pressed on 'king william's' notice in this manner. the english dialect dictionary comes to the rescue by explaining that in cornwall, devon, and cumberland, 'buck-horn' is a name for 'salted and dried whiting.' 'bok horñ' also appears in the receiver's accounts at exeter (about 1488), when the citizens, having a quarrel with the bishop, tactfully sent successive presents of fish to the lord chancellor while the case lay before him. buck-horn is still sold in brixham. the soldiers' first experiences in england were not agreeable, as 'they were marching into camp all hours in the night'; and some having been unlucky enough to get astray from their companies, 'it was no easy matter to find them in the dark amongst so many thousands. it was a cold, frosty night, and the stars twinkl'd exceedingly; besides the ground was very wet after so much rain and ill weather; the souldiers were to stand to their arms the whole night, at least to be in readiness if anything should happen, or the enemy make an assault, and therefore sundry souldiers were to fetch some old hedges and cut down green wood to burn these with, to make some fire.' mr windeatt, writing in 1880, gives an astonishing instance of how few links a chain may sometimes need in order to stretch from century to century. he says a gentleman gave him the following account: 'there are few now left who can say, as i can, that they have heard their father and their wife's father talking together of the men who saw the landing of william iii at torbay. i have heard captain clements say he as a boy heard as many as seven or eight old men each giving the particulars of what he saw then. one saw a shipload of horses hauled up to the quay, and the horses walked out all harnessed, and the quickness with which each man knew his horse and mounted it surprised them. another old man said: "i helped to get on shore the horses that were thrown overboard, and swam on shore guided by only a single rope running from the ship to the shore"; and another would describe the rigging and build of the ships, but all appeared to welcome them as friends. 'my father remembered only one--"gaffer will webber," of staverton, who served his apprenticeship with one of his ancestors, and who lived to a great age--say that he went from staverton as a boy with his father, who took a cartload of apples from staverton to the highroad from brixham to exeter, that the soldiers might help themselves to them, and to wish them "godspeed."' the gentlemen of the county were more tardy in their welcome, and perhaps this is not very surprising, when one considers that they can scarcely have recovered from the terrible vengeance that seared all who had followed monmouth only three years before. sir edward seymour, formerly speaker of the house of commons, was one of the first and, says macaulay, the most important of the great landowners who joined the prince at exeter. he was 'in birth, in political influence, and in parliamentary abilities ... beyond comparison the foremost among the tory gentlemen of england.' sir edward evidently rode in great state, for the duke of somerset, his descendant, still has a very imposing red velvet saddle, elaborately embroidered with heraldic and other designs in silver, that 'mr speaker seymour' used on this occasion. the march was continued in the most miserable discomfort. six hundred horses had died either at sea or from the effects of the storm, and the men, still suffering from a 'dissiness in the heads after they had been so long toss'd at sea,' had extra burdens to carry. the weather was wet and stormy, the roads were 'extreme rough and stony,' and when they encamped and lay down for the night, 'their heads, backs and arms sank deep into the clay.' further, their rations were so spare that when they came on an inclosure with turnips they felt they had found a feast. 'some roasted them and others eat them raw, and made a brave banquet.' however, matters improved the next day as they drew nearer to newton abbot. people came in crowds to see them. 'now they began to give us applause and pray for our success.' hitherto they had but wavered as they said, 'the irish would come and cut them in pieces if it should be known.' on approaching newton, 'a certain divine went before the army, and finding 'twas their market day, he went unto the cross, or town hall,' and read the declaration of the prince of orange. 'to which the people with one heart and voice answered amen: amen, and forthwith shouted for joy, and made the town ring with their echoing huzzas.' such was the auspicious reception of the 'deliverer of the nation from popery, slavery, brass money and wooden shoes.' a very different note, jarring against this triumphal strain, is struck by a jacobite ballad on the same event, too long to quote entirely here. it bears the conciliatory title of the belgick boar. god prosper long our noble king, our hopes and wishes all: a fatal landing late there did in devonshire befall. to drive our monarch from his throne prince naso took his way. the babe may rue that's newly-born the landing at torbay. the stubborn tarquin, void of grace, a vow to hell does make, to force his father abdicate and then his crown to take. * * * * * then declarations flew about, as thick as any hail, who, tho' no word was e'er made good, did mightily prevail. we must be papists or be slaves, was then the gen'ral cry, but we'll do anything to save our darling liberty. we'll all join with a foreign prince, against our lawful king; for he from all our fancy'd fears deliverance doth bring. * * * * * then our allegiance let's cast off, james shall no longer guide us; and tho' the french would bridle us, none but the dutch shall ride us. chapter vii the dart 'i cannot tell what you say, green leaves, i cannot tell what you say; but i know that there is a spirit in you, and a word in you this day. 'i cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, i cannot tell what you say; but i know that there is a spirit in you, and a word in you this day. 'i cannot tell what you say, brown streams, i cannot tell what you say; but i know that in you too a spirit doth live, and a word doth speak this day. 'oh! green is the colour of faith and truth, and rose the colour of love and youth, and brown of the fruitful clay. sweet earth is faithful, and fruitful and young, and her bridal day shall come ere long, and you shall know what the rocks and the streams and the whispering woodlands say.' kingsley: _dartside_. of all the rivers of devonshire, the dart claims the first place, both for beauty and for interesting associations; and between the lonely wastes about its source on dartmoor, and the calm, broad reaches above dartmouth, the scenery is not only always beautiful, but adds the great charm of being beautiful in quite different ways. drayton recognises the claim, for in the _poly-olbion_, speaking of the 'mother of rivers,' dartmoor, he says: 'from all the other floods that only takes her name and as her eld'st in right the heir of all her fame.' and a few lines later he makes dart declaim: ' ... there's not the proudest flood that falls betwixt the mount and exmore shall make good her royalty with mine, with me nor can compare; i challenge anyone to answer me that dare.' the east dart rises about a mile south of cranmere pool, and at first makes its way through bare bogs, with great black holes gaping open here and there in the peat, tussocks of coarse grass and dry, rustling bents, isolated tufts of heather, and now and again wide spaces of waving cotton-grass. all around is 'an everlasting wash of air' and a sense of spaciousness, which it is to be hoped no cynically named 'improvements' may ever diminish. westcote comments on the name. 'of some it is supposed that the river takes name of the swiftness of the current; the like is thought of the river arrow in warwickshire, and of the tygris in mesopotamia, which among the persians doth import a shaft.' there is a saying that 'the river "cries" when there is to be a change of wind. "us shall have bad weather, maister; i hear the broadstones a-crying." the broadstones are boulders of granite lying in the bed of the river. the cry, however, hardly comes from them, but from a piping of the wind, in the twists of the glen through which the turbulent river writhes.' many tales on the moor speak of the amazing swiftness with which a freshet will suddenly swell and sweep down, an overwhelming flood. only a few years ago a farmer was crossing a very safe ford when he saw the freshet coming, and tried to hurry his horse, but before he could reach the bank the torrent caught his cart and overturned it, and he and his horse were drowned. 'river of dart, o river of dart, every year thou claimest a heart.' the ominous couplet springs from no misty legend, but from melancholy experience. the east dart runs throughout its course in a south-easterly direction, and at post bridge just below the road from moreton hampstead to tavistock it is crossed by an old bridge, one of the many rugged witnesses to unwritten history scattered all over dartmoor. it is a massive structure, built of rough granite blocks; the 'table-stones' that rest on the piers are each about fifteen feet long. the west dart rises farther south than the east dart, and runs almost due south as far as two bridges, and then, in many curves to the east--sometimes almost hidden in the depths of the hollow that has been worn between the high bare sides of the valley--till about five miles from two bridges it reaches dartmeet. from the top of a tor close to the point where the two streams meet the effect is rather curious, for sunk deep between the wide barren stretches of moor and desolate tors, broad green ribbons of trees and undergrowth, broken by tufts and uneven edges, mark the course of the rivers till they wind away out of sight. their darker green makes them stand out against the sides of the valleys, and they are the only trees in sight. in summer the river is often very low, and then masses of great boulders in the river-bed are seen, and some of the biggest are crowned with ferns, high tufts of grass, or little bushes, with the clearest water streams between them. the bridge is over the east dart, above the meeting of the waters, and from just below it is possible to get a charming view of the arches thrown up against a sunlit mass of shimmering leaves. from here the dart runs south almost to holne, the birthplace of that true lover of devon, charles kingsley. at this point it makes a great loop to the north, flowing among lovely scenery along a steep and narrow valley, where great rocks break through the woods; then curving round in holne chase, it turns south again to holne bridge, which is crossed by the ashburton road. the town is about three miles to the east. ashburton is one of the old stannary towns, and besides mining, it was known for its trade in woollen goods, especially serges. in fact, 'the seal of the port-reeve bears a church between a teasel and a saltire, with the sun and moon above.' the teasel was used to raise the nap in making cloth, and was a symbol of that industry, as the sun and moon were symbols of mining. in 1697 the manufacturers felt foreign competition so keenly that the port-reeve, traders, and inhabitants of ashburton signed a petition to parliament, begging that an act might be passed to discourage the importation of irish and other foreign woollen goods. this borough sent members to parliament from the reign of edward i, but in time its representation ceased. the privilege was given back to the borough after the restoration, through the intervention of sir john northcote, and was held until ashburton was disfranchised in 1868. a few miles farther down the river is buckfastleigh, a small but very flourishing town, and one of the very few that still produce the serges and woollen goods for which the county was once famous, in the sixteenth century especially, for then, as green tells us, 'the broadcloths of the west claimed the palm among the woollen stuffs of england.' the church stands apart on a height overlooking the town, and the tapering spire adds to the effect given by its commanding position. by far the most interesting building here is buckfast abbey, founded in the reign of henry ii, on the site of a benedictine abbey of saxon days. the place must have been very remote and inaccessible when the benedictines first settled there, and the saxon name given in bishop ælfwold's charter in 1016 was 'buckfæsten, _i.e._, deer-fastness,' which would seem to argue that the abbey was surrounded by thick woods, and was particularly lonely, even for those times. sable, a crozier in pale, argent, the crook or, surmounted by a buck's head, caboshed of the second, horned gules, were the ancient arms of the abbey, as they are still, though now impaled with the clifford arms, by permission of lord clifford. the second colony of monks here were cistercians, and the monastery became very prosperous and the richest house of that order in the county. king john deposited some of his jewels, gold and silver in their keeping, and in 1297 edward i visited the abbey. the cistercians were great wool-traders, and did much for both trade and agriculture in the districts near them. it has been supposed that the sunken track called the abbot's way was used in carrying the wool from the moorland farms belonging to the monastery towards plymouth and tavistock. in the thirteenth century the monks showed their interest in trading by joining the 'gild merchant' of totnes. a memorandum on the back of one of the 'membership rolls' in 1236 records an agreement between the burgesses of totnes and the abbot and convent of buckfast; that the monks might be able 'to make all their purchases in like manner with the burgesses, the abbot and monks agree to pay twenty-two pence on the saturday before christmas day.'[4] [footnote 4: transactions of the devonshire association, 1873.] the buildings at the time of the dissolution were very large, and there was a fine church, but of these only a perpendicular tower adjoining the cloisters, and a large tithe-barn, are in a state of good preservation at the present day. a modern house was built on the western side of the vanished cloisters, but in 1882 the abbey was bought for a colony of benedictine monks from pierrequivire in burgundy, who have partly rebuilt the monastery on its ancient lines, and are restoring the abbey church. a few miles away to the south-west is dean prior, and the living that herrick held when he poured out his grumbles and complaints about 'dull devonshire.' herrick was a true cockney, and the earliest part of his life was spent in a house in cheapside. when he grew up, he had the good luck to come into the brilliant and witty company that gathered round ben jonson, so it must be allowed that he had an excuse for sometimes thinking that life in an obscure hamlet, two hundred miles from london, was a dreary exile. but, as mr r. j. king remarks, in spite of all his grievances, he had in him a sense that responded very readily to the pretty customs and observances of the village, that marked, here with a handful of flowers, there with a sheaf of wheat or a branch of holly, the different festivals of the year. herrick's poem 'christmas eve' refers to a local custom that appealed to him: 'come, guard this night the christmas-pie, that the thief, though ne'er so sly, with his flesh-hooks, don't come nigh, to catch it from him, who all alone sits there, having his eyes still in his ear, and a deal of mighty fear, to watch it.' mr king makes this interesting note on it: 'this custom, so far as i know, is unnoticed by anyone but herrick. 'a solitary watcher, '"having his eyes still in his ear, and a deal of mighty fear," guarded the pie through the night before christmas. 'the pie represented the manger of bethlehem, and its contents the wise men's offerings. the devonshire "christmas play" has had a curious fate. except, perhaps, in some of the moorland parishes, it has disappeared at home. but the newfoundland fisheries were long carried on for the most part by sailors from the neighbourhood of dartmouth and tor bay, and mr jukes tells us that the streets of st john's at christmas-time continue to exhibit st george, the turkish knight, and all their companions, in full vigour.' the charm of herrick's verses on country joys is deepened--to the folk-lorist in particular--by remembering that the rustic ceremonies he commemorates were probably the usual customs observed at dean prior in his time. on a hot august evening he may have watched the happy and excited children who are described in the poem 'the hock-cart, or harvest-home.' 'about the cart, hear how the rout of rurall youngling raise the shout. pressing before, some coming after, these with a shout, and those with laughter. some blesse the carte, some kisse the sheaves, some prank them up with oaken leaves; some cross the fill-horse, some with great devotion stroake the home-borne wheat.' and many lines point to his acquaintance with all kinds of village festivals, as, for instance, those which he addresses to 'master endymion porter.' 'thy wakes, thy quintels, here them hast, thy may-poles too, with garlands grac't, thy morris-dance, thy whitsun-ale, thy sheering feast, which never faile, thy harvest home, thy wassaile bowle, that's tost up after foxi'th'hole, thy mummeries, thy twelfth-tide kings, and quenes, thy christmas revellings, thy nut-browne mirth, thy russet wit, and no man pays too deare for it.' ('foxi'th'hole' is a hopping game, in which boys beat each other with gloves.) herrick was fortunate in having a kind and hospitable neighbour. sir edward giles was famed for his uprightness and generous disposition, and was looked up to by all the neighbourhood. he succeeded to 'a large park and very handsome house,' whose existence was partly due to the problem of the unemployed that was perplexing the benevolent more than three hundred years ago; for john giles, 'to the honour of his memory ... began building of the house, and setting up the walls about his park, in the time of a very great dearth; whereby hundreds of poor men ... were daily fed at his table, who else together with their families in probability would have perished for want.' sir edward succeeded immediately to his father, who was 'a good old gentleman,' with a taste for small jokes that must have been sometimes a little tedious. the son had too 'active and vigorous a spirit' to rest 'within the compass of an island, wherefore ... he travelled beyond the seas,' and in the low countries 'trayl'd a pike in her majesty's service, queen elizabeth of glorious memory.' having carved for himself a high reputation, he came to the court of king james, to find that his fame had preceded him, and he received the honour of knighthood at the time of the king's coronation. this gave the old knight a chance for a little jest, which his son must have found rather exasperating. when he came home, his father received him with all ceremony, though 'more jocularly than seriously ... saluted him with his title of sir edward giles at every word, and by all means would place him above him, as one dignified with the more honourable degree; until at length inquiring of him: "sir edward, pray tell me," said the old gentleman, "who must discharge the fees and charges of your knighthood and honour?" being answered, "that he hoped he would be pleased to do that," "nay, then," says the old gentleman, "come down, sir edward giles, and sit beneath me again, if i am he that must pay for thy honour."' one can imagine his beaming satisfaction over it all! among sir edward's friends was the 'eminent and pious and learned divine,' dr barnabas potter, whom he presented with the living of dean prior. herrick and his predecessor were indeed a contrast to one another, for dr potter was 'melancholy, lean, and a hard student.' he was afterwards transplanted from his peaceful solitude to court, where he was appointed chaplain in ordinary to prince charles, and was known as the penitential preacher. afterwards, when preferred to the bishopric of carlisle, 'he was commonly called the puritanical bishop, and they said of him in the time of king james, that organs would blow him out of the church, which i do not believe, the rather because he lov'd vocal music, and could bear his own part therein.' altogether, he and the future merry monarch must have been very congenial companions. going farther south, and still keeping to the west of the river, the traveller comes to rattery, close to which is venton house, once owned by the gibbses. in the reign of edward iii john gibbs was chosen to undertake important work, for he was called to serve on several commissions appointed to carry out the king's business in the county. the most interesting of these commissions seems to have been the one appointed in 1462, for the purpose of collecting ships for the king's fleet from those ports--the commissioners to be responsible for furnishing them completely, from 'masters and mariners' to 'bows and bowstrings, wheat, beans, and ale.' the members of the family whose doings were the most amusing, though not the most to be admired, were william gibbs and his son thomas, who were proceeded against in the star chamber by the chaplain and curate of rattre (rattery) church. some manuscript notes very kindly sent to me by mr herbert gibbs give a good instance of the light-hearted manner in which it was possible to break and make the peace in a country district about the year 1517. the church of rattery claimed that william gibbs owed £21 2s. 8d., and he claimed that the church owed him sixty-three shillings, and, putting into practice the adage that possession is nine points of the law, he boldly took out of the church 'a yron boxe locked with two lockes,' and helped himself to the money. the complainants brought their case to be tried before the bishop of exeter and several justices, but andrew hillersdon, son-in-law to william gibbs, was among them, with the result that the only penalty imposed was to find surety for his good 'aberying' (bearing) of 100 marks. although this was a very mild verdict, it infuriated the culprit, whose next step was to shear the church lambs, and carry off '11 youes with their lambs'; and on the thursday night before the feast of st. matthew he, with his son thomas and many others, did 'then and there ryottusly assemble theym togeders to kyll your said orators, leyin awayte,' and the said 'thomas gybbys with a swarde and a bokeler made a sawte' upon john hals, ' ... so as the said john hals was in danger of his lyf and toke the church and church yerde for his savegard and kept the same by the space of two hours.' his enforced vigil had the added bitterness that, according to the complainants, he had had no previous quarrel of any kind with his assailant. but this demonstration was not enough to satisfy the gibbses, and the next sunday they came again to rattery 'in manner of a new insurrection with twenty-three persons and above,' and with such a fierce aspect that they caused 'great feer and dreed' to their neighbours, who in alarm of worse to come warned 'your said orators ... to kepe them absent from their said church and from their divine service, and so they dyd.' the complainants now evidently felt that the time for definite action on their part had come, and the case was eventually carried before the 'lord cardinall, chancellor of england,' but the account of the proceedings does not give his verdict. returning to the river, dartington hall, the beautiful home of the champernownes, is soon reached. dartington was originally the gift of the conqueror to william de falaise, and passed through the hands of the lords audley and of john holland, duke of exeter, half-brother of richard ii, before sir arthur champernowne exchanged for it the lordship of polslo, and settled here in the reign of elizabeth. and now, says westcote, 'it glories in the knightly tribe of champernowne.' originally dartington consisted of two large quadrangles, but one has long been in ruins. the most striking feature is the hall, which is seventy feet long and forty feet wide, and has pointed windows, a huge old fireplace, and a porch with a groined ceiling. this dates from the fourteenth century, and part of the quadrangle, together with the gateway at the south end, is early fourteenth-century work. the champernownes are a very ancient and distinguished family, though prince complains that their 'actions and exploits for the greatest part is devoured by time.' sir arthur champernowne was 'a good soldier and an eminent commander in the irish wars' of the sixteenth century, and was conspicuous for his zeal and valour. prince gives an odd little bit of gossip about an heiress of this family. he says she was 'a frolic lady,' and no unusual epithet could be more descriptive; for the lady 'married william polglas, within three days after her father's death; and within two days after her husband polglas's death, she was married again unto john cergeaux!' in the reign of queen elizabeth mr henry champernowne headed one hundred gentleman volunteers, who, with the queen's permission, went to help the cause of the 'protestant princes' in france; and it is interesting to learn that sir walter raleigh, then seventeen years old, was one of this company. the champernownes of dartington were, however, only a younger branch of the family. the elder branch lived 'in great splendour' at modbury. a story is told about them of which, perhaps, the most accurate version may be found in britton and brayley's 'beauties of england and wales': 'tradition speaks very highly ... of the magnificent manner in which the champernownes lived, and particularly of their keeping a very fine band of singers and musicians, which band, if report may be credited, was the occasion of the family's ruin, "for that mr champernowne taking it on the thames in the time of queen elizabeth, her majesty was so delighted with the music, that she requested the loan of it for a month; to which mr champernowne, aware of the improbability of its ever returning, would not consent, saying that he 'hoped her majesty would allow him to keep his fancy.' the queen was so highly exasperated at this refusal, that she found some pretence to sue him at law, and ruin him, by obliging him, in the course of the proceedings, to sell no fewer than nineteen manors." this anecdote, at least the circumstance of the sale of the nineteen manors about the above period, is in a great degree confirmed by the title-deeds of some lands in and about modbury.' a very short distance to the south lies the ancient and very picturesque town of totnes, in which, from the round norman keep at its crown, to the river winding round the foot of the hill, witnesses to the past are jostling against tokens of the present time. when leland journeyed through it, the town already gave the idea of having passed its meridian, and his words are clear and concise: 'the castelle of _totnes_ standith on the hille north west of the towne. the castell waulis and the stronge dungeon be maintained. the loggingis of the castelle be clene in ruine.' the early chroniclers go back gloriously into the dim mists of antiquity for the origin of totnes, and when no carping critics insisted on analyzing popular history and distilling all the romance out of it, the story of the town was very fine indeed. the founder of totnes, then, was brutus of troy, who after long wanderings arrived in this charming bit of country, and on this hill made the great announcement: 'here i stand, and here i rest, and this place shall be called totnes.' moreover, the stone that he stepped ashore upon is still here, and the mayor stands on it whenever it is his duty to proclaim a new sovereign. the claims of totnes have been set forth with no undue modesty. 'it hath flourished, and felt also the storms of affliction, under britons, romans, saxons, and normans. to speak somewhat of the antiquity thereof, i hope i shall take no great pains to prove it (and that without opposition) the prime town of great britain.' its history is taken in grand strides. having explained that the coming of brutus was held by some to be contemporary with the rule of eli as high-priest in israel, the writer continues: 'the first conqueror brutus gave this town and the two provinces, devon and cornwall, then but one, to his cousin and great assistant, corinoeus, as is well known; whereof the western part is (as they say) called cornwall; who peopled it with his own regiment; and being an excellent wrestler, as you have heard, trained his following in the same exercises; whereof it comes that the western men in that sport win the mastery and game wheresoever they come.... the second conqueror, william of normandy, bestowed this town, together with dartmouth and barnstaple, on a worthy man named judæel.' the space of time between the first and second 'conquerors' does not seem to strike the historian as a rather wide gap, and the doings of the one and the other are related with almost equal confidence and with the same air of authority. judhael de totnes is supposed to have built the castle, and although only the walls of the round keep now remain, the trouble of the long climb up to it is well repaid by the lovely view that is gained from the ruin. fertility and abundance seem to be the characteristics of the land, and the ridiculous suggestion that the town's name has been corrupted from _toute-à-l'aise_ is one shade less absurd, because that title would be so very appropriate. here and there a silver gleam shows where the river runs between heavily wooded banks. to the east a green and smiling country of gentle hills and valleys leads to that shade of past splendour, the castle of berry pomeroy; and far away to the north-west, it is possible to see the high, sharp tors on dartmoor. looking straight down, the uneven roofs seem tumbled over one another in a way that suggests that different ages have casually showered them into the little town. totnes received its first charter from king john, and there are few older boroughs in the country. originally a walled town, fore street is still crossed by the east gate, which has been rebuilt in comparatively modern times. within is a room decorated by an early renaissance frieze and 'linen-pattern' panelling. the upper stories of some of the old houses project over the lower ones, and in the high street they jut quite across the pavements, and rest upon columns, making piazzas or covered ways along the street. such piazzas are very uncommon in england, but there is a short one, called the butter walk, at dartmouth. the church is a very fine perpendicular building, of a warm rose colour, and it has a high battlemented tower from which three figures look out of their niches. some very grotesque gargoyles peer down from the roof at intervals. the great treasure of the church is its screen, carved so finely that the pattern seems like lacework, and it is difficult to realize that it can be of stone. the main lines of the carving curve and spread upwards almost like the lines of palm-leaves, and the screen is coloured and gilded. there is another beautiful and delicate, though less elaborate, bit of carving which divides a little chapel from the south side of the chancel. under the tower arch is a curious monument to christopher blackhall, who died in 1635, and his four wives, who are kneeling one behind the other. the dates of their deaths are very clearly marked by the different fashions of their dresses--a compact and upstanding ruff adds to the stiff precision of the first wife's appearance; while the sloping lines of a 'vandyke' collar embellish the dress of the fourth. on the north side of the church stands the old guildhall, and in front of it another tiny piazza, bordered by granite pillars. inside 'linen-pattern' panelling lines the walls; there are carved seats all round the upper end, and in the council-chamber beyond are some fragments of fine moulding. before leaving the town, a curious custom practised in the eighteenth century must be mentioned--that of taking dogs to help in catching salmon. defoe came here in his travels in the west, and saw the fish being caught. the fish, he says, in the flowing tide swim into a 'cut, or channel,' which has a 'grating of wood, the cross-bars of which ... stand pointing inward towards one another.... we were carried thither at low water, where we saw about fifty or sixty small salmon, about seventeen to twenty inches long, which the country people call salmon-peel,' caught by putting in a net at the end of a pole. 'the net being fixed at one end of the place, they put in a dog (who was taught his trade beforehand) at the other end of the place, and he drives all the fish into the net, so that, only holding the net still in its place, the man took up two or three and thirty salmon-peel at the first time.' he finishes the story by saying that they bought some for dinner at twopence apiece. 'and for such fish, not at all bigger, and not so fresh, i have seen six and sixpence each given at a london fish-market.' the river leaves totnes in broad, sweeping curves between the hills, and rolls on past the lovely woods of sharpham, and on its course to dartmouth passes the early homes of two men who each played a part in english history. at sandridge, close to the river, lived captain john davies, or davis, whose name is familiar as the discoverer of davis's straits. prince, who himself lived not far away, takes the fascination of dartmouth, and the longing for the sea that dartmouth seemed to inspire, as quite natural, and says casually that, living so near this town, 'mr davis had ... a kind of invitation, to put himself early to sea.' these were in the days when the merchant adventurers were at the height of their importance and prosperity, and it was in the hope of opening up a trade for the woollen goods of the west-country with india and china that captain davis set out to look for the north-west passage. to face all the hazards of this journey, so very far away from civilization, and the perils and shocks that might await him in the frozen north, he fitted out a little fleet which consisted of the 'barke _sunneshine_, of london, fifty tunnes, and the _moonshine_, of dartmouth, thirty-five tunnes, the ship _mermayd_, of a hundred and twenty tunnes, and a pinesse of tenne tunnes named the _north starre_.'[5] but in spite of this name of good augury the little pinnace never came home again, and one can only admire with awe the daring that ventured to sail a boat of ten tons across the boisterous atlantic into the unknown arctic seas. traces of davis's wanderings along the coasts of north america may still be found in the names he bestowed on different points. 'on sighting first the land, he named the bay which he entered after his friend, gilbert sound; we find also exeter sound, totnes roads, mount raleigh, and other familiar titles. a few years later john davis found the right course to india and china, and introduced the trade from this country which exists to the present time.' [footnote 5: 'an elizabethan guild of the city of exeter,' by william cotton.] a greater man than davis lived farther down the river at greenaway, opposite the pretty village of dittisham, which, with its strip of beach and ferry, looks as if it had been 'made for a picture.' sir humphrey gilbert, stepbrother to sir walter raleigh, was a great man to whom fortune was not overkind, but his 'virtues and pious intentions may be read ... shining too gloriously to be dusked by misfortune.' his aims were higher than the hopes that stirred most of his contemporaries, and of his 'noble enterprizes the great design ... was to discover the remote countries of america, and to bring off those savages from their diabolical superstitions, to the embracing the gospel.' he made two efforts to graft a colony with little success, but his third effort was rather happier; and having left devonshire in june, 1583, he 'sailed to newfoundland and the great river of st laurence in canada; which he took possession of, and seized the same to the crown of england, and invested the queen in an estate for two hundred leagues in length by cutting a turf and rod after the antient custom of england.' from the developments of that great country that are now taking place, it cannot but be interesting to look back along the vista of years to this very simple ceremony. later this group of emigrants lost heart, and nearly all returned to england, and possibly sir humphrey may have wondered whether this venture also would have but a flickering existence, and would leave no lasting result of the work on which he had spent his years and his strength and his riches. or it may be that no doubts troubled him, for he had a 'noble and gallant spirit,' and his dauntless motto was 'quid non?' the story of his death makes an appropriate ending to his life. he was with his colony in newfoundland when 'necessaries began to fail,' and he was urged to return home. he started in the _squirrel_, a ship of ten tons. when they were far out at sea a violent tempest blew up, and those in the _golden hind_ (a larger ship accompanying them) saw with horror the imminent danger that their friends were in. but sir humphrey was quite composed, and those in the _golden hind_ were near enough to hear him cry 'aloud to his company, in these words: "we are so near to heaven here at sea as at land."' in the height of the storm the little boat was swallowed up by the waves, and all on board perished. a portrait of sir humphrey hung in his grand-nephew's house at compton, where prince saw it. 'the one hand holdeth a general's truncheon, and the other is laid on the globe of the world, virginia is written over; on his breast hangs the golden anchor, with the pearl at the peak; and underneath are these verses, which, tho' none of the best, may here supply the place of an epitaph: '"here you may see the portrait of his face, who for his country's honor oft did trace along the deep; and made a noble way unto the growing fame, virginia. the picture of his mind, if ye do crave it, look upon virtue's picture, and ye have it."' the 'golden anchor' was a jewel which the queen had given him as a special mark of favour, for she looked on him very graciously, in spite of the fact that his efforts did not then seem as if they would be crowned with success. a song was made about the year 1581, in which he and sir francis drake divide the honours. '_sir francis, sir francis, sir francis_ is come, _sir william_, and eke _sir robert_, his son, and eke the good earl of _southampton_ marcht on his way most gallantly on; then came my lord chamberlain, with his white staff, and all the people begun for to laugh. and then the queen begun to speak, "you're welcome home, sir francis drake!" 'the queen's speech. '"gallants all of british blood, why do ye not sail in th' ocean flood? i protest ye are not all worth a philberd compared with sir humphrey _gilberd_." 'the queen's reason. [_probably added in 1584-85._] 'for he walkt forth a rainy day, to the _now-found-land_ he took his way, with many a gallant fresh and green. he never came home again, god bless the queen!' notes to this song explain: 'we understand as the three-fold holders of the name, "sir francis," three persons; sir francis drake, knighted by the queen after his return from circumnavigating the world in 1580: sir francis walsingham, and sir francis vere. sir william cecil, lord burleigh, and his son, sir robert.... the lord chamberlain probably meant the despicable sir james crofts, who hated and calumniated drake.' the song probably reflects the temper of the time. 'they never came back agen. god bless the queen.' the lines are very characteristic of the spirit of the age that was bound to conquer. there was sorrow for those who were gone, but no complaint, no grudging those who had perished where the fame or power of the queen could be furthered. gloriana's subjects found no price too great, no sacrifice worth counting; a leader might fall, but the great scheme must go on, her rule spread farther and wider, and the hazards and failures overstepped. although upon all parts of the south hams there hovers a spell that is inexplicable, perhaps it is felt more in dartmouth than in any other place one can think of. possibly it is the loveliness of sea and land, flowers in the crevices of the cliffs hanging low towards the water's edge, the round tower rising out of the sea, the picturesqueness of the town, with its thronging associations, or just the intangible influences of bygone days. but there is something of enchantment about the tower, especially when it is contemplated from the water. and to fully appreciate the whole, one should slip out of the harbour past the mew stone, where the sea-gulls rise like a drift of snowflakes on a sudden gust, into the midst of sliding walls of transparent green water beyond, where--if there is wind enough--glassy hillocks all round, at moments, hide everything else from sight. besides the fascination of watching waves towering above the boat, and following it as if they would fall over and bury it in their depths, and climbing them, with the sudden plunge into the hollow beyond, it may be, especially if shoals of mackerel are near, that one may have the pleasure of coming upon a flock of gulls, swimming, swooping, flapping about, and all busy fishing. or perhaps there will be a group of brown divers, floating placidly on the waves, and then suddenly disappearing, one or two at a time or several in a moment. and possibly a great black creature may appear a little way off, tossing and seeming to turn somersaults in the water, and another and another, and one may find oneself among a school of porpoises, and hear the curious puffing sounds they make that are not quite like anything else. from a little distance out, looking back across the changing lights that glance over the water, one gets a quite fresh view of the harbour's mouth, shut in by its high cliffs, half veiled by soft masses of green. dartmouth had a great stake in the country's welfare in early days, and was a port of much stir and traffic. from here sailed many of the ships that richard i gathered together to take the english who were going with him on the third crusade. william rufus started once from this harbour when there was trouble in normandy, and king john paid the town two visits. in edward iii's time dartmouth had already become renowned for her shipping and sent six ships for the king's service in a fight in which engaged the combined french, flemish, and genoese fleets; and she sent two more a few years later to help in his war against scotland. fifty years later this loan was entirely eclipsed by the magnificence of contributing no fewer than thirty-one ships to the siege of calais. chaucer's words have often been quoted: 'a schipman was ther; wonyng far by weste, for ought i woot, he was of dertemouth.' as if it were more likely that a typical seaman would come from dartmouth than anywhere else! in no harbour could that great training-ship the _britannia_ have been more appropriately moored, nor could a more fitting place be chosen for the long range of buildings on the hill above, the naval college that has superseded it. risdon tells us that the town has been 'sundry times subject to the attacks of foreigners,' and particularly mentions one occasion in the reign of henry iii, when the french made such a furious onslaught, that the women turned out by the side of their menkind and hurled flints at the enemy. these found themselves 'courageously resisted by the towns-men and-women, amazonian-like.' in 1470 dartmouth was a step in the retreat of warwick, 'the king-maker,' when edward iv pursued him as far as exeter. warwick embarked here for france, and his arrival in those unsettled times must have created much bustle and excitement amongst all the gossips of the place. the earl was 'in danger of being surprized, whereupon leisurely (for his great spirit disdained anything that should look like a flight) he retired to _exeter_, where having dismissed the remainder of the troops that attended him, he went to _dartmouth_, and there, with many ladies in his company and a large retinue, he took ship and sailed directly to calais.' amongst the celebrities of dartmouth is a certain john hawley, a great merchant of immense wealth. a couplet ran of him: 'blow the wind high, or blow the wind low, it bloweth still to hawley's hawe' --that is, to his house. prince interprets this by saying that hawley had so many ships all over the world that any wind that blew was of advantage to some of them. when leland came here, he remarked on the great ruins of 'hawley's haul ... a rich merchant and a noble warrior against the _french_ men.' hawley is buried in the beautiful church of st saviour's, and a large brass represents him as lying between his two wives. in this church is a most delicately carved screen, and leaves, sprays, and grapes are conspicuous amongst the details of its graceful design. the groined cornice is decorated by exquisite fan-tracery, and various saints and 'doctors of the church' are painted on the panels of the lower part. in the high carved stone pulpit are tabernacled recesses, once enclosing figures, but now containing 'royal badges and devices'; and both screen and pulpit were coloured and gilded, and are rather dimmed by time. the church has many very interesting features, and in the south porch is a most curious wrought-iron door, showing a tree with long, drooping branches and large diamond-shaped leaves, and two wonderful heraldic lions impaled on it. the castle was built in the time of henry vii, on the site of an older one; for when edward iv reigned, the men of dartmouth built themselves a castle at the desire of the king, who promised that if they would by this means protect the town--and, further, would guard the harbour by putting a chain across the mouth--they should have £30 yearly from the customs of dartmouth and exeter. the chain stretched across to kingswear, and a hollow in the rock by the ruins of an old guard-house shows where it once passed. the little square castle of kingswear stands close by, and from certain points of view both kingswear and the beautiful round tower of dartmouth castle seem to be rising straight out of the waves. in 1685 an agreement very much like the earlier one was made. james ii had some cause for uneasiness and for looking closely to his defences, and, as it happened, three years later there landed, only a few miles away, the man who, superseding him, was hailed by the majority as england's deliverer. but when james came to the throne he had already seen dartmouth conquered by an enemy's troops; for, although prince maurice had secured it in the earlier stages of the war, fairfax had taken it later. among the duke of somerset's papers are some orders given by a council of war, at which 'colonel edward seymour, governor of dartmouth town and garrison,' was present, providing very minutely for the defence of the town and for the supplies of the garrison. stories of the parliamentary troops quartering themselves in churches are sometimes told, with the unfair implication that they alone were guilty of such desecration; for where need was urgent the royalists took the same course. here we find orders: 'captain haughton ... with forty men shall lie in townstall church, for the fortifying thereof against the enemy, and that the said captain, his officers and company, shall have their victuals from mount boone.' also that a 'month's provision of victuals be laid into st petrox church for five hundred men, and the said major torner and his select officers shall be keepers thereof.' the church of st clement at townstall was fortified with ten cannon. fairfax attacked in the first days of january, 1646, in exceptionally cold weather. honourable conditions of surrender had been first offered to the governor, but were refused, and he prepared to fight to the end. 'in extreme bitter cold weather and snow' the parliamentary forces moved forward, and, after examining the town as closely as they could, decided to take it by storm. additional troops were ordered up to strengthen the besiegers, and sir thomas fairfax sent for a squadron to prevent any help reaching the royalists by sea. on sunday evening 'the soldiers were all drawn out; about seven at night forlorn hopes were set, the evening very mild, as at midsummer, the frost being newly gone; the word was given: _god with us_.... about 11 o'clock at night the storm began.' three separate attacks were made simultaneously on different parts of the town, and though the besieged fought bravely, they fought in vain, and by the next morning all but the castle and the little fort above were in the hands of the enemy. sir hugh pollard, the governor (sir edward seymour was at this time taking part in the defence of exeter), had been wounded the night before, and, realizing that his position was hopeless, 'after some dispute, 'he surrendered on fairfax's terms, and yielded himself and his officers prisoners, the common soldiers being set at liberty to repair to their dwellings.' the fort above kingswear, commanded by sir henry cary, was protected by strong bulwarks, and the defence being very well carried out, the garrison obtained better terms. 'to save time,' writes fairfax to the house of peers, 'i willingly condescended to let sir henry cary march away with the rest, leaving the arms, ordnance, ammunition, with all provisions.' this was all accomplished on the monday, and on the evening following the attack the parliament was in full possession of the town. chapter viii kingsbridge, salcombe, and the south hams 'on the ninth day of november, at the dawning in the sky, ere we sailed away to new york, we at anchor here did lie; o'er the meadows fair of kingsbridge, then the mist was lying grey; we were bound against the rebels, in the _north america_. o, so mournful was the parting of the soldiers and their wives, for that none could say for certain they'd return home with their lives. then the women they were weeping, and they curs'd the cruel day that we sailed against the rebels, in the _north america_.' _farewell to kingsbridge._ kingsbridge lies in a fold of the hills that rise beyond the head of the creek running inland from salcombe harbour, and seen from the water it is very picturesque--the houses clustered together and clinging to the slope, and the spire of st edmund's church standing out against the still, green background. mr mason has written of 'the mists on the hills, and the gulls crying along the valley,' by kingsbridge, and this exactly sums up its individuality. it has the peculiar atmosphere of a sea-town, but why, precisely, it is difficult to say. the fore street is steep and winding, and on one side stands a church which, without any very striking feature, is quietly impressive. it is a cruciform building, and a steeple rises from the centre. a chapel, dedicated to st edmund, king and martyr, stood on this spot before the year 1250; but it was rebuilt and aisles were added by the abbot and monks of buckfast in the beginning of the fifteenth century. in the south transept of the present church are remains of early english work, and the font is early english. hagioscopes slant through the chancel walls from the aisle on either side. the very unusual name of a benefactress must be noticed--tryphena tobys. dodbrooke is joined so closely to kingsbridge that their streets run into each other, and they are separated only by small streams now partly covered in. it would be almost impossible for a stranger wandering about to say offhand which town he was in. dodbrooke is really the older of the two. a grant to hold a market was made to alan fitz-roald, in or possibly just before the year 1256. about this time a serious quarrel occurred, when 'henry fitz-alan impleaded matthew fitz-john, with forty others, for throwing down a pillory in dodbrooke. forty seems a good many against the pillory! but the affair was not one of those cases in which a spark causes a fire, but was rather an outburst of flame in a long-smouldering feud between the fitz-alans and the lords of stokenham over the manor of dodbrooke. in the end, the fitz-alans triumphed. three hundred years later we find the people of dodbrooke complaining of the heavy contributions that they were called on to make towards furnishing 'ships of war'; for after the armada had been defeated the means of defence on these coasts were for some years kept up to a very high standard. mr richard champernowne,--who, it must be admitted, from the general tenor of his ways, seems to have been one of those well-meaning but egotistical and meddlesome people who are always being surprised and hurt because their good offices are not better received,--wrote to the local authorities as follows: 'cousin cary, and the rest of the commissioners for the ship causes, i have received some grievous complaints of some poor men who are taxed in dodbrook to this, more than all their goods are worth.... surely, as the country must bitterly speak against those [who] are procurors and assistants in this country, so would it be as highly disliked both of her majesty as of the lords, if they knew rightly of whom, and on what sort, this tax is levied.' but, alas! a severe snub was the result of this appeal, and the unhappy mr cary must have deeply regretted that he had obligingly forwarded the grievance to the lords of the council. their answer ran: 'the court.... the council to george carey, j.p....' they learn by his late letter that the county is unwilling to contribute the charges imposed upon it for 'setting out ships etc.' it is paid cheerfully by other counties, and he is desired to return the names of those persons who are obstinate in refusing payment. there is no building of special interest excepting the church, which is dedicated to st thomas à becket. the arches dividing the aisles from the nave are high and rather pointed, giving an impression of loftiness. there is a beautiful carved screen, with painted figures on the panels; and the font is a very early one. of the infants baptized in it, one at least obtained a rather unenviable celebrity--dr john wolcot, better known as 'peter pindar.' his bitter satires earned for him a harvest of hatred and abuse, but nobody denied his wit. 'there is a pretty story of the older pindar that a swarm of bees lighted on his cradle in his infancy and left honey on his lips; but we fear in the case of our hero they were wasps that came, and that they left some of the caustic venom of their stings.' a surgeon's son, he studied medicine himself, but was unpopular with his patients for the reason that his ideas were too far ahead of his time. his opinion that 'a physician can do little more than watch dame nature, and give her a shove in the back when he sees her inclined to do right,' was considered a shocking heresy, and, no doubt, a confession of his own ignorance. before leaving dodbrooke, mention must be made of the 'white ale' peculiar to the place--a compound of malt, hops, and flour, fermented with an ingredient called 'grout.' some of the statements about this ale show the curious tendency of traditions to transfer themselves from points in the nebulous past to points that are just beyond the range of living memory. it is difficult to discover when 'white ale' was first made, but the general idea is that it was invented a very long time ago, though personally i have not been able to find any indisputable reference to it earlier than in the edition of camden's 'britannia' published in 1720, where there is a brief notice that the people of dodbrooke pay tithes in white ale to the rector. a will dated 1528, however, gives directions in regard to a gift that was to include 'cakes, wine, and ale,' and it has been supposed that the particular kind made in this town would be the ale here referred to. yet i was told by an inhabitant of the neighbourhood who was a good deal interested in local traditions, that it was introduced by the french doctor of the prisoners of war at kingsbridge barracks, for the benefit of those who found themselves ill at ease in this climate--an event that could not possibly have taken place till the very end of the eighteenth century. there is a charm over all this country, not solely due to its beauty. it is true that it is rather drowsy, that the 'spell of the briar-rose' in part lies over it, but it may be that this adds to the charm. there is an absence of competition, an air of plenty and of kindness, a golden glamour that gives the impression that nature has told the people theirs is a generous portion, and they may sit still and be content. and they are content. there is such an overbrimming wealth of bushes and plants and flowers on every side, that the fact of the water in the estuary being salt scarcely seems to prevent their growing in it! along the bank washed by the flowing tide, and almost touching the masses of tough golden-brown seaweed on the rocks, are multitudes of the daisy-flowers of sea-mayweed, flowering samphire, the stars of sow-thistle, and bright yellow bunches of charlock and straggling spires of wild-mignonette, against a darker background of blackthorn, hawthorn, ivy, and furze, lightly powdered with trails of bramble-blossom. creeks, edged with low hills, wind away from the estuary. when the tide is low, great stretches of mud and sand lie on either side, and here may be seen black cormorants and crowds and crowds of gulls, here and there a heron, and quantities of smaller birds. the scene changes entirely at the mouth of the creek, for here the banks rise into high rugged cliffs, and the water frets restlessly over sunken rocks. salcombe is a tiny little town, with steep, narrow streets and high-walled gardens on each side of the close lane that ends the principal street; and between the gardens the air is fragrant with sweet clematis, that, as well as red valerian, tumbles in clusters over the walls. salcombe has a very good claim to remembrance, for on a peninsular rock at the mouth of the harbour stand the ruins of a fortress that held out for king charles later than any other place in devonshire. it was defended by sir edward fortescue, and surrendered only on may 7, 1646. on the opposite side of the estuary, high on the cliffs, lies the small village of portlemouth. the cross-shaped church is dedicated to a celtic saint, st winwaloe, locally called st onolaus. a proverb without much point (probably only the fragment of a more coherent saying) mentions st winwaloe amongst several saints whose days fall on windy dates. 'first comes david, next comes chad, and then comes winneral, as though he were mad, white or black, on old house thack [thatch].' [st david's day, march 1; st chad's day, march 2; st winwaloe's day, march 3.] in his church here is a very finely carved screen, and of one of the figures on it mr baring-gould tells an amusing story: 'the sixth is sir john schorne, a buckinghamshire rector, who died in 1308, and was supposed to have conjured the devil into a boot. he was venerated greatly as a patron against ague and the gout. there is a jingle relative to him: '"to maister john schorne, that blessed man born, for the ague to him we apply, which judgeth with a bote; i beshrew his heart's rote that will trust him, and it be i."' south of portlemouth the land ends in the grand headland of prawle point, the most southerly point in devon. prawle point is very striking, and is 'principally composed of gneiss rock, which on the western side is weathered like a surface of snow which has been exposed to the sun's rays. it is everywhere broken into crags.' prawle point--'prol in anglia'--was known to foreigners for many centuries; and mr r. j. king, in an admirable article on devonshire, says that it 'is mentioned by an ancient commentator on adam of bremen's "historia ecclesiastica," as one of the stations at which vessels touched on their voyage from ripa in denmark. the passage was made from the "sincfala," near bruges, and "the station beyond 'prol'" is st matthieu--one day's sail. adam of bremen dates about 1070, and his commentator a little later.'[6] st matthieu is in brittany. [footnote 6: 'sketches and studies.'] to the south of salcombe rise the great cliffs of bolt head, and a few miles farther to the west is bolt tail. mr norway points out that 'no other town in south devon possesses, nor, indeed, more than one or two on any coast, a headland so high and dark and jagged as the entrance to the harbour. it is wild and rugged like a cornish headland, and the walk across it to bolt tail is the finest between portland and the lizard.' a few miles to the west is thurlestone, and all about here the coast is most dangerous. a ship flung in a storm towards the shore has no chance on the jagged rocks that spur-like, jut out from the cliffs, and the tide races inshore with terrific power, even when it is not driven by a wild south-westerly wind. this part of the coast was naturally a happy hunting-ground for smugglers, and was not altogether innocent of wreckers. a fearful wreck that happened in 1772 is still remembered. a large vessel--the _chantiloupe_, from the west indies--went ashore in bigbury bay. all the passengers but one were drowned, and over the death of a lady there hangs a terrible doubt. on realizing the desperate plight of the ship, she had hurriedly dressed herself in her most beautiful clothes and jewels, no doubt hoping that, as they were so close to land, there was a good chance of escape. she was, indeed, thrown up on the beach, but, it is to be hoped, already dead, for, with shocking callousness, the people watching there snatched away all her valuables and left her lying there. an account of the wreck, written in 1874, tells that at that date a lady living near the bay still had a corner of the victim's apron, a very beautifully embroidered bit of fine muslin. the unfortunate passenger's name was never really known, but rumour has always connected her with edmund burke; for it is certain that he feared some relatives or friends of his were on that ship, and on hearing of the wreck he came down and investigated the matter of the lady's death himself. but he could get no information. the account of the wreck goes on to quote the views of a man who lived near the spot: 'the old man who seemed to know most about it said: "the lady _was_ a-murdered, he believed; jan whiddon's father's dog found this here lady buried in the sand, he scratched up her hand."' the story is quoted at some length, and is characteristic of a devonshire countryman's combined caution and sense of fate, for it finished: '"'twas never found out who murdered her ... but all who were concerned in it, or supposed to be [the villagers obviously believed three men to be guilty] came to a bad end."' in repeating these stories, i feel rather in fault, for i have listened to, and been impressed by, the views of a native of these parts, who was extremely severe on anyone that wrote about wreckers and reflected discredit on this coast, giving the idea that 'we robbed and murdered people.' a little to my surprise, he said he liked reading books about devonshire, and admired some well-known novels dealing with the county, though he thought them quite inaccurate. 'but,' he added tolerantly, 'they say that, to get at the truth from a guide-book, you must divide what you read in three, and then take away half.' he admitted, all the same, that there had been a certain amount of wrecking in the days of the pirates (smugglers?), and putting lights in the wrong places. when he was a boy, what they liked best was a wreck with a 'general' cargo, so that the men could sell the mineral and the wives could wear the silk; but there were fewer wrecks of any kind nowadays. it is very quiet in the winter (east of kingsbridge), unless anyone is going to be buried, and the only other chances of any stir are if there is a wedding or a christening, or a wreck in start bay. thurlestone takes its name from a 'thirled' or pierced rock, on the shore through which the waves have drilled an arch. the rector of thurlestone has very kindly allowed me to make some extracts from a manuscript history of the parish in his possession, the earlier notes of which have been taken from entries made at the time of the events, in the bishop of exeter's registers, and have, therefore, the value of contemporary evidence. they are very interesting, as giving glimpses at the course of events in a remote parish through several centuries. during part of the fourteenth century the parishioners seem to have been rather turbulent and the history tells of storms. some while before the first entry, in june, 1328, someone had not only been murdered, but actually done to death within the church. there is no record of the punishment of the culprit or culprits, or of any sign of penitence shown by the parish; but probably some steps had been taken, for at that date bishop grandisson commissioned the archdeacon of totnes to reconcile the parish church of thurlestone, 'which had been polluted by the shedding of blood therein. for some reason not given the archdeacon was excused from performing this duty, and stephen abbot of buckfast was commissioned to officiate.... on the 8th of the kalends of august, 1328, the bishop issued his mandate to the archdeacon of totnes, informing him that the abbot, having proceeded to thurlestone, had reconciled the church, and that he was to require the parishioners to pay the customary dues within eight days of the serving of this monition to that effect.' the dues, however, were not forthcoming, and on october 6 the bishop, who allowed no insubordination, threatened the defaulters with excommunication unless they paid the desired amount within six days. 'this had the desired effect, and on the 20th of october the bishop sent to the rector and the parishioners the formal acquittance. on the same day, he commissioned sir robert de pynho, the rector, to absolve the parishioners and relax the interdict imposed on their parish church.' an unpleasant experience of sir henry benet, priest and canon of the church of crediton, and rector of thurlestone, witnesses to the lawlessness of the time in east devon. he was 'peaceably entering the town of st mary [ottery st mary] on tuesday (_tertia feria_) of the then instant pentecost sunday,' when 'certain unknown persons, sons of perdition ... under colour of a precept which they falsely asserted they had received from the sheriff of devon, rushed on sir henry and ... rashly, violently and sacrilegiously laid hands on him and inhumanly forced him into the public prison for thieves and criminals.' a 'denuntiation of excommunication' against these 'sons of perdition' in bishop grandisson's register is undated, but it follows an entry made in march, 1349-50. a later rector must have been a pleasant acquaintance and a good friend. the rev. john snell 'was a person of firm and unshaken loyalty,' and when 'fort-charles' was about to be besieged, he joined the garrison in order to give all the help he could to sir edward fortescue. on the surrender of the fort, amongst the very honourable conditions that sir edward obtained was the agreement that mr snell 'should be allowed the quiet possession of his parsonage; but articles, like oaths, in those days, were only matter of form, and accordingly (about the year 1646) he was soon after plundered of his cattle and other goods without-doors, and several times forced to fly for his life.' later, his lot was made still harder by the confiscation of his living, which he did not regain until after the restoration. in the old parish register is a note, probably interpolated by john snell when he had returned to his living, and with outraged feelings had been looking at the volume, and reading the entry referring to the appointment of a lay registrar in his parish. the registrars elected in 1653 were not only given charge of the parish registers, but took another office out of the hands of the clergy. no marriage might take place without the registrar's certificate that he had called the banns. the couple then took the certificate to the nearest magistrate, who, after hearing each of them repeat a brief formula, was authorized to declare them legally married. mr snell's exclamation of distress appears under a notice which 'certyfyed john calder (?) of the parish of thurelston to bee register of the sayde parish,' and was signed by 'will bastard,' and dated 'september 20th, 1653.' above and below the date is written: 'monstrum horrendum informe. [this is y^e houre and y^e] anno dom. 1653. [power of darkness.]' on mr snell's tombstone is a long latin epitaph, from an english version of which the following lines are taken: 'he was the silent storehouse of the poor, the dear delight of those who needed nought, to all the pattern of a holy life.' the thurlestone chronicle records a certain number of beliefs and charms, and on one of them the present rector makes a note of peculiar interest: 'the bishop of malborough [dr earle, then vicar of west alvington and malborough] tells me that his curate, the rev. robert hole, south huish, saw this charm used successfully to stop blood on a man called james pierie. 'a cure for staunching blood. 'jesus was born in bethlehem. the water was wild in the wood, he spake the word and it stood, and so will (--'s --'s) blood,' 'in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. amen. 'used by betty edgecombe, white witch of malborough and west alvington.' not far from thurlestone was another parson who worked hard to embarrass the besiegers of the royalists in salcombe castle, and who had his share of thrilling adventures. mr lane was the rector of aveton giffard, a parish at the head of the estuary of the avon, which opens into bigbury bay. when the war broke out he took an active part, in conjunction with several gentlemen in the neighbourhood, in 'raising succours for his majesty.' and at the same time he began to make a 'fort on a hill' (part of the glebe), which commanded the bridge over the avon, crossed by parliamentary troops marching to the siege of the castle. meanwhile, soldiers from plymouth came up in boats, plundered the house, and took, says mr lane's youngest son, 'two of my brethren, _richard_ and _john_, not giving them time to put on their stockings, and forced them to carry what of the goods they could to _awmar_ (a creek), where they carried off stolen sheep and plundered goods with my two eldest brothers. when the war was ended the triumphant parliamentarians attempted to revenge themselves on their sturdy enemy, and searched the country for 'bishop _lane_, the _traytor_,' who was driven to hide in his church tower. for three or four months his people secretly brought him food, and he was then able to make his escape, and in the end reached france in safety. if the traveller returns to prawle point, and then follows the coast towards dartmouth, he will soon come to the ridge of start point, which 'stretches boldly to sea, sloped on each side like the roof of a house, and crowned along its entire length by fanciful crags, strangely weathered and shaggy with moss.' round the point at a certain state of every tide there is a formidable tide-race, and always a swell so strong as to make small boats very careful of the weather before they try to sail round the start. dartmouth lies almost due north, and the coast-line between is very lovely, though it has not the impressiveness of the cliffs farther west. slapton sands are over two miles long, and the hills stand back far enough from the shore to leave room for slapton lea, a fresh-water lake, almost smothered with tall, feathery reeds and rushes in the summer, separated from the sea by a barrier of pebbles. the line of these wooded hills is broken by three little valleys, and down each one flows a brook that feeds the lea. at the southern edge is tor cross, a handful of cottages under the shadow of a cliff that shuts away the shore-line to the south. the long stretch of sands is delightful. they are dotted all over with the glaucous leaves and brilliant flowers of the yellow-horned poppy, and bristling blue viper's bugloss, and on the inland edge there is a scattered border of the rest-harrow's pink butterfly blossoms. the short turf beyond is sprinkled with the little white bladder campion and thrift and many other flowers. at the northern end of the sands the road turns inland, and presently comes to blackpool, very small, but one of the most perfect of miniature bays. the cliffs are 'of various colours and very lustrous,' and almost on the brink the road winds its way amongst woods of firs and pines that seem to breathe out a peculiarly spice-like sweetness. when i saw it the sea was like molten silver, for the sunlight poured on it from beyond clouds, and the sun itself was not to be seen. but though this bay looks as if it had fallen from a poet's dream, it has been the scene of many stern events and disasters; for ships have mistaken the inlet for dartmouth harbour, with lamentable results. many a time, too, it has been used by those who knew the coast well, but had their own reasons for wishing to land without attracting notice, for it is quite cut off by the shoulder of the hill from dartmouth, and is near no other town. in queen mary's reign the secret landing of doubtful characters was a danger that had to be diligently guarded against, and the lords of the council received an agitated letter from sir john st leger on this subject just after the flight of sir peter carew. sir peter had a castle and many friends at dartmouth, and sir john quotes him as often having said that if he were the king's enemy he could take 'dartmouth castle' and 'burne the towne with fewer than a hundred persons and lett ynto the haven suche as pleased hym. i, also, am creadeably informed the way howe he should be able to do so. that within a myle, or les, of the said towne, there is a very good open place called black poole, for the queene's enemyes to lande, and invade, and from thense may come to the saide towne from the back side.' but when queen elizabeth came to the throne, and sir peter was reinstated and held in great honour, the coast was still far from safe, and there is a letter written by the queen in 1564 to her 'right trustie and wel-beloved' sir peter, commissioning him to get ready and arm two ships, that, as the 'cost of devonshyre and cornwall is by reput much harted with pyrattes and rovers,' so he should repress and, as far as possible, capture them. twenty-four years later a far more serious danger threatened, and the preparations against the spanish armada were very elaborate. masses of the most stringent orders are still preserved amongst the house of lords manuscripts, and to quote a few will give an idea of their nature and scope. on july 11, 1588, it was ordered: 'that all persons of what degree soever ... whose armour and furniture shall not be found serviceable, for the first offence shall be put into the stocks one whole day, publicly; and for the second offence to the gaol for ten days' etc. careful instructions are sent as to the choice of watchmen for the beacons and their duties; and a brief note refers to a letter written by the council to sir walter raleigh, then warden of the stannaries, demanding the muster-rolls of the tinners, both horse and foot, 'who poured to war' as well from dartmoor's as from 'mendip's sunless caves.' after the armada had been defeated, there were fears of another spanish invasion, and in january, 1595-96, news came to the deputy-lieutenants and justices of the peace of devon that 'the queen has found it convenient to have her navy and certain companies of soldiers for land-service in readiness to be victualled' with all possible speed 'for her service ... 400 quarters of wheat, 200 oxen, and 200 flitches of bacon are required from devonshire.' there are notices, too, respecting such gentlemen as 'have been charged with light horses and petronels,' and of the particular divisions of coast apportioned to each. for instance, in a certificate dated june 25, 1596, it is stated that 'mr seymour's colonelship reacheth from plymouth to dartmouth. mr cary's from dartmouth to exmouth. sir thomas dennis from exmouth to axmouth.' and, going into particulars: 'for salcomb, mr william courtenay with the assistance of the constable and other officers there.... long sands [slapton] and black pool to be defended by mr ameredith and mr roope.' the notice continues to give an exact list of the places next one another along the coast, the names of the officers and numbers of men appointed to defend each. in spite of all that was done, in the summer of 1598 the lords of the council were dissatisfied, and wrote to the lord-lieutenant to complain of 'the number of horse, which we think to be very few in that country in regard to the largeness and wealth of the same.' but the people in the county looked at the matter in a different light, and in the following april, at a meeting in exeter, it was resolved that a letter should be written to the lords of the council to convey 'the desire of the country' to be freed from a certain 'contribution' wherewith they find themselves much burdened and grieved in respect of the manifold impositions daily coming upon them.' demands and complaints seem to have been bandied backwards and forwards for some time afterwards, for in 1600 there came this brief but alarming note from the lords of the council: '_june 23, greenwich._--the composition money for devonshire, though the whole amounts but to £113 6s. 8d., remains partly unpaid; we have therefore sent down a messenger to bring before us all those who remain in arrear.' fortunately, the period of acute alarm had now passed away, and the train-bands were dismissed, so that the burden of levying contributions must for a while have been lightened. chapter ix the three towns 'upon the british coast what ship yet ever came, that not of plymouth hears, where those brave navies lie, from cannons thund'ring throats that all the world defy? which to invasive spoil, when th' english list to draw, have check'd iberia's pride, and held her oft in awe: oft furnishing our dames with india's rar'st devices, and lent us gold and pearl, rich silks and dainty spices.' drayton: _poly-olbion_. 'be patient, i beseech you, i am in a labyrinth, where i find many ways to proceed, but not one to come forth.' such is westcote's plea while attempting to describe plymouth, and it may be echoed from the heart by anyone who is in the same perplexing position. the words so exactly sum up the difficulty. one is bewildered by the multitude of associations thronging on every side in a town in which, unlike other west country ports, the pulse of life throbs as strongly as it did in the centuries long gone by. 'the sea-front of plymouth,' says mr norway, 'is the most interesting spot within the british empire, if not also the most beautiful. it is a large claim, but who can deny it?' no one who has not studied the history of the three towns can realize how keenly plymouth has been affected by every declaration of war or peace that this country has known--at latest, since the reign of edward i--nor how vividly its victories and disasters have been brought home to the people. the number of fleets that have returned to this port in triumph, or sometimes in humiliation, and the succession of ever-famous expeditions that have sailed from the sound, must continually have carried their thoughts across the seas, and prevented petty local affairs from bounding their horizon. the old chronicles seem to show that stirring events perpetually followed each other at short intervals, and when no great expedition was occupying men's minds, there were usually plenty of adventurous spirits to provide excitement--privateers, such as those who took service with the prince of condé, and searched the channel for roman catholic ships, and others, ready for 'semi-piratical ventures.' there were also moments when plymouth was the victim, and in dread watched for the turkish and algerine pirates who were known to be hovering near, and were making raids in the neighbourhood. plymouth seems to keep a peculiarly strong hold on the affections of her sons, no matter how far or wide they wander, and it is said that the city 'has given its name to more towns than any other town or city in the world. there are seventeen aberdeens outside scotland. there are twenty-nine londons, but forty plymouths.' from the hoe, one point after another that catches the eye suggests a fresh train of ideas. to the east is sutton pool, with its coasting vessels and fishing-boats; south, across the cattewater, lies mount batten, whose round tower recalls the long and resolute defence of the town in the civil war. still farther south are the high grounds of plymstock and bovisand, with their modern fortifications; to the north stretches the town and far in the distance the heights of dartmoor; and to the south-west, over the cornish border, lies beautiful mount edgcumbe, which 'so affected the duke of medina-sidonia' fuller tells us,'(though but beholding it at a distance from the sea), that he resolved it for his own possession in the partage of this kingdom (blame him not if choosing best for himself), which they had preconquered in their hopes and expectation.' mr norway sketches the view in rapid touches: 'the sound lies veiled in a thin blue mist, behind which a hot sun beats, scattering it gradually with the aid of a stiff breeze off the land. but it hangs around mount edgcumbe on the right, where the grey towers of the mansion stand in shadow among dark woods, while on the summit of the hill above the green fields catch the sunlight. a little lower, drake's island lies impalpable and dim amid the mist which sweeps so softly round the forts and the green grassy slopes as to touch it all with mystery one moment, while the next it is bright again with sunlight, sparkling amid the dazzling sea. within the breakwater the sea is alive with craft.' the little island in the sound has been transferred from patron to patron. originally called after st michael, to whom its chapel was dedicated, the name was changed to that of st nicholas, the patron saint of mariners, and eventually the island was renamed in honour of plymouth's greatest hero. the chapel had been destroyed before drake's day at the bidding of the privy council, and fortifications were reluctantly built upon it by the mayor and corporation, the council 'mervelinge of their unwillingnesse to proceede in the fortefynge of st michaell's chapele to be made a bulwarke.' plymouth is not rich in old buildings. the citadel was rebuilt in the reign of charles ii, and the new guildhall is little over thirty years old. st andrew's, a large perpendicular building with a fine tower, is the only old church, but it stands on the site of a much older one--the church of the augustinians of plympton priory. really, neither stonehouse nor devonport has any history. in the reign of henry iii, stonehouse consisted of the dwelling of joel de stonehouse, who at that time owned the manor, and it is only comparatively lately, since it has been transformed into a huge naval storehouse, and the great marine barracks have been built, that it has become of importance. devonport, looking over the broad glittering waters of hamoaze, was till the year 1824 known only as dock, or plymouth dock. charles ii planned a dockyard here, but the work of making it was not begun until the reign of william and mary. the very early history of plymouth is not specially interesting to anyone who cares over-much for sober fact; but looking at it in the generous spirit of the ancient chroniclers, and not stickling over probabilities, the story of the first great event in plymouth is almost as fine as the traditions of totnes itself. giants, we all know, flourished in cornwall, and soon after the arrival of the trojans--about 1200 b.c.--they made a furious onslaught upon the invaders, but were defeated after a desperate battle. the crowning struggle between goemagot (the name afterwards turned into gogmagog), chief of the giants, and corinæus the trojan, took place in plymouth hoe, as drayton's vigorous lines declare: 'upon that loftie place at plimmouth called the hoe, those mightie wrastlers met, with many an irefull looke who threatned, as the one hold of the other tooke: but, grappled, glowing fire shines in their sparkling eyes. and whilst at length of arme one from the other lyes, their lusty sinewes swell like cables, as they strive: their feet such trampling make, as though they forc't to drive a thunder out of earth; which staggered with the weight: thus, either sat most force urg'd to the greatest height.' a memorial of this terrific conflict, 'the portraiture of two men of the largest volume,' was cut in the turf on the hoe at an early date, and was only destroyed when the citadel was built about 1671. in the domesday book plymouth appears as the manor of sutton, and this was later on divided into three separate portions--sutton valletort or vautier, sutton prior, and sutton raf. the village of sutton valletort was 'the germ of ancient plymouth.' sutton was given by henry i to reginald de valletort, who bestowed lavish gifts on the monastery at plympton; and as his example was followed by his successors, the title of the second portion of the manor is easily accounted for. the whole place was dominated by the valletorts and the priors, but the power of the monks increased steadily, till, at an inquisition held in 1281, 'it was presented that the ville of sutton belonged to the prior of plympton, with assize of bread and beer, and this right was allowed.' sutton was now becoming a flourishing town, and some years later the king made inquiries about his property in it, for the burgesses had petitioned that some waste land might be granted them at a yearly rent. to this 'the prior and the valletorts declared that the town was wholly theirs, and none of the king's,' and the dispute was followed by a series of efforts, on the part of the townspeople, to free themselves from the rule of the priors--efforts which succeeded each other, at no long intervals, through the next hundred and twenty years. as time went on, the crown gradually granted rights to the burgesses, and increased their responsibilities, till in 1439 an act of parliament was passed incorporating the three suttons as a free borough, with one mayor, and the manorial rights of the priory were ceded to the mayor and corporation, who paid to the priory a fixed yearly sum in compensation. the name plymouth, which had been used in speaking of the port, was now formally adopted for the whole town. from the 'mene thing, as an inhabitation for fischars,' that leland says it was in the reign of henry ii, the town grew rapidly, and before the end of the thirteenth century it was represented in parliament. in 1287, for the first time on record, the splendid harbour was officially recognized as a grand rendezvous, and three hundred and twenty-five vessels gathered here before sailing for guienne under the command of the king's brother. half a century later, orders were sent that men and ships should be collected at plymouth to escort princess johanna, the king's daughter, to gascony, and escorts for various princes had to be provided on several occasions. the black prince was kept by contrary winds in the port for forty days, when he was on his way to france to fight the 'glorious battell at poictiers.' in the early part of the fifteenth century plymouth suffered severely from the attacks of the french and bretons, and in 1403 the bretons, under the sieur du chastel, burned six hundred houses in the part since called briton side. the name became gradually transformed into 'burton,' but the memory of the raid survived so far, mr worth tells us, as to enable the boys who lived in the old town to taunt the 'burton boys' during the wars with france, by reminding them of the harm that the french had done to their quarter. on freedom day, a 'local saturnalia kept as such from the earliest times,' one of the features was the fighting between the old town and burton boys for a barrel of beer, provided by the mayor. long after this custom had been dropped, the recollection of it was revived by the sign of a public-house, the burton boys, though eventually the owner changed the sign to that of the black lion, as he 'wished for some more peaceful name'! plymouth does not seem to have been much affected by the wars of the roses, but henry vii, as earl of richmond, 'while he houered upon the coast,' came ashore at cawsand, and here 'by stealth refreshed himselfe; but being advertised of streight watch, kept for his surprising at plymouth, he richly rewarded his hoste, hyed speedily a ship boord, and escaped happily to a better fortune.' the fisheries of the port are old and important. the earliest grant now to be traced, made by reginald de valletort to plympton priory, was that of all his fishing rights in tamar and lynher--a privilege which mr worth thinks was probably bestowed 'not long after the manor passed into the hands of the valletort family.' in 1384 parliament decreed that all fish caught in the waters of sutton, plymouth, and tamar should be displayed for sale in plymouth and aish [saltash] only, which sounds as if plymouth were already jealous of other fish-markets, as was certainly the case later on. during parts of the sixteenth century the industry flagged, and in henry viii's reign a royal proclamation ordered abstinence from flesh on saturdays as well as fridays, with the frank explanation that this was 'not only for health and discipline, but for the benefit of the commonwealth, and profit of the fishing trade.' in queen elizabeth's reign matters were still worse, for the eating of fish had now come to be a badge of religious opinions, and '"to detest fish" in all shapes and forms had become a note of protestantism.' and not only had the demand for fish lessened, but the fisheries had fallen into the hands of foreigners. the yarmouth waters were 'occupied by flemings and frenchmen,' 'the narrow seas by the french,' 'the western fishing for hake and pilchard by a great navy of french within kenning of the english shores,' and scots and spaniards fished other parts of the coasts. cecil, who was anxious for greater reasons, to find 'means to encourage mariners,' set to work to revive the english fishing-trade, and with great difficulty succeeded in carrying a bill through the house of commons, making 'the eating of flesh on fridays and saturdays a misdemeanour, punishable by a fine of three pounds or three months' imprisonment, and as if this was not enough, adding wednesday as a subsidiary half-fish day.' about this time plymouth tried to rid itself of at least one branch of foreign competition by appealing to the privy council to forbid 'the exportation of pilchards, save in ships of devon and cornwall, because "divers ships and mariners lye idle without employment within our harbour," while foreign ships were continually employed.' pilchards were a very important item, and many regulations were made in reference to them. one order, dated 1565-66, gives a good example of plymouth's views of free trade. it ran: 'that no alien should lade or buy fresh pilchards above the number of 1,000 in a day; no man ... being free to buy or sell above 5,000, unless the fish "were in danger of perishing."' the business of curing fish was a large one and very jealously guarded. at the british museum, among the lansdowne manuscripts, is a letter to lord burghley from mr richard browne, showing that this subject was sometimes the source of friction between the citizens themselves. it begins: 'my honorable good lord, as i have ben always most bound vnto yor ho., so i humbly besech you to stand my good lord.' the letter goes on to explain that the writer had been granted a 'pattent for salting, drying, and packing of fishe in the counties of devon and cornwall,' but letters from the privy council had caused the 'staie thereof.' these letters were apparently inspired by the complaint to the council of 'marchants,' who were injured because the terms of the 'pattent' laid down 'that the inhabitants should be servid before the marchents, paying nothing unto me for it,' as he adds in a slightly aggrieved manner. the writer begs that these terms may be altered, and the only conditions should be those affecting such fish 'as shuld be transported in consyderacon of the quene's majesty's right.' for, he pathetically remarks, he has paid 'a great some of money' for his privileges, and still 'am bound to pay the rent into the exchequer,' although not allowed to reap the benefit therefrom. besides, great inconvenience is caused by the suspension of his business, and letters of complaint have been addressed to him from devonshire and cornwall desiring 'y^t he pforme his offer y^t they may have fishe for their owne provesion frely.' it was the outburst of ventures of every description, with all their different aims--ventures of soldiers, explorers, privateers, and merchants--in the reign of queen elizabeth that brought plymouth to its greatest glory. in the interval between william hawkins' first voyage to the south seas--about 1528--and 1601, when captain william parker sailed to panama and took porto bello, plymouth was the starting-point of forty voyages, every one of which is historical. mr worth gives the exact date of each, and the names of the commanders. 'here,' says carew, 'mostly have the troops of adventurers made their _rendezvous_ for attempting new discoueries or inhabitances.' and westcote, in the reign of james i, writes: 'whatever show it makes in description, it is far larger in fame, and known to the farthest and most remote parts of the world.' in camden's opinion, this great reputation was won 'less by the convenience of the harbour, as for the valour and worth of the inhabitants,' and the worthies of plymouth are indeed beyond number. among the comparatively few whose names have not been lost, there stands out conspicuously sir william wilford, who after a french invasion returned the charge by swooping down on brittany, where he 'made them to pay, besides _costs_ and _charges_, more than sixfold _damages_.' and captain cocke, a 'cock of the game indeed,' according to fuller; 'a volanteer in his own ship,' he went out against the armada, and 'lost his life to save his queen and countrey.' then there is cockrem, who sailed with william hawkins, and was left alone among the brazilians as a hostage for one of the 'savage kings' hawkins brought back with him--but, as mr norway says, 'plymouth has too many heroes; in the crowd the faces of all but one or two are blurred.' for three generations the hawkinses were 'the master spirits' of plymouth, and of them all sir john hawkins was the most famous. his character was a curious medley of incongruous features, bluff straightforwardness and crooked diplomacy, faithful affection--such as his bold schemes to help his captured comrades proved--balanced by a hard indifference that ignored the misery of the wretched negroes he sold to west indian planters. pluck and daring were the only qualities he showed consistently from first to last. his zeal in slave-hunting, repulsive to us, is excused by froude on the ground that 'negro slavery in theory was an invention of philanthropy.' labourers were a necessity for the spanish colonist, 'the proud and melancholy indian pined like an eagle in captivity, refused to accept his servitude, and died; the more tractable negro would domesticate like the horse or the ass.' though hawkins met with much good as well as bad luck, he was one of those who have need to remember that fate does not shower favours on all men, but 'if a man look sharply and attentively, he shall see fortune; for though she be blind, yet she is not invisible,' and his success was to a very great extent due to his stout heart and quick discernment. these qualities stood him in good stead at san juan de ulloa, when his few ships were overwhelmed by a much larger fleet. 'the name of hawkins was so terrible that the spaniards dared not give him warning that he was to be attacked;' but mounted their batteries in the dark, and from land and sea 'every gun which could be brought to bear' opened upon the unprepared english. after sinking two spanish ships and setting a third on fire, hawkins saw that flight was their only chance, and, gathering his men together in two small tenders, he 'crawled out under the fire of the mole and gained the open sea.' the position of affairs was dispiriting in the extreme. many men and three good ships were lost, besides treasure worth more than a million pounds, that had been won, by running innumerable dangers, during the past year. his ships were overcrowded, the store of food and water was scanty, and no harbour west of the atlantic was open to them. under the weight of adversity, hawkins offered 'a lesson for all time on the use of bravado, the crowning grace of every leader who does not seek it at the cost of better things.' 'when the _minion_ stood off,' says hortop, who wrote the tale on his return to england, 'our generall courageously cheered up his soldiers and gunners, and called to samuel his page for a cup of beer, who brought it to him in a silver cup. and he, drinking to all the men, willed the gunners to stand to their ordnance lustily like men. he had no sooner set the cup out of his hand, but a demi-culverin shot struck away the cup and a cooper's plane that stood by the mainmast and ran out on the other side of the ship, which nothing dismayed our generall, for he ceased not to encourage us, saying, "fear nothing: for god who hath preserved me from this shot will also deliver us from these traitors and villains."' hawkins is chiefly known by his voyages and enterprises, and all that he did for his country by monotonous hard work is not so often remembered. for twenty-one years he 'toiled terribly' as treasurer of the queen's marine causes and comptroller of the navy, and when the ships were sent out to meet the armada they were 'in such condition, hull, rigging, spars, and running rope, that they had no match in the world either for speed, safety, or endurance.' there is no space here to speak of sir john's father, 'the pioneer of english adventure in the south seas,' who made three famous voyages to brazil, and laid a good foundation for future traffic in that he 'behaved wisely' to the natives; nor to do more than glance at the ventures of sir john's son, sir richard hawkins, the 'complete seaman,' whose 'high-spirited actions, had they been all duly recorded (as pity it is, they were not),' says prince, 'would have made a large volume in themselves.' sir richard rediscovered the falkland isles, and passed the straits of magellan. his fleet was reduced to a single vessel, and he had taken five richly laden ships, when 'the king of spain's vice-roy in those parts' sent 'eight ships to intercept him. sir richard hawkins held the fight for three days, with but three score and fifteen men and boys, against thirteen hundred of the enemy, and those the choice of peru.' in the end, being 'dangerously wounded in six several places,' and with many of his crew killed or wounded, he was forced to surrender upon 'honourable articles of life and liberty,' which, however, were not observed, and he was sent to spain, where for long years he remained a prisoner. sir richard left an account of his 'voyage to the south sea'--a 'record of misfortune, but of misfortune which did no dishonour to him who sank under it; and there is a melancholy dignity in the style in which hawkins tells his story, which seems to say that ... he respects himself still for the heart with which he endured a shame which would have broken a smaller man.' a second william hawkins, sir john's brother, commanded a huguenot vessel under the commission of the prince of condé; and yet another william of a younger generation went as ambassador of the east india company to the great mogul, and succeeded in setting up a trading station at surat. every plymouth hero, however, is eclipsed by sir francis drake, who is always counted their chief, though he was born near tavistock. 'could my pen as ably describe his worth as my heart prompteth to it, i would make this day-star appear at noon-day as doth the full moon at midnight,' is risdon's ecstatic exclamation. when all his grand qualities and successes have been contemplated, it is still rather surprising to find the extraordinary impression he created in that epoch of heroic enterprise. the stories of magic that have clustered round his name witness to his wonderful personality, for naturally they are much more significant than those that have been woven around the older heroes of a more superstitious, less civilized age. these legends must have been handed down to generation after generation, for, writing about 1835, mrs bray mentions that the peasantry near tavistock still talked of the 'old warrior,' as they called him. to choose one or two at random, there is the story that once, after he had been away for a very long time, his wife supposed him to be dead, and thought that she was free to marry again. a spirit whispered the news to sir francis, who was at the antipodes. at once he fired a great cannon-ball, 'so truly aimed that it shot up right through the globe, forced its way into the church, and fell with a loud explosion between the lady and her intended bridegroom. "it is the signal of drake!" she exclaimed. "he is alive, and i am still a wife. there must be neither troth nor ring between thee and me."' another story tells that after he had finished the ever-famous game of bowls on plymouth hoe, which was interrupted by tidings of the armada, sir francis cut up a block of wood, and flung the chips into the sea, when every ship became a fire-ship, and the enemy's fleet was really destroyed because of the 'irresistable strength of those vessels that he had called up to "flame amazement" on the foes of elizabeth and of england.' when the citizens of plymouth wanted a more abundant supply of water, they appealed to drake, and he was ready to help them. 'so he called for his horse, mounted, rode to dartmoor, and hunted about till he found a very fine spring. having fixed on one that would suit his purpose, he gave a smart lash to his horse's side, pronouncing as he did so some magical words, when off went the animal as fast as he could gallop, and the stream followed his heels all the way into the town.' it is not possible here to pick more legends from the group, excepting one which was certainly told among the people a few years ago. drake promised, they said, that if ever the country were hard pressed by any foe, and his countrymen should call him by striking his drum, he would hear them, and come back and scatter the enemy. of drake it has been said that 'his puritanism went hand-in-hand with his love of adventure. 'to sell negroes to the planters, to kill spaniards, to sack gold-ships, was in the young seaman's mind the work of "the elect of god"'--a belief that no doubt partly explains how the most desperate circumstances seemed unable to teach him the meaning of fear. it is easy to understand how a leader who combined such glorious courage with great unselfishness could take his men anywhere. on arriving off the coast, on his first independent voyage to america, he found this encouraging greeting--'a plate of lead, fastened to a very great tree,' engraved with a message which began: 'captain drake, 'if you fortune to come into this port, make haste away, for the spaniards which you had with you here last year have betrayed this place.' the message was signed by captain garret of plymouth. quite undismayed by the warning, drake led his company to nombre de dios, which they successfully attacked. here he received a dangerous wound; though he valiantly concealed it a long time, knowing if the general's heart stoops, the men's will fall, and that if so bright an opportunity once setteth, it seldom riseth again.' and he went forward till 'at the public treasury they had discovered ... bars of silver, piled up against the wall, seventy foot in length, ten in breadth, and twelve in height ... withal telling them, "that he had brought them to the mouth of the treasury of the world."' but before much could be done his strength failed and he fainted, when his followers became aware of the wound that he had not mentioned, but from which he was losing 'so much blood as filled his very footsteps in the sands.' they were at once anxious to take him back to his ship; drake, on recovering consciousness, being the only man who wished them to persevere in their search for gold and jewels. but his men 'added force to their entreaties, and so carried him to his pinnace.' as soon as he was able, drake started on fresh enterprises with varying success, and after several months had passed on returning laden with treasure to the point on the coast at which he expected to meet his pinnaces, to his great dismay he found none, but saw seven spanish ships lying in the distance. the company instantly fell into despair, convinced that their pinnaces had been taken and the crews tortured, and that they themselves were left alone in the midst of the enemy's country, from which they could not escape. drake's self-possession alone was unshaken, and, after casting about for some way of reaching safety, he noticed trees floating slowly down the river. with 'the most confident and cheerful expression, he asked: "who would accompany him to sea on the raft he was about to form with those timbers?"' a sail was 'made of a bisket-sack,' and with 'an oar shaped out of a young tree for a rudder,' they set out to sea, in danger of being swamped by every wave, and often waist-deep in water. after about six hours of extreme peril they sighted the pinnaces, and in the end drake succeeded in reaching them, and was able to carry away the rest of his company and the treasure. an incident that happened when drake was taking leave of some friendly negroes showed his generous disposition. 'pedro, ... an eminent person among the symerons, and one who had been greatly serviceable to captain drake, had a great mind to a rich cymeter the captain had, but was unwilling to ask it, lest he should prize it also: which known, the captain freely presented it to him. who being willing to make a grateful return, desired him to accept of four wedges of gold, as a pledge of his thanks: whose importunity not being able to avoid, captain drake received them courteously, but threw them into the common stock, saying, "that it was just that those who bore part of the charge with him, in setting him to sea, should likewise enjoy their full proportion of the advantage at his return."' all drake's voyages and adventures, however, did not prevent him from keeping in touch with plymouth and local interests. in 1581 he was mayor; for four years he represented the borough in parliament, and he certainly did bring the citizens water from dartmoor, though at greater pains than in the fashion described in the legend. in memory of this great service there is still an annual ceremony called the fishing feast. the mayor and corporation inspect the leat by which the water is brought to plymouth, attended by a huge crowd of spectators, and afterwards two toasts are drunk--one in water, to 'the pious memory of sir francis drake,' and the other in wine--'may the descendants of him who brought us water never want wine.' plymouth townsfolk had every reason to be glad when the _pelican_ sailed into the harbour after her voyage round the world, for it was not only a national hero, but their own particular countryman and good friend, that they hurried out to welcome. amongst 'commendations by principal persons friendly to the author or the work' which preface a book written by sir humphrey gilbert, are some lines by sir francis which are very expressive of the views that seem to have guided his life. the book, whose aim must have been to encourage the idea of settling in the new colony, is called 'a true report of the late discoveries and possession taken in the right of the crowne of englande, of the _new found_ landes.' i do not quote the whole poem: 'who seekes by gaine and wealth to advance his house and blood, whose care is great, whose toile no less, whose hope is all for good, if anie one there bee that covettes such a trade, lo heere the plot for commonwealth, and private gaine is made. 'he that for vertue's sake will venture farre and neere, whose zeale is strong, whose practize trueth, whose faith is void of feare, if any such there bee, inflamed with holie care, 'heere may hee finde a readie meane his purpose to declare, so that for each degree this treatise dooth unfolde the path to fame, the proofe of zeale, and way to purchase golde.' drake's audacity was never more amazing than in the expedition of 1587, when he sailed along the spanish and portuguese coast, plundering and burning the ships in their own harbours. his fearlessness filled the spaniards with a very generous admiration. 'so praised was drake for his valour of them, that were it not that he was a lutheran, they said, there was not the like man in the world.' once, when the king invited a lady of the court to go in his barge on a lake near madrid, 'the lady said she dared not trust herself in the water even with his majesty, lest sir francis drake should have her.' his name passed even into nursery songs, and one of them has been translated as follows: 'my brother don john to england is gone, to kill the drake, and the queen to take, and the heretics all to destroy; and he will give me, when he comes back, a lutheran boy, with a chain on his neck, and our lady grandmama shall have to wait upon her a lutheran slave.' it was about sixteen months later that drake, amongst the band of famous captains gathered at plymouth, watched the long-awaited armada sailing in a great crescent up the channel. the english popular view of the invasion is, perhaps, reflected in a ballad which was written soon after the event. it is called 'sir francis drake; or, eighty-eight.' 'in eyghtye-eyght, ere i was borne, as i can well remember, in august was a fleet prepared, the moneth before september. 'spayne, with biscayne, portugall, toledo, and granado, all these did meet, and made a fleet, and called it the armado. 'when they had gott provision, as mustard, pease, and bacon; some say two shipps were full of whipps, but i thinke they were mistaken. 'there was a little man of spaine that shott well in a gunn-a- don pedro bright, as good a knight as the knight of the sunn-a. 'king phillip made him admiral, and charged him not to stay-a- but to destroy both man and boy, and then to runn away-a. 'the king of spayne did freet amayne, and to doe yet more harme-a, he sent along to make him strong the famous prince of parma. when they had sayl'd along the seas, and anchored uppon dover, our englishmen did board them then, and cast the spaniards over. 'oure queene was then att tilbury; what could you more desire-a? for whose sweete sake sir francis drake did sett them all on fyre-a. 'but let them look about themselfes; for if they come again-a. they shall be served with that same sauce as they were, i know when-a.' in 1595 sir francis and sir john hawkins started on that ill-starred expedition to the west indies, from which neither returned. sir francis died, and was buried at sea. 'the waves became his winding-sheet, the waters were his tomb; but, for his fame, the ocean sea was not sufficient room.' the translation of what prince calls an 'ingenuous epigram' written in latin is beneath his portrait in the guildhall: 'sir drake, whom well the world's end knew, which thou didst compasse round, and whom both poles of heaven one saw, which north and south doe bound: the starrs above will make thee known, if men here silent were; the sunn himself cannot forget his fellow traveller.' in 1606 the plymouth trading company was granted its charter. the company was formed with the aim of planting colonies in america but it was not a great success, and the extortionate claims of the members to a monopoly of very important privileges brought them into violent collision with the more flourishing massachusetts company, as well as with owners of certain fishing-vessels, whom they called 'interlopers.' the company was eventually dissolved in 1635. in 1620 there came into plymouth harbour that little band of puritans known to posterity as the pilgrim fathers. for the sake of liberty of conscience they had been living for some years at leyden, and they had now resolved to take up a new life in america. the start was not auspicious, for after leaving southampton they were forced to put into dartmouth for repairs, and were afterwards obliged to stop at plymouth, where the _speedwell_ was declared to be unseaworthy. serious alterations of their plans had to be made, but at last, 'all troubles being blown over,' the travellers were 'compacted together in the one ship,' and on september 6, 1620, 'thirteen years after the first colonization of virginia, two months before the concession of the grand charter of plymouth, without any warrant from the sovereign of england, without any useful charter from a corporate body, the passengers in the _mayflower_ set sail for a new world.' king charles and queen henrietta maria paid a visit to the town, to speed a fleet sent, with disastrous results, against spain. the expedition was in a miserable plight to begin with. for some while before it was able to leave the country, a hungry penniless army had been thrown upon the citizens of plymouth. an enormous debt had been created in equipping it, and the soldiers' allowances were hopelessly inadequate to provide them with a proper supply of food or clothes. 'a more ragged, ribald, and rebellious herde never gathered on the eve of an important expedition. mutiny was common in the town, and the ringleaders were tried at drum-head, and shot in the nearest open space.... incensed at the disregard of their appeals, the publicans thrust the soldiers to doors; and the outcasts, turning highwaymen, stole cattle and sheep with impunity, slew the animals, and cooked the joints "in the open eye of the world," and sullenly vowed that they would have "meat rather than famish." the fleet returned some weeks later in shame and disgrace, and the state of the men was even more miserable than when they started, for now the plague was raging amongst them. 'there was neither "meat nor drink available"; such provisions as had been doled out were often unfit for food, and "men die after eating them."' pennington, the vice-admiral at plymouth, sent petition after petition to the authorities for necessary supplies. 'send the money, or it will break my heart, for i am so followed about and called upon that i know not what to do.' the misery was long drawn out, for when the plague was at an end, and townspeople were able to return to their homes, there was but a short respite before they were again overwhelmed by a great number of undisciplined soldiers, and 'no means of housing, feeding, or clothing them.' naturally, they helped themselves at the expense of the citizens. 'haunted by the cries of my soldiers,' sir ferdinando gorges, the governor, was reduced to distributing among them a cargo of oil that had been captured, with the assertion that it was 'as healthy as butter.' 'most despair here,' wrote lord holland briefly, and 'the distress was so acute that the mayor raised the standard of revolt. the losses of the town had been calamitous--first at the hands of pirates, next by collapse of trade, and finally by the billeting.' no doubt plymouth's consistent hostility to the king's party throughout the war is in part explained by the results of this wretched state of affairs, and by the persecution of their vice-admiral, the heroic member for st germans, sir john eliot. as soon as the war broke out, plymouth's sympathies were plainly shown, and before long sir ralph hopton made an attack on the town. on december 1, 1642, royalists and parliamentarians 'stood upon the lary for the space of three hours' facing one another, but each too cautious to make the first move and leave a point of vantage. the siege was seriously undertaken three months later, when hopton concentrated all his forces upon the town. as plymouth could always be supplied by sea, there was no chance of its being starved into submission, and already it was gravely doubted whether the town would ever be taken. by the beginning of july nearly all the royalist forces had been drawn off, and plymouth set to work with great energy to strengthen the defences by building a new wall. tradition says that even women and children took a share in the work. in august an attack was made by colonel digby, but the town was at this time threatened by a greater danger--the treachery of sir alexander carew, commander of the fort and of drake's island. 'he was proved an apostate,' says a contemporary account, 'and went about to betray that island and the town of plymouth into the hands of cornish cavaliers, but was prevented by the fidelity of his honest soldiers.' sir alexander was arrested by order of the mayor, and sent to london, where eventually he was beheaded. prince maurice marched on the town after he had taken dartmouth, and there followed three weeks of assaults and skirmishes, much hard fighting, and many desperate struggles. in the end the besiegers succeeded in capturing mount stamford, a fort on the south of the cattewater, 'the first and only advantage gained by the royalists during the protracted and often revived siege.' an invitation to surrender on lenient conditions made the townspeople waver, but the governor, colonel wardlaw, stood firm. all were ordered to take a solemn vow and covenant, which pledged each one to take part in the defence 'to the utmost of my power.' and the town, hitherto 'divided and heartless in its defence, now grew to be united.' on sunday, december 3, there fell the sabbath-day fight, and the most critical moments of the siege. prince maurice and 'all the gallantry of his army' threw their whole force against the garrison, who advanced to meet them. 'the roundheads were outnumbered ten to one, and driven back in absolute rout for the space of three fields.' joined by a small number of reinforcements, they rallied after an interval, and charged the enemy, who yielded. the garrison pressed their advantage. 'the retreat, followed up, became a rout,' and the acutest danger was past. not long afterwards the siege was raised for a time. the poor people had suffered much from the scarcity of food, though once they had been cheered by a wonderful supply. 'there came an infinite number of pilchards into the harbour within the barbican, which the people took up with great ease in baskets, which did not only refresh them for the present, but a great deal more were taken, preserved and salted, whereby the poor got much money.' it was not only by endurance that the women had shown their courage, for in the midst of some of the engagements they had brought out provisions 'for the refreshing of our soldiers, though many women were shot through the clothes.' assaults, occasional sorties, and intervals of comparative peace followed one another till, in september 1644, the king appeared in person before the town, and tried first by force of arms and then by offering very indulgent terms to bring about its surrender. the answer to the king was not sent till the day after his summons had been received, but 'if not speedy, it was decided--"never."' a second futile assault was made by the royalists, and then the king and prince maurice with their troops, turned their backs on plymouth. for four months longer the blockade was continued, and at the end of that time sir richard grenville made a very determined effort, attacking at four points simultaneously. a desperate struggle ensued in which he gained nothing and lost three hundred men killed, and many hundreds wounded. another twelve months passed without any serious attempt to storm the town, and in january, 1646, on fairfax's advance upon dartmouth the siege was finally raised, the royalists marching away in such haste that guns, arms, and ammunition were left behind. charles ii paid several visits to the town, and on one occasion he attended the service at st andrew's church where a state canopy and throne had been prepared for him and where sufferers were brought to him to be 'touched for the king's evil.' a ridiculous incident marked another visit. the mayor, rather agitated by the honour of entertaining the king, and anxious to find the best means of giving him pleasure, had the happy inspiration of inviting his majesty to look at the outworks that had protected plymouth 'in the time of the late war.' the king's reply was 'on a sudden' to walk to the landing-steps, get into his pinnace, and start for mount edgcumbe. the mayor in great dismay, followed by the aldermen, who had come in their robes in state to attend on the king, hurried down to the water's edge and taking possession of a wherry, they started off as fast as they could in pursuit. it is satisfactory to know that by the time they succeeded in catching up the king he had quite recovered his usual good-humour. plymouth was to some degree affected by the revocation of the edict of nantes, for it had always been a refuge for the huguenots--the rochellers, as they are often called in sixteenth-century chronicles--and now many of them fled to this shelter. the first party of about fifty people crossed the channel in an open boat, and their flight was followed by a great number of refugees. these settled in the town, and many of their descendants married english people, and the little colony became absorbed into the general population. a curious glimpse of the original refugees is given in a letter written in 1762 by mr pentecost barker, of plymouth, to the rev. samuel merivale. he says: 'those, of whom i remember many scores, who came from france in 1685-6, etc., are mostly dead, and their offspring are more english than french, and will go to the english church, though some few may come to us. what an alteration time makes! there was ... a french calvinist church and a church of england french church here, besides a church at stonehouse. many women in wooden shoes--very poor, but very industrious--living on limpets, snails, garlick, and mushrooms.' in the latter half of the eighteenth century plymouth vibrated with the excitement of fights and victories at sea, several engagements being fought at a short distance off the coast. many prizes and some of our own disabled ships were brought into the harbour, 'dismasted and riddled french battleships,' sometimes even with 'their decks blackened with powder and coursed by the blood of the victims.' unless the local annals are closely studied, it is almost impossible to realize the rapid succession of these events, and the effect they must have produced on the townspeople. a sarcastic picture has been drawn of a student attempting to work in the midst of the bursts of enthusiasm that perpetually thrilled the town. he is first interrupted by 'a shout in the street, and the servant rushed in to announce that the enemy had landed,' and the volunteers were going out to meet them. the student, having disposed of this report, settles to work again, when 'the strains of a soul-stirring march, with abundant drum, were borne on the air, and the servant again bounded into the room to proclaim the return of the--th regiment, "with only 200 returned out of 600, sir, colours shot through and through, poor fellows, all looking terribly tanned--here they are, sir, just passing the door." the pageant is witnessed by the student, and as the tumult subsides he resumes his scholarly pursuits. soon a great gun shakes every window in the house. "what can this mean?" enter sam once more. "i beg your pardon, sir, but they say a man-of-war's in the sound, bringing in two ships of the line, french prizes. all the people are running to the hoe, sir; i hope you'll let me go." down goes the book once more, and the student is as mad as his neighbours as the victorious ship and her prizes, with the jack flying triumphantly over the tricoloured flag, sails majestically into the harbour amid deafening cheers.... such was the average plymouth day.' several times the town was threatened by a french invasion and badly scared, but the greatest fear was felt in 1779, when for four days the united french and spanish fleets lay off the sound. plymouth had every reason to be afraid; for, had the enemy but known it, there were at that moment but two small armed vessels to defend the harbour. crowds of women and children left the town in haste and confusion, thousands of country-people tramped to the coast to have a look at the enemy. a few private persons made single-handed efforts to strengthen the defences, and a little later 'the bustle was again revived by the hourly arrival of troops, baggage, waggons, and powder.' it is said that in totnes the saying, 'going to paignton to meet the french,' is still a synonym for meeting trouble halfway. amongst endless stories of fears and flights, there is one of delightful imperturbability: 'one old sailor ... had his wits about him, when his daughter shook him out of a deep sleep with the news that the french had landed. rubbing his eyes, he told her to go and look at the weathercock. she came back, saying the wind was from the north. "i thought so," said he, "and so it was yesterday. the french can't land with this wind." and so the ancient mariner turned round and went to sleep again.' alarms, suspense, and occasional ecstasies of triumph followed one another till the final defeat of napoleon. for several days the _bellerophon_ actually lay in plymouth harbour, to the intense excitement of the townspeople, who circled round the ship as closely as might be in the hope of catching a glimpse of the captive emperor. to the north-east of plymouth lies saltram, the great house and wide, beautiful grounds that belong to lord morley. saltram is in the parish of plympton st mary, once celebrated for the large and important priory which for some time governed the affairs of plymouth. plympton st mary is neighbour to the parish of plympton st maurice and the little town of plympton erle. on the north of the town are the ruins of the norman castle built chiefly by richard de redvers, and razed to the ground in the reign of stephen. it was rebuilt not long afterwards. a fragment of a small keep is all that remains of the stonework, but the normans' castle was raised upon a fort that was standing when they arrived, and 'the earthworks of the conquered are more enduring than the stone defences of the conqueror.' the mound on which the keep stands, and the banks that enclose a base-court about seven hundred and ten feet long and three hundred and eighty feet wide, have been little harmed or altered and are still in a very perfect condition; but the moat that once surrounded them has been partly filled in. the father of sir joshua reynolds was master of the grammar school of plympton erle, and here the great painter was born. in the crowded days of his middle life he gave a proof of his interest in his native town by being its mayor, and on his election presented the town with his own portrait painted by himself. the picture was hung in the guildhall, and sir joshua asked the recorder of the borough to see that it was hung in a good position. in his reply the recorder paid a compliment whose full meaning he did not grasp. he explained that 'he had seen to this, and the portrait hung between old pictures of ourry and edgecumbe which serve as foils, and set it off to great advantage. this letter greatly amused sir joshua, who knew that these old pictures were early works of his own.' chapter x the tamar and the tavy 'tavy creeps upon the western vales of fertile albion; here dashes roughly on an aged rock, that his intended passage doth up-lock;... here digs a cave at some high mountain's foot, there undermines an oak, tears up his root:... as (woo'd by may's delights) i have been borne to take the kind air of a wistful morn near tavy's voiceful stream (to whom i owe more strains than from my pipe can ever flow). here have i heard a sweet bird never lin[7] to chide the river for his clam'rous din;... so numberless the songsters are that sing in the sweet groves of that too-careless spring... among the rest a shepherd (though but young, yet hearten'd to his pipe), with all the skill his few years could, began to fit his quill. by tavy's speedy stream he fed his flock, where when he sat to sport him on a rock, the water-nymphs would often come unto him, and for a dance with many gay gifts woo him. now posies of this flower, and then of that; now with fine shells, then with a rushy hat, with coral or red stones brought from the deep to make him bracelets, or to mark his sheep.' w. browne: _britannia's pastorals_. [footnote 7: cease.] tavistock is a quiet little 'ancient borough,' which at the first glance from the hill to the north-west suggests the early-victorian word 'embowered,' for it looks as if the rudiments of the town had arisen in the midst of a large wood. the town lies chiefly in a hollow, and the trees that cover the sides surround and encroach upon the streets in the pleasantest way, and their foliage, the hills on every side, and the rushing tavy through the midst, give an un-townlike air that is charming. but to imagine, from this rustic and very still look, that the place lacked history, would be to make a great mistake. on the contrary, its history starts in such very early days that only a few scattered relics remain to show the wave of human life that passed over the country. between a.d. 240 and the latter half of the sixth century, the irish made many invasions, overran the south and west of england, and settled colonies in parts of devon and cornwall, more especially along their northern coasts. mr baring-gould, in a most interesting paper, sketches out the various descents and settlements, and traces them by their stone monuments and by the names of the irish saints that they left in churches and villages and holy wells. some of the invaders established themselves near tavistock, and tokens of them have been found in the neighbourhood in the shape of three stones bearing inscriptions--one in ogham characters. the stones are now in the vicarage garden. 'on one, which is over seven feet high, occurs a name, probably of a sept or tribe in kerry, where several stones inscribed with the same name are found. on the third are the words: "dobunii fabri fili enabarri...." dobun was a _faber_, or smith. in celtic organizations every _tuatha_, or tribe, had its chief smith.... dobunii ... is the latin for the genitive douvinias, also a kerry name.... here, then, we have written and engraven in stone for our learning the record of an irish settlement from kerry in the neighbourhood of tavistock.' mr baring-gould further mentions briefly the different tribes and peoples that have invaded and possessed themselves of the land, to be in turn conquered by new-comers, and the eventual, amalgamation of races, and quotes professor sullivan to the discomfiture of those who rhapsodize over the 'pure celt' in great britain or ireland--for, after all, it was irish colonists and conquerors who 'gave their name to scotland, and at one time occupied the coast of wales and 'west domnonia.' professor sullivan writes: 'the irish tenants of to-day are composed of the descendants of firbolgs and other british and belgic races; milesians ... gauls, norwegians, anglo-saxons, anglo-normans, and english.... this is a fact which should be remembered by those who theorize over the qualities of the "pure celt," whoever they may be.' there are many amateurs whose views would be less tedious if they could be convinced by professor sullivan. the memory of one irish saint clung for centuries to tavistock, for the abbey was dedicated jointly to st mary the holy virgin, and to st rumon, an irish missionary who came over to cornwall. the abbey has unfortunately been totally destroyed, and various buildings now stand on its site. the old chapter-house was pulled down by a certain saunders, 'of barbarous memory,' 'to make way for a modern house now called the bedford hotel.' the refectory is used as a unitarian chapel, and still keeps its fine pinnacled porch. a ruined tower covered with ivy, called betsy grimbal's tower (a young woman was supposed to have been murdered in it), stands in grounds close by, and the other chief fragments still to be seen are the monks' still-house, a little bit of the abbey church wall, and the remains of a battlemented wall following the line of the river. the north gateway is the most perfect remnant and that has been restored. of the religious houses in the diocese of exeter this monastery was the most important, and it eclipsed them all by 'the extent, convenience, and magnificence of its buildings.' orgar, earl of devon, founded it in 961, and ordulph, his son, completed it on such a grand scale, that there was room for one thousand inhabitants. the abbey had only stood for about thirty years, when a frightful blow fell: the danes burst upon the country, harrying it with fire and sword. they landed in cornwall, and here egbert hastened with his army and defeated them at hingston down; but a great horde broke away, and crossing the border descended on tavistock, where the inhabitants in a body rose to meet them and a terrible battle was fought. its deadly nature is summed up with great directness in an old jingle: 'the blood which flowed down west street would heave a stone a pound weight.' the abbey was robbed and then burned to the ground. no time, however, can have been lost in rebuilding it, for about thirty years later livingus, the abbot, was made bishop of devonshire, and was specially chosen by king canute to accompany him on his pilgrimage to rome. tavistock was a benedictine monastery, over which forty abbots ruled in succession. some of the later ones were noted for their lack of discipline--even to the point of allowing the monks 'to affect the fashionable costume of the times, adopting the secular buttoned hoods and beaked boots'; but the earlier abbots were both pious and learned, and one of the earliest printing-presses set up in england was owned by the abbey. the first statutes of the stannaries that ever were printed were printed here: a 'confirmation of the charter perteynynge to all the tynners wythyn the co[=u]ty of devonshyre wyth their statutes also made at crockeryntorre by the whole ass[=e]t and c[=o]set of al the sayd tynners'--of the date 1510. in very early days the abbots were 'lessees of the devonshire stannaries ... and controllers of the issues of royal mines in devon and part of cornwall,' says dr. oliver. at the dissolution the king presented the abbey and most of its estates to the earl of bedford. the first trace of this great family in devonshire that i have been able to find is a lawsuit in regard to certain lands, between john russell and rohesia his wife and henry de pomeroy, which took place in the reign of king john. but there was a much closer connection with the county in later days. unfortunately, space makes it impossible to touch on more than a few of the most striking events in the career of john russell, first earl of bedford, to whom the abbey was granted. on january 11, 1506, the archduke philip of austria was driven by a violent storm to take shelter at weymouth, where sir thomas trenchard, governor of the coast, hurried to receive him, and to offer such entertainment as he could provide. it so happened that there was staying with sir thomas a young cousin lately returned from his travels, who combined great 'skill in foreign languages ... with his sprightly conversation and polite address.' the archduke was enchanted to find someone better acquainted with his speech and customs than the stay-at-home squires who surrounded him, and when he set out for windsor he would not leave mr russell behind. to the king the archduke praised his protégé in glowing words, and he was given a small post at court. nature had favoured him at the start, for he is said to have been of 'a moving beauty that ... exacted a liking if not a love from all that saw him' and to this valuable gift was added that of a 'learned discourse and generous deportment.' on the accession of henry viii, he won the good-will of the young king by the zeal with which he threw himself into 'the dance, the masque, the pagent, the tourney,' in which henry himself delighted; and he soon had a chance for distinguishing himself in serious matters. in 1513 he accompanied the king in his campaign in france, and on the march an unusually large cannon was 'overturned in a lagoon.... impatient to signalise himself by some intrepid exploit, mr russell had the boldness to attempt its recovery, in the face of ten thousand french,' and 'with but two hundred and fifty adventurers under him as resolute as himself, he succeeded in the effort.' in 1517 mr russell was appointed deputy-governor of tournay; in 1532 he was knighted after taking part in a descent on the coast of brittany, and in later years he rose to positions of great and greater importance. when henry was supporting the constable de bourbon against his sovereign, francis i, sir john was entrusted with the dangerous mission of conveying a huge sum of money through a country where many were well affected to the french king. one of his first steps was to leave his company at a town on the frontier with orders to spread the news that he was ill, whilst he hastened without escort and with the money--henry had promised the duke de bourbon 100,000 crowns a month--to geneva. here he heard the comforting news that the swiss and frenchmen were so certain of robbing him that they had already 'lotted every of the captains his portion of the said money.' with great speed and secrecy he caused it to be 'packed in bales, trussed with baggage, as oats or old clothes, to make it bulky, and nicked with a merchant's mark.' as a further precaution he begged the help of the duke of savoy, who eventually allowed muleteers in his service to hire mules as if for his own use to take it across the mountains, and 'so bruit it to be carried as his stuff unto the duchess his wife.' arrived at chambéry, the secret of the bales was allowed to leak a very little, and sir john, knowing that there were 'divers ambushes and enterprises set for to attrap me,' set out again with his bales towards geneva. out of sight of the town he altered his course for mont cenis. and this expedient was in itself a blind, for two or three days before sir john's departure the treasure had been sent very secretly on other mules to turin, where it arrived safely. he finishes his account with conscious simplicity: 'which ways was occasion, as i think the said enterprises to fail of their purpose.' sir john met with many very exciting adventures, of which perhaps the most interesting is one that happened to him at bologna, for here he was very skilfully rescued from an unpleasant position by the great thomas cromwell, then a practically unknown soldier. sir john was passing through the town, when he was very treacherously stopped and surrounded in his hotel by the municipal authorities. cromwell managed to persuade them that he was a neapolitan acquaintance of sir john, and that if he might speak to him he would be able to induce the knight to surrender himself into their hands. but what he actually did was to suggest to sir john that he should change clothes with a servant that cromwell had brought with him, and in this disguise he helped him to escape from the town. when cromwell came to england, it was sir john who first commended him to wolsey's notice. in the reign of charles i, william, lord russell (afterwards earl of bedford), and pym, the great commoner, were returned together as co-members for tavistock; and when war was declared the earl of bedford sided with the parliament and was appointed to raise the devonshire militia for them. he was not personally hostile to the king but thought, like others, that if charles saw the parliament in arms against him, he would realize that the nation was resolute in defence of its liberty. the earl of bedford, at the head of his recruits, engaged the enemy near sherborne castle, and was victorious; and at the battle of edge hill he 'was reported by lord wharton to have done extraordinary service.' later he was among those most anxious for a treaty of peace, but he suffered from holding too moderate views. in taking up arms against the king he had offended the queen too bitterly to be well received when he, in company with some other peers, went to the court at oxford, and his sympathy with the king alienated him from the parliament. sincerely anxious for peace, he soon saw the hopelessness of all efforts in that direction, and long before the struggle was over he practically withdrew from public affairs. tavistock's greatest glory, sir francis drake, has already been spoken of; but among the lesser lights is a captain fully worthy to have sailed in the company of queen elizabeth's illustrious captains, though he lived in the less triumphant days of charles i. captain richard peeke, or peke, or pike (he signs himself peeke in his pamphlet, but in a private letter dr. meddus, a contemporary, refers to him as pike), has left no account of his career, only that of his great adventure in spain. a local schoolmaster hails him with these flamboyant lines: 'search whither can be found again the like for noble prowess to our tav'stock pike,- in whose renowned, never-dying name live england's honour and the spaniard's shame.' in 1625 peeke joined the force that king charles and queen henrietta helped to start from plymouth. sir edward cecil was in command, and, as a result of this expedition, earned for himself the nickname of sit-still. peeke's account is excellent, although he begins by saying that he knows not 'the fine phrases of silken courtiers'; but 'a good shippe i know and a poore cabbin and the language of a cannon ... as my breeding has bin rough (scorning delicacy) so must my writings be.' the first attack was made on 'cales' (cadiz), and peeke gives a vivid description of the hot and stubborn fight that took place before the fort of puntal surrendered. the whole army was then landed, but peeke did not go with them; 'for i was no land soldier, and therefore all that while kept aboard.' as the fate of the expedition has nothing to do with his story, it is enough to say that the men got very much out of hand, the commander, in great alarm, hurriedly retreated, and, without attempting to follow up his victory on land, set sail in pursuit of a spanish fleet that he never came up with, and three weeks later returned in disgrace to england. to return to richard peeke. after the army had all landed he thought that 'the late storms had beaten all the spaniards in' for a time, and that he would go on shore for a little diversion. meeting some englishmen coming back to the ships, laden with 'oranges and lymons' which they had taken from some gardens not far off, he set off to find some fruit for himself, the men assuring him that there was no danger. less than a mile away, however, he came, '(for all their talking of no danger), on three englishmen starke dead, being slayne, lying in the way,' and another 'not fully dead.... i then resolved (and was about it) for christian charities sake, and for countries sake, to have carried him on my back to our shippes, farre off though they lay.... but my good intents were prevented; for, on a sodaine, came rushing in vpon me a spanish horseman, whose name as afterwards i was informed was don juan of cales, a knight.... five or sixe skirmishes wee had, and for a pretty while fought off and on.' as the fight went on peeke got the better of don juan, who 'fell on his knees and crying out in french to me, _pardone moy, je vous pree. je suie un buon chrestien_.... having a soldier's minde to rifle him, i searched for jewels, but found only five pieces of eight about him.' here fortune turned, for 'fourteen spanish muskateers, spying me so busy about one of their countreymen,' came to his rescue, and peeke was forced to yield himself prisoner. 'true valour (i see) goes not aluaies in good cloathes, for don juan (when my hands were in a manner bound behind me) ... wounded me through the face, from eare to eare, and had there killed me, had not the fourteen muskateers rescued me from his rage.' peeke was again severely wounded while being led through the streets of cadiz, but met with better treatment in prison, though his forebodings were gloomy. and when he was soon afterwards sent for by the governor to xeres, he went 'wondrous unwilling ... because i feared i should ther be put to tortures.' on the day of trial he was brought before a great assembly of nobles, 'my sword lying before them on the table. it was reached to me; i tooke it and embraced it in mine arms, and with teares in my eyes kist the pommel of it. he [the duke of medina] then demanded how many men i had kild with that weapon? i told him, if i had kild one, i had not bene there now before that princely assembly, for when i had him at my foote, begging for mercy, i gave him life, yet he then very poorely did me a mischiefe. then they asked don john (my prisoner) what woundes i gave him; he sayd, none: upon this he was rebuked and told, that if upon our first encounter, he had run me through, it had been a faire and noble triumph; but so to wound me, being in the hands of others, they held it base.' peake was now questioned as to the name of his ship, the captain, and the number of cannon on board. 'i sayd, forty peices. but the lords, looking all this while on a paper which they held in their hands, duke medyna sayd, in their note there was but thirty-eight.' he afterwards found that in that paper they had every detail about 'our shippes, their burden, men ... as perfect as wee ourselves had them in england. of what strength (quoth another duke) is the fort of plymouth? i answered, very strong. what ordnance in it? fifty, sayd i. that is not so, sayd he, there is but seuenteene. how many soldiers are in the fort? i answered, two hundred: that is not so (quoth a conde), there is but twenty. 'marquesse alquenezes asked me, of what strength the little island was before plymouth. i told him, i know not; then (quoth he), wee doe. 'is plymouth a walled towne? yes, my lords. and a good wall? yes, say i, a very good wall: true, sayd a duke, to leape ouer with a staffe. and hath the towne, sayd the duke of medyna, strong gates? yes. but, quoth he, there were neither wood nor iron to those gates, but two dayes before your fleete came away.' among many other questions, they asked why 'in all this brauery of the fleete the english had not taken cales as well as puntal?' to which peeke, who must have often asked this question of himself, replied boldly that 'the lord generall ... was loath to rob an almeshouse, hauing a better market to goe to. cales, i told them, was held poore, unmanned, unmunitioned. what better market? sayd medyna. i told him genoa or lisbon.' all around stood the 'common people,' who made the ordeal still harder by 'many jeerings, mockings, scornes, and bitter jests' against the english, 'which i must not so much as bite my lippe against, but with an inforced patient care stood still.... amongst many other raproches and spightfull names, one of the _spaniards_ called _english_ men _gallinas_ (hennes).' this amused the 'great lords,' and one of them asked the prisoner if the spaniards, when they came to england (in war), would prove such hens as the english. to which peeke answered, 'somewhat emboldned by his merry countenance,' that they would prove chickens. 'darst thou then (quoth duke of medyna, with a browe half angry) fight with one of these spanish pullets? o my lord! sayd i, i am a prisoner, and my life at stake, and therefore dare not be so bold as to adventure upon any such action, ... yet ... with all told him, he was unworthy of the name of an english man, that should refuse to fight with one man of any nation whatsoever. hereupon my shackells were knockt off and my iron ring and chayne taken from my neck.' the first challenger was quickly disposed of. 'i was then demanded, if i durst fight against an other? i told them my heart was good to adventure; but i humbly requested them to giue me pardon if i refused. for to my selfe i too well knew that the spaniard is haughty, impatient of the least affront: and when he received but a touch of any dishonour, disgrace or blemish (especially in his owne countrey, and from an english man) his revenge is implacable, mortall and bloudy. 'yet being by the noblemen pressed agen and agen to try my fortune with an other, i (seeing my life was in the lyon's paw, to struggle with whome for safety there was no way but one, and being afrayd to displease them) sayd: that if their graces and greatnesses would giue me leave to play at mine owne countrey weapon called the quarter staffe, i was then ready there an oposite, against any commer.' when a 'hansome and well spirited spaniard steps foorth, with his rapier and poniard,' peeke explained that he 'made little account of that one to play with, and should shew them no sport. 'then a second (arm'd as before) presents himselfe; i demanded if there would come no more? the dukes asked, how many i desired? i told them, any number under sixe. which resolution of mine, they smiling at, in a kind of scorne, held it not manly ... to worry one man with a multitude. 'now gentlemen, if here you condemne me for plucking (with mine owne hands) such an assured danger upon mine head: accept of these reasons for excuse. 'to dye, i thought it most certaine, but to dye basely, i would not: for three to kill one had bin to mee no dishonour; to them (weapons considered) no glory: an honourable subjection i esteemed better, than an ignoble conquest.... only heaven i had in mine eye, the honor of my country in my heart, my fame at the stake, my life on a narrow bridge, and death before and behind me.' with a supreme effort peeke succeeded in killing one of his opponents and disabling the other two. then for a moment he feared the threatening anger of the crowd, but the nobles showed great generosity in their admiration of his pluck, whether they felt mortified or not, and he was treated with extreme kindness, both then and afterwards. he 'was kept in the marquesse alquenezes house, who one day ... desired i would sing. i willing to obey him (whose goodnesse i had tasted), did so, and sung this psalme: _when as we sate in babylon, etc._ the meaning of which being told he saide to me, _english_ man, comfort thyself, for thou art in no captivity.' peeke was then sent to the king of spain, who tried to keep him in his service, but with a becoming gratitude for the favours shown to him, peeke begged to be allowed to return home, 'being a subject onely to the king of england.' whereupon the king very magnanimously gave 'one hundred pistoletts to beare my charges.' a play has been written called 'dick of devonshire,' in which the adventures of 'dick pike' are set in the midst of a spanish tragi-comedy. nothing is known of peeke's life after he came back to his own country, but there are strong reasons for believing that he returned to tavistock. and if it was himself, and not a namesake, who flourished there, in 1638, our hero might be seen in an entirely new rôle, for that year richard peeke filled the peaceful office of people's churchwarden! tavistock's fine church is dedicated to st eustachius, and it has a high battlemented tower crowned with slender pinnacles. the tower is 'pierced with arches in all four sides, so that it stands on piers. it is thus a true campanile, and was never joined to the church.' there are monuments to several families in the nave and chancel, and stories and memories crowd especially round two of them. one is the tomb of john fitz of fitz-ford and his wife, at the back of which their son sir john kneels at a desk with a book before him. fitzford house is close to tavistock, and with the property came to sir john's daughter, lady howard, round whose name many tales have gathered. in mrs bray's time lady howard was regarded as 'a female bluebeard,' but a later verdict is more charitable, and it is now thought that the unhappy lady has been much maligned. being a great heiress, her hand was disposed of when she was only twelve years old, and she was married to sir alan percy, who died three years afterwards. there is a proverb- 'winter-time for shoeing, peascod-time for wooing;' but lady howard must have been wooed at all seasons. one month after her husband's death she escaped from her chaperon, and secretly married lord darcy's son, who only survived a few months. when she was hardly sixteen, she found a third husband in sir charles howard, by whose name she is always known, although after his death she married sir richard grenville. her last 'venture,' as prince calls it, was a very wretched one; sir richard treated her abominably, and she retaliated to the worst of her power. after her death, mrs bray says (in that delightful storehouse of local traditions, 'the borders of the tamar and the tavy'), there arose a belief that she was 'doomed to run in the shape of a hound from the gateway of fitzford to okehampton park, between the hours of midnight and cock-crowing, and to return with a single blade of grass in her mouth whence she started; and this she was to do till every blade was picked, when the world would be at an end.' 'dr jago, the clergyman of milton abbot, however, told me that occasionally she was said to ride in a coach of bones up the west street towards the moor.... my husband can remember that, when a boy, it was a common saying with the gentry at a party, "it is growing late; let us be gone, or we shall meet lady howard as she starts from fitzford."' a still more conspicuous monument in the church is connected with the other tragedy. the family of glanvills had long been settled near tavistock, and the figure is of judge glanvill in his robes. at his feet kneels a life-size figure of his wife. 'her buckram waist, like armour, sleeves, ruff, and farthingale are all monstrous; and her double-linked gold chains are grand enough for the lord mayor. on the whole she looks so very formidable, that thus seen stationed before the judge, she might be considered as representing justice herself, but it would be in her severest mood.' the mournful story is that of another member of the family, eulalia glanvill, who was forced against her will to marry an old man named page, when she was in love with a young man, george strangwich. after much misery, she and strangwich agreed to murder page, and the story is told in several ballads, in one of which there is a ring of sincerity which makes the 'verses sound better to the brain than to the ear.' it is now thought that the ballad was written by delaney, but in the early editions the ballad was attributed to mrs page herself, and a copy in the roxburghe ballads is headed: 'written with her owne hand, a little before her death.' 'the lamentation of master page's wife' was sung to the tune of 'fortune my foe': 'unhappy she whom fortune hath forlorne: despis'd of grace, that proffered grace did scorne! my lawlesse love hath lucklesse wrought my woe; my discontent content did ov'rthrow. 'in blooming yeares my father's greedy mind, against my will, a match for me did find; great wealth there was, yea, gold and silver store; and yet my heart had chosen long before. 'on knees i prayde they would not me constraine, with teares i cride, their purpose to refraine; with sighs and sobs i did them often move. i might not wed, whereas i could not love. 'but all in vaine my speeches still i spent. my father's will my wishes did prevent; though wealthy page possest my outward part, george strangwidge still was lodgèd in my heart. * * * * * 'lo! here began my downfall and decay! in mind i mus'd to make him straight away, i, that became his discontented wife, contented was he should be rid of life. * * * * * 'well could i wish that page enjoy'd his life so that he had some other to his wife; but never could i wish, of low or hie, a longer life, and see sweet strangwidge die. 'you parents fond that greedy-minded be, and seek to graffe upon the golden tree, consider well, and rightfull judges be, and give your doome 'twixt parents' love and me. 'i was their child, and bound for to obey, yet not to wed where i no love could lay; i married was to much and endless strife, but faith before had made me strangwidge wife. 'you denshire dames and courteous cornwall knights that here are come to visit woefull wights, regard my griefe, and marke my wofull end, and to your children be a better friend. 'and then, my deare, which for my fault must dye, be not afraid the sting of death to try; like as we liv'd and lov'd together true, so both at once, we'll bid the world adue.' 'the lamentation of george strangwidge' many times lapses into bathos, but as in a way it answers the other ballad, i will quote a few verses: 'o glanfield! cause of my committed crime, snarèd in wealth, as birds in bush of lime, what cause had thou to beare such wicked spight against my love, and eke my hart's delight? 'i would to god thy wisdome had been more, or that i had not ent'red at the door; or that thou hadst a kinder father beene unto thy childe, whose yeares are yet but greene. 'ulalia faire, more bright than summer's sunne, whose beauty had my heart for ever won, my soule more sobs to thinke of thy disgrace, than to behold my owne untimely race. 'the deed late done in heart i doe lament, but that i lov'd, i cannot it repent; thy seemely sight was ever sweet to me. would god my death could thy excuser be.' kilworthy house, which in those days belonged to the glanvills, is now the property of the duke of bedford. tavistock seems to have maintained an open mind, or perhaps was forced into keeping open house, during the civil war; but fitzford house, then belonging to sir richard grenville, held out resolutely for the king, until overpowered by lord essex. the people seem to have been rather indifferent to the cause of the war, and very sensible of its hardships, for it was here suggested that a treaty might be made, 'whereby the peace of those two counties of cornwall and devon might be settled and the war removed into other parts.' it was a really excellent method of shifting an unpleasant burden on to other shoulders, but in actual warfare, unfortunately, impracticable, although the treaty was drawn up and for a short time a truce was observed. at the end of this year (1645) prince charles paid a visit to the town, and was so much 'annoyed by wet weather, that ever after, if anybody remarked it was a fine day, he was wont to declare that, however fine it might be elsewhere, he felt quite sure it must be raining at tavistock.' one cannot help wondering if his courtiers kept to english tradition of perpetually speaking of the weather. to walk away from tavistock along the tavy's bank is to follow the footsteps of that river's special poet, william browne. his poems are not so well known as they might be, and his most celebrated lines are nearly always attributed to ben jonson--i mean the fine epitaph on 'sidney's sister, pembroke's mother'--though any doubt as to the author of the lines is cleared up by a manuscript in the library of trinity college, dublin. not very many details of his life are known, but he had the happiness of being better appreciated by his contemporaries than by posterity, and ben jonson and michael drayton wrote complimentary verses, as a sort of introduction to volumes of his poems when they were published. browne's work is very uneven, many of his poems are charming, some diffuse and rather poor; but he had a sincere feeling for nature, and his nymphs and swains revelled in posies and garlands in the shade of groves full of singing birds. in the third book of his long poem, 'britannia's pastorals,' there is a quaint and pretty song, of which one verse runs: 'so shuts the marigold her leaves at the departure of the sun; so from the honeysuckle sheaves the bee goes when the day is done; so sits the turtle when she is but one, and so all woe, as i, since she is gone.' a deliciously whimsical touch marks his description of a feast of oberon: 'the glasses, pure and thinner than we can see from the sea-betroth'd venetian, were all of ice, not made to overlast one supper, and betwixt two cowslips cast. a prettier hath not yet been told, so neat the glass was, and so feat the mould. a little spruce elf then (just of the set of the french dancer or such marionette), clad in a suit of rush, woven like a mat, a monkshood flow'r then serving for a hat; under a cloak made of the spider's loom: this fairy (with them, held a lusty groom) brought in his bottles; neater were there none; and every bottle was a cherry-stone, to each a seed pearl served for a screw, and most of them were fill'd with early dew.' now and again in his verses there peeps out a joyful pride in his county, and his love of the tavy is deep to his heart's core. some way below tavistock is buckland abbey, founded by amicia, countess of devon, in 1278, and for long years the home of cistercians. at the dissolution the abbey was granted for a small sum to sir richard grenville (grandfather of the hero of the _revenge_), who altered it into a dwelling-house. sir richard, his grandson, sold it to john hele and christopher harrys, who were probably acting for sir francis drake, and he formally bought it of them ten months later. the house was built in the body of the church, and it is still easy to trace its ecclesiastical origin from some of the windows and architecture. in the hall is a fine frieze, with raised figures in high relief and an elaborate background, the subject a knight turned hermit. the knight, wearing a hermit's robe, is sitting beneath spreading boughs, and a skull is lodged in a hollow of the tree-trunk. his charger and his discarded armour lie near him. in the same hall rests the famous drum that went round the world with drake, the drum referred to in the traditional promise that mr newbolt has put into verse: 'take my drum to england, hang it by the shore; strike it when the powder's running low; if the dons sight devon, i'll quit the port of heaven, an' drum them up the channel, as we drummed them long ago.' a short distance below the abbey, the tavy, now broadened into a wide but still shallow stream, ripples and hurries over the pebbles in a deep valley between wooded hills. returning to tavistock and going up the river, one arrives at the pretty and very remote village of peter tavy. the houses are scattered about in an irregular group, a stream runs through them to join the tavy, and just above the wide bridge the brook divides, flowing each side of a diamond-shaped patch, green with long grass and cabbages. a steep slope leads up to the little church, which stands back, and a tiny avenue of limes leads up to it from the lichgate. the tower is battlemented, and the church must have been partly rebuilt, for parts of it are early english and the rest late perpendicular. within are slender clustered columns, supporting wide arches, and different designs are sculptured on the sides of the granite font. close by is a glen, which mrs bray says, 'i have ventured to name the valley of waterfalls, on account of the vast number of small but exquisitely beautiful falls seen there.' a narrow lane with high hedges leads round the shoulder of the hill to the steep little valley, where the tavy jostles against obstructive boulders, and a high, narrow, unstable-looking bridge of tarred timber (sometimes called a 'clam' bridge) crosses the stream. climbing up on the farther side, the road soon reaches the village of mary tavy. in reference to these villages a very old joke is told of a judge unacquainted with these parts who, in trying a case, not unnaturally confused the names with those of witnesses, and ordered that peter and mary tavy be brought into court. mary tavy has not the unusual attractiveness of peter tavy. it looks barer, and is overshadowed by that peculiarly comfortless air always given by chimneys or machinery of mines. the church stands above the road, and beside it a large old tree, whose lower branches are so abundantly covered with polypody that the fronds hang like long fringes from either side of each branch. the porch has a white groined ceiling, crossed with fragments of the old timber roof, on which are bosses carved in different designs. from mary tavy a road runs nearly parallel to the river. beyond horndon the houses are fewer and more scattered, and somehow there is a suggestion that one is coming nearer and nearer to the verge of civilization. the few houses look nice in themselves, with the exception of a farm, so cheerless and neglected-looking, that it was a surprise to find it inhabited; and not far beyond this house the road reaches another and very different farm, looking full of comfort--and goes no farther. this farm has the significant name of lane end, and one realizes from its solitary, exposed position that the high and substantial wall surrounding it was built for sound reasons. it stands on the moor, and the cultivation is of the roughest kind; the fields, such as they are, being plentifully sprinkled with huge boulders. in winter, when there is much fear of snow, these fields serve as an enclosure for the ponies that are driven-in off the moor--looking like wild animals in their long, hanging, furry coats. the river is heard dashing over the rocks below, and about a mile farther on is tavy cleave. the last time i saw it a vague threat hung over everything, adding a cold fascination to the moor. the hills showed tints of faint green and palest brown, and patches of bracken gave a consoling shade of russet. hare tor rose beyond, silent and impressive, covered with snow. the tavy had a new beauty, for it was almost frozen over, and the dark water, and along whirling scraps of foam, showed between the blocks of ice and snow, and the boulders were each bordered with shining white. the sky was heavy with snow-clouds, and beneath them and in the rifts were stormy red sunset tints, while a cold blue-grey mist was creeping up the valley. there are some places--the castle of elsinore, for instance--that seem to have an amazing and incomprehensible gift of resisting civilization. they may be brought up to date, and trimmed, and filled with inappropriate people, and everything else done that should spoil them, but in spite of it all they do not for a moment look as if any modern extraneous objects had a meaning for them. they belong to their own day and its manner, and to no other. the same sort of feeling hovers about tavy cleave, and a great sense of the mystery that here more, there less, broods over the moor. but there is no suggestion as to who it is that the moor has most truly and absolutely belonged to, nor even the region of time: only the feeling that the valley is, in a finer than the usual sense, haunted. as a valley tavy cleave is very beautiful, with its steep sides and clear rushing stream and red granite rocks, half in and half out of the river, that have a charm they entirely lose when once away from the water. mr widgery shows how admirable they are in their proper place, with their reflections quivering beneath them. sometimes a kind of black moss grows upon them, and tiny bits of white lichen, giving together a curious tortoiseshell look. above, the hill-sides are covered with heather and broom and whortleberries among masses of loose rocks, and now and again there is the vivid green of a patch of bog. the great masses of rocks crowning the separate points on the hill-side, like ruined rock-castles, add to the air of mystery. looking to the west from above the cleave, one sees--as from any distance round one sees--the most characteristic height of brent tor, with the tiny church on the top. it is not that the tor is so very high, but in some astonishing way it always seems to appear as a landmark, north, south, east, or west, when one imagines it to be absolutely out of range. the sides are steep and rocky, and the church stands 'full bleak and weather-beaten, all-alone as it were, forsaken, whose churchyard doth hardly afford depth of earth to bury the dead; yet doubtless they rest there as securely as in sumptuous st peter's until the day of doom.' the story told of the church is that a man once almost gave himself up for lost--some say in a storm, others in an impenetrable, unending fog--in the channel, and vowed that, if he ever came safe to shore, he would build a church on the first bit of land he saw. as brent tor is far inland, the fog story sounds the more probable, for there is no saying how mist wreaths may drift. the church is dedicated to st michael de la rupe, and here another tradition comes in, for it is popularly supposed that, when the building of the church was begun, the devil pulled away all the day's work in the night. at last st michael came to the rescue, and hurled such an enormous mass of rock upon the devil that he fled away and hindered no more. the building is very tiny, and a countryman told me that as a child he used to be puzzled by the cryptic warning: 'if you get into the second aisle of brent tor church, you will never get out again.' of course--there is no second aisle. the beauty of many of the places on the banks of the tamar is celebrated. among the exquisite woods and lawns of endsleigh--through which one duke of bedford cut no less than forty miles in rides--the river twists and winds for a long distance at one point, and curves round almost into a ring. a little farther south are morwell rocks, which mr norway had the good fortune to see in the spring. 'the trees stretch far away along the river, dense and close to the water's edge, a mountain of gold and sunny green, broken in the midst by a high grey crag, which stands up sheer and grey amid the mass of gorgeous colour. this is the first peak of a great range of limestone cliffs, which for the most part, as the hill sweeps round above the village of morwellham, are hidden in the woods. but when that tiny cluster of cottages and wharves is left behind, the stream creeps closer to the hill, and it is as if the buried rock stirred and flung the coppice off its shoulders, for the limestone precipices rise vertically out of the water to a vast height. the summits are weathered into most fantastic shapes, pinnacles and towers break the skyline, and wherever a crevice in the rock has allowed the lodging of a little earth, some oak-tree roots itself, or a wild tangle of greenery drops down the scarred surface of the cliff.' a little farther down, the tamar and the tavy join, and with the cornish lynher form the hamoaze--a view of land and water that is very admirable. it is not a scene whose dimly realized charm grows gradually stronger, but one whose triumphant beauty is beyond dispute. the innumerable creeks and inlets, the rich abundance of foliage and pasture, and the sweeping sense of spaciousness from the open sea that comes off plymouth sound, help to make the grand effect; and the feelings of few can be quite unstirred by the battleships, or perhaps black sinister destroyers, and the multitude of other shipping lying at anchor in that famous haven, and by the thought of all that they mean to us. chapter xi the taw and the torridge 'hither from my moorland home, nymph of torridge, proud i come; leaving fen and furzy brake, haunt of eft and spotted snake ... nursling of the mountain sky, leaving dian's choir on high, down her cataracts laughing loud, ockment leapt from crag and cloud, leading many a nymph, who dwells where wild deer drink in ferny dells.... græcia, prize thy parsley crown; boast thy laurel, cæsar's town; moorland myrtle still shall be badge of devon's chivalry!' kingsley: _westward ho!_ 'all who have travelled through the delicious scenery of north devon must needs know the little white town of bideford, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge, where salmon wait for autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland in the west. above the town the hills close in, cushioned with deep oak-woods, through which juts here and there a crag of fern-fringed slate; below they lower and open more and more on softly rounded knolls and fertile squares of red and green, till they sink into the wide expanse of hazy flats, rich salt-marshes, and rolling sand-hills, where torridge joins her sister taw, and both together flow quietly toward the broad surges of the bar and the everlasting thunder of the long atlantic swell.' it is difficult to imagine that there could be a more fitting description of bideford than that drawn in the opening words of 'westward ho!' bideford, it has been said, is spoilt by ugly modern houses, but the remark implies a matter-of-fact view, for the ugliness and modernness are only skin-deep, and can easily be ignored. a matter of far greater importance is that there is an old-world essence, a dignity in the whole tone and spirit of the town, that keep it in touch with the glorious past. faithful followers of the heroes on the borderland of myth--king arthur, charlemagne, holger danske--believed that in their country's need these would arise from the shades to lead their people to victory; and at bideford one feels that, should any 'knight of the sea' return, he would find a town not strange to him, and, if the stress were sharp enough to pierce the thin husk that later civilization has added, a people who would understand and not fail him. the name comes from by-the-ford, but a ford between east-the-water and the town must have been rather perilous, and only possible at low-tide. in the early part of the fourteenth century some of the chief inhabitants resolved to build a bridge, but several efforts were made in vain, for they were always thwarted by failure to find a firm enough foundation. then sir richard gurney, priest of the place, was 'admonished by a vision ... to begin that excellent work ... where he should find a stone fixed in the ground.' this dream he thought nothing of, 'until, walking by the river, he espied such a stone or rock there rolled and fixed firmly, which he never remembered to have seen formerly,' and was hereby convinced 'that his dream was no other than an heavenly inspiration.' the whole neighbourhood combined to help, the rich sending money and lending the services of their workmen, and the poor giving such time and labour as they could afford. the bridge, which has since been widened, is a very fine one, of twenty-four arches. westcote says: 'a bark of 60 tons (without masts) may pass and repass with the tide, which flows near five miles above it.' gifts and bequests were made to the bridge, and the funds belonging to it became so large, and the business connected with them so important, that in 1758 a hall was built for the use of the feoffees, and decorated with the royal arms and the arms of the bridge. st mary's church was built about the same date as the bridge, but about forty years ago all but the tower was pulled down and rebuilt. it had suffered considerably from the ravages of the reformers, whose horror of ritualism reached the point of throwing the font out of doors, whereupon 'one schismatic,' more crazy than the rest, took it, says watkins, in wrath, 'for the purpose of a trough for his swine to feed out of; and if he had had his deserts, he would have made one of their company.' the font was probably rescued by some pious person, for the one now in the church is a fine norman one, with cable moulding. in this church was baptized 'raleigh,' the indian brought back by sir richard grenville from carolina, and called after the great sir walter, who was doing much for that country. sir richard kept 'raleigh' in his own house, and the dark stranger must have caused great chattering and excitement among the children and some of their elders in the town, but he did not survive transplantation, and a year later was buried in bideford churchyard. in the register he is described as a native of wynganditoia. on the south side of the church is the tomb of thomas grenville, who lies in armour, with a dog--not, as on most monuments, at his feet, but by his side. on the tomb are various coats of arms, and over it rises an arch ornamented with high stone tracery. a curious screen between the tower and the church has been made from the old carved bench-ends. most of the subjects are grotesque, and on some of the panels are gnome-like heads, with long beards, big hats, and impudent, leering expressions. in the churchyard is a tombstone with this epitaph: 'here lies the body of mary sexton, who pleased many a man, but never vex'd one, not like the woman who lies under the next stone.' nowadays there is not much foreign trade, although a few vessels with outlandish names may be seen lying stranded at low-water alongside the quay. but bideford had a full share of the prosperity that devonshire ports enjoyed in the reign of queen elizabeth. the merchants were encouraged by sir richard grenville, who, fired by the 'gallant and ingenious' sir walter raleigh, ventured first fortune and then himself in commanding an expedition planned by his friend and kinsman. the expedition did not meet with great success in its main object, which was to establish a colony for the settlers, who, finding insurmountable hardships and difficulties, were all brought home later by sir francis drake; but a spanish treasure-ship of immense wealth was captured on the way back. it was said that in different ventures 'bideford, in consequence of its lord, had some share, but chiefly with respect to its mariners.' so, after sir richard had fought his splendid last fight, and when his immediate influence was gone, independent merchants and mariners went on to fresh enterprises, and commerce continued to increase. trading with spain for wool soon became an important branch, but of still greater consequence was the trade with newfoundland. when william and mary reigned, bideford was sending more ships there than any other port in the kingdom but london and--strange to say--topsham. in the next reign the merchants suffered immense losses from french privateers, who, making the island of lundy their headquarters, spied almost every ship that passed up and down the bristol channel. to them, bideford or barnstaple bay was 'emphatically the golden bay, from the great number of valuable prizes which they captured on it.' traffic with america had, however, greatly declined, before it was killed by the war of independence. in the history of bideford the name of grenville shines on many occasions. both devon and cornwall claim this eminent family, their 'chiefest habitation' of stow being in cornwall, while, according to some authorities, their first dwelling-place in this part of the world was at bideford. richard de grenville, near the end of the fourteenth century, for his valour and courage in the welsh wars was awarded the town and county of neath, in glamorgan. being pious as well as brave, he devoted all this wealth to the church, building and endowing a monastery for cistercian monks. a quaint 'prophecy' regarding this family was said to have been found many years later in the abbey of neeth, where it was kept 'in a most curious box of jett, written in the year 1400.' it begins: 'amongst the trayne of valiant knights that with king william came, grenvile is great, a norman borne, renowned by his fame; his helmet ras'd and first unlac'd upon the cambrian shore, where he in honour of his god the abbey did decore with costly buildings, ornaments, and gave us spatious lands, as the first-fruits which victory did give into his hands.' watkins refrains from any comment as to the genuineness of the 'prophecy' (of which i have only quoted a small portion), but perhaps the critical would gather from the whole tone, and especially from the closing lines, which have a flattering reference to the reign of a king charles, that it was written about the date of its discovery. the dignity and authority, the commanding presence of sir richard as a country gentleman, a neighbour, a justice of the peace, are admirably suggested in 'westward ho!' apart from warfare on land or sea, he interested himself in a host of affairs at home, and was both member of parliament and high sheriff for cornwall. he was also called to serve on commissions for making inquiries about pirates and strengthening the defences of the coast; and notes show that within six months he was occupied with places as far east and west as dover and tintagel. in 1587 he was appointed by the queen to review the 'trained bands' in devon and cornwall, that nothing of their equipment might be lacking when the expected enemy arrived; and when the shattered remnants of the armada were straggling down the irish channel, sir richard had special orders to 'stay all shipping upon the north coast of devon and cornwall.' the catalogue alone of the tasks allotted to him shows how greatly the queen confided in his powers and judgment; yet all the tale of his life is completely overshadowed by the magnificence of his death: 'and he sailed away from flores till the spaniard came in sight, with his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather-bow. "shall we fight or shall we fly? good sir richard, tell us now, for to fight is but to die! there'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." and sir richard said again: "we be all good englishmen; let us bang those dogs of seville, the children of the devil, for i never turned my back upon don or devil yet." sir richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so the little revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, with her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; for half of their fleet to the right and half on the left were seen, and the little _revenge_ ran on through the long sea-lane between. * * * * * and the sun went down and the stars came out far over the summer sea, but never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.' when the day dawned, 'all the powder of the _revenge_ to the last barrell was now spent, all her pikes broken, fortie of her best men slaine, and the most part of the rest hurt.' then sir richard 'commanded the maister gunner, whom he knew to be a most resolute man, to split and sinke the ship; that thereby nothing might remaine of glorious victorie to the spaniards; seeing in so manie houres fighte with so great a navie they were not able to take her, having had fifteene houres time, fifteene thousand men, and fifty and three suite of menne of warre to perform it withall.' the captain and most of the crew felt that this supreme sacrifice was not required of them, and offered to treat with the spaniards, who, filled with generous admiration for the amazing courage that had been shown by their adversaries, offered honourable terms of surrender. sir richard, who had received several wounds, and who was at the point of death, was carried on board the spanish admiral's ship, where his life ebbed away within a few days. 'here die i, richard grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for that i have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do that hath fought for his country, queen, religion, and honour: my soul willingly departing from this body, being behind the lasting fame of having behaved as every valiant soldier is in his duty bound to do.' sir richard's famous grandson, sir bevil grenville, was a brave soldier, but less awe-inspiring; 'the most generally beloved man in cornwall,' according to clarendon; and he adds that 'a brighter courage and a gentler disposition were never married together.' when war was declared, volunteers flocked to his standard, and in his first engagement, near liskeard, he inflicted defeat on the parliamentary troops, and took twelve hundred soldiers and all the guns. at stratton his achievements were even more brilliant, for his troops began at a serious disadvantage. the enemy, with ample supplies and ammunition, were encamped on the top of a hill; 'the royalist troops, less than half their number, short of ammunition, and so destitute of provisions that the best officers had but a biscuit a day, lay at launceston.' undaunted by these discouraging conditions, they determined to attack, and having marched twenty miles, the soldiers arrived at the foot of the hill, weary, footsore, and exhausted from want of food. from dawn till late afternoon the storming-parties were again and again repulsed, till their powder was almost gone; then they scaled the hill in the face of cannon and muskets, to take the position by the force of swords and pikes. grenville's party was the first to struggle up to the top, and it was almost immediately joined by the other columns, when the enemy broke in confusion and fled. sir bevil met his death at lansdowne, when, with grim doggedness, the royalists were again climbing the heights in the face of the enemy's fire. very many fell, and he among them. 'young john grenville, a lad of sixteen, sprang, it is said, into his father's saddle, and led the charge, and the cornishmen followed with their swords drawn and with tears in their eyes, swearing they would kill a rebel for every hair of sir bevil's head.' it is not possible to follow the careers of others of his family, but a saying in the west country ran: 'that a godolphin was never known to want wit, a trelawney courage, or a grenville loyalty.' their love of adventure perhaps descended from an earlier sir richard grenville, who puts forward his views in a poem called sir richard grenville's farewell. [also entitled 'in praise of seafaring men in hope of good fortune, and describing evil fortune.'] who seeks the way to win renown, or flies with wings of high desert, who seeks to wear the laurel crown, or hath the mind that would aspire- let him his native soil eschew, let him go range and seek a new. each haughty heart is well content with every chance that shall betide- no hap can hinder his intent; he steadfast stands, though fortune slide. the sun, quoth he, doth shine as well abroad as erst where i did dwell. * * * * * to pass the seas some think a toil; some think it strange abroad to roam; some think it grief to leave their soil, their parents, kinsfolk, and their home. think so who list, i take it not; i must abroad to try my lot. * * * * * if jason of that mind had been, the grecians, when they came to troy, had never so the trojans fooled, nor ne'er put them to such annoy; wherefore, who list to live at home, to purchase fame i will go roam. directly, bideford suffered very little from the civil war. in the early days the town was for the parliament, and two forts were built, one on each side of the river; but after a defeat near torrington, in the autumn of 1643, the citizens surrendered to the royal army. 'their spirit for rebellion was considerably reduced,' says their special historian; 'they remained perfectly neutral to the dreadful end of that unhappy war.' unfortunately, it is not possible here to dwell upon the delightful minor annals of bideford, such as the history of that stalwart pamphleteer, dr shebbeare, who, for his repeated attacks on the ministry, was condemned to stand in the pillory at charing cross. the sentence was carried out, but not exactly in the usual manner, for 'mr beardmore, the under-sheriff, being a friend of the doctor's, permitted him to stand unconfined on the platform of the pillory, attended by a servant in livery holding an umbrella over him.' it is lamentable that the authorities were sufficiently vindictive and small-minded to visit this act of friendly tolerance on mr beardmore with a fine of £50 and two months' imprisonment. dr. shebbeare was also imprisoned; but later in life the tide turned, and the king was persuaded to pension him with £200. as dr johnson was pensioned about the same time, with the same sum, the joke ran that the king had shown benevolence to a he bear and a she bear. it is also impossible to do more than touch on the tragic episode of 1682--the trial of three unhappy women, susanna edwards, temperance lloyd, and mary trembles, who were accused of having practised witchcraft. here are a few fragments of the evidence given at the trial. a witness said that, while nursing a sick woman, a magpie fluttered once against the window, and that temperance admitted that this 'was the black man in the shape of a bird.' another time 'a grey or braget cat' of rather mysterious movements was an object of suspicion, and temperance was reported to have confessed that 'she believed it to be the devil.' the evidence of a dead woman was brought forward, she having 'deposed that the said temperance had appeared to her in the shape of a red pig.' susanna edwards, under strict examination, 'confesseth that the devil hath appeared to her in the shape of a lyon, as she supposed.' some of the questions put to the wretched 'witches' were simply grotesque, and reflect, as watkins caustically observes, on the intelligence of the examiner. temperance was asked: 'temperance, how did you come in to hurt mrs grace thomas? did you pass through the key-hole of the door, or was the door open?... 'h. [the examiner]. did you know any marriners, that you or your associates destroyed, by overturning of ships or boats? 'temperance. no! i never hurt any ship, bark, or boat in my life. 'h. you say you never hurt ships nor boats; did you never ride over an arm of the sea on a cow?' to the north of bideford is a little peninsula formed by the mouth of the torridge on the east, the far wider estuary of the taw on the north, and the open sea on the west. the whole course of the torridge is very capricious. the source is within four miles of the sea, not far south of hartland, and, at once turning inland, the stream takes a south-easterly direction till it reaches the first slopes that, rising out of the fertile country, mount gradually as they stretch towards the borders of dartmoor. at this check the torridge runs due east till, within a few miles of okehampton, it turns in a great rounded loop, and flows north and slightly west to the north coast again. the taw's course is far more direct. it rises in dartmoor, and, occasionally bending slightly to east or west, it makes a fairly straight way towards the north till barnstaple is reached, and then, turning almost at a right angle, runs westward to the sea. following the strip of land along the west bank of the torridge from bideford, the road passes northam, and on the north-eastern point, at the meeting of the rivers, stands appledore. before reaching northam, by diverging a little to the west, one arrives at the remains of an ancient castle, kenwith castle, known for a long time as hennaborough or henny hill, where about a.d. 877 the danes were valiantly driven back, after a furious battle, by king alfred and his son. hubba, the leader of the danes, fell, and their magical banner, reafan--the raven--was taken. according to one tradition, it was 'wrought in needlework by the daughters of lothbroc, the dane, and, as they conceived, it made them invincible.' another account rather contradicts this, as it declares that the wonderful standard bore a stuffed raven, who 'hung quiet when defeat was at hand, but clapped his wings before victory.' all the legends, however, point to the faith of the danes in the magical powers of the banner, and their chagrin on losing it must have been very great. the danes buried hubba 'on the shore near his ships, and, according to the manner of northern nations, piled on him a heap of copped stones as a trophy to his memorial, whereof the place took name hubba-stone.' risdon speaks of the 'sea's encroaching,' and of the stones having been swept away by it before his day, but the name still clings to the spot where it stood. a little fort at appledore was built, it is said--but the authority is not infallible--at the same time that the forts were thrown up at bideford, and towards the end of july, 1644, it was called on to make a defence. barnstaple had suddenly rebelled against the royalists, and the citizens resolved to take possession of the guns that commanded the river's mouth. sir john berkeley, writing what must have been an unsatisfactory letter to colonel seymour, in answer to a request for more men, speaks of the troops sent to help the defenders: 'your desire and expectance of supply is most just and reasonable. having been exhausted of men by the prince, and having sent to the relief of appledore, by his majesty's command, 500 under colonel apsley ... i am not able to give you the least assistance at present.' and sir hugh pollard, writing at the same time, mentions that colonel apsley's force will meet 'a many of doddington's horse at chimleigh, to the relief of the fort at appledore, which is straitly besieged by those of barnstaple.' the garrison consisted of forty cornishmen, and before the siege was raised they were 'much straitened both for dread and fresh water.' they were particularly badly off because 'a certain colonel, who is stigmatized covertly as "no cornishman," had been entrusted with the victualling of the fort, but had neglected his duty.' close to the sea, on the west, lies westward ho!--a tiny (and modern) watering-place, named after kingsley's famous book. along the western shore as far as the taw stretch northam burrows, covered for some distance by a fine elastic turf that is far-famed, and by patches of rushes. beyond the golf-links the ground breaks into sand-hills, all hillocks and hollows of pure sand, soft and yielding, dented by every footstep, set with rushes and spangled with crane's-bill, yellow bedstraw, tiny purple scented thyme-flowers, and a kind of spurge. both sand-hills and common are protected from the sea by the well-known pebble ridge, which stretches for two miles in a straight line. it is a mass--fifty feet wide and twenty feet high--of large, smooth, rolled slate-stones, some being two feet across, though most of them are smaller. turning westwards along the coast, lundy is often to be seen like a faint blue cloud on the horizon, especially when a softening haze hovers over the land--but on a clear day it is very distinct. and on a fine evening, when the dim blue twilight is creeping up on every side, it has the very air of an enchanted island against the radiant crimson that for a few moments spreads and glows in the west after sundown. a little distance farther on is portledge, 'the most antient seat of the name and family of coffin,' says prince; and he mentions a boundary deed between richard coffin and the abbot of tavistock, written 'in the saxon tongue, which giveth good confirmation thereof.' sir william coffin was one of several devonshire gentlemen who were 'assistants' to henry viii in the tournaments of the 'field of the cloth of gold,' being of great courage, and 'expert at feats of arms.' a story which is often told of him gives a good illustration of his strong will. while living on a property that belonged to his wife in derbyshire, sir william chanced one day to pass a churchyard, and seeing a group of people standing about, he asked what was happening. being told that 'they had brought a corps to be buried, but the priest refused to do his office unless they first delivered him the poor man's cow, the only quick goods left,' for a burial fee, he commanded the priest to read the service. but the priest declined to do so until he had received his fee. on this answer, sir william 'caused the priest to be put into the poor man's grave, and earth to be thrown upon him; and he still persisting in his refusal, there was still more earth thrown in, until the obstinate priest was either altogether or well nigh suffocated.' prince is entirely delightful over this story. he goes on: 'now, thus to handle a priest in those days was a very bold adventure;' as if to bury a priest alive was usually considered a pleasant amusement. sir william, however, not only lived through the storm that the high-handed action raised, but actually succeeded in moving parliament to pass an act regulating the burial fees that might be asked of the poor. so our biographer finishes with the triumphant axiom: 'evil manners are often the parent of good laws!' eleven miles west of bideford is clovelly. here one feels, rather despairingly, that anyone who has seen this wonderful village can listen to no description of it; while to those who have never seen it, no description is of any value. a road leads towards it through the hobby, a wood overhanging the sea, which kingsley describes as 'a forest wall five hundred feet high, of almost semi-tropic luxuriance.' the road was 'banked on one side with crumbling rocks, festooned with heath, and golden hawkweed, and london pride, like velvet cushions covered with pink lace, and beds of white bramble-blossom alive with butterflies; while above my head, and on my right, the delicate cool canopy of oak and birch leaves shrouded me so close that i could have fancied myself miles inland, buried in some glen unknown to any wind of heaven, but that everywhere between green sprays and grey stems gleamed that same boundless ocean blue.' the village itself lies in a ravine of the rock, and the 'street' is so precipitous that the eaves of one house are on a level with the foundations of its next neighbour above. kingsley and dickens have written descriptions that, scarcely overlapping, seem to complete each other. 'i was crawling up the paved stairs, inaccessible to cart or carriage, which are flatteringly denominated clovelly street; ... behind me a sheer descent, roof below roof, at an angle of 75°, to the pier and bay, two hundred feet below and in front of me; another hundred feet above, a green amphitheatre of oak and ash and larch, shutting out all but a narrow slip of sky, across which the low, soft, formless mist was crawling, opening every instant to show some gap of intense dark rainy blue, and send down a hot vaporous gleam of sunshine upon the white cottages, with their grey steaming roofs and bright green railings packed one above another upon the ledges of the cliff; and on the tall tree fuchsias and gaudy dahlias in the little scraps of courtyard; calling the rich faint odour out of the verbenas and jessamines, and, alas! out of the herring heads and tails also, as they lay in the rivulet, and lighting up the wings of the gorgeous butterflies, almost unknown in our colder eastern climate, which fluttered from woodland down to garden, and from garden up to woodland.' the human element tinges the other sketch more strongly: 'the village was built sheer up the face of a steep and lofty cliff. there was no road in it, there was no wheeled vehicle in it, there was not a level yard in it. from the sea-beach to the cliff-top two irregular rows of white houses, placed opposite to one another and twisting here and there, and there and here, rose like the sides of a long succession of stages of crooked ladders, and you climbed up village or climbed down the village by the staves between, some six feet wide or so, and made up of sharp, irregular stones. the old pack-saddle, long laid aside in most parts of england, as one of the appendages of its infancy, flourished here intact. strings of pack-horses and pack-donkeys toiled slowly up the staves of the ladders, bearing fish and coal, and such other cargo as was unshipping at the pier from the dancing fleet of village boats and from two or three little coasting traders. as the beasts of burden ascended laden, or descended light, they got so lost at intervals in the floating clouds of village smoke, that they seemed to dive down some of the village chimneys and come to the surface again far off, high above others. no two houses in the village were alike in chimney, size, shape, door, window, gable, roof-tree, anything. the sides of the ladder were musical with water, running clear and bright. the staves were musical with the clattering feet of the pack-horses and pack-donkeys, and the voices of the fishermen urging them up mingled with the voices of the fishermen's wives and their many children.... the red-brown cliffs, richly wooded to their extremest verge, had their softened and beautiful forms reflected in the bluest water, under the clear north devonshire sky of a november day without a cloud. the village itself was so steeped in autumnal foliage, from the houses joining on the pier to the topmost round of the topmost ladder, that one might have fancied it was out a-bird's-nesting, and was (as indeed it was) a wonderful climber.' the harbour is very small, but on a cliff-bound, dangerous coast it is one of the very few between bideford and padstow. clovelly's great herring fishery used to be famous, but it is not now so large as it used to be. above the village, the beautiful park of clovelly court lies along the cliffs, looking over the wide distances of bideford bay; and on a fine day the welsh coast may be seen. inland, great forest trees tower above a miniature forest of bracken, and at the opening of a glade one may catch glimpses of the deer appearing and vanishing again. the carys were in very ancient days settled at st giles-in-the-heath, but a branch of them came to clovelly in the reign of richard ii. they were of the same race as the carys of torre abbey, and the family of whom lord falkland is the head. john cary, who acquired the property, was a distinguished character. as a judge, 'he scattered the rays of justice about him, with great splendour.' he was called to show firmness and loyalty under the most trying circumstances, but, 'true as steel ... the greatest dangers could not affright him from his duty and loyalty to his distressed master richard ii, unto whom he faithfully adhered when most others had forsaken him.' when the king had been deposed, 'this reverend judge, unable and unwilling to bow like a willow with every blast of wind, did freely and confidently speak his mind.' so faithfully did he maintain king richard's cause that, when henry iv came to the throne, the judge was banished the kingdom, and his goods and lands were confiscated. these, sir robert cary, his son, recovered literally at the point of the sword, for a 'certain knight-errand of arragon,' of great skill in feats of arms, 'arrived here in england, where he challenged any man of his rank and quality.' sir robert accepted the challenge, and a 'long and doubtful combat was waged in smithfield, london.' in the end the 'presumptious arrogonoise' was vanquished, and henry v, to whom sir robert's gallantry appealed, restored him 'a good part of his father's lands,' and granted him leave to bear 'in a field silver, on a bend sable, three white roses,' the arms of the conquered knight--the arms that the carys still bear. the clovelly branch of the family is now extinct. a little to the south of clovelly, and on high ground, are clovelly dykes, the remains of an old camp, sometimes called british and sometimes roman. it is large and circular, and the position was strengthened by three great trenches, about eighteen feet deep and three hundred feet long, which lie around it. the camp commands the only old road in the surrounding country. about seven or eight miles to the west is the grand headland of hartland point. it is a narrow ridge that rises precipitously three hundred and fifty feet above the water, projects far out into the sea, and abruptly ends the coast-line to the west. the coast is very fine, but also most dangerous, and the cliffs, cleft here and there by great chasms, fall sheer down to needle-points of hard black slate rock jutting out into the sea. the name of herty point, as it used to be called, was originally, says camden, 'hercules's promontory,' and this title has given rise to 'a very formal story that hercules came into britain and killed i know not what giants.' here camden pauses in his description of the place, to consider whether there ever was a hercules at all, and, if so, whether there were not really forty-three hercules; and if this was not so, whether hercules was perhaps 'a mere fiction to denote the strength of human prudence,' or, again, possibly a myth personifying the sun, and his labours the signs of the zodiac, 'which the sun runs through yearly.' on the whole, he decides that, at any rate, hercules never came to britain, but the name might have been given to the point by the greeks 'out of vanity,' because 'they dedicated everything they found magnificent in any place to the glory of hercules.' four miles south-east of the headland lies hartland town. it has been briefly described as 'a very quiet street of grey stone cottages and whitewashed houses on a high and windy tableland.' close by is hartland abbey, founded, according to tradition, by githa, the wife of earl godwin, and mother of harold ii, in honour of st nectan; for she 'highly reverenced the man, and verily believed that through his merits her husband had escaped shipwreck in a dangerous tempest.' in the reign of henry ii, leave was given to oliver de dynant to change the community of secular canons into regular canons of st. augustine's order, and to found a monastery for them. but between the successors of the founder and the canons matters did not always run smoothly; in fact, on one occasion, about a hundred years later, they actually came to blows in the church, as is made clear by an entry in the register of bishop bronescombe, for it records that the bishop had reconciled the church, 'which had been polluted by an effusion of blood in an affray between oliver de dinham and the canons.' after the dissolution the abbey was bestowed by the king upon the sergeant of his cellar, a man named abbott. parts of the abbey remained unaltered and in good repair till the end of the eighteenth century, when, in building the present house, the unfortunate taste of the period destroyed the hall, which was over seventy feet long, and a portion of the cloisters, which were then still perfect. parts of them, however, are still standing. the cloisters had been rebuilt at a very early date, for dr. oliver quotes an inscription which was over one of the arches that shows them to be the work of the abbot john of exeter, who resigned in 1329. bishop stapledon had found many defects in the structure of the abbey, when he made his visitation in 1319, and had ordered them to be at once remedied. during the alterations made about one hundred and twenty years ago, the monument of a knight hospitaller was found, and within the last few years small pieces of carved stone have been dug up--amongst others, a madonna's head with traces of blue and gold still upon it; a monk kneeling, and a knight and lady hand in hand. the abbey is now the property of sir lewis stucley. nearer the shore, and on high ground, is the church of st nectan, whose tall pinnacled tower is a landmark to sailors. the tower is perpendicular, but most of the church is late decorated, and the north side has a norman doorway. the great feature is the very beautiful screen which stretches across the whole church; but the cradle roofs are good, and there is other carving. on the pulpit is the figure of a goat with tusks, and the puzzling inscription, 'god save king james. fines.' the norman font is curiously sculptured with grotesque faces that look down on to equally quaint faces on the pedestal--an allegory in stone which mr hawker of morwenstow interpreted as the righteous looking down on the wicked. three or four miles farther on is the actual border-line, and here one must turn, although, looking south towards widemouth bay, it is irresistibly tempting to quote a few verses of rank doggerel, written on a shipwreck which happened there on november 23, 1824. the verses were probably inspired by terrible stress of emotion, and suggest the idea that they were written with a spar rather than with a pen; but no doubt they were for ever the joy and pride of their author. 'come all you british seamen, that plough the raging main, who fight for king and country, and your merchants do maintain. i'll sing you of a shipwreck that was here the other day, at a place that's called widemouth, near bude, and in that bay. _chorus._ 'so my british tars be steady, and maintain your glorious name; till you're drowned, killed, or wounded, you must put to sea again. 'the twenty-third of november, that was the very time, a fine and lofty schooner brig, the _happy return_, of lyme, the bold and noble captain escaped from the deep, and died with cold that very night near to a flock of sheep. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc. 'the mate, as fine a seaman as could stand on a deck, had with his noble captain escaped from the wreck; no refuge could be found on shore. no good could there be done; he returned on board the deck and died: the poor man lost his son. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc. 'this poor man's son was not drown'd, but found dead the next day; three only of this manly crew escaped death and sea. have pity on poor seamen, kind gentlemen, i beg; the one of them is wounded, the poor man broke his leg. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc. 'i've twice myself been shipwreck'd, twenty-two years at sea, but never saw a gang of thieves before that very day; had it not been for captain thomas, and his loyal preventive crew, they'd have stolen the cargo and the deck, the mast and rigging too. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc. 'this schooner came from dublin, to london she was bound; i could not believe such daring thieves stood on the british ground. the farmers of the country,[8] that distress ought to relieve, some of them were stealing butter, while others stole the beef. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc. 'seamen call this place west barbary. to me it does appear, more of the cargo would have sav'd, were they wrecked on algier: the people might as well come in, rob the market or the fair; but to rob distressed seamen, no one had business there. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc. 'now to complete this shipwreck, and for to end this song, i've told you nothing but the truth, no mortal i have wrong'd. great praise is due to pethick.[9] his wife and family brave, that did their best that very time poor seamen's lives to save. _chorus._ 'so my british tars, etc.' [footnote 8: st. ginnes.] [footnote 9: the cottager by the seaside.] kingsley remarks that 'an agricultural people is generally as cruel to wrecked seamen as a fishing one is merciful,' and speaks of the many stories he has heard of 'baysmen' on this coast 'risking themselves like very heroes to save strangers' lives, and at the same time beating off the labouring folk who swarmed down for plunder from the inland hills.' retracing the way to northam burrows, passing through them to their most northerly point, and crossing the taw, one arrives at a strip of shore--braunton burrows--which corresponds to the strip on the southern bank of the river. 'a great chaos of wind-strewn sand-hills,' inhabited by armies of rabbits, and haunted by peewits and gulls, the burrows are brightened by masses of wild-flowers, from the great mullein--once known as hedge-taper, because of its pale torch of blossoms--to the tiny delicate rose-pink bells of the bog-pimpernel. 'to the left were rich, alluvial marshes, covered with red cattle sleeping in the sun, and laced with creeks and flowing dykes.... beyond again [looking back to the south] two broad tide-rivers, spotted with white and red-brown sails, gleamed like avenues of silver ... till they vanished among the wooded hills. on the eastern horizon the dark range of exmoor sank gradually into lower and more broken ridges, which rolled away, woodland beyond woodland, till all outlines were lost in a purple haze; while far beyond the granite peaks of dartmoor hung like a delicate blue cloud, and enticed the eye away into infinity.' in the midst of the sand-dunes are the remains of a little, very old chapel, st anne's chapel, which is said to have been built by st brannock. north of the burrows the land rises into cliffs, on which grew (i hope, _grows_) the great sea-stock; and baggy point, at the southern end of morte bay, runs out into the sea. beyond the point, the broad yellow line of woolacombe sands stretches along the bay towards morte point. not far off was the manor of the tracys, woolacombe tracy. a curse was brought on this family by william de tracy, 'first and forwardest of the knights who murdered thomas a becket.' for, 'the pope banning, cursing, and excommunicating,' a '_miraculous penance_' was imposed on the tracys, 'that whether they go by _land_ or _water_, the _wind is ever in their faces_.' fuller, who gives this information, concludes dryly: 'if this was so, it was a _favour_ in a hot _summer_ to the _females_ of that _family_, and would spare them the _use_ of a _fan_.' on william de tracy himself fell the special curse, that ever after his death he should be compelled to wander at night--some say over woolacombe sands, others among braunton burrows--till he could make a rope of sand. but, whenever the rope is nearly woven, there comes a black dog, with a ball of fire in his mouth, and breaks it; so the penance is never at an end. shrieks and wails have been heard by people in cottages near the shore. sometimes the uneasy spirit haunts the northern landing-place of the ferry from braunton burrows to appledore, and a wild, long-drawn cry of 'boat ahoy!' comes ringing in the darkness over the waters. no one answers that cry now after dusk, for once, many years ago, the ferryman, who is well remembered among the appledore people, went over, and no man was there, but the black dog jumped into the boat. the ferryman, not much liking this, put back again as fast as he could, but when appledore was nearly reached the dog swamped the boat, made his way to shore, and was lost in the shadows of northam burrows. 'and the boatman's nerve was so much shaken that soon afterwards he gave up the ferry. a monument to william de tracy was wrongly supposed to lie in the church of morthoe, or morte, as it is more commonly called, on the north of the bay. the memorial is of another william de tracy, rector here till his death in 1322. it is an elaborately sculptured altar-tomb, and bears the incised effigy of a priest; on the sides are figures of st catherine and st mary magdalene, to whom jointly the rector founded a chapel in his church. the church is mainly perpendicular, but it has an early english chancel. the northern curve of the bay ends in morte point, and here is a cromlech in ruins, for the massive slab of rock which formed the cover-stone has fallen from the upright stones on which it used to lie. beyond the point, at the end of the reef, is a huge rock called the morte stone, very dangerous on that exposed coast. the normans are supposed to have given its sinister name, and many since their time have found it a true rock of death. no fewer than five vessels have been lost there in one winter. rather more than a mile to the north, bull point, jutting out into the sea, abruptly ends the coast-line on the north; the cliffs fall back slightly, and stretch away eastward, above 'black fields of shark's-tooth tide-rocks, champing and churning the great green rollers into snow.' returning to the taw, inland, upon the eastern side of the burrows, one passes braunton, two or three miles short of the estuary. the most interesting point about this village is its association with its name-saint, st brannock--for the ancient name was brannockstown. old writers rather wildly assert that the saint was the son of a 'king of calabria,' but mr baring-gould, in a rapid sketch, says that he was the irish confessor of a king of south wales, who, not finding happiness in the life he was leading, migrated to north devon. the legends that sprang up about his name are steeped in a golden haze. when st brannock arrived, the whole place was 'overspread with brakes and woods. out of which desert, now named the borroughs (to tell you some of the marvels of this man), he took harts, which meekly obeyed the yoke,' and made them 'plow to draw timber thence to build a church, which may gain credit if it be true.' the caution of this commendation is delightful. more, alas! we do not learn, for the writer forbears 'to speak of his cow (which being killed, chopped in pieces, and boiling in the kettle, came out whole and sound at his call), his staff, his oak, and his man abel, which would seem wonders. yet all these you may see at large, lively represented to you in a fair glass window.' it is very disappointing that the window filled with the further wonders, the very names of which have a charm, should have perished. st brannock church is large, and, like morte church, is partly perpendicular and partly early english. it has an unusually wide panelled roof, and on one of the panels is carved a sow and some little pigs--an illustration of a legend connecting the saint with the church, for the tradition ran that he had been told in a dream to build his church 'wherever he should first meet a sow and her family.' a similar group is to be seen in the porch of the church at newton st cyres. some of the bench-ends in st brannock's church are very beautifully carved. the road to barnstaple, bending to the south-east, follows the estuary of the taw for nearly six miles. the town is very prettily placed, but it is dominated by modern buildings, and has not the air of antiquity with which its history might have invested it. the river sweeps round a bend of a green and pleasant valley just above the town, and along the strand is a walk shaded with trees, looking over the river to a pastoral country beyond. nearer the bridge is queen anne's walk, 'an open portico near the river, called the quay walk, being an exchange of the merchants, etc.,' renamed when it was rebuilt in queen anne's reign. from the bridge westward the scene has an air of peaceful contentedness. sea-gulls flutter among the sand-banks, from which 'the sea retires itself' at low-tide, leaving only a small, shining stream, which seems 'to creep between shelves and sands.' beyond are green marshes, and gentle rounded hills behind them lead on one from another. the country is much the same all along the river to the sea. bideford is proud of its bridge, which is very high, and has sixteen arches. several people have been given the credit of building it, and its date is supposed to be some time during the thirteenth century. the church, dedicated to st peter and st paul, is cross-shaped, and the lead steeple looks well against the sky, especially when it is surrounded by a shoal of swallows swooping and darting about it in all directions. the church has been much restored, and altered from the original building; evidently there were once three altars in it; and a piscina still remains in the south aisle, close to the west wall of the transept. a curious monument was erected in 1634 by martin blake, the vicar, to his son and four children who died very young. a heavy and elaborate framework surrounds a severe likeness of a melancholy-looking man, who is resting his head on his hand. on the monument are short detached sentences, numbered: '1. he was cut off in the flower of his life. * * * * * '10. his heart on fire for the love of god. '11. martin blake, the father, was taken from the pulpit, and sent to exeter jail for four years. '12. the pulpit empty, and the congregation waiting for him. '13. he wishes to depart this life, and be at peace with his children. '14. but it is necessary i should remain in the flesh for the good of my people. '15. he that shall endure to the end shall have a crown of life.' mr blake suffered much during the civil war, but i can find no record of any imprisonment beyond his being in 1657 'a prisoner at large in _exeter_ for six weeks.' in 1646 he was petitioned against on account of his royalist sympathies, 'by one _tooker_,' to whom he had shown great kindness, and who intrigued against him in the most abominable manner. though sir hardress waller wrote to the committee of sequestrations on his behalf, he was suspended, and as about a year later his suspension was cancelled, the infamous tooker very hurriedly concocted a petition, ostensibly from barnstaple, praying that the 'discharge' might be repealed. walker comments on the astonishing speed with which tooker managed this business. 'the reader ... will certainly think, as i do, that he who _walked to and fro in the earth_, helped them to it; tho' not in the quality of a courier, but in his other capacity, that of the _father of lies_.' mr blake, however, was allowed to return to his living, but 'not without the cumbrance of a _factious lecturer_,' and was not in full possession till after the restoration. barnstaple asserts that it became a borough at a very early date--in fact, that it 'obtained divers liberties, freedoms, and immunities from king athelstan'; but whether this were so or not, the inhabitants certainly received a charter from henry i, and further privileges were added by king john. the barony of barnstaple, first granted to judhael de totnes, passed to the tracys, then by marriage to the lords martin, and again by an heiress to the lords audley. the son of this heiress was the 'heroical' lord audley who so greatly distinguished himself at the battle of poitiers. barnstaple sent three ships to join the fleet that met the armada. risdon calls it 'the chief town of merchandise next the river's mouth,' and says that the people 'through traffic have much enriched themselves,' although their haven is so shallow 'that it hardly beareth small vessels.' yet spring-tides sometimes flood the marshes all round, and on one occasion some of the people 'to save their lives were constrained from their upper rooms to take boat and be gone.' westcote speaks of it as trading especially with 'spain and the islands,' and till the latter half of the eighteenth century wool for the serge-makers from ireland and america was brought to this port; but its trade has now almost dwindled away. barnstaple fair is a great institution, and, though not quite the event that it used to be, still keeps up many traditional ceremonies. on the first morning a large stuffed glove is put out on the end of a pole from a window of the guildhall, and is supposed to be the symbol of welcome to all comers. this sign was adopted long ago, and in the accounts in 1615 and 1622 are two entries: 'paid for a glove put out at the fair, 4d.,' and 'paid for a paire of gloves at the faire, 4d.' in the guildhall, toast and spiced ale are handed round in loving-cups to all comers, and after two or three speeches the mayor and corporation proceed to the high cross and other places in the borough, and the town clerk reads the proclamation of the fair. a 'fair ball' is still given, but the custom of a stag-hunt on the second day has been dropped. barnstaple was a sort of shuttle-cock during the civil war. here, as elsewhere, the citizens were not all of one mind; though the merchants and the majority were for the parliament, and it was taken possession of first by one side and then by the other. in august, 1643, barnstaple and bideford sent a combined force against the royal troops under colonel digby at torrington, but being completely routed, their courage was shaken, and a few days later barnstaple was surrendered to prince maurice. the next year, however, most of the garrison having been drawn away, the inhabitants arose and took possession of the town for the parliament. prince maurice hurriedly sent colonel digby to bring them to reason, but with great determination they resisted the royal troops, who were driven back. during the next three months the fortunes of the parliament in the west were at a very low ebb, and in september the town was summoned by lord goring. the store of ammunition was very low, and as soon as they were blockaded, the townspeople found themselves short of provisions. 'at that time but weakly garrisoned, the town surrendered on terms, and the garrison quitted it on the 17th, leaving 50 pieces of ordnance.' in the following may the prince of wales arrived, for, says clarendon, 'no place was thought so convenient for his residence as barnstaple, a pleasant town in the north part of devonshire, well fortified, with a good garrison in it, under the command of sir allen apsley.' the king sent orders to the prince, who at this time was little more than fifteen years old, 'by the advice of his council, to manage and improve the business of the west, and provide reinforcements for the army.' the prince's council had no easy task, for they were harassed by several causes. lord goring's jealousy and selfishness were a great hindrance; in consequence of a petition regarding the violence of his horse, the prince, says clarendon, 'writ many earnest letters to the lord goring.' another great difficulty to be grappled with here was a fierce quarrel between sir richard grenville and the commissioners of devon and cornwall, who complained of him in such bitter terms, that anyone who judged from their report must have concluded him to be 'the most justly odious to both counties that can be imagined.' prince rupert paid the prince a visit in june, and not long afterwards lord goring's horse arrived in hot disorder, having been chased most of the way from bridgwater by fairfax's troops. in the following spring the town was besieged by the parliament's troops, and the day after the treaty for the surrender of exeter was completed, fairfax himself marched to barnstaple. the governor, seeing that resistance was hopeless, gave 'the castle and the town ... as a security for surrender of the fort at eight days' end'; and on honourable terms barnstaple yielded to the enemy. it was the last town in devonshire to be delivered to the parliament. about two miles upstream the river 'taw vails bonnet to tawstock, in our ancestors' speech,' says westcote, and he goes on to describe it as 'a pleasant and delicate seat indeed, in a rich soil, and inhabited by worthy personages.' the modest claim has been put forward that the view here includes 'the most valuable manor, the best mansion, the finest church, and the richest rectory, in the county.' possibly other parishes may not agree with all the superlatives, but the beautiful features of the valley certainly offer a temptation to use them. tawstock court was once the property of the earls of bath, and now belongs to their descendant, sir bourchier wrey. an elizabethan gateway is all that is left of the old house, which was burnt down, and rebuilt in 1787. the beautiful cruciform church is chiefly decorated, but parts are of a later date; it is dignified by a fine central embattled tower, crowned by pinnacles. in the church are several altar-tombs to the bourchiers, barons fitzwarine and later earls of bath, and to their wives, and there is a very early effigy carved in wood. leaving the taw and crossing the country to the south, and a little to the west, one reaches the torridge, and torrington, a town 'built scatteringly, lying at length, as it were, upon the brow of a hill hanging over the river.' it is, perhaps, chiefly known as the scene of a skirmish and an engagement during the civil war. the skirmish, already mentioned, took place when the parliament's partisans set out from barnstaple and bideford to attack colonel digby, who, with a small force, had established himself there. it was indeed a case of fortune favouring the bold, for the royalists were taken unawares, and had it not been for the daring of 'the colonel, whose courage and vivacity upon action was very eminent, and commonly very fortunate,' the day might well have been with the other side. colonel digby had divided a small number of horse into little parties in different fields, and was waiting for some of his troops to join him before attacking the enemy, when a band of about fifty parliamentary musketeers came towards the ground where they stood. realizing that, if these once gained possession of the high banks between the two forces, his party must be driven off, colonel digby, with instant decision, took four or five officers with him, and charged with such vigour that the raw country troops, smitten with panic, threw down their arms and ran, 'carrying so infectious a fear with them, that the whole body of troops was seized by it and fled.' colonel digby followed, with all the horse at his disposal, 'till,' says clarendon complacently, 'their swords were blunted with slaughter.' perhaps the royalists were more anxious to impress a salutary warning against the sin of rebellion than to kill the fugitives, for clarendon finishes the account by saying that the rebels 'were scattered and dispersed all over the country, and scarce a man without a cut over the face and head, or some other hurt, that wrought more upon their neighbours towards their conversion, than any sermon could be preached to them.' this affair practically brought about the submission of barnstaple, bideford, and appledore. the second engagement was of a far more important character, with fatal consequences to the king's cause in the west--already in a hopeless condition. in the early spring of 1646, lord hopton marched to torrington, and was waiting there for the arrival of about half his ammunition and provisions, when he heard that sir thomas fairfax, with a large army, was in the immediate neighbourhood. to the best of his power, he hurriedly made such defences as were possible. his position was excellent, for torrington stands on a hill almost surrounded by deep valleys, but his force was very inferior in numbers to that of the enemy. it is curious that the second engagement at torrington began accidentally. fairfax's army had had a series of encounters with an outlying troop of royalist dragoons on approaching the town, and by the time they drew near the day was nearly spent. as the royalists were well prepared for their arrival, the lanes and fields near the town being lined with musketeers, the parliamentary generals resolved to stay at a little distance and wait for the morning to attack. the royalist word for the night was, 'we are with you,' and their sign, that each man had a handkerchief tied round his right arm. the word for the other army was, 'emmanuel, god with us,' and their signal, a sprig of furze in every hat. about nine o'clock a noise in the town suddenly awoke the suspicion that the royalists were retreating, so, says sprigg, 'that we might get certain knowledge whether they were going off or not, a small party of dragoons were set to fire on the enemy near the barricadoes and hedges; the enemy answered us with a round volley of shot.' whereupon the engagement became general, and both sides fought 'in the dark for some two hours, till we beat them from the hedges and within their barricadoes, which were very strong, and where some of their men disputed the entrance of our forces with push of pike and butt-end of musket for a long time.' at length the parliamentary troops prevailed, and their horse 'chased the enemy through the town.' lord hopton, bringing up the rear, had his horse shot dead under him in the middle of the town, but, in spite of the fact that he was slightly wounded, he made yet another effort to rally his troops, and they, 'facing about in the street, caused our foot to retreat.' then a body of horse dashed up with a vehemence that the royalists could not stand against, and they were obliged to fly; 'one of the officers publicly reporting,' says clarendon bitterly, 'lest the soldiers should not make haste enough in running away, that he saw their general run through the body with a pike.' scarcely were the parliamentarians in possession of the town, when a frightful explosion occurred. the church, which unknown to them, lord hopton had used as a powder-magazine, was blown up and about two hundred prisoners whom the roundheads had confined in the church were killed. in his account of the disaster, sprigg, who was obviously, from passages in his writings, a man of warm feelings, and a clergyman by profession, refers very cheerfully to the fact that 'few were slain besides the enemy's (that were prisoners in the church where the magazine was blown up), and most of our men that guarded them, who were killed and buried in the ruins,' and not for one moment does the melancholy fate of the many victims seem to damp his joy. the victory was a very important one, and a public thanksgiving was held in consequence--indeed, this was the last real resistance made by the royalists in the west. the church has been very unfortunate, for since it was rebuilt in 1651 the tower has been blown down, and it fell through the roof, doing a good deal of damage. an old print shows this tower to have been a wonderful erection of slates and tiles, projecting eaves, and irregular gables, surmounted by a little dome, with a weathercock on the top of all. it was replaced by a slender, tapering, but more conventional spire. margaret, countess of richmond, and mother of henry vii, lived here for some time, and left a generous gift, for, 'pitying the long path the pastor had from home to church,' she 'gave to him and his successors the manor-house with lands thereto': and on this site of the manor-house stands the present vicarage. besides making this gift, 'on every occasion a friend to learning, even in its infancy, she built a room for a library, and furnished it with the most useful books then to be had.' torridge castle, a building of the fourteenth century, stood on the verge of a steep descent to the river. in risdon's day it was almost gone, the ruins had 'for many years hovered, which, by extreme age, is almost brought to its period;' and in 1780 the chapel, the only part left, was partly pulled down and afterwards turned into a school. about a mile or so to the east stands stevenstone--a new house, in the midst of a fine deer-park. for over three centuries stevenstone was owned by the rolles, and when fairfax's troops advanced on torrington, two hundred dragoons were being entertained by 'master rolls,' and the advance was disputed by these dragoons, who, after a long and straggling fight in the narrow and dirty lanes, eventually fell back on the town. here fairfax took up his quarters after the town had been taken. a few miles upstream the torridge passes potheridge, the birthplace of general monk, whose ancestors had owned property here since the reign of henry iii. the character of george monk is extraordinarily interesting, a curious point being that, though he was essentially cautious, level-headed, and, as clarendon says, 'not enthusiastical,' and therefore unlikely to rouse very vivid sentiments in others, as a matter of fact he awoke violent feelings either of glowing enthusiasm or of extreme bitterness. it is easy to understand his unpopularity with keen partisans who looked on their opponents and all their ways with abhorrence, and therefore failed to understand how an honest man could fight for the king, then accept a command from cromwell, and finally become the prime mover of the restoration. but--'if a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer'; and it may well be that the beat that ruled monk's steps was the peaceable government and welfare of the people, and especially of the army, and to the personal claims and rights of the rulers he was indifferent. the general state of things needed reform badly enough. monk's acts were never inconsistent, but he had a genius for silence. when war in england broke out, he returned from fighting for the king in holland, to fight for him at home. when cromwell offered him his release from the tower, at the price of helping to subdue the irish rebels, his accepting the command was to the advantage of this country. to begin with, monk was forced to turn soldier with unexpected suddenness. the under-sheriff of exeter publicly affronted sir thomas monk, on which his son, aged sixteen, went to exeter and gave the offender 'the chastisement he deserved (without any intention of murder).' this step created a good deal of disturbance, and to avoid more, 'our young gentleman' was packed off to 'the school of war in the low countries.' he was taken prisoner early in the civil war, and after over two years of close imprisonment, agreed to accompany the lord deputy lisle to munster. after leaving ireland he gained brilliant successes at sea over the dutch. prince tells a tale that is characteristic of him and of cromwell. the seamen who had served under monk had been told that they should receive their full pay as soon as the prizes were sold off, but were unreasonably impatient; and while monk was actually at whitehall putting their claims before the protector, news was brought him 'that three or four thousand seamen were come as far as charing cross with swords, pistols, and clubs, to demand their pay. general monk, thinking himself wronged in this, ran down to meet them, drew his sword, and fell upon them; cromwell following with one or two attendants, cut and hew the seamen, and drove them before him.' prince finishes the story with applause of the boldness that 'should drive such great numbers of such furious creatures as english seamen.' later, monk's command in scotland resulted in a state of order and quietness then very unusual in that country. accusations of dealing unfairly with the parliament in 1659 may be levelled against him with some justice, but how was loyalty possible to a household so divided against itself as were the rulers of the kingdom? the army and the parliament were in bitter antagonism to each other, and lambert's soldiers had shut the parliament out of westminster. the members of the rump parliament, the earlier 'secluded' members, the presbyterians, the independents under lambert, the royalists, and smaller parties, were all working for their own ends. when monk marched south, a deputation was sent to meet him from the council of officers, ostensibly to make terms between their army and his, but also with the secret object of establishing an understanding between him and fleetwood that would enable the latter to get rid of his friend and colleague, general lambert. meanwhile lambert, jealous of fleetwood, sent a private and friendly message to monk by major-general morgan, who not only betrayed his party at lambert's bidding, but betrayed that patriot as well, for at the same time that he gave the message, he also delivered a secret letter from lord fairfax, begging monk to adopt a course which would have been fatal to lambert. and the country as a whole was heartily sick of both factions. had monk openly declared himself for the stuarts, at the time that he first began to prepare for the restoration, he would probably have imperilled the success of the whole scheme, and most certainly would have plunged the country again into the horrors of civil war. when he did reveal his negotiations with the exiled court at breda, 'london would not have borne many days, or even many hours longer, the extreme tension it was then suffering--the city one way, westminster the other way; monk's army between them, and fleetwood's wolves prowling all round, and ready to pour in.' apart from all else, tribute must be paid to monk's marvellous skill in so ordering affairs that the restoration was brought about almost without the cost of a drop of blood. during the winter of 1659, a far larger army than his own lay for many weeks a few miles to the south on the border, sent there with the especial purpose of watching and if necessary attacking him. but monk knew how to bide his time and to prolong negotiations to suit his convenience till in the end, without a blow being struck, he marched his army south to london. masterly was the diplomacy and grasp of detail which, on the eve of announcing the restoration, dispersed over the country all soldiers who would be inclined to stand by the parliament, making any serious attempt at a revolt on their part impossible. one failing his most fervent admirer cannot ignore--a strong leaning to avarice. but his popularity was unbounded, and 'it was his singular fortune to win in succession the affection of three very different populations, those of dublin, edinburgh, and london.' in ireland his men were devoted to him. 'a soldier, tho' sick and without shoes, would strive to go out with honest george monk.' after the death of cromwell he was offered the crown, but he refused, 'holding it a greater honour to be an honest subject than a great usurper.' during the frightful visitation of the plague, the earl of craven, and the archbishop of canterbury and monk, were the only high officials who stayed at their posts, and exposed themselves perpetually to the 'seeds of death.' so great was the public confidence in him, that at the time of the great fire, he being then at sea, 'the people did believe and say: "if he had been there, the city had not been burned."' no idol of the mob could ask a more whole-hearted adoration. the popular feeling is expressed in a rather limping acrostic on his name, of which i quote only the first quarter. it was called 'england's heroick champion, or the ever-renowned general george monck.' the date is about 1659-60. 'g ood may'st thou be, as thou are great. e ver regarded. o r like _alexander_ compleat, r ichly rewarded. g ainst thy virtue none dare stand, e xcluded members now are back return'd by thy hand. 'm any miles didst thou compass, o nly us to free; n othing by thee too hard was, c ompared to be. k eep us in thy protection! we were all greatly distrest; bring thou in all the best. 'g reat bonfires then was made, e xpressing joy, o f us that sorrow did invade, r efresh our annoy. g uard us with thy aid, we desire; e xaltation we all will raise unto heaven in thy praise. 'm uch good hast thou already done, o ver this land; n ow our hearts thou hast quite won: c ommand! command! k indly we will entertain those that were excluded, for they have not intruded.' in later years, as duke of albemarle, he returned to the estate of his forefathers, and rebuilt potheridge in a very magnificent manner. it has since been pulled down. if the traveller follows the torridge upstream, he will be led south till he is within two miles of hatherleigh, and here the river curves away westwards, and then in a northerly direction. in the spring, this clear, rippling stream has a special charm--thousands and thousands of daffodils grow along the banks though only sparingly in the fields beyond, so that, if the river happens to be low and the water not to be seen at a little distance, the windings of the river through the wide green valley are marked by two broad lines of pale, clear yellow. hatherleigh moor was given a bad name very long ago. the saying is double-edged: 'the people are poor, as hatherleigh moor, and so they have been for ever and ever.' but the people of the little town are able to graze their cattle and cut furze for fuel on it. hatherleigh parish has two holy wells. st john's well stands on the moor, and there used to be a pretty custom of fetching its water for a baptism. the water of st. mary's well was good for the eyes, and within the memory of persons still alive pagan traditions were observed around it on midsummer eve. amidst 'wild scenes of revelry ... fires were lit, feasting and dancing were indulged in.' for some years, in this part of the country, while he was curate to his father, who had the neighbouring living of iddesleigh, the renowned 'jack' russell preached on sundays and hunted on weekdays. he was immensely popular, and so many stories are told of him and his hounds that it has been already said, 'russell is fast becoming mythical.' he was not the ideal of a modern parish priest, but this is the opinion of one who remembers him. the writer begins by speaking of a friend of russell's as a man who 'seems ... to have been as good a christian as he was a gentleman; not ecstatic perhaps, but in the sense of leading a godly, righteous and sober life. and,' he goes on, 'the same may with certainty be predicated of russell ... russell, like a wise man, got right home to nature. it was not for nothing that the gipsy chieftain left him his rat-catcher's belt, and begged for burial at his hands in swymbridge churchyard.' perhaps the following story of him is not quite so well known as many others: mr russell once advertised for a curate: 'wanted, a curate for swymbridge: must be a gentleman of moderate and orthodox views.' soon after this advertisement had appeared mr hooker, vicar of buckerell, was standing in a shop door in barnstaple, 'when he was accosted by will chapple, the parish clerk of swymbridge, who entered the grocer's shop. "havee got a coorate yet for swymbridge, mr chapple?" inquired the grocer, in mr hooker's hearing. "no, not yet, sir," replied the sexton. "master's nation purticler, and the man must be orthodox." "what does that mean?" inquired the grocer. "well, i reckon it means he must be a purty good rider." here we must leave the torridge altogether, and go eleven miles south-east to the point where the taw leaves the uplands of dartmoor. almost the first village that the river passes is south zeal, close to south tawton, and near south zeal was the old home of the oxenhams, the family about whom the well-known legend of the white bird is told. when an oxenham is about to die, a white bird flaps at the window or flies about the sickroom, and stories of the bird having been seen at such times have been told at intervals, through two centuries. the evidence in some instances seems fairly good, but where an apparition is expected it is not unlikely imagination may play tricks, or a chance event may be interpreted as an omen. lysons quotes from mr chapple's manuscript collections a case that happened in 1743, the story being given to mr chapple by the doctor. mr william oxenham was ill, and 'when the bird came into his chamber, he observed upon the tradition as connected with his family, but added he was not sick enough to die, and that he should cheat the bird, and this was a day or two before his death, which took place after a short illness.' it is necessary to pass over thirteen or fourteen miles, but at chumleigh one must turn aside to the east, for about six miles in that direction was the ancient home of the stucleys. affeton castle has been for many years altogether in ruins, but in the middle of the last century sir george stucley roofed over the old gate-house and made it habitable as a shooting-box. this is the only part of the castle still standing, though the farmhouse close by is no doubt built upon some of the foundations. 'lusty stukeley' (the name was spelt in several ways) was far from among the worthiest of his family, but distinctly the most entertaining. his ideas were certainly 'spacious' enough for the great days in which he lived, though he was too crack-brained and full of self to fall into line with his betters, whose deeds still bear rich fruit. 'he was,' says fuller severely, 'one of good parts, but valued the less by others, because over-prized by himself.' if it be allowed that the personality of everyone inclines to being drab or flamboyant, his may be compared to fireworks. thomas stukely, who was born about 1530, was for a younger brother unusually well endowed, 'but his profluous prodigality soon wasted it; yet then, not anyway dejected in mind, he projected to people florida, and there in those remote countries to play rex.' he 'blushed not' to tell queen elizabeth 'that he preferred rather to be sovereign of a mole-hill than the highest subject to the greatest king in christendom.' his audacity reached the point of bandying words with the queen, who seems, from the polite irony of her tone, to have been amused by his vanity. 'i hope,' said the queen, 'i shall hear from you when you are stated in your principality?' 'i will write unto you,' quoth stuckley. 'in what language?' said the queen. he returned, 'in the stile of princes, to our dear sister.' and on this stukely departed, but not to florida, for he met with reverses which dashed his plans, but not his spirits. westcote quotes 'a ditty made by him, or of him,' apparently at this time: 'have over the waters to florida. farewell good london now; through long delays on land and seas, i'm brought, i cannot tell how. 'in plymouth town, in a thread-bare gown. and money never a deal: hay! trixi trim! go trixi trim! and will not a wallet do well?' unfortunately, his career was a great failure. from sunning himself at the court of elizabeth, he turned to paths of disloyalty, and became the 'pope's pensioner.' the pope created him marquis of leinster, and added several minor titles, and then this 'title-top heavy general' attempted in vain to carry treasonable help to the irish rebels. yet he had 'the fortune to die honourably.' arrived in lisbon at the moment when the king of portugal was starting in a campaign to barbary, stukely was persuaded to join his army, and fell, fighting gallantly, at the battle of alcasar, 1578. 'a fatal fight, where in one day was slain three kings that were and one that would be fain.' about five miles to the north, at king's nympton, the pollards were settled for some generations, and many of them 'lived to be as proper gentlemen as most in this or any other county.' sir hugh pollard fought in the civil war, and as governor of dartmouth castle made a brave and resolute though unsuccessful defence. after the restoration, charles ii appointed him comptroller of the household. it was said of sir hugh 'that he was very active and venturous for his majesty in the worst of times, and very hospitable and noble with him in the best.' five miles north of bishop's nympton is the old town of south molton, and the manor was part of the demesne of edward the confessor. in the reign of edward i, lord martin held it 'by sergeantry to find a man with a bow and three arrows to attend the earl of gloucester when he goeth to gower [in wales] to hunt.' in the spring of 1654, charles ii was proclaimed king in south molton, for the wiltshire gentlemen who had risen against the government, headed by sir joseph wagstaff and led by colonel penruddock and mr hugh groves, made their way so far west before they were overpowered. sir joseph escaped, but the other two leaders were beheaded at exeter. a little to the north of the town, and about eight miles south of barnstaple, are the wide grounds of castle hill--broad lawns and slopes, clear streams, and rich feathery masses of woodland that, shaded and softened by distance, spread far away. the fortescues, not long after the conquest, were granted lands in devonshire, and in one generation after another they have come forward to take a part in public affairs--often a samson's share of toil. sir john fortescue fought at agincourt, and was chosen governor of meaux by henry v. sir edward fortescue, when he had surrendered salcombe castle, had the consolation of knowing that this fort had been held for the king later than any other place in devonshire. sir faithful and sir nicholas fortescue were distinguished commanders in the same war. in the reign of henry vi, sir henry fortescue was lord chief justice of ireland, though his fame is very much eclipsed by the greater brilliancy of his brother. sir john fortescue, lord chief justice, is usually spoken of as lord chancellor, though it is doubted whether he ever received a valid appointment; for when the honour was bestowed upon him, yorkists and lancastrians were already at war. as the trouble deepened, sir john laid aside his robe for his sword, and fought bravely for the 'falling cause' in the terrible battle of palm sunday. later, he accompanied the king and queen in their flight, and while abroad, with courageous optimism, began to instruct the prince in the 'lawes of his country and the duties of a king of england.' of sir john's two celebrated treatises--de natura legis naturæ, and de laudibus legum angliæ--the latter and most famous was specially compiled for the benefit of the prince, and sir edward coke has enthusiastically declared it 'worthy to be written in letters of gold for the weight and worthiness thereof.' a fortescue of a later generation who 'took to the law,' eventually became master of the rolls. he was a great friend of the poet pope, and from the gentle mockery in some of the long letters of the poet still in existence, it would seem that mr fortescue had a proper share of prejudice in favour of his own county. in 1724 pope writes: 'i am grieved to tell you that there is one devonshire man not honest; for my man robert proves a vile fellow, and i have discarded him.' and in another letter, nearly ten years later, in march, 1734-35: 'twitnam is very cold these easterly winds; but i presume they do not blow in the happy regions of devonshire.' sir john fortescue, born in 1533, had the honour of being chosen 'preceptor to the princess elizabeth.' later he was appointed keeper of the great wardrobe; whereupon it was remarked that sir john fortescue was one whom the queen trusted with the ornaments of her soul and body. 'two men,' queen elizabeth would say, 'outdid her expectations,--fortescue for integrity, and walsingham for subtlety and officious services.' towards the end of the eighteenth century a member of one of the branches of fortescues who settled in ireland was created lord clermont. he was very much liked by the prince of wales, and both lord and lady clermont were a great deal at court. in wraxall's 'posthumous memoirs' there is an amusing account of an evening spent by lady clermont in launching into london society the count fersen who was noted for his devotion to marie antoinette. already 'swedish envoy at the court of france,' he had arrived in england, 'bringing letters of introduction from the duchesse de polignac to many persons of distinction here, in particular for lady clermont. desirous to present him in the best company, soon after his arrival she conducted him in her own carriage to lady william gordon's assembly in piccadilly. she had scarcely entered the room and made count fersen known to the principal individuals of both sexes, when the prince of wales was announced. i shall recount the sequel in lady clermont's own words to me, only a short time subsequent to the fact. "his royal highness took no notice of me on his first arrival, but in a few minutes afterwards, coming up to me: 'pray, lady clermont,' said he, 'is that man whom i see here count fersen, the queen's favourite?' 'the gentleman,' answered i, 'to whom your royal highness alludes is count fersen; but so far from being a favourite of the queen, he has not yet been presented at court.' 'd----n!' exclaimed he, 'you don't imagine i mean my mother?' 'sir,' i replied, 'whenever you are pleased to use the word "queen" without any addition, i shall always understand it to mean my queen. if you speak of any other queen, i must entreat that you will be good enough to say the queen of france, or of spain.' the prince made no reply; but after having walked once or twice round count fersen, returning to me: 'he's certainly a very handsome fellow,' observed he. 'shall i have the honour, sir,' said i, 'to present him to you?' he instantly turned on his heel, without giving me any answer; and i soon afterwards quitted lady william gordon's house, carrying count fersen with me. we drove to mrs st john's, only a few doors distant, who had likewise a large party on that evening. when i had introduced him to various persons there, i said to him, 'count fersen, i am an old woman and infirm, who always go home to bed at eleven. you will, i hope, amuse yourself. goodnight.' having thus done the honours as well as i could to a stranger who had been so highly recommended to me, i withdrew into the ante-chamber and sate down alone in a corner, waiting for my carriage. '"while there the prince came in, and i naturally expected, after his recent behaviour, that he would rather avoid than accost me. on the contrary, advancing up to me: 'what are you doing here, lady clermont?' asked he. 'i am waiting for my coach, sir,' said i, 'in order to go home.' 'then,' replied he, 'i will put you into it and give you my arm down the stairs.' 'for heaven's sake, sir,' i exclaimed, 'don't attempt it! i am old, very lame, and my sight is imperfect; the consequence of your offering me your arm will be that, in my anxiety not to detain your royal highness, i shall hurry down and probably tumble from the top of the staircase to the foot.' 'very likely,' answered he, 'but if you tumble, i shall tumble with you. be assured, however, that i will have the pleasure of assisting you and placing you safely in your carriage.' i saw that he was determined to repair the rudeness with which he had treated me at lady william gordon's, and therefore acquiesced. he remained with me till the coach was announced, conversed most agreeably on various topics, and as he took care of me down the stairs, enjoined me at every step not to hurry myself. nor did he quit me when seated in the carriage, remaining uncovered on the steps of the house till it drove off from the door."' chapter xii lundy, lynmouth, and the borders of exmoor 'ay, ay, the year's awaking, the fire's among the ling, the beechen hedge is breaking, the curlew's on the wing: primroses are out, lad, on the high banks of lee, and the sun stirs the trout, lad, from brendon to the sea. 'i know what's in your heart, lad,- the mare he used to hunt, and her blue market-cart, lad, with posies tied in front- we miss them from the moor road, they're getting old to roam; the road they're on's a sure road, and nearer, lad, to home.' h. newbolt: _april on waggon hill_. the charm of the coast-line of north devon lies partly in its great irregularity. 'at one spot a headland, some five hundred feet high, rough with furze-clad projections at the top, and falling abruptly to a bay; then, perhaps, masses of a low, dark rock, girding a basin of turf, as at watermouth; again, a recess and beach, with the mouth of a stream; a headland next in order, and so the dark coast runs whimsically eastward, passing from one shape to another like a proteus, until it unites with the massive sea-front of exmoor.' at the eastern ridge of the county, the hill on which oldbarrow camp stands rises more than eleven hundred feet straight out of the sea. ilfracombe's tiny bay is almost surrounded by rocks, but a pier was built by one of the bourchiers, earls of bath, and his successors--one sir bourchier wrey after another--have improved and enlarged it. westcote speaks of it as 'a pretty harbour for ships of small burden, but dangerous to come in in some winds, especially for strangers; for whose better security they keep a continual pharos to direct their course.' the lighthouse now stands on the lantern rock, at the mouth of the harbour, where once stood a little chapel dedicated to st nicholas. the dedication explains its position, for st nicholas was a sea-saint, whose protection used to be specially implored as a defence against shipwreck. nowadays ilfracombe is of no consequence as a port, but six centuries ago it must have been of some importance, for when edward iii was besieging paris it contributed six ships and eighty-two mariners to a fleet. although the nucleus of the town is old, and indeed consisted only of one 'scattering street,' its development is very modern, and has happened since it became popular as a watering-place. the architecture of the church is very varied. the tower is probably norman, finished by perpendicular battlements and pinnacles; it is built above the centre of the north aisle, and projects into the church. there are also remains of transitional work, and in the chancel is a decorated piscina. leading inland from ilfracombe are 'lovely combes, with their green copses, and ridges of rock, and golden furze, fruit-laden orchards, and slopes of emerald pasture, pitched as steep as house-roofs, where the red long-horns are feeding, with their tails a yard above their heads.' about twenty-two miles to the west, the sea-line is broken by an island, about which there is an indefinable air of romance. lundy is three and a half miles long, its greatest width is a few yards short of a mile, and it is surrounded by high and dangerous cliffs and rocks--too well known even in the present day by the ships wrecked on them. perhaps those oftenest heard of are the reefs of the hen and chickens, 'fringed with great insular rocks, bristling up amid the sea,' which dashes on them in a never-ceasing cloud of foam on the north, and the fatal shutter on the south-west. lundy has been described as a 'lofty table-headed granite rock.... the cliffs and adjacent sea are alive with seabirds, every ledge and jutting rock being alive with them, or they are whirling round in clouds, filling the air with their discordant screams.' westcote remarked: 'in breeding time, in some places, you shall hardly know where to set your foot but on eggs,' and adds that it affords 'conies plentifully, doves, stares (which alexander nectan termeth ganymede's birds).' mr chanter translates 'ganymede's birds to be gannets, as there were very many of these birds there'; but an older commentator soars higher, and thinks of eagles and ostriches! a description of lundy as it was in the middle of the eighteenth century is dimly suggestive of robinson crusoe. 'wild fowl were exceeding plenty, and a vast number of rabbits. the island was overgrown with ferns and heath, which made it almost impossible to go to the extreme of the island. had it not been for the supply of rabbits and young sea-gulls our tables would have been but poorly furnished, rats being so plenty that they destroyed every night what was left of our repast by day. lobsters were tolerably plenty, and some other fish we caught. the deer and goats were very wild and difficult to get at. the path to the house was so narrow and steep that it was scarcely possible for a horse to ascend it. the inhabitants by the assistance of a rope climbed up a rock in which were steps cut to place their feet, to a cave or magazine where mr benson lodged his goods.' there have been considerable differences of opinion about the name, and mr baring-gould believes: 'lundy takes its name from the puffins, in scandinavian _lund_, that at all times frequented it; but it had an earlier celtic name, caer sidi, and is spoken of as a mysterious abode in the welsh _mabinogion_.' many centuries later it seems to have had the power of inspiring fabulous tales, for miss celia fiennes, who looked at it in her journey from cornwall, makes a statement almost as wonderful as some of sir john mandeville's tales of barnacle trees and other marvels. she says: 'i saw the isle of lundy, which formerly belonged to my grandfather, william lord viscount say and seale, which does abound with fish and rabbits and all sorts of ffowles, one bird y^t lives partly in the water and partly out and so may be called an amphibious creature; it's true that one foot is like a turkey, the other a goose's foote; it lays its eggs in a place the sun shines on and sets it so exactly upright on the small end, and there it remaines till taken up, and all the art and skill of persons cannot set it up soe againe to abide.' legends apart, lundy has been the scene of many thrilling adventures, and has had an eventful history. the advantages of its position for watching and falling upon richly laden merchant ships on their way to and from bristol and other towns, and the great difficulties that met any enemy trying to land, resulted in the island being appropriated by one band of pirates after another, of whom the de moriscoes were the most celebrated. henry ii, getting tired of their turbulence and lawlessness, granted the island to the knights templars, but it does not appear they were ever able to establish themselves there. in 1158 the raids of the moriscoes became so intolerable that a special tax was imposed in devon and cornwall for the defence of their ports, and for furnishing means for an attack on lundy, but sir william de morisco seems to have triumphantly survived the storm. later he was taken prisoner by the french in a sea-fight, but was eventually released. sir william, his son, was charged, upon the evidence of a semi-lunatic, with conspiring to assassinate henry iii, and on the strength of it was condemned to death--a sentence that, as he fled to lundy, was not carried out for four years, when he was taken by stratagem. lundy was then seized by the king, but forty years later the moriscoes once more gained possession of it. edward ii granted the island to one of the despencers, and in his own distress attempted to take refuge here: 'to lundy, which in sabrin's mouth doth stand, carried with hope (still hoping to find ease), imagining it were his native land, england itself; severn, the narrow sea; with this conceit, poor soul! himself doth please. and sith his rule is over-ruled by men, on birds and beasts he'll king it once again. ''tis treble death a freezing death to feel; for him on whom the sun hath ever shone, who hath been kneeled unto, can hardly kneel, nor hardly beg what once hath been his own. a fearful thing to tumble from a throne! fain would he be king of a little isle; all were his empire bounded in a mile.' but the winds were against him, and he was driven on to the welsh coast, into the hands of his enemies. during the reign of henry viii, french pirates seized the island, and plundered and robbed at large, but they were accounted for by the valour of clovelly fishermen, who made a determined attack, and killed or made prisoners of the whole band. in 1608 a commission was held to consider the grievances of merchants who complained of piracy in the bristol channel; and in 1610 'another commission was issued to the earl of nottingham to authorize the town of barnstaple to send out ships for the capture of pirates, and the deposition was taken of one william young, who had been made prisoner by captain salkeld, who entitled himself "king of lundy," and was a notorious pirate.' two years later 'the _john of braunton_ and the _mayflower_ of barnstaple caught as notorious rogues as any in england.' after another thirteen years: 'the mayor of bristol reports to the council that three turkish pirate vessels had surprised and taken the island of lundy with the inhabitants, and had threatened to burn ilfracombe.' during an inquiry following this report, evidence was given that seems very curious when one considers the date, nearly halfway through the seventeenth century: 'from nicholas cullen, "that the turks had taken out of a church in cornwall about sixty men, and carried them away prisoners."' french pirates made lundy their headquarters three years later, and in june, 1630, captain plumleigh reported that 'egypt was never more infested with caterpillars than the channel with biscayers. on the 23rd instant there came out of st sebastian twenty sail of sloops; some attempted to land on lundy, but were repulsed by the inhabitants.' one of the most conspicuous of all lundy's owners was a certain thomas benson, merchant of bideford, who, with great sang-froid and considerable humour, combined smuggling and piracy with being a member of parliament. unfortunately, his varied occupations after a while brought him to grief. amongst other charges, it was proved that he had 'entered into a contract with the government for the exportation of convicts to virginia and maryland, and gave the usual bond to the sheriff for so doing. but instead of doing this he shipped them to lundy, where he employed them in building walls and other work in the island. every night they were locked up in the old keep of the mariscoes. he regarded himself as king of lundy, and ruled with a high hand.' in answering this accusation he offered the ingenious excuse for his breach of contract: 'that he considered lundy to be quite as much out of the world as these colonies.' from ilfracombe, towards lynton, the road at first follows the edge of the cliff, high above the sea. one tiny bay curves inland till the road seems almost to overhang the water, blue-green with undertones of grey, and the foam splashing on the broken rocks. all around is a sense of wide spaces and freshness. headland beyond headland rises to the east, the little hangman, great hangman, and highveer point, softened by a transparent grey haze. a little to the right of them are the first ridges of exmoor, some long, some short, ending in full curves and slopes clearly outlined against the sides of their higher neighbours, and the highest against the sky. in the prettiest of hollows, watermouth castle looks down a slope of richest pasture to the sea sparkling below, and a great mass of rock shields it from storms blowing off the water. clouds of foliage soften the lines of the hill rising behind the castle. a short distance inland is the village of berrynarbour, chiefly to be remembered as the birthplace of john jewel, bishop of salisbury, 'a perfect rich gem, and true jewel indeed,' over whose virtues westcote falls into panegyrics. 'if anywhere the observation of chrysostom be true, that there lies a great hidden treasure in names, surely it may rightly be said to be here; grace in john and eminent perfection in jewel.' john jewel was born in 1522, and when very young was sent to oxford, where he showed a passion for learning, and before long became famous as a lecturer and preacher. 'his behaviour was so virtuous that his heaviest adversary ... could not notwithstanding forbear to yield this testimony to his commendation: "i should love thee, jewel, wert thou not a zuinglian. in thy faith thou art a heretic, but sure in thy life thou art an angel."' jewel's friendship with peter martyr, and other marks of his protestant leanings, were the reason of his being expelled, in queen mary's days, from corpus christi college. but he had 'a little zoar to fly unto'--broadgates hall, now pembroke college. as danger became more imminent, he escaped to switzerland, and did not come back to england until elizabeth's reign had dawned. fuller's brief summary is that he 'wrote learnedly, preached painfully, lived piously, died peaceably, anno domini 1572.' and his 'memory' (to return to westcote) was 'a fragrant, sweet-smelling odour, blown abroad not only in that diocese, but generally through the whole kingdom.' our author finishes his remarks on berrynarbour by quoting an epitaph then to be found in the church, a building which has a fine perpendicular tower with battlement and pinnacles. the memorial was to nicholas harper: 'harper! the music of thy life, so sweet, so free from jar or strife; to crown thy skill hath rais'd thee higher, and plac'd thee in the angels' choir: and though that death hath thrown thee down, in heaven thou hast thy harp and crown.' a short distance farther on, the road runs down into combe martin bay, following the little creek that narrows and narrows inland between high rock walls till two small houses seem almost to block it, and the road twists round them and runs up the enclosed valley beyond. the village is an odd one, for it is over a mile long, but hardly any houses stand away from the main street, which is made up of cob-walled, thatched cottages, quite large shops, little slate-roofed houses, and villas in their own garden, all jumbled together as if they had been thrown down accidentally. masses of red valerian, and some of the graceful bright rose-bay willow-herb, give colour to the banks and overhang the walls. combe martin has the rare distinction amongst english parishes of owning mines with veins of silver as well as lead. camden tells us that the silver-mines 'were first discovered in edward the first's days, when three hundred and fifty men were brought from the peak in derbyshire, to work here.' this statement fuller amplifies by the note that 'it was forged for the lady _eleanor_ dutchesse of _barr_, daughter to the said king, who married the year before.' in the reign of edward iii the mines yielded the king 'great profits towards carrying on the french war,' and henry v 'made good use of them,' but after that they were neglected for a long while. in queen elizabeth's reign, adrian gilbert, sir humphrey's brother, began to work them again, and sir beavis bulmer followed with considerable success, 'by whose mineral skill great quantity of silver was landed and refined.' the queen presented the earl of bath with a rich and fair silver cup made here, bearing this inscription: 'in martin's-comb long lay i hid, obscure, depress'd with grosser soil; debased much with mixed lead, till bulmer came, whose skill and toil refined me so pure and clean as richer nowhere else is seen. 'and adding yet a farther grace, by fashion he did enable me worthy for to take a place to serve at any prince's table. comb-martin gave the ore alone, bulmer fining and fashion.' the mines have been worked at intervals since, and as late as 1845 a smelting-house was built in the valley. the church is of rose-coloured stone, and has a high battlemented tower, in which are niches with figures in them. there is a good screen, with paintings of the apostles on the panels. in the south aisle is a monument to the wife of william hancock, 'an effigy the size of life, exquisitely and elaborately sculptured in white marble. it bears the date 1634. dame hancock is represented in the dress of that time, covered with point lace and looped with knots of riband; she has a pearl necklace round her throat and her hair in curls, and bears some resemblance to the portraits of henrietta maria, queen of charles i.' from combe martin the road to lynton turns inland and makes a deep curve to the south, and two or three miles from its most southerly point, and about ten miles from ilfracombe, is arlington court, the home of one of the many branches of that great north devon family, the chichesters. the first of this name were settled at chichester in sussex, but by marriage with the daughter and heiress of john de raleigh, about the middle of the fourteenth century, john chichester came into the possession of several manors in north devon. about a hundred and fifty years later, youlston, with other manors, was granted to 'john chichester and margaret his wife and their heirs for ever, at the annual rent of a rose, at the feast of st john the baptist.' sir john chichester was among the most zealous protestants in suppressing the rising that broke out in the west in 1549. after the insurrection was crushed, 'it was declared that the rebels used the church bells in every parish to excite the people. the bells were taken down, and all the clappers were made a present to sir john chichester, as a reward for having assisted against the rebels. strype says: "no question he made good benefit thereof."' sir john had reason to be proud of his seven sons, for four 'were knights, one created a baron, and one a viscount.' ireland was the special field of their triumphs, and it is a curious coincidence that four hundred years before one of their ancestors, 'master robert de cicester, ... being a discreet person,' had been specially chosen to go on the king's business to that country. prince calls sir arthur chichester, the second son, 'one of the chiefest ornaments of our country.' he received his baptism of fire in france, under the command of henri iv, and 'for some notable exploit done by him ... was by that puissant prince honoured with knighthood.' he fought in the armada, and the next year sailed as one of drake's captains, and then became lieutenant-colonel of a regiment in the west indies. fuller speaks of his career in ireland in the sympathetic tone of his day towards that unhappy country. 'by his valour he was effectually assistant, first to _plough_ and _break_ up that barbarous nation by conquest, and then to _sow_ it with _seeds of civility_ when by king _james_ made lord deputy of _ireland_.' the 'good laws and provisions' made by former governors were 'like good lessons set for a lute out of tune, useless untill the instrument was fitted for them.' sir arthur established new and wider circuits for justices of assize, with the most excellent results, for, 'like good planets in their several spheres, they carried the influence of justice round about the kingdom.' and, if fuller is right, although he governed with a very firm and sometimes heavy hand, he contrived to avoid the unpopularity which it would be imagined must have fallen to his share amongst an oppressed and rebellious people. indeed, not only did the irish under his authority seem, for a time, resigned to english rule, but they even showed a passing desire to imitate their fashions; for, 'in conformity to the english custome, many _irish_ began to cut their _mantles_ into _cloaks_.' in 1612 sir arthur was created lord chichester of belfast, and, having resigned his office of lord deputy, was called back to it two years later--the same year, his biographer observes, that the irish harp took its place in the arms of england. his 'administration,' says leland, 'was active, vigilant, cautious, firm, and suited to a country scarcely emerging to civilization and order.' a rather florid 'elegie on the death of my lord chichester' reflects contemporary opinion: 'from chichester's discent he tooke his name. and in exchange of it, return'd such fame by his brave deeds, as to that race shall be a radiant splendour for eternitie. for fame shall write this adage. let it last like the sweete memorie of my lord belfast.' in swymbridge church there is a monument of a youthful chichester, 'whose portrait is given, and whom the bird of jove is represented as carrying off to serve ganymede in heaven. turning back towards the coast, the thought of sir robert chichester, son of lord chichester's eldest brother, is suggested. for tradition says that he is forced to haunt the shore near martinhoe, weaving traces out of sand (_the_ occupation of aristocratic ghosts in north devon!), and, having fixed them to his carriage, he must drive up the face of the crag and through a narrow cleft at the top, known as sir robert's road. 'the natives believe that they hear his voice of rage as he labours at his nightly task; and at other times they fancy that they see him scouring over challacombe downs, followed by a pack of hounds, whose fiery tails gleam in the gathering darkness.' the descent into parracombe is almost alarming, as the village is at the bottom of a valley with precipitous sides. driving down-hill, the ground falls away so sharply that just beyond the horses' heads one sees only space. the old and interesting church of st helen is early english; it is now used only on rare occasions, and a new church has been built close by. st helen's keeps its old chancel screen, but it is in a mutilated condition, for the rood-beam was taken away to be cut up into bench-ends! over all this valley hovers the charm of an overflowing abundance, which particularly shows itself in the pleasant gardens of fruit and flowers, and the overgrown hedges with their rich decoration of berries, crimson leaves, and purple and golden flowers. directly north is the bit of coast that kingsley so vividly described: 'what a sea-wall they are, those exmoor hills! sheer upward from the sea a thousand feet rise the mountains; and as we slide and stagger lazily along before the dying breeze, through the deep water which never leaves the cliff, the eye ranges, almost dizzy, up some five hundred feet of rock, dappled with every hue, from the intense dark of the tide-line; through the warm green and brown rock-shadows, out of which the horizontal cracks of the strata loom black, and the breeding gulls show like lingering snowflakes; up to the middle cliff, where delicate grey fades into pink, pink into red, red into glowing purple; up to where the purple is streaked with glossy ivy wreaths, and black-green yews; up to where all the choir of colours vanishes abruptly on the mid-hill, to give place to one yellowish-grey sheet of upward down, sweeping aloft smooth and unbroken, except by a lonely stone, or knot of clambering sheep, and stopped by one great rounded waving line, sharp-cut against the brilliant blue. the sheep hang like white daisies upon the steep; and a solitary falcon rides, a speck in air, yet far below the crest of that tall hill. now he sinks to the cliff edge, and hangs quivering, supported, like a kite, by the pressure of his breast and long curved wings, against the breeze.' about six miles west of lynmouth is the lovely valley of heddon's mouth--that is, 'the giant's mouth; _etin_, a.s., a giant.' it is a very narrow green cleft, shut in by two precipitous cliffs rising eight hundred feet straight out of the sea. heddon's mouth water hurries along the glen, buries itself in a bank of shingle, and flows out again lower down the beach. huge rocks tumbled together make great barriers that block each side of the cove. on the eastern side, close to the mouth of the valley, part of the towering wall seems to have fallen away, showing bare rocks and soil of a warm light brown tempered by shades of pink. the western side is very steep, but covered with short grass, sea-pinks and thyme, and crowned by a great mass of boulders. the face to the sea is slightly hollowed, suggesting that on this side also part of the cliff has fallen. east and west, one great headland after another is seen, misty but impressive, above a silvery grey sea. inland the valley changes suddenly from barren cliffs to a profusion of copses and thickets, and several beautiful deeply cleft combes, overbrimming with thick trees, open into the valley. among the wayside bushes are the pretty purple-crimson flower-heads and thick cool leaves of that not very common wild-flower, livelong. a road passing through a wood and by a little rushing stream overhung by hazels, leads towards lynton, and crosses the tiny railway, on whose bank masses of the slender stems of great moon-like evening primroses shine in the grey twilight with an almost weird effect. the more interesting way to lynton is along the coast-road, which is soon reached from the valley. beneath the road the cliffs fall precipitously hundreds of feet to the sea, and a few little horned sheep and some white goats, scrambling on the face of them, seemed to have the same hold as flies on a window-pane. ravens are often seen even now amongst these almost inaccessible rocks. the road runs through a fir-wood, and as it rises and falls one may catch delicious glimpses of the sea through the ruddy stems and the great dark fans and tasselled ends of the branches; and the scent of pine-needles and of the sea stirring amongst them makes the charm still greater. the road looks down into wooda bay, which is also surrounded by woods, and passes to the tinier but very lovely lee bay. a little combe leads down to the shore, sheltered by leaves which, luminous from the sunshine above them, shade the glen from the fierce rays, and it is filled with a subdued, mysterious light. stem beyond stem is partly hidden by the fresh, vigorous green shoots springing round them, or hanging in garlands from branch to branch, and suggests the wonderful fairyland that richard doyle saw, and enabled many people to see. a little stream, breaking into miniature waterfalls and reflecting the foliage in its pools, finally disappears into the shingle, to emerge close to the sea. a few yards away is a tiny dropping-well on the face of the cliff, almost hidden by a green veil of plants that grow at the foot of the rocks or swing from the clefts. close to the bay stands lee abbey, a comparatively modern house, on the site of the old house of the de wichehalses--a family who, considering the not very remote date of their history, have been surrounded with a surprising number of fables: mr blackmore contributed a share. the wichehalses had not a dutch origin; the daughter of the house called janifred never existed, and consequently the whole tragic tale of her lover's faithlessness and her sad fate is entirely imaginary. 'the wichehalses,' says mr chanter, who has studied their history with minute care, 'originally took their name from their dwelling-place, a hamlet called wych, near chudleigh. nicholas, a younger son, but founder of the most eminent branch, settled in barnstaple about 1530, and made a large fortune in the woollen trade, part of which he spent in buying property in north devon--amongst others, the manors of lynton and countisbury. here his grandson hugh wichehalse removed in 1627, leaving barnstaple with his wife and children for the double reason that political troubles were already brewing and rumours were afloat that the plague was drawing near.' hugh wichehalse seems to have avoided all strife as far as possible, but his son john threw himself vehemently on to the side of the parliament, and became notorious for persecuting the royalist clergy in the country round, whose lot in any case was a sorry one. john sold some of his estates and left a portion to his younger son, so that his eldest son (another john) and his wife, both of whom were extravagant, soon found themselves in difficulties. john wichehalse made himself justly unpopular by the part he played after sedgemoor. a major wade, in the duke of monmouth's army, had escaped from the battle-field and, with two other men, was hidden by a farmer at farley. a search was made for them, in which wichehalse joined with one of his servants, whom he had armed. his conduct was particularly odious, because wade was a great friend of some of his own relations, who had very generously, by gifts, loans, and good counsel, repeatedly helped him out of his difficulties. in course of time they arrived at the right farm, and while they were coming in by the front door, wade and the others escaped by the back. babb, wichehalse's servant, and another of the party saw the men running, and fired, and wade was shot through the body, so that he was disabled and taken prisoner. wichehalse's servants also killed another of monmouth's men, and his body was impaled on a gate near ley. 'in the neighbourhood,' says mr chanter, 'the blame was put on his servant, john babb, who was said to have incited his master to kill every rebel they could find; and local tradition has it that the babbs, who had been the favourite retainers at ley, never prospered after. when their master left lynton they moved to west leymouth, as the modern lynmouth was called then, and employed themselves in the herring-curing industry, which the cottagers said failed because babb was engaged in it; and years after his granddaughter, ursula babb, was pointed out as the last of the race with the curse on it, and, as she was reported to possess the evil eye, became a great object of fear to all around.' john wichehalse and his wife went to london, and wasted their goods until he died, when the mortgages were foreclosed, and no property in lynton was left to the family. the melancholy fate of their daughter mary may have suggested the more romantic story of janifred. mary wichehalse married, but later returned to lynton, where, under the care of a faithful servant, she spent her time wandering over the cliffs looking at the lost inheritance. some say that she fell off the rocks, and others that she was washed away by the tide, but both accounts agree that she was drowned. the valley of rocks is wild, grand, and rather dreary, 'all crags and pinnacles.' southey was deeply impressed by it: 'imagine a narrow vale between two ridges of hills somewhat steep; the southern hill turfed; the vale, which runs from east to west, covered with huge stones and fragments of stone among the fern that fills it; the northern ridge completely bare, excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and skeletons of the earth; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled upon stone, a huge terrific mass--a palace of the preadamite kings, a city of the anakim, must have appeared so shapeless, and yet so like the ruins of what had been shaped after the waters of the flood had subsided. i ascended with some toil the highest point; two large stones inclining on each other formed a rude portal on the summit. here i sat down. a little level platform, about two yards long, lay before me, and then the eye immediately fell upon the sea, far, very far below. i never felt the sublimity of solitude before.' names have been given to the great rock-masses. the castle rock looks far over the sea, the devil's cheesewring is on the inner side of the valley, and there are many others. a narrow path cut in the deep descent of the cliffs leads from the valley, 'where screes and boulders, red and grey and orange, covered for the most part with lichen or tendrils of ground-ivy, lend splashes of vivid colouring to the hill-side;' and about a mile farther on is lynton. perched on the cliffs nine hundred feet immediately above lynmouth, lynton looks down to the inlet, into which two ravines open from the south. down these ravines rush the east and west lyns, hidden among the woods; and the two streams join just before they reach the sea-shore. countisbury foreland stands high to the east of the harbour and stretches far out into the sea, and between the foreland and the mainland is another long, steep, winding cleft. i once saw the bay in an exquisite light very early in the morning. earth and sky and sea were all veiled in the softest grey, and in the sky was one little flush of pale rose pink. but for a sea-gull crying under the cliff, the stillness was absolute. lynmouth consists of a tiny quay, a little group of houses, and the ravines beyond. it is impossible to imagine any place where buildings and tourists could more exasperate a true lover of earlier days. still, they cannot have more than a superficial effect--except at the meeting of the streams, which is quite spoilt by the houses on either side. the music of the lyns has been noticed by many comers, and about sixty years ago the rev. h. havergal, whilst staying here and listening to the continuous tone of the lyn at low-water, composed this chant: [illustration: music of the lyns.] as a place for visitors to admire, lynton was discovered in the beginning of the nineteenth century. the french revolution and napoleonic wars obliged those who were in the habit of going abroad for change and amusement to look for it in comparatively unknown parts at home. in 1807 the first hotel--not counting a small and inconvenient village hostelry--was opened; and even at this date there were no wheeled vehicles in either village, ponies and donkeys carrying everything. until this time lynton and lynmouth had been the quietest of little fishing-villages, without even the doings of a resident squire or rector to furnish a subject for a little gossip. the ecclesiastical history of the little neighbouring parish of countisbury is very much mixed up with that of lynton. mr chanter prints some of the countisbury churchwardens' accounts, which, as he observes, are chiefly remarkable for the prominent part that beer played in every event, from killing a fox to the visitation of 'ye dean ruler.' s. d. 'pd when one fox was killed for beer 2 0 pd more for beare when one fox was killed 2 6 pd for bear when two foxes were killed 7 6 pd for ale for the fox hunters 2 0' other entries are for killing 'wild cats, greys [badgers], and hedge hogs ... salaries of dog-whipper ... fox-hunter, etc., and repairs to the base viol.' lynmouth and lyn were noted for the fishery, and especially for their herrings and oysters. the fishery was developed in quite early days by the abbots of ford abbey, who claimed the whole coast-line of lynton and of countisbury. cellars and curing-houses, called 'red-herring houses,' were built close to the beach, and were apt to be swept away by any violent storm, for the little harbour has a double reason for dreading bad weather--not only do the breakers surge over their usual limits and wash away or damage all that is in their way, but at the same time the streams come down a roaring, foaming torrent, which rolls along great boulders and hurls itself against all obstacles. in 1607 a whole row of red-herring houses was swept away, and since that date the records of disputes as to repairs to the harbour and petitions from the fishermen tell how greatly they have suffered from this cause. the fishing has dwindled until it is now a very trifling matter indeed. the small parish of countisbury is high on the cliffs, on the eastern side of the river, and the road to it from lynmouth rises at once to a height of eleven hundred feet. a little perpendicular church with an embattled tower crowned by pinnacles stands at the mercy of every wind that blows. farther to the east, and almost on the boundary-line of somerset, is oldbarrow camp, which differing archæologists have claimed to be british, roman, and danish. from this hill the fall to the sea is precipitous, and the descent into somerset is almost as steep; inland, the ground also sinks away, leaving a magnificent view and a grand sense of space. even when the light is fading there is a great charm, for looking down into the hollow, one sees a faint blue tinge lying like bloom upon the misty twilight that nils the valley--a sharp contrast to the clear darkness of the evening sky. countisbury camp is not far from oldbarrow, and in lynton there are two more ancient 'castles,' each consisting of a single fosse and rampart, and other monuments. several stone circles, 'over forty feet in diameter,' have been wickedly removed from the valley of rocks 'for the purpose of selling them as gate-posts!...' spindle-wheels, or pixie grinding-stones, as the natives call them, have been found in the neighbourhood, as well as arrow-heads and 'a skinning knife with a ground edge of black flint.' the winding valley of the west lyn is very beautiful, but not so wild as that of the east lyn; it lies deep down beneath fir-woods, whose serried spires mount higher and higher on the steep hill-side. a little way from lynton, along this lovely road, is barbrook mill, and close by a cottage covered with purple clematis, among trees loaded with rosy apples. following up the east lyn from lynton, the fitness of dean alford's words is realized: lyn-cleave. this onward deepening gloom; this hanging path over the lyn that soundeth mightily, foaming and tumbling on, as if in wrath that might should bar its passage to the sea; these sundered walls of rock, tier upon tier, built darkly up into the very sky, hung with thick wood, the native haunt of deer and sheep that browse the dizzy slopes on high. these 'walls of rock' are now and again cleft by the narrow openings of steep and wild ravines. it is intensely solitary; there is scarcely any sound or movement, but perhaps a buzzard high in the air may hang over the valley for a few moments. about two miles from the harbour is watersmeet, where the farley water rushes into the lyn. when the leaves are on the trees the stream can hardly be seen from the road, for it lies below a high, steep bank. by the water's edge in the shaded light there is a suggestion of mystery, and the bed of the stream is so shut in that but for the stirring of the leaves, the shifting gleams of sunlight in the waters, and the freshness of the air, one could almost imagine oneself underground. the glossy leaves of festoons of ivy and wild-flowers cover the red rocks. the farley water falls over a succession of little waterfalls, swirling and foaming in the pools between, and then slips over little rocky ridges and slopes covered with duck-weed so wide that the 'stream covers it like no more than a thin film of glancing emerald.' below, the valley opens enough to allow space for a tiny lawn, overhung with oak-trees; and here it is joined by the lyn, which has raced along the farther side of a steep tongue of land. the road passes a fir-wood, bright with golden-rod and ragwort and soft blue scabious, and by-and-by turns eastward, and reaches the scattered village of brendon. brendon 'church-town' is made up of church, school, parsonage, and a few farms, and can scarcely be called a village. the church stands high on the hill above the river; it is very small, and has been rebuilt comparatively lately; its dedication is the most interesting thing about it. all who ever rejoiced in 'the water babies' should remember this irish saint. 'did you never hear of the blessed st brandan, how he preached to the wild irish, on the wild, wild kerry coast; he, and five other hermits, till they were weary and longed to rest?... so st brandan went out to the point of old dunmore, and looked over the tide-way roaring round the blasquets, at the end of all the world, and away into the ocean, and sighed, "ah that i had wings as a dove!" and far away, before the setting sun, he saw a blue fairy sea, and golden fairy islands, and he said, "those are the islands of the blest!" then he and his friends got into a hooker and sailed away and away to the westward, and were never heard of more.' a little higher up the little river (here known as brendon water) is a very old bridge, now unused, and a wide modern bridge, which crosses the two branches of the divided stream just below a little green island. bushes crowd and overlap each other on the banks, and it is very likely a grey water-wagtail will dart from among the leaves and flit jauntily upstream. the road all this way follows the water--for some distance the boundary between the counties--and here it is sunk between the barriers of the county wall separating devonshire and somersetshire. a great bare cliff, covered only with short grass, and scanty tufts of heather and furze growing thinly upon it, towers above the road; the other side of the valley is lower, gentler, and wooded. malmsmead bridge crosses over the badgeworthy water, as the stream--which seems to change its name nearly every half-mile in the most perplexing manner--is here called, a little higher than the point at which it is joined by its tributary, oare water. above the bridge the road becomes a rough track that leads up into the very wild and beautiful valley of badgeworthy water, well known by name to all lovers of 'lorna doone.' some of the natives are apt to mislead strangers by wrongly calling this glen the doone valley. further upstream the valley becomes narrower, and the sides steeper, winding in long beautiful curves. the shallow stream is brown, but very bright and clear and pebbled; boggy patches lie here and there by the side, and in one patch the sweet-ferns grow so large and thick that their characteristic 'sharp sweet' scent is strong enough to betray them before one catches sight of the finely-cut fronds. on the east side of badgeworthy water is deer park, where many deer lie and the fir-woods come down to the water's edge. on the opposite side is badgeworthy wood, chiefly of oaks, most of which are not very large, but many of them are gnarled. the number of oak-apples that i have seen in this wood was amazing; on one tree they seemed like cherries on a cherry-tree. nearly all were scarlet, and they glowed in the sunshine. 'lorna doone' has brought so many visitors to the scene that it is no news to say that the account of the water-slide is fictitious. this word is deliberately chosen instead of 'exaggerated,' which is often applied to mr blackmore's picture of the fall; for he was not describing scenery--he was setting a scene in his novel, and there was no reason why he should be bound to inches, or even feet! and this argument applies to what he has said of the doone valley. at the same time, in his 'exploration of exmoor,' mr page observes that a true description of the valley of badgeworthy water would very nearly represent mr blackmore's glen doone; and it still seems absolutely apart from the ordinary race and fret of life. two long, smooth slopes of rock one below another form the chief part of the water-slide, and the thin stream slipping over them makes one wish to see how the fall would look when the water comes down, a roaring torrent, swollen by heavy rains and melting snow. on one side of the water-slide the ground rises very sharply, but up the other side a tiny path twists through the wood, and opens quite suddenly on a very still valley with steep sides and a broad, open space between. a mountain-ash bearing vividly scarlet bunches of berries hangs over the stream close to the opening; but beyond, only a few stunted thorns grow sparsely amongst an abundance of heather, furze, bracken, and whortleberries. lorna's bower seems to have been seen to some extent through the author's imagination. in a shallow combe at a little distance are the ruins of what appear to have been the walls of enclosures, but they are very indefinite. these are all that remain of the doones' houses, but recent research denies that the doones ever existed! from the top of the hill above the water-slide there is a very beautiful view of the winding glens opening out of each other, and at this point one is able to follow their curves for a long way before the hills shut them out of sight. with the sun shining through the haziest clouds, and the radiant glow of a diffused light calling out delicate tints on the distant slopes, the whole scene seems most fitly described by the old words of praise, 'a fair country.' retracing the path to malmsmead, one is irresistibly tempted to go a few steps into somerset to look at the tiny church of oare, where, mr blackmore says, lorna doone and jan ridd were married. the church is very narrow, and it stands among trees on the slope above the stream. on the south side of the nave, close to where the old east wall stood (the chancel is new), is an early piscina of a curious shape; it is supported by a large carved human head, with a hand to each cheek, and there is a thick, solid cap on the top. challacombe is a small village on the western border of exmoor, seven or eight miles south of lynton, and the church looks far over the moors. westcote derives the name from 'choldicombe, or rather coldecombe, from its cold situation, next neighbour to exmoor;' and he speaks of 'divers hillocks of earth and stones ... termed burrows and distinguished by sundry names,' in the parish, and hints at their uncanny nature by telling how 'fiery dragons have been seen flying and lighting on them.' such tales he dismisses scornfully, but he tells of 'a strange accident' that happened 'within these seven years, verified by oath of the party, who otherwise might have had credit for his honesty.' a labouring man, having saved enough money to buy a few acres of waste land, began to build himself a house on it, and from a burrow near by he fetched stones and earth. he had cut deep into the hillock, when 'he found therein a little place, as it had been a large oven, fairly, strongly, and closely walled up; which comforted him much, hoping that some great good would befall him, and that there might be some treasure there hidden to maintain him more liberally and with less labour in his old years: wherewith encouraged he plies his work earnestly until he had broken a hole through this wall, in the cavity whereof he espied an earthen pot, which caused him to multiply his strokes until he might make the orifice thereof large enough to take out the pot, which his earnest desire made not long a-doing; but as he thrust in his arm and fastened his hand thereon he suddenly heard, or seemed to hear, the noise of the trampling or treading of horses coming, as he thought, towards him, which caused him to forbear and arise from the place, fearing the comers would take his purchase from him (for he assured himself it was treasure); but looking about every way to see what company this was, he saw neither horse nor man in view. to the pot again he goes, and had the like success a second time; and yet, looking all about, could ken nothing. at the third time he brings it away, and therein only a few ashes and bones, as if they had been of children, or the like. but the man, whether by the fear, which yet he denied, or other cause, which i cannot comprehend, in very short time after lost senses both of sight and hearing, and in less than three months consuming died.' this tale is followed by another, of a 'mystical sciencer,' and westcote finishes with the comment that the stories are 'not unfit tales for winter nights when you roast crabs by the fire, whereof this parish yields none, the climate is too cold, only the fine dainty fruits of wortles and blackberries.' a little to the north of challacombe is the great hill of chapman burrows, where stands a 'tall, lean slab of slate, the longstone.' it is nine feet high, and in the broadest part about two feet eight inches wide. the history of the longstone is unknown, but the suggestion has been made that it may be an ancient relic, a menhir, and this view is supported by the fact that about a dozen large tumuli lie on the slopes around. one of these is between ten and twelve feet high and three hundred feet round at the base. burrows are found all over exmoor. 'the eye of reflection sees stand uninterrupted a number of simple sepulchres of departed souls.... a morsel of earth now damps in silence the éclat of noisy warriors, and the green turf serves as a sufficient shroud for kings.' by far the greatest part of exmoor lies in somerset, so that here one must not wander far amongst great round hills, wide distances, and deep combes. one has heard of strangers who have been disappointed by the first sight of exmoor, for its heights are not very evident. there are no peaks, no sharply-cut isolated hills, nor any with a very striking outline, except dunkery; but the whole moor is a tableland, across which the coach road runs at a level from twelve hundred to fourteen hundred feet above the sea: 'a bare rolling waste of moorland stretching away into the eastern distance, like the ocean "heaving in long swells,"' and large spaces of bracken, of bogs fringed with cotton-grass and rough grass and whortleberries, among which rise little glittering streams that splash their way down into the valleys beneath. the sides of the glens leading from the borders of the moor are crowded with endless masses of mountain-ashes, and whether the leaves make a background to the flat creamy clusters of sweet, heavily scented flowers or to great bunches of scarlet fruit, the long ranks give a very rich effect. mr r. j. king has observed that exmoor, 'still lonely and uncultivated,' was probably at one time during the english conquests a boundary or 'mark,' 'always regarded as sacred and placed under the protection of some deity or hero.' amongst some very interesting remarks, he says that the intermingling in devonshire of the celtic and teutonic races 'may be traced in folk-lore, not less distinctly than in dialect or in features.... sigmund the waelsing, who among our english ancestors represented sigfried, the great hero of the niebelungen-lied, has apparently left his name to the deep pool of simonsbath ... again, side by side with traditions of king arthur, to the parish of simonsward in cornwall.' it is difficult to imagine any moorlands destitute of superstition, and plenty linger on exmoor. mr page (writing in 1890) gave some instances that have occurred comparatively lately. he speaks of 'overlooking' and of witchcraft, and says that 'not many years since the villagers of withycombe, by no means an ultima thule among hamlets, firmly believed that certain ancient dames had the power of turning themselves into white rabbits.' 'an astonishing instance of belief in witchcraft' within his own experience was one where an old woman--'as harmless a creature as can be found in the country'--was believed by her neighbours to have not only the evil eye, but also 'the power of turning herself into a black dog, in which form she was met a short time since, during the twilight hour, in a neighbouring lane. for these all-sufficient reasons the poor old soul was, for a while, unable to obtain the services of a nurse during an illness from which she is only now recovering.' another story shows the remarkable powers of a wise woman. mr page explains that he cannot give the real name of the couple, but calls them giles. giles deserted his wife. 'for a while mrs giles bore his absence with a fortitude born, perhaps, of no very great love for her partner. then she suddenly took it into her head to have him home. she did not telegraph, she did not even write; but one day the errant husband was seen by the astonished villagers hurrying towards his deserted home. _and his footsteps were marked with blood!_ the witch-wife had compelled his return in such haste that not only the soles of his boots, but those of his _feet_, were worn out.' mr page mentions that 'the old mediæval custom of touching a corpse still prevails. at an inquest lately held at or near south molton, each of the coroner's jury, as he filed past the body, laid his fingers on the forehead. this act, it was believed, would free him from dreams of the deceased. omens and portents such as mysterious knockings, a particular sound of church-bells, or a bird flying into a room, are very grave warnings, and a story of this character comes from near taunton. 'a farmer riding home from taunton market noticed a white rook among the sable flock settling over a field. when he reached home there were symptoms of uneasiness among his cattle, and that night the dogs barked so vociferously that he had to get up and quiet them. in the morning he was dead.' writing of other traditions, 'one of the most beautiful of easter customs still survives. young men have not yet ceased on the resurrection morning to climb the nearest hill-top to see the sun flash over the dark ridge of quantock, or the more distant line of mendip.' to see the newly-arisen sun on easter morning was an augury of good luck. 'early in the century dunkery, probably because it is the highest land in somerset, was favoured above all surrounding hills, and its sides,' says miss king, 'were covered with young men, who seemed to come from every quarter of the compass, and to be pressing up towards the beacon.' exmoor stag-hunting is far-famed, for it is the only corner of england where wild red deer are still to be found. the fashion of coming here to hunt from a distant part of the country is comparatively modern, but hugh pollard, ranger of the forest, kept a pack of stag-hounds at simonsbath more than three hundred years ago, and the rangers who succeeded him continued to keep the hounds. even before the conquest, the moor had been a royal hunting-ground. deeds show that in the reign of edward the confessor there were at least three royal foresters; and william i, says mr rawle, 'probably reserved to himself the forest rights, for the conqueror, according to the saxon chronicle, "loved the tall deer as though he had been their father," and would scarcely be likely to forgo any privileges concerning the vert and venison.' various tenures show that later kings kept exmoor as a preserve. walter aungevin held land in auri and hole (near south molton) under edward iii, 'by sergeantry that whensoever our lord the king should hunt in the forest of exmoor, he should find for him two barbed arrows.' and morinus de la barr, farther to the west, near braunton, held his land on the same tenure with the addition of finding 'one salmon.' nearly thirty years later in the same reign, a very curious tenure is registered. 'walter barun held certain lands and tenements in the town of holicote, of the king in capite, by the service of hanging upon a certain forked piece of wood the red deer that die of the murrain in the king's forest of exmoor; and also of lodging and entertaining the poor strangers, weakened by infirmities, that came to him, at his own proper costs, for the souls of the ancestors of our lord king edward.' the forest of exmoor was part of the jointure of several queens of england. henry viii settled it on catherine of aragon, and it was afterwards held by jane seymour. james i gave it to his queen, but charles i had other views, and announced his intention of drawing 'the unnecessary forests and waste lands' [dartmoor and exmoor] 'to improvement.' needless to say, the scheme died in its early stages, and when charles ii came to the throne, he granted a lease of the forest to the marquis of ormonde. besides the wild-deer on exmoor, there are, as everyone knows, creatures almost as wild--herds of exmoor ponies. very few now are pure 'exmoors,' except those belonging to sir thomas acland. among these ponies the true breed has been carefully preserved, and there has been no crossing. it seems a little odd to think of exmoor ponies being mentioned in domesday, but mr chanter quotes an entry referring to the stock in the parishes of lynton and countisbury, '72 brood mares, probably the exmoor ponies running half wild on the moor; in brendon, 104 wild mares (_equas indomitas_) are mentioned.' 'the average height is 12-1/2 hands, and bays and buffy bays with mealy noses prevail; in fact, are in the majority of three to one.' the older ponies live out all the year round, but stacks of hay and straw are built by the herdsmen against the time when the snow lies deep. 'still, like honest, hard-working labourers, the ponies never assemble at the wicket till they have exhausted every means of self-support by scratching with their fore-feet in the snow for the remnants of the summer tufts, and drag wearily behind them an ever-lengthening chain of snowballs.' the moor makes an excellent sheep-walk, but attempts to cultivate it have not prospered. as far as agriculturists are concerned, 'exmoor is best left alone--the "peat and heather in hill and dale."' there is an old ballad called 'the farmer's son of devonshire,' in which the views of one character, 'brother jack,' show a distinct resemblance to those of the great john fry in 'lorna doone.' here are a few verses. the sub-title is a long one, beginning: 'being the valiant coronel's return from flanders.' to the tune of 'mary, live long.' 'will. well met, brother jack, i've been in flanders with valiant commanders, and am return'd back to england again; where a while i shall stay, and shall then march away; i'm an officer now. go with me, dear brother, go with me, dear brother, and lay by the plow. i tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer, in glittering armour, may kill and destroy a many proud french; as a squire or knight, having courage to fight, then valiantly go, in arms like a soldier, in arms like a soldier, to face the proud foe. 'jack. but, dear brother will, you are a vine yellow, and talk mighty mellow, but what if they kill thy poor brother jack by the pounce of a gun? if they shou'd i'm undone. you know that i never, you know that i never, had courage to fight. [will replies at some length.] 'jack. the enemies' men with horror will fill me, perhaps they may kill me, and where am i then? this runs in my mind; should i chance to be lame, will the trophies of _fame_ keep me from sad groans? a fig for that honour, a fig for that honour, which brings broken bones. 'such honour i scorn, i'd rather be mowing, nay, plowing or sowing, or threshing of corn, at home in a barn; then to leave joan my wife, and to loose my sweet life, in peace let me dwell; i am not for fighting, i am not for fighting, so, brother, farewell.' chapter xiii castles and country-houses 'as marly's bright green leaves give place to tints of rich and mellowed glow; as close the shortening autumn days, whilst summer lingers, loth to go; quick rises each familiar scene, and fancy homewards turns her gaze; such are the hues in oakford seem, and such a light o'er iddesleigh plays- methinks the oaks of dear old pynes with richer brown delight the eye; nor would i take these reddening vines for our wild cherry's crimson dye.' earl of iddesleigh. powderham castle is a fine building in a lovely setting. on the east the park leads down towards the marshy edge of the broad rippling estuary, on either side there spread trees and bracken, with the deer feeding among them, and hills sloping gradually upwards make a very pretty background. the castle is difficult to describe, for one century after another has added a wing or pulled down a corner, and the result is an irregular building of very varying architecture. even the exact colour is not easy to tell, but different shades of grey prevail. the north tower, the earliest part, is built of small and uneven stones. there is a tradition that powderham was begun by william of eu soon after the conquest, and another story is that it existed before that date, and was built by a saxon to prevent the danes sailing up the river to exeter; but the oldest portion now standing is probably due to sir philip courtenay, who was born about a.d. 1337. the castle was strongly fortified, and in the civil war withstood an attack planned by general fairfax himself. the general, says sprigg, ordered 'a design in hand against pouldrum-house, by water and land, which, being on friday, december 12, was immediately put in execution.... the design against pouldrum-house was this, and thus carried: lord's day, december 14, nine of the clock at night, captain deane (the comptroller of the ordnance) was commanded over ex with 200 foot and dragoons, to possess pouldrum-castle, but the enemy had some few hours before got 150 into it, unto those that were there before, which our men not discovering before they had landed, would not return without attempting something. the church at pouldrum being not far distant from the castle, they resolved to possess and make the best of it, and accordingly did so, and the next morning they got provisions from nutwell-house unto them into the church, and began to fortify the same. the enemy at excester, much startled hereat, fearing the castle would be lost, as well as the river blocked up by the fortifying of this church, sent therefore, on monday, the 15th, a party of 500 foot, who joining with 200 from the castle assaulted our men about seven at night, threw in many hand granadoes amongst them, and so continued storming till ten, but were beaten off with much loss, leaving their dead on the place, and carrying with them many wounded, as appeared by the snow, that was much stained with blood as they retreated.' the parliamentary soldiers remained in the church, and sprigg, not unnaturally, vaunts their stoicism a little. 'they were resolved to continue in their duty; and notwithstanding the extremity of the cold, by reason of the great frost and snow, and want of all means to resist or qualify the same in the church, having no firing there, they would not quit the same till they received orders to do so; which hard service (hard in every respect) ... they were not immediately discharged of.' however, the next day, 'the general considering further the bitter coldness of the weather, and the hardness of the duty they would necessarily be put unto, if they should make good the church, sent orders to them to draw off, w^h that they might do with the more safety, two regiments were appointed to draw down and alarm the enemy on that side excester, while they made good their retreat over the river.' powderham held out gallantly for more than another month, notwithstanding that 'colonel hammond was set down with some force' about it; and fairfax, on his return from his victory at dartmouth, 'marched to chidley, endeavouring first to take a view of pouldrum,' meditating a fresh attack. but the garrison had reached their limit of endurance, and the same night (january 24, 1646) the castle was surrendered. about the year 1700 great alterations were made, and now battlemented towers and french windows, iron balconies, and loopholes in massive walls many feet thick, in strange juxtaposition, show how it has been adapted to the taste and needs of its successive owners. on the west is a large courtyard, the castle itself forming one side of the quadrangle; on the east, a broad terrace, set with little box-edged beds, high vases, and clipped cypresses, and little turrets at the angles. smaller terraces run north and south of the castle, and along the south terrace is a magnificent thick, high, and very dense yew-hedge. the centre of the east front is a low tower, and at each end are projecting wings. in the south wing is the present chapel, once a granary. perhaps its most uncommon feature is the number of old bench-ends, most of whose panels are carved with heads, some of which were shaped piously, though others are grotesque. through the chapel is the priest's room, a large and delightful one, lighted on three sides; with pope gregory in stained glass, and the courtenay arms beneath, in one window. the walls of the 'staircase hall' are a pale blue-green, and show a bold and very elaborate decoration, a belated example of the manner of grinling gibbons. long white garlands, holding together flowers, fruit, spears, a quiver of arrows, birds, beasts, trumpets, and a mass of intricate designs, hang down the walls in high relief. the fine banqueting-hall has a carved and vaulted roof, and high at one end is a gallery. deep panelling runs all round the hall, and at the head of the panels are little shields, the coats of arms of the english and french branches of the courtenays, and of the ladies whom the successive heads of the family have married--with, in every case, the shields of her parents and grandparents as well. the heraldic chimneypiece is high and very elaborate. in the long drawing-rooms hang two examples of the few life-size groups that richard cosway painted. both pictures are of three daughters of the house; the dresses are white, and the whole colouring extremely delicate. in the most delightful of the two the ladies are standing, and their figures and attitudes are extremely graceful. in the second picture all three are sitting on the ground, and though very pretty, this group has not the particular charm of the first. the large 'music-room' has been arranged to suit its name, for on the walls are tiny frescoes representing the triumph of music, musical instruments are sculptured in marble on the chimneypiece, and even pattern the aubusson carpet. in the panelled entrance-hall is some fine carving, and here hang the rather melancholy portraits of the unhappy marquis of exeter and his unfortunate son, and a large picture of a lord and lady devon, most of their fourteen daughters, and their only son. powderham was brought to the courtenays as the dowry of margaret bohun, daughter of the earl of hereford, and she left it to her fifth son, sir philip courtenay, the ancestor of the present owner. it would be impossible here to attempt the most imperfect outline of the changing fortunes of this 'imperial family,' even from the date at which they settled in england, and without any reference to the days when courtenays were kings of jerusalem and emperors of constantinople. members of this family have played important parts in different crises of the nation's history, and very many have been eminent in peace and war. from the chronicle of their lives and losses, battles and honours, i am able to quote here only a few scattered instances. sir hugh courtenay, born 1327, was often 'employed by the king in his wars in _france_ and _scotland_,' and fought at the battle of crecy. the next year, among other 'brave martialists,' he diverted himself by mimic battles at eltham, and it is recorded that at this tournament the king gave him 'an hood of white cloth, embroidered with men in the posture of dancers, buttoned with large pearls.' authorities are divided as to whether he or his father, the earl of devonshire, was one of the founders of the order of the garter. sir hugh's son of the same name married matilda, daughter of the earl of kent, and his wife--usually known as the fair maid of kent, lady matilda courtenay--inherited her mother's beauty--'"the fairest lady in england," saith froissard.' hugh courtenay died young, and his widow fell in love with 'lord _valeran_, earl of _st paul_, who, having been taken prisoner in the marches of _calais_, was kept in the english court, and by his winning behaviour did much engage the ladies affections to him. the princess her mother [who as a widow had married the black prince] was at first much against the match, but at last she yielded, and the king her brother gave his consent, and for her dowry bestowed upon the earl the manor of byfleet. _walsington_ says that this marriage was celebrated on the octaves of easter, at windsor, with great pomp, and the earl got from france a great many musicians and dancers for that purpose.' sir hugh was the eldest of seventeen children, and several of the sons were distinguished men. on the eve of the battle of navaretto, sir hugh, sir philip, and sir peter were knighted together by the black prince. their eagerness to fight on land or sea led, on one occasion, to an unfortunate result. in 1378 the duke of lancaster was exasperating the fleet under his orders by his 'slow proceedings and unnecessary delays,' and a part of it set out without him. 'sir philip and sir peter courtenay, two brothers who had the command of some ships, espying some vessels belonging to the enemy, inconsiderately assaulted them, being the whole spanish fleet, and though they bravely fought, and defended themselves, yet in the end were beaten, most of them who were good gentlemen of devonshire and somersetshire being slain. sir peter with some others were taken prisoners, and sir philip was sore wounded but escaped the hands of his enemies.' later on sir philip was lord lieutenant of ireland, and must have wrestled with enough turbulence and riot to satisfy anyone. his manner of governing seems, at any rate, to have pleased the king, who, whilst sir philip was still in office, showered honours upon him--'the park of bovey tracey ... dartmoor forest, and the manour of bradnich.' he was made 'steward of all the king's manours and stannaries in the county of cornwall,' and later on was appointed to other posts of importance. unluckily, sir philip's chief principle of action seems to have been that might is right, and complaints being made to the king that he had expelled two of his neighbours from parts of their lands, and imprisoned the abbot of newenham, and two of his monks, 'with great force,' the intrepid knight was sent to the tower. however, after a little while, 'at the request of the lords and commons, he was restored to his place and good name.' william courtenay, a brother to sir philip, was bishop of london at the critical time when wyclif's doctrines were first stirring men's minds, and after the murder of archbishop sudbury, bishop courtenay was translated to canterbury, and began to take very severe measures against the heretics. a strange event marked a meeting of many dignitaries of church and state, who had gathered to censure wyclif's teaching and find means for its extermination. 'when they were just going to begin their business a wonderful and terrible earthquake happened throughout all england, whereupon differs of the suffragans being affrighted thought fit to leave off their business, but the archbishop encouraged them to go on, and they proceeded to examine articles of wickliff, and to give their censure upon them.' the archbishop persuaded parliament to pass an act against certain preachers of heresy, that they might be arrested and kept 'in strong prison until they shall justify themselves according to the law of the holy church,' and brought the chancellor of oxford literally to his knees, begging the archbishop's pardon for having shown favour to the lollards against special commands. his strong will was exercised in all matters, great and small, and offenders were punished in the most conspicuous fashion. the archbishop took a high hand in dealing with affairs of the diocese of exeter, and the bishop of exeter greatly resented it, and appealed against him to rome. the archbishop then 'cited' bishop brantyngham 'to answer certain articles to be proposed to him in the visitation,' but some of the 'bishop's officers' met the bearer at topsham, and 'did beat him, and forced him to eat the citation, parchment, wax, and all.' the contempt of his commands, and the maltreatment of his messenger, naturally roused the archbishop to wrath, and he inflicted this very heavy penance: 'that in the church of _canterbury_, _st paul's_ in _london_, and the cathedral church of _exeter_, they should upon three holy days named, being in their shirts only, in a procession going before the cross, carry wax tapers burning in their hands, and then that they should give to the priest a salary to say mass every day at the tomb of the earl of devonshire; and lastly, every one of them was enjoined to pay a sum of money, for repairing the walls of the city of _exeter_.' in addition to the public disgrace, the trouble and cost of this penance must have been immense. the sixth of these brothers, sir peter courtenay, was, says fuller, 'a true son of mars and actuated with such heroic fire, that he wholly addicted himself unto feats of arms.' it has been already mentioned that he fought in the spanish wars, and in milder moments he distinguished himself at 'justs and tournaments now justled out of fashion by your carpet knights.' as a prisoner of war in france, his captivity was lightened by the attentions he received, even from the king of france himself, and he was on such good terms with his captors that after his release he gained leave of richard ii 'to send into france, by northampton herald, and by anlet pursuivant, as a return for the civilities he received in france ... eight cloths of scarlet, black and russet, to give to certain noblemen of that realm; as also two horses, six saddles, six little bows, one sheaf of large arrows and another sheaf of cross-bow arrows; likewise a greyhound, and other dogs for the king of france's keeper.' the wars of the roses were especially fatal to the house of courtenay, no less than three earls of devon losing their lives for king henry, and in consequence the elder branch of the family became extinct. a pleasanter time to look back upon was the beginning of the reign of henry viii. henry vii had married elizabeth, the elder, and the earl of devonshire katherine, the younger, of edward iv's daughters, and after henry viii's accession to the throne the earl of devonshire seems to have been much at court. in the early months of 1509 preparations were made for 'solemn justs in honour of the queen. the king was one, and with him three aids: the king was called _coeur loial_, and the earl of _devonshire_, _bon voloire_, sir _thomas nevet_, _bon espoire_, sir _edward nevil_, _valiant desire_, and their names were put in a fine table, and the table was hung on a tree curiously wrought, and they were called _les chevaliers de le forest salvigne_, and they were to run at the tilt with all comers.' the irony of the king's choice of a _nom de guerre_ seems to have escaped the historian. 'on the 1st day of _may_ 1510, 2 henry viii, the king, accompanied with a great many valiant nobles, rode upon managed horses to the wood to fetch may, where he and three others, viz., sir _edward howard_, _charles brandon_, and _edward nevil_, which were challengers, shifted themselves, and did put on coats of green sattin, guarded with crimson velvet; and on the other side were the earls of _essex_ and _devonshire_, the marquis of _dorset_, and the lord _howard_, and they were all in crimson sattin, guarded with a pounced guard of green velvet. on the third day the queen made a great banquet for the king and those who had justed, and after the banquet she gave the chief prize to the king, the second to the earl of _essex_, the third to the earl of _devonshire_, and the fourth to the marquess of _dorset_. then the heralds cried aloud, _my lords, for your noble feats in arms, god send you the love of the ladies whom you most admire_.' the next year the earl of devonshire died, and was succeeded by his son, henry, who for a time was high in the favour of his royal cousin. he seems also to have taken part in many 'justs and tourneys.' one summer 'the queen desired the king to bring to his manour of havering in essex, to the bower there, the gentlemen of _france_ that were hostages, for whose welcome she provided all things in a liberal manner.' the entertainment seems to have taken the shape of a small masked ball, and 'the king gave many gifts where he liked.' at the field of the cloth of gold, the earl of devonshire had the honour of tilting with the french king, 'and they ran so hard together that both their spears broke, and so they maintained their courses nobly.' the next year 'the king kept his _christmas_ at _greenwich_ in great splendour'; and there was another tournament and many challenges. 'noble and rich was their apparel, but in feats of arms the king excelled the rest.' in the year 1525 the earl was created marquis of exeter, and seven years later, before starting for france, the king formally named his cousin heir apparent to the crown. after this fortune turned her back on him, and though, at the king's bidding, he dealt with the northern rebels, taking with him 'a jolly company of western men, well and completely appointed,' it was thought that his power, shown by 'so sudden raising divers thousands,' awoke the king's jealousy. the influence of the marquis 'over the west was second only to the hold which the duke of norfolk had upon the eastern counties'; and therefore, when two years later it was reported he had said, 'knaves rule about the king. i trust to give them a buffet one day,' cromwell was glad to seize the opportunity of simultaneously striking at feudalism in the west, and of dealing a blow at the inflexible cardinal pole, the courtenays' kinsman. the marquis was at once arrested on the charge of being an accomplice of the cardinal, and was beheaded on tower hill. edward, his son, who was only twelve years old at the time of his father's death, was committed to the tower, 'lest he should raise commotions by revenging his father's quarrel,' and here he remained for twenty-seven years. there is a pretty account of queen mary coming to the tower, soon after her accession, where '_thomas_, duke of _norfolk_, dr _gardiner_, late bishop of _winchester_, _edward courtenay_, son and heir to _henry marquis_ of _exeter_, the _dutchess of somerset_, prisoners in the tower, kneeling on the hill, within the same tower, saluted her grace, and she came to them and kissed them, and said, "these be my prisoners," and caused them presently to be set at liberty.' the very next day the queen restored to her cousin the title of earl of devon (forfeited by his father's attainder), and soon after all his lands that remained in her possession, and also showed him other favours. in fact, 'it was reported that she carried some good affections towards the earl, from the first time that she saw him.... concerning which, there goes a story that the young earl petitioning the queen for leave to travel, she advised him to marry and stay at home, assuring him that no lady in the land, how high soever, would refuse to accept of him for a husband, by which words, she pointed out herself to him, as plainly as might either stand with the modesty or majesty of a maiden queen.' but, says fuller with extreme candour, 'either because his long durance had some influence on his brain, or that naturally his face was better than his head, or out of some private fancy and affection (which is most probable) to the lady elizabeth,' who, another writer declares, 'of that moderate share of beauty that was between them, had much the better of her,' the earl evaded the honour hinted to him, and begged leave to pay his addresses to the younger princess. the queen's feelings and vanity were deeply wounded, and, on a suspicion that the princess as well as himself were concerned in wyatt's rebellion, they were both sent to the tower. cleaveland tells a charming story of the princess and of a child who lived in the tower. 'during the time that the lady elizabeth and the lord courtenay were in prison, a little boy, the son of a man that lived in the tower, did use to resort unto their chambers and did often bring her grace flowers, as he did to the other prisoners that were there, whereupon some suspicious heads, thinking to make something of it, on a time called the child unto them, promising him figs and apples, and asked him when he had been with the earl of _devonshire_, knowing that he did use to go to him: the boy answered, _that he would go by and by thither_. then they demanded of him, when he was with the lady _elizabeth_? he answered _every day_. then they asked him, what the lord _devonshire_ sent by him to her grace? the child said, _i will go and know what he will give to carry to her_; such was the discretion of the child (says mr _fox_), being but four years of age. _this same is a crafty boy_, said the lord chamberlain; _how say you, my lord shandois? i pray you, my lord_, says the boy, _give me the figs you promised me; no_, quoth the lord, _thou shalt be whipt, if thou come any more to the lady elizabeth or the lord courtenay_. the boy answered, _i will bring my lady and mistress more flowers_, whereupon the child's father was commanded to permit the boy to come no more up into the chambers. the next day, as her grace was walking in the garden, the child peeping in at a hole in the door, cried unto her, _mistress, i can bring no more flowers_: whereat she smiled, but said nothing, understanding thereby what they had done. soon after the chamberlain rebuked highly his father, commanding him to put him out of the house; _alas! poor infant_, said the father: _it is a crafty knave_, quoth the lord chamberlain, _let me see him here no more_.' soon after queen mary's marriage, her husband tried hard to persuade her to release her sister and the earl, 'and nothing, says _heylin_, did king _philip_ more honour amongst the _english_.' it is to be remembered to his good, that he interceded very earnestly, and in the end successfully, for another devonshire conspirator in wyatt's rising, sir peter carew. the earl, fearing that he might, 'upon the first disorder, be committed to the tower, to which his stars seemed to condemn him,' prudently resolved to go abroad; but he must have been born under a very unlucky planet, for the next year he was seized with illness, and died at padua. with him the title became extinct for about two hundred and fifty years; then lord courtenay, a descendant of the powderham branch of courtenays, established his claim to the earldom. as the attainder of the marquis of exeter was never reversed, that title was never revived in this family. among the 'roxburghe ballads' is one relating to the courtenays, called 'the stout cripple of cornwall.' no notes throw any light upon the possible origin of the story or offer any opinion as to the probability of the ballad being an account of a true incident, or 'founded on fact,' or wholly imaginary. 'of a stout cripple that kept the highway, and beg'd for his living all time of the day, a story i'll tell you that pleasant shall be- the cripple of cornwall sirnaméd was he. 'he crept on his hands and his knees up and downe, in a torn jacket and ragged patcht gowne; for he had never a leg to the knee- the cripple of cornwall sirnaméd was he. 'he was of stomake courageious and stout, for he had no cause to complaine of the gout; to go upon stilts most cunning was he, with a staff on his neck most gallant and free. 'yea, no good-fellowship would he forsake, were it in secret a purse to take, his help was as good as any might be, the cripple of cornwall sirnaméd was he. 'when he upon any such service did go, the crafty young cripple provided it so, his tools he kept close in an old hollow tree, that stood from the city a mile, two or three. 'thus all the day long he beg'd for relief, and late in the night he play'd the false theefe, and seven years together this custom kept he, and no man thought him such a person to be. 'there were few graziers who went on the way, but unto the cripple for passage did pay. and every brave merchant that he did descry, he emptied their purses ere they passed by. 'the gallant lord courtenay, both valiant and bold, rode forth with great plenty of silver and gold, at exeter there (for) a purchase to pay, but that the false cripple his journey did stay. 'for why, the false cripple heard tidings of late, as he lay for almes at this noble-man's gate, what day and what houre his journey should be; "this is," quoth the cripple, "a booty for me." 'then to his companions this matter he moved, which he in like actions before-time had proved; they make themselves ready, and deeply they sweare, this money's their own, before they come there. 'upon his two stilts the cripple doth mount, to have the best share he makes his account; all clothed in canvas downe to the ground, he takes up his standing, his mates with him round. 'then comes the lord courtenay, with half a score men, that little suspected these thieves in their den, and they (thus) perceiving them come to their hand, in a darke (winter's) evening, they bid him to stand. '"deliver thy purse," quoth the cripple, "with speed- for we be good fellows and thereof have need." "not so," quoth lord countenay, "but this i'll tell ye, win it and wear it, else get none of me." 'with that the lord courtenay stood on his defence, and so did his servants; but ere they went hence, two of the true men were slain in the fight, and four of the thieves were put to the flight. 'and while for their safeguard they run thus away, the jolly bold cripple did hold the rest play, and with his pikestaff he wounded them so, as they were unable to run or to go. 'with fighting the lord courtney was driven out of breath, and most of his servants were wounded to death, then came other horsemen riding so fast, the cripple was forced to flye at the last. 'and over a river that ran there beside, which was very deep and eighteen foot wide, with his long staff and his stilts leaped he, and shifted himself in an old hollow tree. 'then through the country was hue and cry made, to have these bold thieves apprehended and staid; the cripple he creep on his hands and his knees, and on the hieway great posting he sees. 'and as they came riding, he begging doth say, "o give me one penny, good masters, i pray;" and thus on to exeter creeps he along, no man suspecting that he had done wrong. 'anon the lord courtney he spies in the street, he comes unto him and he kisses his feet, saying, "god save your honour and keep you from ill, and from the hands of your enemies still!" '"amen!" quoth lord courtney, and therewith flung downe unto the poor cripple an english crowne; away went the cripple, and thus did he thinke, "five hundred pound more would make me to drinke." 'in vain that hue and cry it was made, they found none of them, though the country was laid; but this grieved the cripple both night and by day, that he so unluckily mist of his prey. 'nine hundred pound this cripple had got, by begging and thieving--so good was his lot- "a thousand pound he would make it," he said, "and then he would quite give over his trade." 'but as he (thus) strived his mind to fulfill. in following his actions so lewd and so ill, at last he was taken, the law to suffice, condemned and hanged at exeter 'size. 'which made all men greatly amazed to see, that such an impotent person as he should venture himself in such actions as they, to rob in such sort upon the hye-way.' on a hill about two miles east of totnes stand the ruins of berry pomeroy, at a little distance almost hidden in the thick woods around them. vistas of green leaves without end open from the road to the castle, long lines of beeches and oaks stretching out of sight and broken by glades chequered with flickering lights and shadows. on the north and east side of the walls the ground falls away precipitously to a great depth, and a stream runs along the valley beneath. the ruins are covered with ivy, saplings and bushes spread their fresh shoots and sprays among the crumbling stones, and all is open to the sky; but enough remains to show what a noble building berry pomeroy must have been. the outer walls of the castle were built by the pomeroys--it is thought probable by henry de pomeroy, in the reign of king john, though the castle was granted them by william the conqueror. a hexagonal tower flanks the gateway on either side. above it is the guard-room, in which two pillars support circular arches that are in a very perfect condition, and the grooves in the walls for the portcullis may easily be traced. it is usually reported that the pomeroys' coat of arms is still visible on the gateway, but as the lodge-keeper, who for many years has trimmed the ivy at intervals, has never seen it, it may be that a little imagination has come to the help of mere eyesight. a curtain wall connects the gateway with a tower called st margaret's tower, of which merely the shell remains, smothered in overhanging ivy, brambles, long grass, and a tapestry of plants, and beneath the tower is a small, dark dungeon. to the left, across the quadrangle and along the western wall, are a number of rooms more or less imperfect that belonged to the pomeroys' castle. they lead one into another, and contain enormous fireplaces and chimneys. opposite the gateway the ruins are much more broken down, in parts hardly more than fragments and tall trees peer over a low wall, the crowning point of a very steep ascent. just inside the gateway, on the right, is the skeleton of the splendid west front, due to sir edward seymour. the inner buildings, which rose in tudor days, are of a character entirely different from that of the older remains, and the seymours' spacious ideas were reflected in the magnificence of their castle. the windows and traces of fireplaces in the walls show that it must have been four stories high and held a maze of rooms. one becomes confused wandering through enclosed spaces, cell-like, for the great height, unbroken by floor or ceiling, gives an impression that the rooms are small. over all is an uncomfortable sense of desertion, and the high empty windows, with stone mullions and square labels, somehow give a skull-like appearance to the frame of the west front. there is not the feeling of repose that there is about some ruins, which seem to disown their debt to man, and to be bent on pretending that they are as entirely a work of nature as any lichen-covered boulder lying near them. i do not know if berry pomeroy is said to be haunted, but it awakens an uneasy sensation that it is itself a ghost--the ghost of an unsatisfied ambition, the creation of many minds who planned and toiled, soared and fell. as a matter of fact, the seymours' castle was never finished, and it is curious that, as it was destroyed in comparatively recent times, there should be no account of such an important event. the theory most usually accepted is that it was burned by lightning; but there is no absolute proof that this was the case. of the pomeroys of berry pomeroy few records of much importance remain. ralph de la pomerai was so 'greatly assistant to william the conqueror' in subduing this kingdom, that no less than fifty-eight lordships in devonshire were awarded him. henry de pomeroy, in the reign of king john, was a powerful and rebellious noble, who must have been a terror to his weaker neighbours. occasional glimpses of this family are given by old deeds and papers, as, for instance, in 1267, when a 'pardon' was granted by 'edward, eldest son of the king, to sir henry de la pomeroy, who was against the king in the late disturbances in the kingdom.' about the same date is a grant by sir henry, 'for the health of his soul,' of the manor of canonteign, the advowsons of four churches, and 'other possessions to the prior and convent of the blessed mary of martin ... by ordinance of walter, bishop of exeter.' some years later edward i, now king, sent a second pardon to sir henry 'and joan, his wife, for detaining isabella, daughter and one of the heirs of john de moles, deceased, and marrying her against the king's will to william de botreaux, the younger.' so that he appears to have followed his own pleasure with extreme independence. a note on a more peaceful subject is extracted from the testa de nevil: 'geoffrey de la worthy holds one tenement, four acres of land and a half, and two gardens of henry de la pomeroye, in bery, rendering at easter and midsummer four shillings and nine pence, and one pound of wax and three capons, the price of the wax sixpence, and the capons one penny.' one penny! the terms of settling several other disputes are preserved--in one case at great length. in the reign of henry vii, sir edward pomeroy fell out with 'the mayor of totnes and his brethren'; several gentlemen arbitrated between them, and eventually 'awarded that the said sir edward pomeroy shall clearly exclude, forgive, and put from him all malice and debates ... and from hensforth to be loving unto theym,' and the same conciliatory spirit was to be shown by the other side. as a really satisfactory conclusion, sir edward was desired to send the mayor and his brethren a buck to be eaten in state, 'provided that the same sir edward be at the etyng of the same bucke, in goodly manner. furthermore we award that the said maiour and his brethren shal paye for the wyne which shal be dronke at the etyng of the same bucke.' sir thomas pomeroy, the last of this family to own the castle, fell into disgrace through joining in the western rebellion against the prayer-book, and his estate passed to the protector somerset. it would be absurd in this chapter to attempt to touch on more than a very few points in the history of the great family of the seymours, or to touch on any that are not connected with devonshire. amongst the duke of somerset's papers are some extremely interesting letters and documents relating to sir edward seymour's descendants in this county. the second wife of the protector somerset, ann stanhope, is described in no flattering terms, one biographer attributing some of the duke's later troubles to 'the pride, the haughty hate, the unquiet vanity of a _mannish_, or rather of a _divellish_, woman.' haywood says she was 'subtle and violent in accomplishing her ends, and for pride, monstrous.' it can easily be imagined, therefore, that she persuaded the duke to set aside her stepson in favour of her own eldest son; but all the honours that should have passed to him were forfeited by the attainder of the duke. the title of earl of hertford was, however, restored to ann stanhope's son in the reign of james i. the true heir, sir edward seymour, to whose descendants the dukedom has now reverted, was given berry pomeroy by his father. his grandson, edward, showed great zeal in making ready the defences of the coast when the armada was expected, and from various letters, orders, and 'precepts,' it is obvious that these preparations brought him great responsibility and an immense amount of work. in 1586 a letter was forwarded to him from the lord-lieutenant in reference to the 'beacon watches.' instructions were sent that 'one, two, or three horses for post' should be kept at a convenient place near each beacon, that one or more might be ready to start at a moment's notice if the signal were given. further directions were: 'that the wisest and discreetest men of every parish be appointed to assist the constables; ... commandment to every person within every parish that they do not [set any furze or] heath on fire after seven of the clock in the afternoon.' and there were a host of orders regarding 'the trained soldiers, and also all others mustered and charged with armour.' later colonel seymour was called into council with the earl of bath, the lord-lieutenant of the county, and others, to draw up orders as to stores of 'powder, match, and lead,' that 'one moiety more of each sort' be kept in towns than was previously ordered, and that 'armour, weapons, horses, and other necessary furnitures for the wars be held in perfect readiness ... for all sudden service without defect.' his grandson, another sir edward, was a very loyal and devoted servant of charles i. in 1643 he was given full power and authority in his majesty's name 'to impress, raise, enroll, and retain one regiment of 1,500 foot soldiers;' and in the following august he was appointed to the important post of governor of dartmouth. besides supervising the garrison and the defences of the town, this officer was required to raise loans, supply ordnance, ammunition, and other necessaries--sometimes even troops--to captains in the neighbourhood. he was also desired to do his best to provide money and 'sea-victuals' for ships going out in the king's service, and received particular instructions from the king to prevent any 'ships, vessels, prizes, or anything belonging to them,' that might be captured, from being plundered or disposed of before they had been 'legally adjudicated by the judge of our admiralty there ... for the time being.' the tone of letters that passed between certain generals, royalist and puritan, about this date, furnishes an additional reason for mourning the tragedies of the time. the following letter is from the earl of warwick to colonel seymour: 'in torbay, aboard the _james_, '1644, _july_ 18. 'i return you my serious acknowledgment of your civility, and should most gladly embrace an opportunity to serve you, not only for your respects, but also for that ancient acquaintance i have had with your noble family and the honour i have borne it, the recalling whereof to memory adds to the trouble of our present distance, which i hope god will, in due time, reconcile, so as the mutual freedom of conversation which we sometimes enjoyed may be restored, which i shall the more value as it may give me advantage of testifying my esteem of you.... it is a pity the truth should be clouded by some mis-informations that have overspread these parts. god will in his time scatter them and undeceive those that wait upon him for counsel.' a few days later, in colonel seymour's reply to this letter, he admits he has been culpably generous to his adversary. 'truly, for my own part, i had rather err with mercy than justice, for had not my lenity made me a delinquent to duty, your lordship had wanted some of dartmouth now aboard you.' at the beginning of the war a fine letter was written by sir william waller to his friend and present adversary, lord hopton: 'bath, '1643, _july_ 16. 'the experience i have had of your work, and the happiness i have enjoyed in your friendship, are wounding considerations to me when i look upon this present distance between us; certainly, my affections to you are so unchangeable that hostility itself cannot violate my friendship to your person, but i must be true to the cause wherein i serve. the old limitation--_usque ad alias_--holds still, and where my conscience is interested, all other obligations are swallowed up. i should most gladly wait upon you, according to your desire, but that i look upon you as engaged in that party beyond the possibility of a retreat, and, consequently, incapable of being wrought upon by my persuasions, and i know the conference can never be so close between us but that it would take wind and receive construction to my dishonour. that great god who is the searcher of my heart, knows with what a sad sense i go on upon this service, and with what a perfect hatred i detest this war without an enemy, but i look upon it as _opus dei_, which is enough to silence all passion in me. the god of peace, in his good time, send us the blessing of peace, and, in the mean time, fit us to receive it. we are both upon the stage, and must act the parts that are assigned to us in this tragedy; let us do it in a way of honour and without personal animosities.' later, colonel seymour gave up the governorship of dartmouth, and was succeeded by sir lewis pollard. among the seymour papers are some interesting notes, dated '1645, may 22,' relating to horses and arms raised in the hundred of stanborough. 'mr bampfield, parson, will bring a horse and arms to-morrow at berry.... john key of rattery affirms that he hath three horses in the king's service; that he hath one mare only, which he proffers; his estate not above 40 li. per annum, and hath no money. dipford:--mr william fowell, late of dipford downs, assessed a horse and arms complete; his wife appears; says that prince maurice had one horse and captain newton had another for a country horse very lately; all the answer. mr john newton doth not appear. buckfastleigh:--mr richard cable hath brought one gelding with all arms, only a carbine instead of pistols, and no rider. dortington:--mr champernowne brought a little pretty fat old horse, but nothing else.' in 1647 colonel seymour's lands and goods were sequestrated, and he himself was kept either in prison or on parole all through cromwell's days. letters and papers of this period shed a light on the difficulties and hardships that in some cases befell the families of cavaliers. sir thomas fairfax intervened on behalf of mistress seymour, who was then at the estate of maiden bradley in wiltshire, saying that he had forbidden the soldiers to molest her in any way, and begging the committee for the county to insure that no civilian 'should prejudice her in the enjoyment of her rights.' the lady had a humbler but very earnest advocate, a servant of sir henry ludlow's, who had been in danger of being ruined 'had she not been means for my preservation.' she had begged his liberty of colonel molesworth when the king's soldiers were hunting for him, in order to exchange him for one of their side taken prisoner, 'a blackamoor.' mistress seymour, too, gave this poor man a good price for some wheat, 'which then none else would do, and had she not bought it, it is very likely that it would have been taken away by the soldiers, as the corn in the barn was.' mistress seymour was evidently strong-minded as well as charitable, as is shown in a letter written by her husband from the marshalsea, at exeter,--an appeal to be given a hearing. he complains that being 'hurried away to prison and no bail taken, no crime or accusation produced, makes me sigh when i remember the liberty due to a freeborn subject in england'; and the thrust is followed by a threat: 'if this request be denied, i have found a way to be even with them; for, if not granted, i intend to send up my wife.... and i pray advise the council of state from me, in relation to their own quiet, let them grant my request rather than be punished with her importunity.' the council were evidently impressed by colonel seymour's wisdom, for two months later they granted him a pass to return home. his liberty was, however, very much clipped, and rather more than two years later the following 'parole' was exacted of him: 'undertaking to remain at the dwelling-house of mr holt in exeter, and when required to deliver himself a prisoner to captain unton crooke.' _signed._ sir edward seymour died in 1659, and colonel seymour, now sir edward, became a member of parliament a year or so later. his letters to lady seymour from london are amusing from their variety of news and gossip. sir edward's style was terse, not to say jerky. one letter he begins by bitter complaints of their 'most undutiful son,' his 'obstinacy' and 'untowardness,' and then passes on to speak of his own imminent return. then: 'i was this day sennight, which was the last saturday, upon the scaffold, where i saw sir henry vane's head severed from his shoulders.... the queen perfectly recovered. cherries are cried here in the streets for a penny a pound.' sir edward received scanty reward for all his sacrifices, but he was reappointed governor of dartmouth, and in 1679 his son writes to tell him that he had been 'pricked sheriff for the county of devon ... by the king with all the kindness imaginable,' and an assurance that if sir edward felt the work too much for him, a subordinate should be found and the 'chargeable part' made easy. the earl of bath wrote by the same post: 'his majesty declared in council that he made choice of you, not only because you were the best man of your county, but also a person on whom he could by long experience place his greatest confidence.' sir edward died in the winter of 1688, and his son became the fifth sir edward seymour of berry pomeroy in succession. the new sir edward was a very distinguished man, who in 1672 had been unanimously chosen speaker of the house of commons. he was the seymour whose influence lord macaulay rated so highly, and whose support was extremely valuable to william of orange when he arrived in england. unfortunately, few of sir edward's papers, or papers referring to him, are now to be found. a long and carefully balanced epitaph in maiden bradley church describes him as a man of such endowments as added lustre to his whole ancestry, commanded reverence from his contemporaries, and stands the finest pattern to posterity. * * * * * the senate, the bulwark of the english liberty, in which he presided for several years, found his eloquence an advocate, his integrity a guardian, his vigour a champion for its privileges. about five miles north-east of berry pomeroy stands compton castle, and there is a tradition that they were once connected by a subterranean passage. compton is a very interesting example of a fortified manor-house, built in the early part of the fifteenth century. it stands low on the slope of a narrow, winding green valley, and on the west the hill has been cut back to make room for the walls. the castle faces east, a garden-plot lies in front, and the foundations of an ancient wall divide it from the lawn beyond. close to the central door stands the base and broken shaft of a stone cross. the picturesque western front of the castle is gabled and embattled, and a very high archway is built in the centre of the wall. the colour is difficult to describe, for the castle is very much overgrown with ivy and a faint green lichen has crept over the stones in many parts, but the shades pass from a rich cream colour to a soft grey. a very marked feature is 'the great number of projections carried on machicoulis, through the openings of which stones and other missiles could be thrown on the heads of assailants.' both the chief doorway and a postern gate to the south were defended by portcullises. on the north side an early perpendicular window marks the chapel. the central doorway opened into the large and almost square guard-room, and on the north side of this room a pointed doorway leads into the chapel, which keeps some of its special characteristics. at the east end a square space is sunk in the wall above the spot where the altar stood, and in this space the faint traces of a fresco can still just be seen. in the wall that shuts off the guard-room is a cinquefoiled piscina and a four-light window, the stonework of which is like that in the east window, and this window allowed anyone in the guard-room to join in divine service. in the west wall is a hagioscope, and from a room next the chapel a newel staircase led to the priest's room on the floor above. a little window with two cinquefoiled openings in his wall enabled the priest to look down into the chapel., and the height of the sill from the floor suggests that it may have served him as a _prie-dieu_. the moulded base of a stone cross still remains over the ancient belfry, which rises out of a mass of ivy. there are a bewildering number of rooms, many now inaccessible, and the height of the walls shows that there were two or three, and in the north-east block four, stories. the banqueting-hall, forty-two feet in length and twenty-three in width, has utterly disappeared, and only the gable-marks of the roof against the buildings on the south side have enabled mr roscoe gibbs to draw his very careful deductions. in the kitchen the huge fireplace, stretching the whole width of one wall, still keeps its great fire-bars; next the kitchen is the steward's room, above which two stories still stand, though the upper one is absolutely in ruins. outside these rooms is a large open space, now grass-grown, and the sprays and buds of a cluster-rose tap against the massive walls. close by lies a heavy round of granite, slightly hollowed out towards the centre, which is shown as one of the stones used for grinding corn. in an upper room is a hiding-place for treasure--two long, shallow cavities in the floor, of which there cannot have been the slightest sign when the floor was covered with planking. a vaulted passage leads to the south court, and in one corner of this court rises a watch-tower over a horrible little dungeon or chamber of torture. the walls throughout the whole building are from two and a half to four feet thick, and a thick and solid wall nearly twenty-four feet high protects an inner court, where even in january the turf is firm, springy, and close. at the farther end, on steps leading into the garden, a peacock looks wonderfully appropriate, and some white fantails strutting in front of the heavy walls add very much to the picture. there is scarcely any sign of the old 'pleasaunce,' except a low and fairly broad box-hedge, which runs each side of a path in the present garden, where a few violets and one or two strawberry-blossoms are tokens of the softness of the air. the castle has changed owners many times. 'stephen' held it of judhael of totnes; then it passed to the de la poles; lady alice de la pole gave it to the comptons, and seven generations later a compton heiress brought it, in the reign of edward ii, to the family of gilberts, of whom sir humphrey gilbert was a descendant. the gilberts seem to have lived alternately at compton and on their older property, greenway, and with one interval the castle belonged to them till nearly the end of the eighteenth century. the only trace of them now to be seen is in the spandrels of a small cinquefoil-headed opening on the projecting gabled wing to the south of the central door. each spandrel is sculptured with their crest, a squirrel holding a hazel branch. mr eden phillpotts has painted the ruins with a characteristic touch: 'at gloaming time, when the jackdaws make an end of day, when weary birds rustle in the ivy ere they sleep, hearts and eyes, gifted to feel and see a little above the level prose of working hours, shall yet conceive these heroes of old moving within their deserted courts. some chambers are still whole, and bats sidle through the naked window at the call of dusk; some are thrown open to sun and rain and storm; the chapel stands intact; the scoop for holy water lies still within the thickness of its wall. but aloft, where rich arras once hid the stone, and silver sconces held the torch, nature now sets her hand, brings spleenwort and harts-tongue, trails the ivy, the speedwell, and the toad-flax.... 'ivy-mantled, solemn, silent, it stands like a sentient thing, and broods with blind eyes upon ages forgotten; when these grey stones still echoed neigh of horse and bay of hound, rattle of steel, blare of trump, and bustle of great retinues.' the castle of okehampton stands about half a mile from the town, and looks on one side over fertile hills and valleys, woods, and rich meadows, and the gleaming waters of the west okement, on the other towards the bold, changeless outlines of the outer barriers of dartmoor. the castle was once surrounded by its park. risdon mentions that originally there were 'castle, market, and park adjoining.... the park, which containeth a large circuit of land, king henry the eighth, by the persuasion of sir richard pollard, disparked and alienated the same.' the okement, rippling over a rocky bed--the name _uisg maenic_ means the 'stony water'--hurries past the foot of a knoll on which the castle rises out of a cloud of green leaves that shelter and half hide the walls. protected by the river and a steeply scarped bank on the south, a natural ravine on the north, and a deep notch cut on the western side, the mass of slate rock that it stands on was a point of vantage. on the crest of the hill the keep stands on a mound, with which two sets of buildings were connected by curtain walls. these buildings stretch down the slope to the east, the space between the two blocks narrowing towards the gateway. mr worth observes that in devonshire and cornwall most of the smaller norman keeps were round, as at totnes, launceston, and plympton; but the stronger castles had square keeps. okehampton, though not a large or very strong fortress, was distinguished by its square keep, and 'occupies what may be called a middle position.' tradition has always held that baldwin de brionis, to whom the conqueror gave the manor, built the castle, and mr worth, after a searching examination, thinks that, as regards the lower part of the keep walls, this may very well be the case; for they are not only norman, but norman of the period in which baldwin lived. the other buildings are later, but vary in date, the most modern being the part of the block which contains the chapel, and which was probably reconstructed from older buildings towards the close of the thirteenth century. there are gaps in the walls of the keep, but the ruins show that there were four rooms, two above and two below; some of the windows and a fireplace in one of the upper rooms are still to be seen. in the northern block of buildings was the great hall--forty-five feet long and twenty-five feet wide--lighted by two large windows to the south, and entered by a boldly moulded granite doorway. a second doorway in one corner led to a staircase-turret which led to the roof. on the southern side the buildings are larger and less imperfect. here is the chapel, 'evidently,' says mr worth, 'a portion of a larger structure, which has, perhaps, for the most part disappeared....' east of the chapel are the guard-rooms, in a two-storied block of two rooms on each floor. a doorway in the north-eastern corner leads into the porter's lodge, a small room in the gate-tower with 'a loop window in the eastern wall commanding the approach. above this chamber there is one precisely similar in the upper story (the floor, of course, is gone), and it is noteworthy that this is the only part of the fabric that retains its roof, which is supported by three massive stone ribs.' the barony of okehampton was one of many grants made by the conqueror to baldwin de brionis, and some generations later it passed by marriage to the courtenays, in which family it remained until the marquis of exeter was attainted and beheaded in 1538. the castle was among the possessions that queen mary restored to the earl of devon, and on his death in 1556 his lands were divided amongst his heirs. okehampton castle fell to the share of the mohuns, and in 1628 john mohun was granted a peerage and took the title of lord mohun of okehampton. the last lord mohun died in 1712. to the barony of okehampton belonged floyer's hayes, in the parish of st thomas the apostle, near exeter, and it was held on this curious tenure: 'that if the courtenays, earls of devon, came at any time into exe isle, they [the floyers] were to attend them, decently apparelled with a clean towel on their shoulders, a flagon of wine in one hand and a silver bowl in the other, and offer to serve them with drink.' about thirteen miles south-west of okehampton, sydenham stands in a beautiful valley, overshadowed by woods, in which the shining green of the laurels, the darker masses of the rhododendrons' tapering leaves, patches of russet bracken, and feathery light green moss make a feast of colour, even when overhead there is only the bare tracery of twigs and branches. the coverts lie on a hill-side that is steep and fairly high, and at the foot is a rushing stream which is crossed by a bridge exactly opposite the front of the house. the following notes have been most kindly sent me by mrs. tremayne: 'the manor of sidelham, or sidraham, now called sydenham, appears to have been originally held by four saxon thanes, whose names have not been preserved, and to have passed from them into the hands of that powerful noble, judhaell de totnais. on his banishment by william rufus, his property was confiscated, and sydenham gave its name to a family who still possessed it in the reign of henry iii, and was succeeded by a family called mauris, from whom it passed in marriage to trevage, and from trevage to wise. part of the house dates from the fourteenth century, and is said to have originally formed a quadrangle or h, but in the reign of elizabeth it was built into the shape of an e, and is a very perfect example of tudor domestic architecture. 'sir edward wise, in the reign of james i, very much beautified the house, and legend says that he tried to add such height and such an amount of granite to it that risdon writes, "the very foundations were ready to reel under the burthen." the house lies in a lovely wooded valley on the banks of the river lyd, and it has four separate entrances, each opening on to a court or garden. access to the front-entrance--commonly called the green court--is through a fine iron gateway, and above the central door are the wise arms. most of the windows have eight rounded granite mullions and small leaded panes of glass, and in some the original glass still remains. two windows in the front are of charles i.'s date, and have quaint fan-shaped lights. over the large granite open fireplace in the front-hall is the date 1656, when the house underwent repair after damage, caused, it is said, in the civil wars. there is a story repeated in many histories of devon, and told by lysons amongst others, that sydenham was taken in 1644 by colonel holborne; but i have every reason to believe that the sydenham garrisoned and taken was combe sydenham, in the parish of stogumber, near taunton, but the fact that within the last forty years a sword and other weapons, also seventeenth-century horseshoes, have been found may be taken as a proof that fighting of some sort did take place. 'in making alterations in the kitchen chimney some twenty years ago, a little hiding-place, or priest's room, was found opening out of it, and in it was an oak table and the remains of a chair; and since then large and small unsuspected rooms have been discovered, and it has been said that in the largest a troop could lie hidden--as indeed it could with ease. quite recently a secret passage leading from the house towards the river has been found, bearing out the legend always handed down, "that the lady wise of the day escaped with a large party by a secret passage near the river, and got into the woods undetected by the soldiers who were round the house." it is very probable that the secret rooms mentioned and the passage communicated. 'there is fine oak panelling in most of the rooms, and in the dining-room the panelling is inlaid in a delicate design with an ivory-like substance. secret passages exist to this day in the walls, which are of immense thickness, in some places being seven feet in depth. there are three oak staircases, the main one being finely carved with figures standing at the angles, and another having very fine newels. 'in what goes by the name of the king's room there is an ancient bed, with fine old red silk curtains and the prince of wales's plumes over it, in which charles i and charles ii are reported to have slept. it is quite likely that charles ii, when prince of wales, did come here, as he is known to have been many weeks in the neighbourhood.' the garden is delightful, and no change in it has been made for very many years. a wide lawn slopes away from the house, and a very small straight rivulet runs through it just a foot or two from the path. at the foot of the slope is a tiny lake, which, though very narrow, divides the lawn from end to end, and beyond the water the ground rises gradually. clipped bushes and a large flower-border mark the farther edge of the lawn. the tremaynes were originally a cornish family, but they came to devonshire early in the fourteenth century. for at this time isabella trenchard of collocombe married thomas tremayne, and after his death sir john damarel, 'and so much gain'd the affection of her second husband that he gave her and her heirs by tremain (having none of his own)' some of his estates. thomas tremayne and philippa his wife lived during the sixteenth century, and had sixteen children, several of whom distinguished themselves. andrew and nicholas were twins, and so amazingly alike 'in all their lineaments, so equal in stature, so colour'd in hair, and of such resemblance in face and gesture,' that they were only recognized, 'even by their near relations,' 'by wearing some several coloured riband or the like ... yet somewhat more strange was that their minds and affections were as one: for what the one loved the other desired: ... yea, such a confederation of inbred power and of sympathy was in their natures, that if nicholas were sick or grieved, andrew felt the like pain, though far distant and remote in their persons.' when sir peter carew fled the country, suspected of plotting against queen mary, andrew tremayne embarked with him at weymouth, and later nicholas joined his twin in france, and they threw in their lot with a troop of adventurers who harassed the channel. froude has said: 'the sons of honourable houses ... dashed out upon the waters to revenge the smithfield massacres. they found help where it could least have been looked for: henry ii of france hated heresy, but he hated spain worse. sooner than see england absorbed in the spanish monarchy, he forgot his bigotry in his politics. he furnished these young mutineers with ships and money and letters of marque. the huguenots were their natural friends; with rochelle for an arsenal, they held the mouth of the channel, and harassed the communications between cadiz and antwerp.' occasionally the twins met with ill-luck, and an entry in the acts of the privy council records that: 'to be committed to several prisons, to be kept secret, without having conference with any ... andrew tremayne to the marshalsey and nicholas tremayne to the gate house, suspected of piracy.' afterwards they went back to their life of risks and chances on the high seas. but when elizabeth came to the throne a different view was taken of these rovers. 'privateering suited elizabeth's convenience,' says froude. 'time was wanted to restore the navy. the privateers were a resource in the interval ... they were really the armed force of the country.' so (in 1559) instructions were sent to the english ambassador in paris that certain gentlemen, among whom were the tremaynes, 'as shall serve their country, the ambassador shall himself comfort them to return home. circumspection must be used.' the postscript is characteristically cautious. the queen valued nicholas as a trustworthy messenger, where a matter needed discreet handling, and the bearer of it was likely to be in danger. in 1559-60 the bishop of aquila wrote to the king of spain: 'the queen has just sent to france an englishman called tremaine, a great heretic, who is to disembark in brittany. i understand that he goes backwards and forwards with messages to the heretics in that country.' on one journey he was arrested when carrying letters in cipher, and throckmorton, the english ambassador in paris, wrote to the due de guise, asking for his release. nicholas was a special favourite of the queen, but as he loved a camp better than a court, she gave him leave 'to enter into the service of the king of navarre, by which means he will be better able to serve her.' the king of navarre, however, did not greatly appreciate tremayne, and a short time afterwards throckmorton writes: 'the bearer, mr tremayne, came out of england with intent to see the wars in almain, or elsewhere, thereby to be better able to serve the queen. he has been here a good while to hearken which way the flame will rise to his purpose; but now, finding all the princes in christendom inclined to sit still, returns home. desires cecil to do something for him to help him to live, as it will be right well bestowed. the queen will have a good servant in him, and cecil an honest gentleman at his command.' andrew had entered the army, and in scotland reaped fame from the brilliant cavalry charge which drove the french back into leith. lord grey wrote in 1560-61 that he had chosen captain tremayne to escort lord james, 'because he is a gentleman of good behaviour, courtesy, and well trained, and also that he stands in the favour of the lords of scotland by reason of his valiant service at leith.' in the winter of 1562-63 the queen began openly to help the huguenots at havre, and nicholas tremayne was sent there at the head of 'fifty horsemen pistolliers.' in the following may captain tremayne's band and some others, in a skirmish, 'repulsed the rheingrave's whole force, slain and taken near 400, with one ensign and seven drums. not more than twenty of their own were killed and wounded, none to his knowledge taken.' four days later tremayne's troops, over-confident, risked too much, and their captain was shot, to the great grief of his fellow-officers. warwick wrote to cecil: 'whereas you write that you are more sorry for the death of tremain than you could be glad of the death of a 100 allmaynes, i assure you that there is never a man but is of the same opinion.' the queen was much grieved by the loss. 'she had resented,' says froude, 'the expulsion of the french inhabitants of havre ... she was more deeply affected with the death of tremayne; and warwick was obliged to tell her that war was a rough game; she must not discourage her troops by finding fault with measures indispensable to success; for tremayne, he said, "men came there to venture their lives for her majesty and their country, and must stand to that which god had appointed either to live or die."' risdon concludes his account of the twins by saying that they died together; but this is not altogether accurate, for, about a week after the death of nicholas, andrew with three hundred soldiers set sail from berwick for havre. it is, however, quite true that they died in the same place, and the interval between their deaths was very short, for about seven weeks after his twin was killed andrew tremayne succumbed to the plague. edward tremayne, another brother, followed the fortunes of the marquis of exeter, and was 'a great sufferer for his inviolable fidelity to his noble master.' so firm was his devotion that even torture failed to extort from him a confession that the marquis and 'the lady elizabeth' had been involved in wyatt's conspiracy. his 'invincible resolution' asserted their innocence, even on the rack, and queen elizabeth later recognized this splendid loyalty by making him 'one of the clerks of her majesty's most honourable privy-council.' cecil had a high opinion of tremayne, and in 1569 showed his faith in tremayne's judgment by sending him to ireland, to sift the terrible but conflicting stories of its miseries and rebellions, and 'to let him know quietly the real condition of the country.' tremayne, to begin with, wrote hopefully of remedies for all that was wrong, but after a year's study and experience realized that the trouble lay deeper than he had at first understood. nevertheless, some notes on the state of ireland by edward tremayne are endorsed by lord burghley 'a good advice.' the queen showed her confidence by entrusting to him (in 1580) a very delicate task. the treasure that drake brought home in the _pelican_ had to be registered; the examination must be made before some public officer, but the queen feared that it might be necessary to make restitution to spain, and, not objecting to a little crooked dealing, was very anxious that the total amount of the booty should never be made known. in obedience to the instructions he received from her, tremayne writes to walsingham: 'i have at no time entered into the account, to know more of the very value of the treasure than he made me acquainted with. and to say the truth, i persuaded him to impart to me no more than need, for so i saw him commanded in her majesty's behalf, that he should reveal the certainly to no man living.' here follows a fine tribute to drake's unselfishness: 'and withal, i must say, as i find by apparent demonstration, he is so inclined to advance the value to be delivered to her majesty and seeking in general to recompense all men that have been in this case dealers with him, as i dare take an oath with him, he will rather diminish his own portion than leave any of them unsatisfied.' edmund tremayne, of a later generation, faithfully served his king in the troubled times of the civil wars, 'and was several hundred pounds deep in their books, at haberdashers' hall, for his loyalty. he is also stated to have repaid a considerable portion of the money borrowed for the necessities of the queen during her sojourn at exeter, at the time of the birth of the princess henrietta. later he was imprisoned and his goods were sequestrated.' a very treasured possession in the family is the 'tongue token,' believed to have originally belonged to this edmund tremayne. these tokens, small enough to put under the tongue in case of need, were given to the bearers of messages from those of high rank or importance, as a proof of the genuineness of the bearer, where there was too much danger to risk a written word. this token is a tiny oval of gold, with the head of king charles on one side and his initials on the other. edmund tremayne is supposed to have received this token when he carried the news of the princess's birth from exeter to the king at oxford. mr tremayne's grandson, edmund, married arabella, the daughter and heiress of sir edward wise, who brought sydenham to the tremaynes. various traces of the wises remain, among them a portrait of a golden-haired lady wise. she is painted wearing a white satin dress, an immense vandyck collar, and many ornaments. among her possessions was a magnificent set of 'horse furniture,' made, it is supposed, for some state occasion when she rode with her husband in the year (1633) that he was high sheriff. it is of very fine and rich crimson velvet, arranged to fit over the pommels of the saddle and hang down on either side. the furniture includes an imposing red velvet stirrup, and both this and the saddle-cloth are elaborately and beautifully worked with silver embroidery, and hung with silver tassels to match; and a piece of velvet that lay over the crupper is thickly strewn with delicate little silver cockle-shells. about fourteen miles north-east of exeter, in the valley of the culm, stands bradfield; an avenue of cedars leads up to the house, which is an elizabethan one in a very perfect condition. the banqueting-hall is panelled throughout, and its fine carved roof is supported by elaborately carved and pierced hammer-beams. high at one end is the minstrels' gallery, and at the other is a latticed window, which opened on to a corridor, and is said to have been used by the lady of the house, who could see from it anything that might be happening in the hall. a high arch on one side of the hall divides a small panelled room, where the guests gathered before dinner. the arch is of white stone, and little blocks, each bearing a shield or flower, are set at intervals on the mouldings. the music-room is panelled, and above the panels are hangings of spanish leather covered with graceful designs. the fireplace and very interesting 'porch' projecting into the room look like late italian renaissance work, though, from the dresses of the carved figures on them, they are supposed to have been actually made in england. the porch is richly carved and painted, and slender strips of very light wood are inlaid amongst a mass of ornamental details. the figures seem more than a little incongruous to each other. on one panel are adam and eve with the tree of knowledge between them, and above appear ladies and gentlemen of the court of queen elizabeth--little coloured figures, standing well out from the backs of their niches. the fireplace is very elaborately carved and painted, and here, too, are figures in curious juxtaposition surrounded by very rich decorations. amongst others may be seen a farmer and his wife, a cook, with a large goose that she is about to kill, and a dairymaid, with a miniature cow in her arms. high above these are the sons and daughters of jesse in splendid robes and crowns. bradfield, in ancient days bradefelle, was once held by a family of that name. the deed that carried it to the walronds is not dated, but a marginal note says that 'fulke paynel' was dead in 1 henry iii. the deed runs as follows: fulke paynel grants to richard walerond of exeter all his land of bradfield in his manor of offeculme. richard walerond is to make two suits yearly, one at 'la hockeday,'[10] and one at michaelmas amercement, to consist of one sextary of wine of the value of sixpence and not more. grant of common pasture throughout the manor, except in fields and meadows. one pound of pepper to be paid at michaelmas annually. in recognition of this grant richard walerond 'pays to fulke paynel five marks of silver, and gives to hande his wife' one golden ring, and to william his heir one golden brooch. [footnote 10: 'la hockeday' is commonly, but incorrectly, supposed to commemorate the freedom of the english by the massacre of the danes on the feast of st. brice, 1002. 'hoke-tide' began on the monday after the second sunday after easter.] witnesses: simon son of roger, hamelin de boulay, william de lomene, walter de tiddecomba, simon de baunton and robert his brother, peter comyn, radulphus de doddescomba, walter de soffewill, 'and many others.' among the walrond papers is an agreement dated michaelmas, 1261, regarding a farm 'let for nineteen years, in consideration of four marks paid and one mark a year for six years and rent of six shillings a year ... and two capons at michaelmas and one bushel of winter wheat at christmas in each year, from one ferling of land in cumb.' i believe that the views held by sir henry walrond of the arrival of william of orange are not clearly recorded, but whatever they were, a note written by general ginkel, during the march from tor bay to whitehall, was, considering the position of things, decidedly peremptory: 'sir van ginkel, lt.-general of the cavalry of the united netherlands, in the service of his highness, the prince of orange, etc. 'we have taken up our quarters in the house of sir hendrie waldron, which quarters we desire shall be kept open as long as the troops of his highness shall remain in this town or neighbourhood; we have also left in the care of the aforesaid sr hendries waldron two black horses, and likewise the gray mare, which he shall keep for us. 'given at columpton the 7/17 november, 1688. 'bar de real de ginkel.' a charming echo from the past sounds in a very different epistle--a love-letter from sir william walrond to a mistress courtenay. the letter is written on a sheet of paper covered with gold-leaf and bordered with elaborate designs. the case belonging to it is embroidered in fine crewel-work in (more or less) natural colours, representing figures, scenery, and a house in the background, and it suggests the needles of little gidding. 'honoured lady, 'the happiness i late enjoy'd by the fruition of your sweete society gives an incentive to mee to let you knowe how deep you are percullest[11] in my brest, though their injurious feare [youth's usual concomitant] obscured those larger narratives of my most intensive love and really devoted service ... 'twas my present fate then to be lesse expressive when i most admir'de these eminent perfections which both art & nature have adorn'd you with and as being doubtful of obtaining what i heartily desired remained your captive but in confidence of your candid disposition am now your humble petitioner to bee so far happified as to be deemed your honouring servant. let then, i beseech you (worthy, lady) this poor and unpolished character of my due respects and firm affections achieve the happiness of kissing your fairest hands and you shall thereby engage at present and in future 'your most honouring 'friende and servant, 'will walrond. '_anderdon this 27th of october, 1659._' [footnote 11: portcullised.] pynes stands in the exe valley, just within three miles of exeter cathedral. it is of red brick with white dressings, and has many high narrow windows. a view has been put forward that the politics of country gentlemen in the early part of the eighteenth century may always be traced by their trees; those who were in favour of william iii set lime-avenues, while jacobites planted scotch firs. there is a tradition in the family that, while the northcotes were for the prince of orange, the staffords were for king james, but it seems quite as likely that political significance was not always the chief point in planting trees. in any case, there are many scotch firs, and a lime-avenue (peculiarly in keeping with the style of the house) is shown by prints to have led far over the hill to upton pyne, but is now, alas! represented only by one or two aged survivors. the manor belonged to the family of pyne in the reign of henry i, and after many years was brought by an heiress to the larders. from this family, after another interval, it passed by marriage to the coplestones, of whom it was bought by hugh stafford. the staffords, or, as the name originally was, stowfords, migrated from stowford in dolton near torrington, soon after the restoration. hugh stafford, born in 1674, was very keenly interested in the subject of apple-growing and cider. he wrote a 'dissertation' on the subject, and especially on a certain apple called the royal wilding, from which it had just been discovered (about 1710) a very superior kind of cider could be produced. unfortunately, lord bute's cider-tax so greatly discouraged the manufacture that after it had been imposed farmers only made enough for their own use and their labourers', and were not very critical as to the quality. in consequence, the choicest kinds of fruit were neglected, and both the royal wilding and the white sour of the south hams, another much-prized apple, are no longer to be found. the daughter and heiress of mr stafford married her neighbour, sir henry northcote. the northcotes have been settled in devonshire since the reign of henry i, when galfridus de northcote held the lands of northcote at east down, near barnstaple, and in the middle of the sixteenth century walter northcote was living at uton, in the parish of crediton. in this neighbourhood his descendants remained until sir henry's marriage, when they came to pynes. john northcote was one of the devonshire justices who attended quarter sessions during the later part of the reign of elizabeth, and he lived till within ten years of the outbreak of civil war. from his epitaph, it appears that he was tried by the star chamber; the verse has been translated as follows: 'to him the queen's commission in his youth trusted the scales of justice and of truth. fair was the balance held, and pure his fame, though by star chamber tried, as gold by flame.' nothing is known of the trial, not even the charge, but it is pretty certain that, in common with several other justices at that time, he had showed 'a want of "forwardness"' in collecting ship-money. another justice, walter yonge, notes in his diary that in 1627 letters were sent to the justices of devon, 'to the mayors of port-towns, exeter, dartmouth, totnes, plymouth, and barnstaple, bidding the towns provide ships, and the country, men and victuals.' later, letters were sent demanding that a large sum should be raised 'to set a fleet at sea ... we having but six or seven days to raise the money, and to return it to london; but _our county refused to meddle therein_.' john northcote was sheriff just at this time, and was most probably held responsible for the intractability of his countrymen. sir john northcote, his son, was born in 1599, and became a member of parliament, he and sir edmund fowel representing ashburton in the long parliament. during his first few weeks in the house of commons, sir john took notes of the proceedings, and the small brown volume in which they are written still exists. the notes have been transcribed by mr a. h. a. hamilton, and are very interesting, for they record threatenings of the great storm so soon to burst over england. the pages open with 'proceedings against the earl of strafford. mr pimm's [pym] report'--which report prefaces terrible accusations with a personal touch: 'long known the person charged by acts of friendship.' many letters, reports, and commissions, refer to jesuits and priests, and often the queen's name appears intervening on their behalf; laws against them were more and more relaxed, 'signifying his majesty's pleasure at instance of her majesty,' till the commons became uneasy, and a 'petition' was framed to the king, to remind him of his 'protestation' at the opening of his reign, that the queen 'should not intermeddle with matters of religion.' the long and stubborn opposition to the exaction of ship-money, 'voted illegal and entered _nullo contradicente_,' is given. the judges who had declared the tax to be legal were supposed to have been tampered with by strafford, and mr hyde (afterwards lord clarendon) suggested that they should be interviewed as to what had passed. the following is a bit of the debate as it was taken down; as sir john did not write shorthand, he was naturally able to give only the gist of each speech: 'mr hide. that some of the house be sent to know what solicitations [_had been made_]. * * * * * 'sir franc. seymour. that proof be first made. 'mr pelham. that it will amount to high treason and to prepare present charge. 'sir jo. wray. the posy of his grandfather, just and true. sir ed. cook [said] whoever shall go about to overthrow common law, the common law will overthrow him. his motion, _currat lex_. 'sergeant evers. to have first the votes of the lords. 'sir p. stapylton. that mr peard be sent to judge jones. 'sir jo. strangwayes. that justice crook be sent to. 'lord fawkland. that they be sent to all at once. 'sir nevill poole. that lord keeper be forth coming. 'mr controller. that respect be had to judges. that none be urged to be accuser, but concluded that all be sent to. 'sir jo. culpeper. of twelve one was a judas. to send to all the judges that gave the judgment, and to send immediately.' another debate shows the king and parliament for the moment on unusually good terms. sir benjamin rudyard said: 'god blest his majesty with hopeful and fruitful progeny. to put in mind to provide for them. the first prince born amongst us this 100 years. queen's good affection to parliament. concern her majesty to uphold the glory and government of this kingdom.' when the crisis came, most of the devonshire members seem to have supported the parliament, guided, no doubt, to some extent by the wonderful influence of 'king' pym. pym sat for tavistock; 'his colleague was a son of the house of russell. william strode sat for buralston, and his elder brother for plympton.' northcote was slightly connected with the strodes, and when war broke out he followed the earl of bedford. in september, 1642, sir hugh pollard wrote to the earl of bath: 'the earl of bedford is now at taunton, in want of men and money; he hath sent to his friends chudleigh, bampfield, and northcote, for a supply of both, whose oratory cannot get one trained man to move, nor above eight volunteers.' the letter receives a curious comment from the succeeding ones. at that very time the earl of bedford was issuing orders for the arrest of sir hugh pollard, and four days afterwards sir george chudleigh and sir john northcote wrote to major carey, expressing their approval of captain dewett's conduct in capturing the earl of bath. sir john was now at the head of a regiment of twelve hundred men, and seems to have held the command during the first two years of the civil war. he took an active part in the defence of plymouth, and in 1643 at modbury a victory was won by the forces under lieutenant-general ruthen, sir j. bampfield, and sir john northcote, over lord hopton's troops. many of the parliamentarian gentlemen were anxious for peace, and just after this skirmish tried to arrange an 'association' or neutrality between devon and cornwall; but the idea was quashed by commissioners from london. a few months later clarendon mentions that sir john was sent by the earl of bedford, the parliamentary general of horse, to negotiate a treaty with the marquis of hertford. sir john was elected to the parliament of 1656, and showed himself a constant lover of liberty. he inveighed against the powers granted to cromwell's house of peers. 'it was minded you ... that no law was rightly made but by king, lords, and commons. i am sure this law was not made so.' he lays stress on the point that the old house of lords ventured all that they had, and protests against their being superseded by new-comers. 'that they should be excluded and these advanced is not just nor reasonable.' a little later he spoke again on the same subject: 'we thought in the long parliament we might restrain the inordinate power of the chief magistrate. that was the ground of our quarrel in the late war; but ... it seems we cannot bound these lords' exorbitant powers.... i did fight against an exorbitant power in the king's hands, and _i will fight against it again to the last drop of blood_, if his highness command me, whenever such power shall be set up, if it be to-morrow, and in whatever hands it be.' john northcote was one of the two knights of the shire for devon in the convention parliament, the other being the lord general monk. the restoration was gladly welcomed by him, but he 'spoke repeatedly in favour of pardon and amnesty, and when necessity arose, he seems to have confronted the triumphant cavaliers in debate as boldly as he had met them, or their fathers, in the field.' this was the last parliament that sir john sat in. a little later he turned to the west, and spent most of the days that were left him in devon. list of authorities consulted baring-gould (s.): a book of dartmoor. baring-gould (s.): a book of the west. baring-gould (s.): devonshire characters and strange events. blount (t.): tenures of lands. blundell's worthies, edited by m. l. banks. bray (mrs.): the borders of the tamar and the tavy. britton (j.) and brayley (e. w.): beauties of england and wales. britton (j.) and brayley (e. w.): devonshire illustrated. camden (w.): britannia. carew (bampfylde moore): life and adventures. carewe (sir peter), dyscourse and dyscoverye of the lyffe of, ... collected by john vowell, als. hoker, of the citie of excester, gent. carrington (n. t.): dartmoor. chanter (j. f.): a history of the parishes of lynton and countisbury. chanter (j. r.): lundy island. chichester (sir a. p.): history of the chichester family. cleaveland (e.): genealogical history of the noble and illustrious family of courtenay. clermont (lord): history of the fortescues. cotton (r. w.): barnstaple and the northern part of devonshire during the great civil war. cotton (w.): an elizabethan guild of the city of exeter. cotton (w.) and woollcombe (h.): gleanings from municipal and cathedral records of exeter. dartmoor preservation association's transactions. defoe (d.): a tour through the whole island of great britain. devon notes and queries. devonshire association's transactions. edmonds (chancellor): exeter cathedral. everitt (w.): devonshire scenery. fiennes (celia): through england on a side-saddle in the time of william and mary. fox (s. p.): kingsbridge and its surroundings. freeman (e. a.): exeter. friend (h.): bygone devonshire. froude (j. a.): history of england. fuller (t., d.d.): worthies of england. gilpin (w.): observations on the western parts of england. harding (w.): history of tiverton. harris (j. h.): my devonshire book. izacke (r. and s.): remarkable antiquities of the city of exeter. kelly's directory of devonshire. king (r. j.): sketches and studies. kingsley (c.): miscellanies. leland (j.): itinerary. lysons (d. and s.): magna britannia. mozley (t.): henry vii, prince arthur, and cardinal morton. murray's handbook of devon. norway (a. h.): highways and byways in devon and cornwall. oliver (g., d.d.): history of the city of exeter. oliver (g., d.d.): lives of the bishops of exeter. oliver (g., d.d.): monasticon dioecesis exoniensis. page (j. l. w.): an exploration of exmoor. peeke (richard, of tavistock): his three to one. pollock (sir f.): dartmoor and the walkham. _eng. illus. mag._, 1884. polwhele (r.): history of devonshire. pridham (t. l.): devonshire celebrities. prince (j.): worthies of devon. raleigh (sir walter): life, by martin hume. rawle (e. j.): annals of the ancient royal forest of exmoor. rawle (e. j.): the doones of exmoor. risdon (t.): chorographical description or survey of the county of devon. rogers (w. h. h.): memorials of the west. rowe (c. r.): south devon. rowe (j. brooking): history of the borough of plympton erle. rowe (s.): a perambulation of dartmoor. snell (f. j.): memorials of old devonshire. sprigg (j.): anglia rediviva; or, england's recovery. vowell (j., _alias_ hoker): antique description of the city of exeter. walker (j.): sufferings of the clergy. walpole's universal british traveller. watkins (j.): an essay towards a history of bideford. westcote (t.): view of devonshire in mdcxxx. whitfeld (h. f.): plymouth and devonport in times of war and peace. widecombe tracts, 1638. wiffen (j. h.): historical memoirs of the house of russell. worth (r. n.): history of plymouth. worth (r. n.): the west-country garland. index acland, lady harriot, 29; sir john, 29; sir thomas, 270 adams, will, 112 adelaide, queen, and honiton lace, 49 affeton castle, 238 ameredith, william, 153 american prisoners at princetown, 85 apsley, colonel, 211; sir allen, 227 arms and motto granted to exeter, 9 arlington court, 252 arundell, colonel, 46 ashburton, 121 ashe, 68 athelstan, monastery founded at exeter by, 3 atterbury, bishop, anecdote of, 97 audley, lord, 128 avant, philip, 113 axminster, 69 axmouth, 66 babb, john, 257; ursula, 258 ballads, poems, and songs, local, 69, 70, 83, 87, 99, 104, 106, 109, 117, 123, 124, 125, 134, 141, 149, 170, 179, 192, 193, 195, 201, 206, 208, 218, 239, 247, 251, 261, 271, 283 bampfylde, bampfield, hugh, 24; john, 32, 33, 291; sir john coplestone, 32 bampton, 13 barker, pentecost, 175 barnstaple, 224 barun, walter, 269 baunton, robert de, 307; simon de, 307 bedford, earls of, 80, 182 beer, 65 _bellerophon_ in plymouth harbour, 177 benet, sir henry, 148 benson, thomas, 249 berkeley, sir john, 12, 32, 90, 211 berry head, 113 berrynarbour, 249 berry pomeroy, 285 bickleigh, 24 bideford, 201 bigbury bay, unknown lady drowned in, 146 blackaller, john, 8 blackhall, christopher, 131 blackmore, r. d., 20 blackpool, 151 blake, martin, 224, 225 blowing-house on dartmoor, 75 blundell, peter, 19 blundell's school, tiverton, 19 bohun, margaret, 275 bolt head and bolt tail, 146 boniface, 35 bonville, cicely, 57; nicholas, 69 botreaux, william de, 287 boulay, hamelin de, 307 bradfield, 305 bradninch, 29 branscombe, 64 braunton burrows, 221 bray, mrs., on wistman's wood, 77 brendon, 262 brent tor, 71, 198 brioniis, baldwin de, 297, 298 briwere, alicia de, 107; william, lord, 107 bromehall, walter de, 91 brown, rev. charles, 94 browne, richard, 161; william, 82, 194 brudenell, mr, 31 buckfast abbey, 122 buckfastleigh, 122 buck-horn, 115 buckland abbey, 195 budleigh, east, 60 budleigh salterton, 60 buller, charles, 40; john francis, 40 bulmer, sir beavis, 251 burgoyne, general, 30 burke, edmund, 146 burleigh, lord, 161 bussell, nicholas, 98 cabal government, the, 101 cable, richard, 291 calder, john, 149 canonteign, 98, 99 carew, sir alexander, 173; bampfylde moore, 24; dorothea, 17; sir gawen, 38, 52, 53, 54; george, 52, 108; john, 52; sir peter, 38, 52, 53, 54, 152, 282, 301; sir william, 53 carew arms, 52 carey, cary, colonel, 153; george, 142; sir henry, 140; john, 215; sir robert, 216 castle hill, 240 cecil, sir edward, 185; sir robert, 135; sir william, 135 cergeaux, john, 128 chagford, 90 challacombe, 285 champernowne, sir arthur, 108, 128; henry, 62, 128; richard, 142; william, 291 chapman burrows, 266 chapple, will, 237 charles ii at plymouth, 175 charm for staunching of blood, 150 chesney, sir charles, 20; george, 20 chichester, sir arthur, 252; john, sir john, 252; robert de, sir robert, 252, 254 choak-a-bone, tomb of, 67 christmas custom at dean prior, 124 christow, 97 chudleigh, 100 chudleigh, sir george, 312 churchill, sir winston, 68 cider, lord bute's tax on, 50 civil war, the, 11, 12, 22, 32, 50, 58, 90, 98, 139, 173, 194, 207, 226, 229, 273, 289, 312 clements, captain, 115 clermont, lady, anecdote of, 241 clifford, anthony, 100; sir thomas, 100 clovelly, 213 clyst river, 45 cocke, captain, 162 coffin, richard, 212; sir william, 212 colcombe, 68 coleridge, lord, on ottery, 57 coleridge, samuel taylor, 58 colyton, 67 combe martin, 250 common rights on dartmoor, 79 compton castle, 294 comyn, peter, 307 convicts at lundy, 249 cornish, the, their ignorance of english, 8 cosway, richard, 16 countess weir, 7 countisbury, 260, 261 courtenay, lord, 54; edward, 280; lady elizabeth, 281; henry, 279; hugh, sir hugh, 275, 276; lady matilda, 276; sir peter, 276, 278; sir philip, 272, 275, 276; robert, 15; william, 153, 277 coven, john, 95 cranbrook castle, 92 crediton, 34 creedy river, 34 crockern tor, 78 crofts, sir james, 135 cromwell, thomas, 80 crosses on dartmoor, 80 cullen, nicholas, 248 cullompton, 27 culm river, 27 damarel family, 45 damarel, sir john, 300 dancing tree at moreton, 92 danes, the, in devon, 104; at exeter, 3; at northam, 210 daniel, tom, 17 dart, the, 19 dartington hall, 127 dartmoor forest, 71 dartmouth, 136 davis, captain john, 11, 132; mr, 98 de albemarle family, 45 dean prior, 123 deane, captain, 273 defoe, daniel, on honiton cider, 50; on trade of exeter, 10 dennis, sir thomas, 153 devon, earldom of, restored, 281 devonport, 157 'devonshire boys' courage,' 104 dickens's, charles, description of clovelly, 214 digby, colonel, 173, 227, 229 dittisham, 133 dodbrooke, 142 doddescomba, radulphus de, 307 doddiscombsleigh, 97 dog acre orchard, axmouth, 67 dog buried with parson of axmouth, 66 dogs as fish catchers, 132 doone valley, the, 264 downes, 39 drake, sir francis, 11, 108, 134, 165, 185, 195, 204; sir john, 68 drewsteignton, 91 drizzlecombe, 75 druidical remains, supposed, 76 duel between lord mohun and duke of hamilton, 52 dunsford, 97 dynant, oliver de, 217 earls, william, 95 easter customs on exmoor, 268 edgecombe, betty, 150 edward the confessor in exeter, 3 edwards susanna, 209 elford walter, 82 eliot, sir john, 173 endsleigh, 199 epigram on sir francis drake, 171 epitaphs, 16, 36, 49, 66, 203, 250, 293, 309 escot, in ottery, 55 exe, the, 13 exeter, 1; arms and motto, 9 exeter canal, 8 exeter cathedral, 5 exeter guildhall, 9 exmoor, 267 exmoor ponies, 270 exmouth, 45 exmouth, lord, 99 fairfax, sir thomas, 12, 23, 58, 98, 139, 229, 272, 274, 291 falaise, william de, 128 fersen, count, and lady clermont, 241 fiennes, miss celia, 41, 246 fingle bridge, 91 fingle gorge, 92 fires at tiverton, 20, 21 fitz, john, 190 fitz-alan, henry, 142 fitzford house, 190, 194 fitz-john, matthew, 142 fitz-roald, alan, 142 floyer's hayes, 298 folk-lore, 254 forde house, 103 'forests of the dartmoors,' 87 fortescue, sir edward, 149, 240; sir faithful, 240; sir henry, 240; john, sir john, 6, 240, 241; sir nicholas, 240 fortibus, isabel, 7 fossway, the, at honiton, 48 fowell, sir edmund, 310; william, 291 freeman, professor, description of exeter, 1, 12; on exeter's privileges, 7, on roman conquest of exeter, 2 french prisoners at crediton, 39; at princetown, 85 fulford, sir baldwin, 93 fuller, thomas, on honiton lace, 49 garret, captain, 167 gates, general, 31 gaveston, piers, 80 gibbs, hon herbert, 127; john, 126; thomas, 126, 127; william, 126, 127 gilbert, adrian, 251; sir humphrey, 11, 61, 133, 168, 251, 295 giles, sir edward, 125; john, 125 ginkel, general de, 307 glanvill, eulalia, 192; judge, 191 godolphin, sidney, 90 gorges, sir ferdinando, 172 goring, lord, 227 grandisson, beatrice de, 57; bishop john de, 5, 56; sir otho, 57 great fulford, 93 greenaway, 133 greenway, joan, 19; john, 16, 19 grenville, sir bevil, 207; john, 207; richard de, sir richard, 174, 191, 194, 195, 203, 204, 205, 207, 208, 227; thomas, 203 grimspound, 74, 75 grove, ----, 12 groves, hugh, 240 guildhall, exeter, 9 guilds in exeter, 9, 10 gurney, sir richard, 202 haccombe, 108 hals, john, 127 hameldon barrow, 74 hamilton, duke of, 52; sir robert, 51 hammett, john, 94 hammond, colonel, 274 hancock, william, 252 harnage, major, 30 harper, nicholas, 250 harrys, christopher, 195 hartland, 217 hartland abbey, 217 hartland point, 216 harvest custom in devon, 51 hastings, lord, 29; simon, 107 hatherleigh, 236 haughton, captain, 139 hawkins, sir john, 63, 162, 171; sir richard, 164; william, 162, 165 hawley, john, 137 hayes barton, 60 heddon's mouth, 255 hele, john, 195 hembury fort, 48 henrietta, princess, born at exeter, 11 henrietta maria, queen, at exeter, 11 herrick, william, 123 hexter, ann, 95 hillersdon, john de, 27 holborne, colonel, 299 hole, robert, 150 holland, john, 128; lord, 173 holne, 121 holt, mr, 292 holy wells at hatherleigh, 236 honiton, 47 honiton lace, 49 hooker, mr, 237 hopton, ralph, lord, 173, 229, 230, 231 hounds as tin-carriers, 78 how, john, 95 howard, sir charles, 191; lady, 190 huguenots at plymouth, 175 hungerford, lord, 29 hunters' lodge inn, 55 hut-dwellings on dartmoor, 74 ilfracombe, 244 izacke's description of exeter, 2 jago, dr, 191 jewel, bishop john, 249 judhael de totnes, 130, 226, 228, 295 kennaway, sir john, 55 kenwith castle, 210 key, john, 291 killerton, 29 kilworthy house, 193 king, r. j., on dartmoor, 71 kingsbridge, 141 kingsley, charles, 121; description of clovelly, 214 kingskerswell, 110 king's nympton, 239 kingsteignton, 103 kings wear, 140 lake, thomas, 95 landslip at lyme, 67 lane, john, 28, 150; richard, 150; thomasine, 28; mr, 150 lechlade, walter de, 56 leofric, first bishop of exeter, 3 ley, w., 95 library, ancient, in exeter cathedral, 4; in crediton church, 37 lloyd, temperance, 209 lomene, william de, 307 longstone, the, 266 ludlow, sir henry, 292 lundy island, 245 lyde, robert, 42 lydford, 82 lydford gorge, 84 lynmouth, 259, 260 lynton, 259 marwood, dr, 68 mary tavy, 196 massie, general, 22, 23 merivale, samuel, 175 mohun, lord, 52; john, 298; sir reginald, 69; richard de, 107; sir william, 69 mohun arms, 52 moles, mules, isabella de, 287; nicholas de, 110 molesworth, colonel, 292 monk, george, duke of albemarle, 33, 69, 232; sir thomas, 232 moore, major, 24 moretonhampstead, 92 morisco, sir william de, 247 morton, cardinal, 29 morwellham, 199 morwell rocks, 199 mules, see moles mozley, rev. ----, 28 national debt, origin of the, 101 newcomb, john, 8 newenham abbey, 69 newton, john, 291 newton abbot, 102 newton st cyres, 41 norden, john, 8 north, lord, and cider tax, 51 northcote, galfridus de, 309; sir henry, 309; john, sir john, 122, 309, 310, 312, 313; walter, 309 oare, 265 ogham inscription at tavistock, 180 okehampton castle, 296 okey, colonel, 98 oldbarrow camp, 261 orange, william, prince of, 113 osey, thomas, 37 otter river, 47 otterton, 60 ottery mohun, 52 ottery st mary, 55 ottery st mary church, 56 oxenham, william, 238 paignton, 110 parker, william, 162 parracombe, 254 paynel, fulke, 306 peeke, captain richard, 185 penruddocke, ----, 12; colonel, 240 peryam, william, 36 peter tavy, 196 peverell, hugh, 27 pickering, colonel, 58 pilchard fishery, 161 pilgrim fathers, the, 171 pim, john, 184 pinhoe, danish fight at, 3 pixies, the, 86 pixies' house, 82 pixies' parlour, 100 plumleigh, captain, 248 plymouth, 155 plympton, 177 plymtree, 28 pole, alice de la, 295 polglas, william, 128 pollard, hugh, sir hugh, 139, 211, 239, 269, 312; sir lewis, 291; sir richard, 296 pollock, sir f., on dartmoor, 71 poltimore, 31 poltimore, lord, 32 pomeroy, pomerai, sir edward, 288; henry de, 182, 285, 287; ralph de la, 287; sir thomas, 288 porter, endymion, 124 portledge, 212 potheridge, 232 potter, barnabas, 126 powderham castle, 272 prawle point, 145 prayer-book riot, 38 priests' hole, a, 299 princetown, 84 pynes, 308 pynho, sir robert de, 148 quivil, bishop peter, 5 raleigh, john de, 252; sir walter, 60, 80, 128, 133, 153, 203, 204 rame, thomas, 7 rattenbury, jack, 65 rattery, 126 reay, samuel, 17 redvers, baldwin de, 4, 15; mary de, 15; richard de, 14; william de, 14 reidesel, baroness of, 30 revel, the, at kingsteignton, 103 reynell, lieut, 30 richmond, henry, earl of, 7; margaret, countess of, 231 robin, mr, 11 rodge, james, 49 roope, mr, 153 rougemont castle, exeter, 4 rugglestone, the, 76 russell, lord, 9, rev. john, 20, 236; john, 182; william lord, 184 st. leger, sir john, 7, 152 salcombe, 144 salkeld, captain, 248 saltram, 177 sampford ghost, the, 26 sampford peveril, 26 sandridge, 132 schorne, sir john, 145 screen at plymtree, 28 seaton, 66 sexton, mary, 203 seymour, colonel, 153, 211, 289, 290; edward, sir edward, 116, 139, 286, 288, 289, 292, 293 shapcote, colonel, 46 shebbeare, dr, 209 sheeps tor, 81 shute, 69 sidmouth, 64 silver mines at combe martin, 251 simon, son of roger, 307 slapton sands and lea, 151 slee, george, 16 smuggling, 65 snell, john, 149 snowdon, thomas, 95 soffewill, walter de, 307 south molton, 239 south tawton, 237 speare, william, 94 splatt, hannah, 96 sprigg, joshua, 58 stafford, hugh, 309 stanhope, anne, 288 stannary parliament, 78 stapleton, bishop walter de, 5 starcross, 42 starre, john, 66 start point, 151 stevenstone, 231 stonerows, etc., on dartmoor, 74 stonehouse, 157 stonehouse, joel de, 157 storm at widecombe, 80 'stout cripple of cornwall, the,' 283 strangwich, george, 192 strode, william, 311 stucley, stukeley, sir george, 238; sir lewis, 218; thomas, 238 suffolk, duke of, 54 sully, sir john, 36 superstitions on dartmoor, 85; at whitstone, 96 sutton, james, 94 sydenham, 298 talbot, sir gilbert, 22 tavistock, 179 tavy cleave, 197 tawstock, 228 teign, the, 89 teignmouth, 103 tenure, curious, 269 thackeray, w. m., at ottery, 59 thomas, grace, 210 thurlestone, 147 tiddecomba, walter de, 307 tin trade on dartmoor, 77 tiverton, 14 toby, tryphena, 141 tongue token, a, 305 topsham, 41 tor abbey, 107 torbay, 106 tor cross, 151 torner, major, 139 torquay, 106 torridge castle, 231 torrington, 228 totnes, 129 tourville, admiral de, 104 tracy, william de, 221 trelawny, rebecca, 40 tremayne, andrew, 301, 302, 303; edmund, 302, 305; nicholas, 301, 302, 303; thomas, 300 trembles, mary, 209 trenchard, isabella, 300; sir thomas, 182 tuckers' hall, exeter, 10 tuckfield, john, 36 ugbrooke, 100 valletort, reginald de, 160 valley of rocks, 258 vane, sir henry, 293 venton house, 126 vere, sir francis, 135 wade, major, 257 wagstaff, sir joseph, 240 waldron, john, 16, 19; richard, 19. _see also_ walrond wallabrook, the, 89 waller, sir hardress, 225; sir william, 290 walrond, walerond, sir henry, 307; richard, 306; sir william, 307. _see also_ waldron walsingham, sir francis, 135 warbeck, perkin, at exeter, 7 wardlaw, colonel, 174 warelwast, bishop william, 5 weare, colonel, 22 webber, will, 116 wesley, samuel, 19 westward ho, 212 whiddon, john, 147 white ale, 143 white bird of the oxenhams, 237 whitstone, 93 whittle, john, 113 wichehalse, hugh, 257; john, 257, 258; mary, 258; nicholas, 257 widdecombe-in-the-moor, 80 wilford, sir william, 162 william the conqueror besieges exeter, 4 wise, arabella, 305; sir edward, 299, 305 wistman's wood, 76 witchcraft, 209, 268 witches' stone near honiton, 55 woggan, captain, 98 wolcot, dr john, 143 woodbury castle, 45 woolacomb tracey, 221 worthy, geoffrey de la, 287 wrey, sir bourchier, 228, 245 wright, jacob, 96 wyatt, sir thomas, 54 wynfrith, st, 35 yonge, walter, sir walter, 55, 310 young, william, 248 rachel ray a novel. by anthony trollope, author of "barchester towers," "castle richmond," "orley farm," etc. in two volumes. vol. i. london: chapman and hall, 193, piccadilly. 1863. [the right of translation is reserved.] london: printed by william clowes and sons, stamford street and charing cross. contents. chapter i. the ray family. chapter ii. the young man from the brewery. chapter iii. the arm in the clouds. chapter iv. what shall be done about it? chapter v. mr. comfort gives his advice. chapter vi. preparations for mrs. tappitt's party. chapter vii. an account of mrs. tappitt's ball--commenced. chapter viii. an account of mrs. tappitt's ball--concluded. chapter ix. mr. prong at home. chapter x. luke rowan declares his plans as to the brewery. chapter xi. luke rowan takes his tea quite like a steady young man. chapter xii. mr. tappitt in his counting-house. chapter xiii. rachel ray thinks "she does like him." chapter xiv. luke rowan pays a second visit to bragg's end. chapter xv. maternal eloquence. rachel ray. chapter i. the ray family. there are women who cannot grow alone as standard trees;--for whom the support and warmth of some wall, some paling, some post, is absolutely necessary;--who, in their growth, will bend and incline themselves towards some such prop for their life, creeping with their tendrils along the ground till they reach it when the circumstances of life have brought no such prop within their natural and immediate reach. of most women it may be said that it would be well for them that they should marry,--as indeed of most men also, seeing that man and wife will each lend the other strength, and yet in lending lose none; but to the women of whom i now speak some kind of marriage is quite indispensable, and by them some kind of marriage is always made, though the union is often unnatural. a woman in want of a wall against which to nail herself will swear conjugal obedience sometimes to her cook, sometimes to her grandchild, sometimes to her lawyer. any standing corner, post, or stump, strong enough to bear her weight will suffice; but to some standing corner, post, or stump, she will find her way and attach herself, and there will she be married. such a woman was our mrs. ray. as her name imports, she had been married in the way most popular among ladies, with bell, book, and parson. she had been like a young peach tree that, in its early days, is carefully taught to grow against a propitious southern wall. her natural prop had been found for her, and all had been well. but her heaven had been made black with storms; the heavy winds had come, and the warm sheltering covert against which she had felt herself so safe had been torn away from her branches as they were spreading themselves forth to the fulness of life. she had been married at eighteen, and then, after ten years of wedded security, she had become a widow. her husband had been some years older than herself,--a steady, sober, hardworking, earnest man, well fitted to act as a protecting screen to such a woman as he had chosen. they had lived in exeter, both of them having belonged to devonshire from their birth; and mr. ray, though not a clergyman himself, had been employed in matters ecclesiastical. he was a lawyer,--but a lawyer of that sort that is so nearly akin to the sacerdotal profession, as to make him quite clerical and almost a clergyman. he managed the property of the dean and chapter, and knew what were the rights, and also what were the wrongs, of prebendaries and minor canons,--of vicars choral, and even of choristers. but he had been dead many years before our story commences, and so much as this is now said of him simply to explain under what circumstances mrs. ray had received the first tinge of that colouring which was given to her life by church matters. they had been married somewhat over ten years when he died, and she was left with two surviving daughters, the eldest and the youngest of the children she had borne. the eldest, dorothea, was then more than nine years old, and as she took much after her father, being stern, sober, and steady, mrs. ray immediately married herself to her eldest child. dorothea became the prop against which she would henceforth grow. and against dorothea she had grown ever since, with the exception of one short year. in that year dorothea had taken a husband to herself and had lost him;--so that there were two widows in the same house. she, like her mother, had married early, having joined her lot to that of a young clergyman near baslehurst; but he had lived but a few months, and mrs. ray's eldest child had come back to her mother's cottage, black, and stiff, and stern, in widow's weeds,--mrs. prime by name. black, and stiff, and stern, in widow's weeds, she had remained since, for nine years following, and those nine years will bring us to the beginning of our story. as regards mrs. ray herself, i think it was well that poor mr. prime had died. it assured to her the support which she needed. it must, however, be acknowledged that mrs. prime was a harder taskmaster than dorothea ray had been, and that the mother might have undergone a gentler ruling had the daughter never become a wife. i think there was much in the hardness of the weeds she wore. it seemed as though mrs. prime in selecting her crape, her bombazine, and the models of her caps, had resolved to repress all ideas of feminine softness;--as though she had sworn to herself, with a great oath, that man should never again look on her with gratified eyes. the materials she wore have made other widows very pleasant to be seen,--with a sad thoughtful pleasantness indeed, but still very pleasant. there was nothing of that with mrs. prime. when she came back to her mother's cottage near baslehurst she was not yet twenty years old, but she was rough with weeds. her caps were lumpy, heavy, full of woe, and clean only as decency might require,--not nicely clean with feminine care. the very stuff of which they were made was brown, rather than white, and her dress was always the same. it was rough, and black, and clinging,--disagreeable to the eye in its shape, as will always be the dress of any woman which is worn day after day through all hours. by nature and education mrs. prime was a prim, tidy woman, but it seemed that her peculiar ideas of duty required her to militate against her nature and education, at any rate in appearance. and this was her lot in life before she had yet reached her twentieth year! dorothea ray had not been wanting in some feminine attraction. she had ever been brown and homely, but her features had been well-formed, and her eyes had been bright. now, as she approached to thirty years of age, she might have been as well-looking as at any earlier period of her life if it had been her wish to possess good looks. but she had had no such wish. on the contrary, her desire had been to be ugly, forbidding, unattractive, almost repulsive; so that, in very truth, she might be known to be a widow indeed. and here i must not be misunderstood. there was nothing hypocritical about mrs. prime, nor did she make any attempt to appear before men to be weighted with a deeper sorrow than that which she truly bore; hypocrisy was by no means her fault. her fault was this; that she had taught herself to believe that cheerfulness was a sin, and that the more she became morose, the nearer would she be to the fruition of those hopes of future happiness on which her heart was set. in all her words and thoughts she was genuine; but, then, in so very many of them she was mistaken! this was the wall against which mrs. ray had allowed herself to be fastened for many years past, and though the support was strong it must be admitted that it could hardly have been at all times pleasant. mrs. ray had become a widow before she was thirty; and she had grieved for her husband with truest sorrow, pouring herself out at first in tears, and afterwards expending herself in long hours of vain regrets. but she had never been rough or hard in her widowhood. it had ever been her nature to be soft. she was a woman all over, and had about her so much of a woman's prettiness, that she had not altogether divested herself of it, even when her weepers had been of the broadest. to obtain favour in men's eyes had never been in her mind since she had first obtained favour in the eyes of him who had been her lord; but yet she had never absolutely divested herself of her woman charms, of that look half retreating, half beseeching, which had won the heart of the ecclesiastical lawyer. gradually her weeds and her deep heavy crapes had fallen away from her, and then, without much thought on the matter, she dressed herself much as did other women of forty or forty-five,--being driven, however, on certain occasions by her daughter to a degree of dinginess, not by any means rivalling that of the daughter herself, but which she would not have achieved had she been left to her own devices. she was a sweet-tempered, good-humoured, loving, timid woman, ever listening and believing and learning, with a certain aptitude for gentle mirth at her heart which, however, was always being repressed and controlled by the circumstances of her life. she could gossip over a cup of tea, and enjoy buttered toast and hot cake very thoroughly, if only there was no one near her to whisper into her ear that any such enjoyment was wicked. in spite of the sorrows she had suffered she would have taught herself to believe this world to be a pleasant place, were it not so often preached into her ears that it is a vale of tribulation in which no satisfaction can abide. and it may be said of mrs. ray that her religion, though it sufficed her, tormented her grievously. it sufficed her; and if on such a subject i may venture to give an opinion, i think it was of a nature to suffice her in that great strait for which it had been prepared. but in this world it tormented her, carrying her hither and thither, and leaving her in grievous doubt, not as to its own truth in any of its details, but as to her own conduct under its injunctions, and also as to her own mode of believing in it. in truth she believed too much. she could never divide the minister from the bible;--nay, the very clerk in the church was sacred to her while exercising his functions therein. it never occurred to her to question any word that was said to her. if a linen-draper were to tell her that one coloured calico was better for her than another, she would take that point as settled by the man's word, and for the time would be free from all doubt on that heading. so also when the clergyman in his sermon told her that she should live simply and altogether for heaven, that all thoughts as to this world were wicked thoughts, and that nothing belonging to this world could be other than painful, full of sorrow and vexations, she would go home believing him absolutely, and with tear-laden eyes would bethink herself how utterly she was a castaway, because of that tea, and cake, and innocent tittle tattle with which the hours of her saturday evening had been beguiled. she would weakly resolve that she would laugh no more, and that she would live in truth in a valley of tears. but then as the bright sun came upon her, and the birds sang around her, and some one that she loved would cling to her and kiss her, she would be happy in her own despite, and would laugh with a low musical sweet tone, forgetting that such laughter was a sin. and then that very clergyman himself would torment her;--he that told her from the pulpit on sundays how frightfully vain were all attempts at worldly happiness. he would come to her on the monday with a good-natured, rather rubicund face, and would ask after all her little worldly belongings,--for he knew of her history and her means,--and he would joke with her, and tell her comfortably of his grown sons and daughters, who were prospering in worldly matters, and express the fondest solicitude as to their worldly advancement. twice or thrice a year mrs. ray would go to the parsonage, and such evenings would be by no means hours of wailing. tea and buttered toast on such occasions would be very manifestly in the ascendant. mrs. ray never questioned the propriety of her clergyman's life, nor taught herself to see a discrepancy between his doctrine and his conduct. but she believed in both, and was unconsciously troubled at having her belief so varied. she never thought about it, or discovered that her friend allowed himself to be carried away in his sermons by his zeal, and that he condemned this world in all things, hoping that he might thereby teach his hearers to condemn it in some things. mrs. ray would allow herself the privilege of no such argument as that. it was all gospel to her. the parson in the church, and the parson out of the church, were alike gospels to her sweet, white, credulous mind; but these differing gospels troubled her and tormented her. of that particular clergyman, i may as well here say that he was the rev. charles comfort, and that he was rector of cawston, a parish in devonshire, about two miles out of baslehurst. mr. prime had for a year or two been his curate, and during that term of curacy he had married dorothea ray. then he had died, and his widow had returned from the house her husband had occupied near the church to her mother's cottage. mr. prime had been possessed of some property, and when he died he left his widow in the uncontrolled possession of two hundred a year. as it was well known that mrs. ray's income was considerably less than this, the people of baslehurst and cawston had declared how comfortable for mrs. ray would be this accession of wealth to the family. but mrs. ray had not become much the richer. mrs. prime did no doubt pay her fair quota towards the maintenance of the humble cottage at bragg's end, for such was the name of the spot at which mrs. ray lived. but she did not do more than this. she established a dorcas society at baslehurst, of which she became permanent president, and spent her money in carrying on this institution in the manner most pleasing to herself. i fear that mrs. prime liked to be more powerful at these charitable meetings than her sister labourers in the same vineyard, and that she achieved this power by the means of her money. i do not bring this as a heavy accusation against her. in such institutions there is generally need of a strong, stirring, leading mind. if some one would not assume power, the power needed would not be exercised. such a one as mrs. prime is often necessary. but we all have our own pet temptations, and i think that mrs. prime's temptation was a love of power. it will be understood that baslehurst is a town,--a town with a market, and hotels, and a big brewery, and a square, and street; whereas cawston is a village, or rather a rural parish, three miles out of baslehurst, north of it, lying on the river avon. but bragg's end, though within the parish of cawston, lies about a mile and a half from the church and village, on the road to baslehurst, and partakes therefore almost as much of the township of baslehurst as it does of the rusticity of cawston. how bragg came to such an end, or why this corner of the parish came to be thus united for ever to bragg's name, no one in the parish knew. the place consisted of a little green, and a little wooden bridge, over a little stream that trickled away into the avon. here were clustered half a dozen labourers' cottages, and a beer or cider shop. standing back from the green was the house and homestead of farmer sturt, and close upon the green, with its garden hedge running down to the bridge, was the pretty cottage of mrs. ray. mr. comfort had known her husband, and he had found for her this quiet home. it was a pretty place, with one small sitting-room opening back upon the little garden, and with another somewhat larger fronting towards the road and the green. in the front room mrs. ray lived, looking out upon so much of the world as bragg's end green afforded to her view. the other seemed to be kept with some faint expectation of company that never came. many of the widow's neatest belongings were here preserved in most perfect order; but one may say that they were altogether thrown away,--unless indeed they afforded solace to their owner in the very act of dusting them. here there were four or five books, prettily bound, with gilt leaves, arranged in shapes on the small round table. here also was deposited a spangled mat of wondrous brightness, made of short white sticks of glass strung together. it must have taken care and time in its manufacture, but was, i should say, but of little efficacy either for domestic use or domestic ornament. there were shells on the chimneypiece, and two or three china figures. there was a birdcage hung in the window but without a bird. it was all very clean, but the room conveyed at the first glance an overpowering idea of its own absolute inutility and vanity. it was capable of answering no purpose for which men and women use rooms; but he who could have said so to mrs. ray must have been a cruel and a hardhearted man. the other room which looked out upon the green was snug enough, and sufficed for all the widow's wants. there was a little book-case laden with books. there was the family table at which they ate their meals; and there was the little table near the window at which mrs. ray worked. there was an old sofa, and an old arm-chair; and there was, also, a carpet, alas, so old that the poor woman had become painfully aware that she must soon have either no carpet or a new one. a word or two had already been said between her and mrs. prime on that matter, but the word or two had not as yet been comfortable. then, over the fire, there was an old round mirror; and, having told of that, i believe i need not further describe the furniture of the sitting room at bragg's end. but i have not as yet described the whole of mrs. ray's family. had i done so, her life would indeed have been sour, and sorrowful, for she was a woman who especially needed companionship. though i have hitherto spoken but of one daughter, i have said that two had been left with her when her husband died. she had one whom she feared and obeyed, seeing that a master was necessary to her; but she had another whom she loved and caressed, and i may declare, that some such object for her tenderness was as necessary to her as the master. she could not have lived without something to kiss, something to tend, something to which she might speak in short, loving, pet terms of affection. this youngest girl, rachel, had been only two years old when her father died, and now, at the time of this story, was not yet quite twenty. her sister was, in truth, only seven years her senior, but in all the facts and ways of life, she seemed to be the elder by at least half a century. rachel indeed, at the time, felt herself to be much nearer of an age with her mother. with her mother she could laugh and talk, ay, and form little wicked whispered schemes behind the tyrant's back, during some of those dorcas hours, in which mrs. prime would be employed at baslehurst; schemes, however, for the final perpetration of which, the courage of the elder widow would too frequently be found insufficient. rachel ray was a fair-haired, well-grown, comely girl,--very like her mother in all but this, that whereas about the mother's eyes there was always a look of weakness, there was a shadowing of coming strength of character round those of the daughter. on her brow there was written a capacity for sustained purpose which was wanting to mrs. ray. not that the reader is to suppose that she was masterful like her sister. she had been brought up under mrs. prime's directions, and had not, as yet, learned to rebel. nor was she in any way prone to domineer. a little wickedness now and then, to the extent, perhaps, of a vain walk into baslehurst on a summer evening, a little obstinacy in refusing to explain whither she had been and whom she had seen, a yawn in church, or a word of complaint as to the length of the second sunday sermon,--these were her sins; and when rebuked for them by her sister, she would of late toss her head, and look slily across to her mother, with an eye that was not penitent. then mrs. prime would become black and angry, and would foretell hard things for her sister, denouncing her as fashioning herself wilfully in the world's ways. on such occasions mrs. ray would become very unhappy, believing first in the one child and then in the other. she would defend rachel, till her weak defence would be knocked to shivers, and her poor vacillating words taken from out of her mouth. then, when forced to acknowledge that rachel was in danger of backsliding, she would kiss her and cry over her, and beg her to listen to the sermons. rachel hitherto had never rebelled. she had never declared that a walk into baslehurst was better than a sermon. she had never said out boldly that she liked the world and its wickednesses. but an observer of physiognomy, had such observer been there, might have seen that the days of such rebellion were coming. she was a fair-haired girl, with hair, not flaxen, but of light-brown tint,--thick, and full, and glossy, so that its charms could not all be hidden away let mrs. prime do what she would to effect such hiding. she was well made, being tall and straight, with great appearance of health and strength. she walked as though the motion were pleasant to her, and easy,--as though the very act of walking were a pleasure. she was bright too, and clever in their little cottage, striving hard with her needle to make things look well, and not sparing her strength in giving household assistance. one little maiden mrs. ray employed, and a gardener came to her for half a day once a week;--but i doubt whether the maiden in the house, or the gardener out of the house, did as much hard work as rachel. how she had toiled over that carpet, patching it and piecing it! even dorothea could not accuse her of idleness. therefore dorothea accused her of profitless industry, because she would not attend more frequently at those dorcas meetings. "but, dolly, how on earth am i to make my own things, and look after mamma's? charity begins at home." then had dorothea put down her huge dorcas basket, and explained to her sister, at considerable length, her reading of that text of scripture. "one's own clothes must be made all the same," rachel said when the female preacher had finished. "and i don't suppose even you would like mamma to go to church without a decent gown." then dorothea had seized up her huge basket angrily, and had trudged off into baslehurst at a quick pace,--at a pace much too quick when the summer's heat is considered;--and as she went, unhappy thoughts filled her mind. a coloured dress belonging to rachel herself had met her eye, and she had heard tidings of--a young man! such tidings, to her ears, were tidings of iniquity, of vanity, of terrible sin; they were tidings which hardly admitted of being discussed with decency, and which had to be spoken of below the breath. a young man! could it be that such disgrace had fallen upon her sister! she had not as yet mentioned the subject to rachel, but she had given a dark hint to their afflicted mother. "no, i didn't see it myself, but i heard it from miss pucker." "she that was to have been married to william whitecoat, the baker's son, only he went away to torquay and picked up with somebody else. people said he did it because she does squint so dreadfully." "mother!"--and dorothea spoke very sternly as she answered--"what does it matter to us about william whitecoat, or miss pucker's squint? she is a woman eager in doing good." "it's only since he left baslehurst, my dear." "mother!--does that matter to rachel? will that save her if she be in danger? i tell you that miss pucker saw her walking with that young man from the brewery!" though mrs. ray had been strongly inclined to throw what odium she could upon miss pucker, and though she hated miss pucker in her heart,--at this special moment,--for having carried tales against her darling, she could not deny, even to herself, that a terrible state of things had arrived if it were really true that rachel had been seen walking with a young man. she was not bitter on the subject as was mrs. prime and poor miss pucker, but she was filled full of indefinite horror with regard to young men in general. they were all regarded by her as wolves,--as wolves, either with or without sheep's clothing. i doubt whether she ever brought it home to herself that those whom she now recognized as the established and well-credited lords of the creation had ever been young men themselves. when she heard of a wedding,--when she learned that some struggling son of adam had taken to himself a wife, and had settled himself down to the sober work of the world, she rejoiced greatly, thinking that the son of adam had done well to get himself married. but whenever it was whispered into her ear that any young man was looking after a young woman,--that he was taking the only step by which he could hope to find a wife for himself,--she was instantly shocked at the wickedness of the world, and prayed inwardly that the girl at least might be saved like a brand from the burning. a young man, in her estimation, was a wicked wild beast, seeking after young women to devour them, as a cat seeks after mice. this at least was her established idea,--the idea on which she worked, unless some other idea on any special occasion were put into her head. when young butler cornbury, the eldest son of the neighbouring squire, came to cawston after pretty patty comfort,--for patty comfort was said to have been the prettiest girl in devonshire;--and when patty comfort had been allowed to go to the assemblies at torquay almost on purpose to meet him, mrs. ray had thought it all right, because it had been presented to her mind as all right by the rector. butler cornbury had married patty comfort and it was all right. but had she heard of patty's dancings without the assistance of a few hints from mr. comfort himself, her mind would have worked in a different way. she certainly desired that her own child rachel should some day find a husband, and rachel was already older than she had been when she married, or than mrs. prime had been at her wedding; but, nevertheless, there was something terrible in the very thought of--a young man; and she, though she would fain have defended her child, hardly knew how to do so otherwise than by discrediting the words of miss pucker. "she always was very ill-natured, you know," mrs. ray ventured to hint. "mother!" said mrs. prime, in that peculiarly stern voice of hers. "there can be no reason for supposing that miss pucker wishes to malign the child. it is my belief that rachel will be in baslehurst this evening. if so, she probably intends to meet him again." "i know she is going into baslehurst after tea," said mrs. ray, "because she has promised to walk with the miss tappitts. she told me so." "exactly;--with the brewery girls! oh, mother!" now it is certainly true that the three miss tappitts were the daughters of bungall and tappitt, the old-established brewers of baslehurst. they were, at least, the actual children of mr. tappitt, who was the sole surviving partner in the brewery. the name of bungall had for many years been used merely to give solidity and standing to the tappitt family. the miss tappitts certainly came from the brewery, and miss pucker had said that the young man came from the same quarter. there was ground in this for much suspicion, and mrs. ray became uneasy. this conversation between the two widows had occurred before dinner at the cottage on a saturday;--and it was after dinner that the elder sister had endeavoured to persuade the younger one to accompany her to the dorcas workshop;--but had endeavoured in vain. chapter ii. the young man from the brewery. there were during the summer months four dorcas afternoons held weekly in baslehurst, at all of which mrs. prime presided. it was her custom to start soon after dinner, so as to reach the working room before three o'clock, and there she would remain till nine, or as long as the daylight remained. the meeting was held in a sitting room belonging to miss pucker, for the use of which the institution paid some moderate rent. the other ladies, all belonging to baslehurst, were accustomed to go home to tea in the middle of their labours; but, as mrs. prime could not do this because of the distance, she remained with miss pucker, paying for such refreshment as she needed. in this way there came to be a great friendship between mrs. prime and miss pucker;--or rather, perhaps, mrs. prime thus obtained the services of a most obedient minister. rachel had on various occasions gone with her sister to the dorcas meetings, and once or twice had remained at miss pucker's house, drinking tea there. but this she greatly disliked. she was aware, when she did so, that her sister paid for her, and she thought that dorothea showed by her behaviour that she was mistress of the entertainment. and then rachel greatly disliked miss pucker. she disliked that lady's squint, she disliked the tone of her voice, she disliked her subservience to mrs. prime, and she especially disliked the vehemence of her objection to--young men. when rachel had last left miss pucker's room she had resolved that she would never again drink tea there. she had not said to herself positively that she would attend no more of the dorcas meetings;--but as regarded their summer arrangement this resolve against the tea-drinking amounted almost to the same thing. it was on this account, i protest, and by no means on account of that young man from the brewery, that rachel had with determination opposed her sister's request on this special saturday. and the refusal had been made in an unaccustomed manner, owing to the request also having been pressed with unusual vigour. "rachel, i particularly wish it, and i think that you ought to come," dorothea had said. "i had rather not come, dolly." "that means," continued mrs. prime, "that you prefer your pleasure to your duty;--that you boldly declare yourself determined to neglect that which you know you ought to do." "i don't know any such thing," said rachel. "if you think of it you will know it," said mrs. prime. "at any rate i don't mean to go to miss pucker's this afternoon."--then rachel left the room. it was immediately after this conversation that mrs. prime uttered to mrs. ray that terrible hint about the young man; and at the same time uttered another hint by which she strove to impress upon her mother that rachel ought to be kept in subordination,--in fact, that the power should not belong to rachel of choosing whether she would or would not go to dorcas meetings. in all such matters, according to dorothea's view of the case, rachel should do as she was bidden. but then how was rachel to be made to do as she was bidden? how was her sister to enforce her attendance? obedience in this world depends as frequently on the weakness of him who is governed as on the strength of him who governs. that man who was going to the left is ordered by you with some voice of command to go to the right. when he hesitates you put more command into your voice, more command into your eyes,--and then he obeys. mrs. prime had tried this, but rachel had not turned to the right. when mrs. prime applied for aid to their mother, it was a sign that the power of command was going from herself. after dinner the elder sister made another little futile attempt, and then, when she had again failed, she trudged off with her basket. mrs. ray and rachel were left sitting at the open window, looking out upon the mignionette. it was now in july, when the summer sun is at the hottest,--and in those southern parts of devonshire the summer sun in july is very hot. there is no other part of england like it. the lanes are low and narrow, and not a breath of air stirs through them. the ground rises in hills on all sides, so that every spot is a sheltered nook. the rich red earth drinks in the heat and holds it, and no breezes come up from the southern torpid sea. of all counties in england devonshire is the fairest to the eye; but, having known it in its summer glory, i must confess that those southern regions are not fitted for much noonday summer walking. "i'm afraid she'll find it very hot with that big basket," said mrs. ray, after a short pause. it must not be supposed that either she or rachel were idle because they remained at home. they both had their needles in their hands, and rachel was at work, not on that coloured frock of her own which had roused her sister's suspicion, but on needful aid to her mother's sunday gown. "she might have left it in baslehurst if she liked," said rachel, "or i would have carried it for her as far as the bridge, only that she was so angry with me when she went." "i don't think she was exactly angry, rachel." "oh, but she was, mamma;--very angry. i know by her way of flinging out of the house." "i think she was sorry because you would not go with her." "but i don't like going there, mamma. i don't like that miss pucker. i can't go without staying to tea, and i don't like drinking tea there." then there was a little pause. "you don't want me to go;--do you, mamma? how would the things get done here? and you can't like having your tea alone." "no; i don't like that at all," said mrs. ray. but she hardly thought of what she was saying. her mind was away, working on the subject of that young man. she felt that it was her duty to say something to rachel, and yet she did not know what to say. was she to quote miss pucker? it went, moreover, sorely against the grain with her to disturb the comfort of their present happy moments by any disagreeable allusion. the world gave her nothing better than those hours in which rachel was alone with her,--in which rachel tended her and comforted her. no word had been said on a subject so wicked and full of vanity, but mrs. ray knew that her evening meal would be brought in at half-past five in the shape of a little feast,--a feast which would not be spread if mrs. prime had remained at home. at five o'clock rachel would slip away and make hot toast, and would run over the green to farmer sturt's wife for a little thick cream, and there would be a batter cake, and so there would be a feast. rachel was excellent at the preparation of such banquets, knowing how to coax the teapot into a good drawing humour, and being very clever in little comforts; and she would hover about her mother, in a way very delightful to that lady, making the widow feel for the time that there was a gleam of sunshine in the valley of tribulation. all that must be over for this afternoon if she spoke of miss pucker and the young man. yes; and must it not be over for many an afternoon to come? if there were to be distrust between her and rachel what would her life be worth to her? but yet there was her duty! as she sat there looking out into the garden indistinct ideas of what were a mother's duties to her child lay heavy on her mind,--ideas which were very indistinct, but which were not on that account the less powerful in their operation. she knew that it behoved her to sacrifice everything to her child's welfare, but she did not know what special sacrifice she was at this moment called upon to make. would it be well that she should leave this matter altogether in the hands of mrs. prime, and thus, as it were, abdicate her own authority? mrs. prime would undertake such a task with much more skill and power of language than she could use. but then would this be fair to rachel, and would rachel obey her sister? any explicit direction from herself,--if only she could bring herself to give any,--rachel would, she thought, obey. in this way she resolved that she would break the ice and do her duty. "are you going into baslehurst this evening, dear?" she said. "yes, mamma; i shall walk in after tea;--that is if you don't want me. i told the miss tappitts i would meet them." "no; i shan't want you. but rachel--" "well, mamma?" mrs. ray did not know how to do it. the matter was surrounded with difficulties. how was she to begin, so as to introduce the subject of the young man without shocking her child and showing an amount of distrust which she did not feel? "do you like those miss tappitts?" she said. "yes;--in a sort of a way. they are very good-natured, and one likes to know somebody. i think they are nicer than miss pucker." "oh, yes;--i never did like miss pucker myself. but, rachel--" "what is it, mamma? i know you've something to say, and that you don't half like to say it. dolly has been telling tales about me, and you want to lecture me, only you haven't got the heart. isn't that it, mamma?" then she put down her work, and coming close up to her mother, knelt before her and looked up into her face. "you want to scold me, and you haven't got the heart to do it." "my darling, my darling," said the mother, stroking her child's soft smooth hair. "i don't want to scold you;--i never want to scold you. i hate scolding anybody." "i know you do, mamma." "but they have told me something which has frightened me." "they! who are they?" "your sister told me, and miss pucker told her." "oh, miss pucker! what business has miss pucker with me? if she is to come between us all our happiness will be over." then rachel rose from her knees and began to look angry, whereupon her mother was more frightened than ever. "but let me hear it, mamma. i've no doubt it is something very awful." mrs. ray looked at her daughter with beseeching eyes, as though praying to be forgiven for having introduced a subject so disagreeable. "dorothea says that on wednesday evening you were walking under the churchyard elms with--that young man from the brewery." at any rate everything had been said now. the extent of the depravity with which rachel was to be charged had been made known to her in the very plainest terms. mrs. ray as she uttered the terrible words turned first pale and then red,--pale with fear and red with shame. as soon as she had spoken them she wished the words unsaid. her dislike to miss pucker amounted almost to hatred. she felt bitterly even towards her own eldest daughter. she looked timidly into rachel's face and unconsciously construed into their true meaning those lines which formed themselves on the girl's brow and over her eyes. "well, mamma; and what else?" said rachel. "dorothea thinks that perhaps you are going into baslehurst to meet him again." "and suppose i am?" from the tone in which this question was asked it was clear to mrs. ray that she was expected to answer it. and yet what answer could she make? it had never occurred to her that her child would take upon herself to defend such conduct as that imputed to her, or that any question would be raised as to the propriety or impropriety of the proceeding. she was by no means prepared to show why it was so very terrible and iniquitous. she regarded it as a sin,--known to be a sin generally,--as is stealing or lying. "suppose i am going to walk with him again? what then?" "oh, rachel, who is he? i don't even know his name. i didn't believe it, when dorothea told me; only as she did tell me i thought i ought to mention it. oh dear, oh dear! i hope there is nothing wrong. you were always so good;--i can't believe anything wrong of you." "no, mamma;--don't. don't think evil of me." "i never did, my darling." "i am not going into baslehurst to walk with mr. rowan;--for i suppose it is him you mean." "i don't know, my dear; i never heard the young man's name." "it is mr. rowan. i did walk with him along the churchyard path when that woman with her sharp squinting eyes saw me. he does belong to the brewery. he is related in some way to the tappitts, and was a nephew of old mrs. bungall's. he is there as a clerk, and they say he is to be a partner,--only i don't think he ever will, for he quarrels with mr. tappitt." "dear, dear!" said mrs. ray. "and now, mamma, you know as much about him as i do; only this, that he went to exeter this morning, and does not come back till monday, so that it is impossible that i should meet him in baslehurst this evening;--and it was very unkind of dolly to say so; very unkind indeed." then rachel gave way and began to cry. it certainly did seem to mrs. ray that rachel knew a good deal about mr. rowan. she knew of his kith and kin, she knew of his prospects and what was like to mar his prospects, and she knew also of his immediate proceedings, whereabouts, and intentions. mrs. ray did not logically draw any conclusion from these premises, but she became uncomfortably assured that there did exist a considerable intimacy between mr. rowan and her daughter. and how had it come to pass that this had been allowed to form itself without any knowledge on her part? miss pucker might be odious and disagreeable;--mrs. ray was inclined to think that the lady in question was very odious and disagreeable;--but must it not be admitted that her little story about the young man had proved itself to be true? "i never will go to those nasty rag meetings any more." "oh rachel, don't speak in that way." "but i won't. i will never put my foot in that woman's room again. they talk nothing but scandal all the time they are there, and speak any ill they can of the poor young girls whom they talk about. if you don't mind my knowing mr. rowan, what is it to them?" but this was assuming a great deal. mrs. ray was by no means prepared to say that she did not object to her daughter's acquaintance with mr. rowan. "but i don't know anything about him, my dear. i never heard his name before." "no, mamma; you never did. and i know very little of him; so little that there has been nothing to tell,--at least next to nothing. i don't want to have any secrets from you, mamma." "but, rachel,--he isn't, is he--? i mean there isn't anything particular between him and you? how was it you were walking with him alone?" "i wasn't walking with him alone;--at least only for a little way. he had been out with his cousins and we had all been together, and when they went in, of course i was obliged to come home. i couldn't help his coming along the churchyard path with me. and what if he did, mamma? he couldn't bite me." "but my dear--" "oh mamma;--don't be afraid of me." then she came across, and again knelt at her mother's feet. "if you'll trust me i'll tell you everything." upon hearing this assurance, mrs. ray of course promised rachel that she would trust her and expected in return to be told everything then, at the moment. but she perceived that her daughter did not mean to tell her anything further at that time. rachel, when she had received her mother's promise, embraced her warmly, caressing her and petting her as was her custom, and then after a while she resumed her work. mrs. ray was delighted to have the evil thing over, but she could not but feel that the conversation had not terminated as it should have done. soon after that the hour arrived for their little feast, and rachel went about her work just as merrily and kindly as though there had been no words about the young man. she went across for the cream, and stayed gossiping for some few minutes with mrs. sturt. then she bustled about the kitchen making the tea and toasting the bread. she had never been more anxious to make everything comfortable for her mother, and never more eager in her coaxing way of doing honour to the good things which she had prepared; but, through it all, her mother was aware that everything was not right; there was something in rachel's voice which betrayed inward uneasiness;--something in the vivacity of her movements that was not quite true to her usual nature. mrs. ray felt that it was so, and could not therefore be altogether at her ease. she pretended to enjoy herself;--but rachel knew that her joy was not real. nothing further, however, was said, either regarding that evening's walk into baslehurst, or touching that other walk as to which miss pucker's tale had been told. mrs. ray had done as much as her courage enabled her to attempt on that occasion. when the tea-drinking was over, and the cups and spoons had been tidily put away, rachel prepared herself for her walk. she had been very careful that nothing should be hurried,--that there should be no apparent anxiety on her part to leave her mother quickly. and even when all was done, she would not go without some assurance of her mother's goodwill. "if you have any wish that i should stay, mamma, i don't care in the least about going." "no, my dear; i don't want you to stay at all." "your dress is finished." "thank you, my dear; you have been very good." "i haven't been good at all; but i will be good if you'll trust me." "i will trust you." "at any rate you need not be afraid to-night, for i am only going to take a walk with those three girls across the church meadows. they're always very civil, and i don't like to turn my back upon them." "i don't wish you to turn your back upon them." "it's stupid not to know anybody; isn't it?" "i dare say it is," said mrs. ray. then rachel had finished tying on her hat, and she walked forth. for more than two hours after that the widow sat alone, thinking of her children. as regarded mrs. prime, there was at any rate no cause for trembling, timid thoughts. she might be regarded as being safe from the world's wicked allurements. she was founded like a strong rock, and was, with her stedfast earnestness, a staff on which her weaker mother might lean with security. but then she was so stern,--and her very strength was so oppressive! rachel was weaker, more worldly, given terribly to vain desires and thoughts that were almost wicked; but then it was so pleasant to live with her! and rachel, though weak and worldly and almost wicked, was so very good and kind and sweet! as mrs. ray thought of this she began to doubt whether, after all, the world was so very bad a place, and whether the wickedness of tea and toast, and of other creature comforts, could be so very great. "i wonder what sort of a young man he is," she said to herself. mrs. prime's return was always timed with the regularity of clockwork. at this period of the year she invariably came in exactly at half-past nine. mrs. ray was very anxious that rachel should come in first, so that nothing should be said of her walk on this evening. she had been unwilling to imply distrust by making any special request on this occasion, and had therefore said nothing on the subject as rachel went; but she had carefully watched the clock, and had become uneasy as the time came round for mrs. prime's appearance. exactly at half-past nine she entered the house, bringing with her the heavy basket laden with work, and bringing with her also a face full of the deepest displeasure. she said nothing as she seated herself wearily on a chair against the wall; but her manner was such as to make it impossible that her mother should not notice it. "is there anything wrong, dorothea?" she said. "rachel has not come home yet, of course?" said mrs. prime. "no; not yet. she is with the miss tappitts." "no, mother, she is not with the miss tappitts:" and her voice, as she said these words, was dreadful to the mother's ears. "isn't she? i thought she was. do you know where she is?" "who is to say where she is? half an hour since i saw her alone with--" "with whom? not with that young man from the brewery, for he is at exeter." "mother, he is here,--in baslehurst! half an hour since he and rachel were standing alone together beneath the elms in the churchyard. i saw them with my own eyes." chapter iii. the arm in the clouds. there was plenty of time for full inquiry and full reply between mrs. ray and mrs. prime before rachel opened the cottage door, and interrupted them. it was then nearly half-past ten. rachel had never been so late before. the last streak of the sun's reflection in the east had vanished, the last ruddy line of evening light had gone, and the darkness of the coming night was upon them. the hour was late for any girl such as rachel ray to be out alone. there had been a long discussion between the mother and the elder daughter; and mrs. ray, believing implicitly in the last announcements made to her, was full of fears for her child. the utmost rigour of self-denying propriety should have been exercised by rachel, whereas her conduct had been too dreadful almost to be described. two or three hours since mrs. ray had fondly promised that she would trust her younger daughter, and had let her forth alone, proud in seeing her so comely as she went. an idea had almost entered her mind that if the young man was very steady, such an acquaintance might perhaps be not altogether wicked. but everything was changed now. all the happiness of her trust was gone. all her sweet hopes were crushed. her heart was filled with fear, and her face was pale with sorrow. "why should she know where he was to be?" dorothea had asked. "but he is not at exeter;--he is here, and she was with him." then the two had sat gloomily together till rachel returned. as she came in there was a little forced laugh upon her face. "i am late; am i not?" she said. "oh, rachel, very late!" said her mother. "it is half-past ten," said mrs. prime. "oh, dolly, don't speak with that terrible voice, as though the world were coming to an end," said rachel; and she looked up almost savagely, showing that she was resolved to fight. but it may be as well to say a few words about the firm of messrs. bungall and tappitt, about the tappitt family generally, and about mr. luke rowan, before any further portion of the history of that evening is written. why there should have been any brewery at all at baslehurst, seeing that everybody in that part of the world drinks cider, or how, under such circumstances, messrs. bungall and tappitt had managed to live upon the proceeds of their trade, i cannot pretend to say. baslehurst is in the heart of the devonshire cider country. it is surrounded by orchards, and farmers talk there of their apples as they do of their cheese in cheshire, or their wheat in essex, or their sheep in lincolnshire. men drink cider by the gallon,--by the gallon daily; cider presses are to be found at every squire's house, at every parsonage, and every farm homestead. the trade of a brewer at baslehurst would seem to be as profitless as that of a breeches-maker in the highlands, or a shoemaker in connaught;--but nevertheless bungall and tappitt had been brewers in baslehurst for the last fifty years, and had managed to live out of their brewery. it is not to be supposed that they were great men like the mighty men of beer known of old,--such as barclay and perkins, or reid and co. nor were they new, and pink, and prosperous, going into parliament for this borough and that, just as they pleased, like the modern heroes of the bitter cask. when the student at oxford was asked what man had most benefited humanity, and when he answered "bass," i think that he should not have been plucked. it was a fair average answer. but no student at any university could have said as much for bungall and tappitt without deserving utter disgrace, and whatever penance an outraged examiner could inflict. it was a sour and muddy stream that flowed from their vats; a beverage disagreeable to the palate, and very cold and uncomfortable to the stomach. who drank it i could never learn. it was to be found at no respectable inn. it was admitted at no private gentleman's table. the farmers knew nothing of it. the labourers drenched themselves habitually with cider. nevertheless the brewery of messrs. bungall and tappitt was kept going, and the large ugly square brick house in which the tappitt family lived was warm and comfortable. there is something in the very name of beer that makes money. old bungall, he who first established the house, was still remembered by the seniors of baslehurst, but he had been dead more than twenty years before the period of my story. he had been a short, fat old man, not much above five feet high, very silent, very hard, and very ignorant. but he had understood business, and had established the firm on a solid foundation. late in life he had taken into partnership his nephew tappitt, and during his life had been a severe taskmaster to his partner. indeed the firm had only assumed its present name on the demise of bungall. as long as he had lived it had been bungall's brewery. when the days of mourning were over, then--and not till then--mr. tappitt had put up a board with the joint names of the firm as at present called. it was believed in baslehurst that mr. bungall had not bequeathed his undivided interest in the concern to his nephew. indeed people went so far as to say that he had left away from mr. tappitt all that he could leave. the truth in that respect may as well be told at once. his widow had possessed a third of the profits of the concern, in lieu of her right to a full half share in the concern, which would have carried with it the onus of a full half share of the work. that third and those rights she had left to her nephew,--or rather to her great-nephew, luke rowan. it was not, however, in this young man's power to walk into the brewery and claim a seat there as a partner. it was not in his power to do so, even if such should be his wish. when old mrs. bungall died at dawlish at the very advanced age of ninety-seven, there came to be, as was natural, some little dispute between mr. tappitt and his distant connection, luke rowan. mr. tappitt suggested that luke should take a thousand pounds down, and walk forth free from all contamination of malt and hops. luke's attorney asked for ten thousand. luke rowan at the time was articled to a lawyer in london, and as the dinginess of the chambers which he frequented in lincoln's inn fields appeared to him less attractive than the beautiful rivers of devonshire, he offered to go into the brewery as a partner. it was at last settled that he should place himself there as a clerk for twelve months, drawing a certain moderate income out of the concern; and that if at the end of the year he should show himself to be able, and feel himself to be willing, to act as a partner, the firm should be changed to tappitt and rowan, and he should be established permanently as a baslehurst brewer. some information, however, beyond this has already been given to the reader respecting mr. rowan's prospects. "i don't think he ever will be a partner," rachel had said to her mother, "because he quarrels with mr. tappitt." she had been very accurate in her statement. mr. rowan had now been three months at baslehurst, and had not altogether found the ways of his relative pleasant. mr. tappitt wished to treat him as a clerk, whereas he wished to be treated as a partner. and mr. tappitt had by no means found the ways of the young man to be pleasant. young rowan was not idle, nor did he lack intelligence; indeed he possessed more energy and cleverness than, in tappitt's opinion, were necessary to the position of a brewer in baslehurst; but he was by no means willing to use these good gifts in the manner indicated by the sole existing owner of the concern. mr. tappitt wished that rowan should learn brewing seated on a stool, and that the lessons should be purely arithmetical. luke was instructed as to the use of certain dull, dingy, disagreeable ledgers, and informed that in them lay the natural work of a brewer. but he desired to learn the chemical action of malt and hops upon each other, and had not been a fortnight in the concern before he suggested to mr. tappitt that by a salutary process, which he described, the liquor might be made less muddy. "let us brew good beer," he had said; and then tappitt had known that it would not do. "yes," said tappitt, "and sell for twopence a pint what will cost you threepence to make!" "that's what we've got to look to," said rowan. "i believe it can be done for the money,--only one must learn how to do it." "i've been at it all my life," tappitt said. "yes, mr. tappitt; but it is only now that men are beginning to appreciate all that chemistry can do for them. if you'll allow me i'll make an experiment on a small scale." after that mr. tappitt had declared emphatically to his wife that luke rowan should never become a partner of his. "he would ruin any business in the world," said tappitt. "and as to conceit!" it is true that rowan was conceited, and perhaps true also that he would have ruined the brewery had he been allowed to have his own way. but mrs. tappitt by no means held him in such aversion as did her husband. he was a well-grown, good-looking young man for whom his friends had made comfortable provision, and mrs. tappitt had three marriageable daughters. her ideas on the subject of young men in general were by no means identical with those held by mrs. ray. she was aware how frequently it happened that a young partner would marry a daughter of the senior in the house, and it seemed to her that special provision for such an arrangement was made in this case. young rowan was living in her house, and was naturally thrown into great intimacy with her girls. it was clear to her quick eye that he was of a susceptible disposition, fond of ladies' society, and altogether prone to those pleasant pre-matrimonial conversations, from the effects of which it is so difficult for an inexperienced young man to make his escape. mrs. tappitt was minded to devote to him augusta, the second of her flock,--but not so minded with any obstinacy of resolution. if luke should prefer martha, the elder, or cherry, the younger girl, mrs. tappitt would make no objection; but she expected that he should do his duty by taking one of them. "laws, t., don't be so foolish," she said to her husband, when he made his complaint to her. she always called her husband t., unless when the solemnity of some special occasion justified her in addressing him as mr. tappitt. to have called him tom or thomas, would, in her estimation, have been very vulgar. "don't be so foolish. did you never have to do with a young man before? those tantrums will all blow off when he gets himself into harness." the tantrums spoken of were rowan's insane desire to brew good beer, but they were of so fatal a nature that tappitt was determined not to submit himself to them. luke rowan should never be partner of his,--not though he had twenty daughters waiting to be married! rachel had been acquainted with the tappitts before young rowan had come to baslehurst, and had been made known to him by them all collectively. had they shared their mother's prudence they would probably not have done anything so rash. rachel was better-looking than either of them,--though that fact perhaps might not have been known to them. but in justice to them all i must say that they lacked their mother's prudence. they were good-humoured, laughing, ordinary girls,--very much alike, with long brown curls, fresh complexions, large mouths, and thick noses. augusta was rather the taller of the three, and therefore, in her mother's eyes, the beauty. but the girls themselves, when their distant cousin had come amongst them, had not thought of appropriating him. when, after the first day, they became intimate with him, they promised to introduce him to the beauties of the neighbourhood, and cherry had declared her conviction that he would fall in love with rachel ray directly he saw her. "she is tall, you know," said cherry, "a great deal taller than us." "then i'm sure i shan't like her," luke had said. "oh, but you must like her, because she is a friend of ours," cherry had answered; "and i shouldn't be a bit surprised if you fell violently in love with her." mrs. tappitt did not hear all this, but, nevertheless, she began to entertain a dislike to rachel. it must not be supposed that she admitted her daughter augusta to any participation in her plans. mrs. tappitt could scheme for her child, but she could not teach her child to scheme. as regarded the girl, it must all fall out after the natural, pleasant, everyday fashion of such things; but mrs. tappitt considered that her own natural advantages were so great that she could make the thing fall out as she wished. when she was informed about a fortnight after rowan's arrival in baslehurst that rachel ray had been walking with the party from the brewery, she could not prevent herself from saying an ill-natured word or two. "rachel ray is all very well," she said, "but she is not the person whom you should show off to a stranger as your particular friend." "why not, mamma?" said cherry. "why not, my dear! there are reasons why not. mrs. ray is very well in her way, but--" "her husband was a gentleman," said martha, "and a great friend of mr. comfort's." "my dear, i have nothing to say against her," said the mother, "only this; that she does not go among the people we know. there is mrs. prime, the other daughter; her great friend is miss pucker. i don't suppose you want to be very intimate with miss pucker." the brewer's wife had a position in baslehurst and wished that her daughters should maintain it. it will now be understood in what way rachel had formed her acquaintance with luke rowan, and i think it may certainly be admitted that she had been guilty of no great impropriety;--unless, indeed, she had been wrong in saying nothing of the acquaintance to her mother. previous to those ill-natured tidings brought home as to the first churchyard meeting, rachel had seen him but twice. on the first occasion she had thought but little of it,--but little of luke himself or of her acquaintance with him. in simple truth the matter had passed from her mind, and therefore she had not spoken of it. when they met the second time, luke had walked much of the way home with her,--with her alone,--having joined himself to her when the tappitt girls went into their house as rachel had afterwards described to her mother. in all that she had said she had spoken absolutely the truth; but it cannot be pleaded on her behalf that after this second meeting with mr. rowan she had said nothing of him because she had thought nothing. she had indeed thought much, but it had seemed well to her to keep her thoughts to herself. the tappitt girls had by no means given up their friend because their mother had objected to miss pucker; and when rachel met them on that saturday evening,--that fatal saturday,--they were very gracious to her. the brewery at baslehurst stood on the outskirts of the town, in a narrow lane which led from the church into the high-street. this lane,--brewery-lane, as it was called,--was not the main approach to the church; but from the lane there was a stile into the churchyard, and a gate, opened on sundays, by which people on that side reached the church. from the opposite side of the churchyard a road led away to the foot of the high-street, and out towards the bridge which divided the town from the parish of cawston. along one side of this road there was a double row of elms, having a footpath beneath them. this old avenue began within the churchyard, running across the lower end of it, and was continued for some two hundred yards beyond its precincts. this, then, would be the way which rachel would naturally take in going home, after leaving the miss tappitts at their door; but it was by no means the way which was the nearest for mrs. prime after leaving miss pucker's lodgings in the high-street, seeing that the high-street itself ran direct to cawston bridge. and it must also be explained that there was a third path out of the churchyard, not leading into any road, but going right away across the fields. the church stood rather high, so that the land sloped away from it towards the west, and the view there was very pretty. the path led down through a small field, with high hedgerows, and by orchards, to two little hamlets belonging to baslehurst, and this was a favourite walk with the people of the town. it was here that rachel had walked with the miss tappitts on that evening when luke rowan had first accompanied her as far as cawston bridge, and it was here that they agreed to walk again on the saturday when rowan was supposed to be away at exeter. rachel was to come along under the elms, and was to meet her friends there, or in the churchyard, or, if not so, then she was to call for them at the brewery. she found the three girls leaning against the rails near the churchyard stile. "we have been waiting ever so long," said cherry, who was more specially rachel's friend. "oh, but i said you were not to wait," said rachel, "for i never am quite sure whether i can come." "we knew you'd come," said augusta, "because--" "because what?" asked rachel. "because nothing," said cherry. "she's only joking." rachel said nothing more, not having understood the point of the joke. the joke was this,--that luke rowan had come back from exeter, and that rachel was supposed to have heard of his return, and therefore that her coming for the walk was certain. but augusta had not intended to be ill-natured, and had not really believed what she had been about to insinuate. "the fact is," said martha, "that mr. rowan has come home; but i don't suppose we shall see anything of him this evening as he is busy with papa." rachel for a few minutes became silent and thoughtful. her mind had not yet freed itself from the effects of her conversation with her mother, and she had been thinking of this young man during the whole of her solitary walk into town. but she had been thinking of him as we think of matters which need not put us to any immediate trouble. he was away at exeter, and she would have time to decide whether or no she would admit his proffered intimacy before she should see him again. "i do so hope we shall be friends," he had said to her as he gave her his hand when they parted on cawston bridge. and then he had muttered something, which she had not quite caught, as to baslehurst being altogether another place to him since he had seen her. she had hurried home on that occasion with a feeling, half pleasant and half painful, that something out of the usual course had occurred to her. but, after all, it amounted to nothing. what was there that she could tell her mother? she had no special tale to tell, and yet she could not speak of young rowan as she would have spoken of a chance acquaintance. was she not conscious that he had pressed her hand warmly as he parted from her? rachel herself entertained much of that indefinite fear of young men which so strongly pervaded her mother's mind, and which, as regarded her sister, had altogether ceased to be indefinite. rachel knew that they were the natural enemies of her special class, and that any kind of friendship might be allowed to her, except a friendship with any of them. and as she was a good girl, loving her mother, anxious to do well, guided by pure thoughts, she felt aware that mr. rowan should be shunned. had it not been that he himself had told her that he was to be in exeter, she would not have come out to walk with the brewery girls on that evening. what she might hereafter decide upon doing, how these affairs might be made to arrange themselves, she by no means could foresee;--but on that evening she had thought she would be safe, and therefore she had come out to walk. "what do you think?" said cherry; "we are going to have a party next week." "it won't be till the week after," said augusta. "at any rate, we are going to have a party, and you must come. you'll get a regular invite, you know, when they're sent out. mr. rowan's mother and sister are coming down on a visit to us for a few days, and so we're going to be quite smart." "i don't know about going to a party. i suppose it is for a dance?" "of course it is for a dance," said martha. "and of course you'll come and dance with luke rowan," said cherry. nothing could be more imprudent than cherry tappitt, and augusta was beginning to be aware of this, though she had not been allowed to participate in her mother's schemes. after that, there was much talking about the party, but the conversation was chiefly kept up by the tappitt girls. rachel was almost sure that her mother would not like her to go to a dance, and was quite sure that her sister would oppose such iniquity with all her power; therefore she made no promise. but she listened as the list was repeated of those who were expected to come, and asked some few questions as to mrs. rowan and her daughter. then, at a sudden turn of a lane, a lane that led back to the town by another route, they met luke rowan himself. he was a cousin of the tappitts, and therefore, though the relationship was not near, he had already assumed the privilege of calling them by their christian names; and martha, who was nearly thirty years old, and four years his senior, had taught herself to call him luke; with the other two he was as yet mr. rowan. the greeting was of course very friendly, and he returned with them on their path. to rachel he raised his hat, and then offered his hand. she had felt herself to be confused the moment she saw him,--so confused that she was not able to ask him how he was with ordinary composure. she was very angry with herself, and heartily wished that she was seated with the dorcas women at miss pucker's. any position would have been better for her than this, in which she was disgracing herself and showing that she could not bear herself before this young man as though he were no more than an ordinary acquaintance. her mind would revert to that hand-squeezing, to those muttered words, and to her mother's caution. when he remarked to her that he had come back earlier than he expected, she could not take his words as though they signified nothing. his sudden return was a momentous fact to her, putting her out of her usual quiet mode of thought. she said little or nothing, and he, at any rate, did not observe that she was confused; but she was herself so conscious of it, that it seemed to her that all of them must have seen it. thus they sauntered along, back to the outskirts of the town, and so into the brewery lane, by a route opposite to that of the churchyard. the whole way they talked of nothing but the party. was miss rowan fond of dancing? then by degrees the girls called her mary, declaring that as she was a cousin they intended so to do. and luke said that he ought to be called by his christian name; and the two younger girls agreed that he was entitled to the privilege, only they would ask mamma first; and in this way they were becoming very intimate. rachel said but little, and perhaps not much that was said was addressed specially to her, but she seemed to feel that she was included in the friendliness of the gathering. every now and then luke rowan would address her, and his voice was pleasant to her ears. he had made an effort to walk next to her,--an attempt almost too slight to be called an effort, which she had, almost unconsciously, frustrated, by so placing herself that augusta should be between them. augusta was not quite in a good humour, and said one or two words which were slightly snubbing in their tendency; but this was more than atoned for by cherry's high good-humour. when they reached the brewery they all declared themselves to be very much astonished on learning that it was already past nine. rachel's surprise, at any rate, was real. "i must go home at once," she said; "i don't know what mamma will think of me." and then, wishing them all good-bye, without further delay she hurried on into the churchyard. "i'll see you safe through the ghosts at any rate," said rowan. "i'm not a bit afraid of churchyard ghosts," said rachel, moving on. but rowan followed her. "i've got to go into town to meet your father," said he to the other girls, "and i'll be back with him." augusta saw with some annoyance that he had overtaken rachel before she had passed over the stile, and stood lingering at the door long enough to be aware that luke was over first. "that girl is a flirt, after all," she said to her sister martha. luke was over the stile first, and then turned round to assist miss ray. she could not refuse him her hand in such a position; or if she could have done so she lacked the presence of mind that was necessary for such refusal. "you must let me walk home with you," he said. "indeed i will do no such thing. you told augusta that you were going to her papa in the town." "so i am, but i will see you first as far as the bridge; you can't refuse me that." "indeed i can, and indeed i will. i beg you won't come. i am sure you would not wish to annoy me." "look," said he, pointing to the west; "did you ever see such a setting sun as that? did you ever see such blood-red colour?" the light was very wonderful, for the sun had just gone down and all the western heavens were crimson with its departing glory. in the few moments that they stood there gazing it might almost have been believed that some portentous miracle had happened, so deep and dark, and yet so bright, were the hues of the horizon. it seemed as though the lands below the hill were bathed in blood. the elm trees interrupted their view, so that they could only look out through the spaces between their trunks. "come to the stile," said he. "if you were to live a thousand years you might never again see such a sunset as that. you would never forgive yourself if you missed it, just that you might save three minutes." rachel stepped with him towards the stile; but it was not solely his entreaty that made her do so. as he spoke of the sun's glory her sharp ear caught the sound of a woman's foot close to the stile over which she had passed, and knowing that she could not escape at once from luke rowan, she had left the main path through the churchyard, in order that the new comer might not see her there talking to him. so she accompanied him on till they stood between the trees, and then they remained encompassed as it were in the full light of the sun's rays. but if her ears had been sharp, so were the eyes of this new comer. and while she stood there with rowan beneath the elms, her sister stood a while also on the churchyard path and recognized the figures of them both. "rachel," said he, after they had remained there in silence for a moment, "live as long as you may, never on god's earth will you look on any sight more lovely than that. ah! do you see the man's arm, as it were; the deep purple cloud, like a huge hand stretched out from some other world to take you? do you see it?" the sound of his voice was very pleasant. his words to her young ears seemed full of poetry and sweet mysterious romance. he spoke to her as no one,--no man or woman,--had ever spoken to her before. she had a feeling, as painful as it was delicious, that the man's words were sweet with a sweetness which she had known in her dreams. he had asked her a question, and repeated it, so that she was all but driven to answer him; but still she was full of the one great fact that he had called her rachel, and that he must be rebuked for so calling her. but how could she rebuke a man who had bid her look at god's beautiful works in such language as he had used? "yes, i see it; it is very grand; but--" "there were the fingers, but you see how they are melting away. the arm is there still, but the hand is gone. you and i can trace it because we saw it when it was clear, but we could not now show it to another. i wonder whether any one else saw that hand and arm, or only you and i. i should like to think that it was shown to us, and us only." it was impossible for her now to go back upon that word rachel. she must pass it by as though she had not heard it. "all the world might have seen it had they looked," said she. "perhaps not. do you think that all eyes can see alike?" "well, yes; i suppose so." "all eyes will see a loaf of bread alike, or a churchyard stile, but all eyes will not see the clouds alike. do you not often find worlds among the clouds? i do." "worlds!" she said, amazed at his energy; and then she bethought herself that he was right. she would never have seen that hand and arm had he not been there to show it her. so she gazed down upon the changing colours of the horizon, and almost forgot that she should not have lingered there a moment. and yet there was a strong feeling upon her that she was sinking,--sinking,--sinking away into iniquity. she ought not to have stood there an instant, she ought not to have been there with him at all;--and yet she lingered. now that she was there she hardly knew how to move herself away. "yes; worlds among the clouds," he continued; but before he did so there had been silence between them for a minute or two. "do you never feel that you look into other worlds beyond this one in which you eat, and drink, and sleep? have you no other worlds in your dreams?" yes; such dreams she had known, and now, she almost thought that she could remember to have seen strange forms in the clouds. she knew that henceforth she would watch the clouds and find them there. she looked down into the flood of light beneath her, with a full consciousness that he was close to her, touching her; with a full consciousness that every moment that she lingered there was a new sin; with a full consciousness, too, that the beauty of those fading colours seen thus in his presence possessed a charm, a sense of soft delight, which she had never known before. at last she uttered a long sigh. "why, what ails you?" said he. "oh, i must go; i have been so wrong to stand here. good-bye; pray, pray do not come with me." "but you will shake hands with me." then he got her hand, and held it. "why should it be wrong for you to stand and look at the sunset? am i an ogre? have i done anything that should make you afraid of me?" "do not hold me. mr. rowan i did not think you would behave like that." the gloom of the evening was now coming on, and though but a few minutes had passed since mrs. prime had walked through the churchyard, she would not have been able to recognize them had she walked there now. "it is getting dark, and i must go instantly." "let me go with you, then, as far as the bridge." "no, no, no. pray do not vex me." "i will not. you shall go alone. but stand while i say one word to you. why should you be afraid of me?" "i am not afraid of you,--at least,--you know what i mean." "i wonder,--i wonder whether--you dislike me." "i don't dislike anybody. good-night." he had however again got her hand. "i'll tell you why i ask;--because i like you so much, so very much! why should we not be friends? well; there. i will not trouble you now. i will not stir from here till you are out of sight. but mind,--remember this; i intend that you shall like me." she was gone from him, fleeing away along the path in a run while the last words were being spoken; and yet, though they were spoken in a low voice, she heard and remembered every syllable. what did the man mean by saying that he intended that she should like him? like him! how could she fail of liking him? only was it not incumbent on her to take some steps which might save her from ever seeing him again? like him, indeed! what was the meaning of the word? had he intended to ask her to love him? and if so, what answer must she make? how beautiful had been those clouds! as soon as she was beyond the church wall, so that she could look again to the west, she gazed with all her eyes to see if there were still a remnant left of that arm. no; it had all melted into a monstrous shape, indistinct and gloomy, partaking of the darkness of night. the brightness of the vision was gone. but he bade her look into the clouds for new worlds, and she seemed to feel that there was a hidden meaning in his words. as she looked out into the coming darkness, a mystery crept over her, a sense of something wonderful that was out there, away,--of something so full of mystery that she could not tell whether she was thinking of the hidden distances of the horizon, or of the distances of her own future life, which were still further off and more closely hidden. she found herself trembling, sighing, almost sobbing, and then she ran again. he had wrapped her in his influence, and filled her full of the magnetism of his own being. her woman's weakness,--the peculiar susceptibility of her nature, had never before been touched. she had now heard the first word of romance that had ever reached her ears, and it had fallen upon her with so great a power that she was overwhelmed. words of romance! words direct from the evil one, mrs. prime would have called them! and in saying so she would have spoken the belief of many a good woman and many a good man. she herself was a good woman,--a sincere, honest, hardworking, self-denying woman; a woman who struggled hard to do her duty as she believed it had been taught to her. she, as she walked through the churchyard,--having come down the brewery lane with some inkling that her sister might be there,--had been struck with horror at seeing rachel standing with that man. what should she do? she paused a moment to ask herself whether she should return for her; but she said to herself that her sister was obstinate, that a scene would be occasioned, that she would do no good,--and so she passed on. words of romance, indeed! must not all such words be words from the father of lies, seeing that they are words of falseness? some such thoughts passed through her mind as she walked home, thinking of her sister's iniquity,--of her sister who must be saved, like a brand from the fire, but whose saving could now be effected only by the sternest of discipline. the hours at the dorcas meetings must be made longer, and rachel must always be there. in the mean time rachel hurried home with her spirits all a-tremble. of her immediately-coming encounter with her mother and her sister she hardly thought much before she reached the door. she thought only of him, how beautiful he was, how grand,--and how dangerous; of him and of his words, how beautiful they were, how grand, and how terribly dangerous! she knew that it was very late and she hurried her steps. she knew that her mother must be appeased, and her sister must be opposed,--but neither to her mother or to her sister was given the depth of her thoughts. she was still thinking of him, and of the man's arm in the clouds, when she opened the door of the cottage at bragg's end. chapter iv. what shall be done about it? rachel was still thinking of luke rowan and of the man's arm when she opened the cottage door, but the sight of her sister's face, and the tone of her sister's voice, soon brought her back to a full consciousness of her immediate present position. "oh, dolly, do not speak with that terrible voice, as though the world were coming to an end," she said, in answer to the first note of objurgation that was uttered; but the notes that came afterwards were so much more terrible, so much more severe, that rachel found herself quite unable to stop them by any would-be joking tone. mrs. prime was desirous that her mother should speak the words of censure that must be spoken. she would have preferred herself to remain silent, knowing that she could be as severe in her silence as in her speech, if only her mother would use the occasion as it should be used. mrs. ray had been made to feel how great was the necessity for outspoken severity; but when the moment came, and her dear beautiful child stood there before her, she could not utter the words with which she had been already prompted. "oh, rachel," she said, "dorothea tells me--" and then she stopped. "what has dorothea told you?" asked rachel. "i have told her," said mrs. prime, now speaking out, "that i saw you standing alone an hour since with that young man,--in the churchyard. and yet you had said that he was to have been away in exeter!" rachel's cheeks and forehead were now suffused with red. we used to think, when we pretended to read the faces of our neighbours, that a rising blush betrayed a conscious falsehood. for the most part we know better now, and have learned to decipher more accurately the outward signs which are given by the impulses of the heart. an unmerited accusation of untruth will ever bring the blood to the face of the young and innocent. but mrs. ray was among the ignorant in this matter, and she groaned inwardly when she saw her child's confusion. "oh, rachel, is it true?" she said. "is what true, mamma? it is true that mr. rowan spoke to me in the churchyard, though i did not know that dorothea was acting as a spy on me." "rachel, rachel!" said the mother. "it is very necessary that some one should act the spy on you," said the sister. "a spy, indeed! you think to anger me by using such a word, but i will not be angered by any words. i went there to look after you, fearing that there was occasion,--fearing it, but hardly thinking it. now we know that there was occasion." "there was no occasion," said rachel, looking into her sister's face with eyes of which the incipient strength was becoming manifest. "there was no occasion. oh, mamma, you do not think there was an occasion for watching me?" "why did you say that that young man was at exeter?" asked mrs. prime. "because he had told me that he would be there;--he had told us all so, as we were walking together. he came to-day instead of coming to-morrow. what would you say if i questioned you in that way about your friends?" then, when the words had passed from her lips, she remembered that she should not have called mr. rowan her friend. she had never called him so, in thinking of him, to herself. she had never admitted that she had any regard for him. she had acknowledged to herself that it would be very dangerous to entertain friendship for such as he. "friend, rachel!" said mrs. prime. "if you look for such friendship as that, who can say what will come to you?" "i haven't looked for it. i haven't looked for anything. people do get to know each other without any looking, and they can't help it." then mrs. prime took off her bonnet and her shawl, and rachel laid down her hat and her little light summer cloak; but it must not be supposed that the war was suspended during these operations. mrs. prime was aware that a great deal more must be said, but she was very anxious that her mother should say it. rachel also knew that much more would be said, and she was by no means anxious that the subject should be dropped, if only she could talk her mother over to her side. "if mother thinks it right," exclaimed mrs. prime, "that you should be standing alone with a young man after nightfall in the churchyard, then i have done. in that case i will say no more. but i must tell her, and i must tell you also, that if it is to be so, i cannot remain at the cottage any longer." "oh, dorothea!" said mrs. ray. "indeed, mother, i cannot. if rachel is not hindered from such meetings by her own sense of what is right, she must be hindered by the authority of those older than herself." "hindered,--hindered from what?" said rachel, who felt that her tears were coming, but struggled hard to retain them. "mamma, i have done nothing that was wrong. mamma, you will believe me, will you not?" mrs. ray did not know what to say. she strove to believe both of them, though the words of one were directly at variance with the words of the other. "do you mean to claim it as your right," said mrs. prime, "to be standing out there alone at any hour of the night, with any young man that you please? if so, you cannot be my sister." "i do not want to be your sister if you think such hard things," said rachel, whose tears now could no longer be restrained. honi soit qui mal y pense. she did not, at the moment, remember the words to speak them, but they contain exactly the purport of her thought. and now, having become conscious of her own weakness by reason of these tears which would overwhelm her, she determined that she would say nothing further till she pleaded her cause before her mother alone. how could she describe before her sister the way in which that interview at the churchyard stile had been brought about? but she could kneel at her mother's feet and tell her everything;--she thought, at least, that she could tell her mother everything. she occupied generally the same bedroom as her sister; but, on certain occasions,--if her mother was unwell or the like,--she would sleep in her mother's room. "mamma," she said, "you will let me sleep with you to-night. i will go now, and when you come i will tell you everything. good night to you, dolly." "good night, rachel;" and the voice of mrs. prime, as she bade her sister adieu for the evening, sounded as the voice of the ravens. the two widows sat in silence for a while, each waiting for the other to speak. then mrs. prime got up and folded her shawl very carefully, and carefully put her bonnet and gloves down upon it. it was her habit to be very careful with her clothes, but in her anger she had almost thrown them upon the little sofa. "will you have anything before you go to bed, dorothea?" said mrs. ray. "nothing, thank you," said mrs. prime; and her voice was very like the voice of the ravens. then mrs. ray began to think it possible that she might escape away to rachel without any further words. "i am very tired," she said, "and i think i will go, dorothea." "mother," said mrs. prime, "something must be done about this." "yes, my dear; she will talk to me to-night, and tell it me all." "but will she tell you the truth?" "she never told me a falsehood yet, dorothea. i'm sure she didn't know that the young man was to be here. you know if he did come back from exeter before he said he would she couldn't help it." "and do you mean that she couldn't help being with him there,--all alone? mother, what would you think of any other girl of whom you heard such a thing?" mrs. ray shuddered; and then some thought, some shadow perhaps of a remembrance, flitted across her mind, which seemed to have the effect of palliating her child's iniquity. "suppose--" she said. "suppose what?" said mrs. prime, sternly. but mrs. ray did not dare to go on with her supposition. she did not dare to suggest that mr. rowan might perhaps be a very proper young man, and that the two young people might be growing fond of each other in a proper sort of way. she hardly believed in any such propriety herself, and she knew that her daughter would scout it to the winds. "suppose what?" said mrs. prime again, more sternly than before. "if the other girls left her and went away to the brewery, perhaps she could not have helped it," said mrs. ray. "but she was not walking with him. her face was not turned towards home even. they were standing together under the trees, and, judging from the time at which i got home, they must have remained together for nearly half an hour afterwards. and this with a perfect stranger, mother,--a man whose name she had never mentioned to us till she was told how miss pucker had seen them together! you cannot suppose that i want to make her out worse than she is. she is your child, and my sister; and we are bound together for weal or for woe." "you talked about going away and leaving us," said mrs. ray, speaking in soreness rather than in anger. "so i did; and so i must, unless something be done. it could not be right that i should remain here, seeing such things, if my voice is not allowed to be heard. but though i did go, she would still be my sister. i should still share the sorrow,--and the shame." "oh, dorothea, do not say such words." "but they must be said, mother. is it not from such meetings that shame comes,--shame, and sorrow, and sin? you love her dearly, and so do i; and are we therefore to allow her to be a castaway? those whom you love you must chastise. i have no authority over her,--as she has told me, more than once already,--and therefore i say again, that unless all this be stopped, i must leave the cottage. good night, now, mother. i hope you will speak to her in earnest." then mrs. prime took her candle and went her way. for ten minutes the mother sat herself down, thinking of the condition of her youngest daughter, and trying to think what words she would use when she found herself in her daughter's presence. sorrow, and shame, and sin! her child a castaway! what terrible words they were! and yet there had been nothing that she could allege in answer to them. that comfortable idea of a decent husband for her child had been banished from her mind almost before it had been entertained. then she thought of rachel's eyes, and knew that she would not be able to assume a perfect mastery over her girl. when the ten minutes were over she had made up her mind to nothing, and then she also took up her candle and went to her room. when she first entered it she did not see rachel. she had silently closed the door and come some steps within the chamber before her child showed herself from behind the bed. "mamma," she said, "put down the candle that i may speak to you." whereupon mrs. ray put down the candle, and rachel took hold of both her arms. "mamma, you do not believe ill of me; do you? you do not think of me the things that dorothea says? say that you do not, or i shall die." "my darling, i have never thought anything bad of you before." "and do you think bad of me now? did you not tell me before i went out that you would trust me, and have you so soon forgotten your trust? look at me, mamma. what have i ever done that you should think me to be such as she says?" "i do not think that you have done anything; but you are very young, rachel." "young, mamma! i am older than you were when you married, and older than dolly was. i am old enough to know what is wrong. shall i tell you what happened this evening? he came and met us all in the fields. i knew before that he had come back, for the girls had said so, but i thought that he was in exeter when i left here. had i not believed that, i should not have gone. i think i should not have gone." "then you are afraid of him?" "no, mamma; i am not afraid of him. but he says such strange things to me; and i would not purposely have gone out to meet him. he came to us in the fields, and then we returned up the lane to the brewery, and there we left the girls. as i went through the churchyard he came there too, and then the sun was setting, and he stopped me to look at it; i did stop with him,--for a few moments, and i felt ashamed of myself; but how was i to help it? mamma, if i could remember them i would tell you every word he said to me, and every look of his face. he asked me to be his friend. mamma, if you will believe in me i will tell you everything. i will never deceive you." she was still holding her mother's arms while she spoke. now she held her very close and nestled in against her bosom, and gradually got her cheek against her mother's cheek, and her lips against her mother's neck. how could any mother refuse such a caress as that, or remain hard and stern against such signs of love? mrs. ray, at any rate, was not possessed of strength to do so. she was vanquished, and put her arm round her girl and embraced her. she spoke soft words, and told rachel that she was her dear, dear, dearest darling. she was still awed and dismayed by the tidings which she had heard of the young man; she still thought there was some terrible danger against which it behoved them all to be on their guard. but she no longer felt herself divided from her child, and had ceased to believe in the necessity of those terrible words which mrs. prime had used. "you will believe me?" said rachel. "you will not think that i am making up stories to deceive you?" then the mother assured the daughter with many kisses that she would believe her. after that they sat long into the night, discussing all that luke rowan had said, and the discussion certainly took place after a fashion that would not have been considered satisfactory by mrs. prime had she heard it. mrs. ray was soon led into talking about mr. rowan as though he were not a wolf,--as though he might possibly be neither a wolf ravenous with his native wolfish fur and open wolfish greed; or, worse than that, a wolf, more ravenous still, in sheep's clothing. there was no word spoken of him as a lover; but rachel told her mother that the man had called her by her christian name, and mrs. ray had fully understood the sign. "my darling, you mustn't let him do that." "no, mamma; i won't. but he went on talking so fast that i had not time to stop him, and after that it was not worth while." the project of the party was also told to mrs. ray, and rachel, sitting now with her head upon her mother's lap, owned that she would like to go to it. "parties are not always wicked, mamma," she said. to this assertion mrs. ray expressed an undecided assent, but intimated her decided belief that very many parties were wicked. "there will be dancing, and i do not like that," said mrs. ray. "yet i was taught dancing at school," said rachel. when the matter had gone so far as this it must be acknowledged that rachel had done much towards securing her share of mastery over her mother. "he will be there, of course," said mrs. ray. "oh, yes; he will be there," said rachel. "but why should i be afraid of him? why should i live as though i were afraid to meet him? dolly thinks that i should be shut up close, to be taken care of; but you do not think of me like that. if i was minded to be bad, shutting me up would not keep me from it." such arguments as these from rachel's mouth sounded, at first, very terrible to mrs. ray, but yet she yielded to them. on the next morning rachel was down first, and was found by her sister fast engaged on the usual work of the house, as though nothing out of the way had occurred on the previous evening. "good morning, dolly," she said, and then went on arranging the things on the breakfast-table. "good morning, rachel," said mrs. prime, still speaking like a raven. there was not a word said between them about the young man or the churchyard, and at nine o'clock mrs. ray came down to them, dressed ready for church. they seated themselves and ate their breakfast together, and still not a word was said. it was mrs. prime's custom to go to morning service at one of the churches in baslehurst; not at the old parish church which stood in the churchyard near the brewery, but at a new church which had been built as auxiliary to the other, and at which the rev. samuel prong was the ministering clergyman. as we shall have occasion to know mr. prong it may be as well to explain here that he was not simply a curate to old dr. harford, the rector of baslehurst. he had a separate district of his own, which had been divided from the old parish, not exactly in accordance with the rector's good pleasure. dr. harford had held the living for more than forty years; he had held it for nearly forty years before the division had been made, and he had thought that the parish should remain a parish entire,--more especially as the presentation to the new benefice was not conceded to him. therefore dr. harford did not love mr. prong. but mrs. prime did love him,--with that sort of love which devout women bestow upon the church minister of their choice. mr. prong was an energetic, severe, hardworking, and, i fear, intolerant young man, who bestowed very much laudable care upon his sermons. the care and industry were laudable, but not so the pride with which he thought of them and their results. he spoke much of preaching the gospel, and was sincere beyond all doubt in his desire to do so; but he allowed himself to be led away into a belief that his brethren in the ministry around him did not preach the gospel,--that they were careless shepherds, or shepherds' dogs indifferent to the wolf, and in this way he had made himself unpopular among the clergy and gentry of the neighbourhood. it may well be understood that such a man coming down upon a district, cut out almost from the centre of dr. harford's parish, would be a thorn in the side of that old man. but mr. prong had his circle of friends, of very ardent friends, and among them mrs. prime was one of the most ardent. for the last year or two she had always attended morning service at his church, and very frequently had gone there twice in the day, though the walk was long and tedious, taking her the whole length of the town of baslehurst. and there had been some little uneasiness between mrs. ray and mrs. prime on the matter of this church attendance. mrs. prime had wished her mother and sister to have the benefit of mr. prong's eloquence; but mrs. ray, though she was weak in morals, was strong in her determination to adhere to mr. comfort of cawston. it had been matter of great sorrow to her that her daughter should leave mr. comfort's church, and she had positively declined to be taken out of her own parish. rachel had, of course, stuck to her mother in this controversy, and had said some sharp things about mr. prong. she declared that mr. prong had been educated at islington, and that sometimes he forgot his "h's." when such things were said mrs. prime would wax very angry, and would declare that no one could be saved by the perfection of dr. harford's pronunciation. but there was no question as to dr. harford, and no justification for the introduction of his name into the dispute. mrs. prime, however, did not choose to say anything against mr. comfort, with whom her husband had been curate, and who, in her younger days, had been a light to her own feet. mr. comfort was by no means such a one as dr. harford, though the two old men were friends. mr. comfort had been regarded as a calvinist when he was young, as evangelical in middle life, and was still known as a low churchman in his old age. therefore mrs. prime would spare him in her sneers, though she left his ministry. he had become lukewarm, but not absolutely stone cold, like the old rector at baslehurst. so said mrs. prime. old men would become lukewarm, and therefore she could pardon mr. comfort. but dr. harford had never been warm at all,--had never been warm with the warmth which she valued. therefore she scorned him and sneered at him. in return for which rachel scorned mr. prong and sneered at him. but though it was mrs. prime's custom to go to church at baslehurst, on this special sunday she declared her intention of accompanying her mother to cawston. not a word had been said about the young man, and they all started off on their walk together in silence and gloom. with such thoughts as they had in their mind it was impossible that they should make the journey pleasantly. rachel had counted on the walk with her mother, and had determined that everything should be pleasant. she would have said a word or two about luke rowan, and would have gradually reconciled her mother to his name. but as it was she said nothing; and it may be feared that her mind, during the period of her worship, was not at charity with her sister. mr. comfort preached his half-hour as usual, and then they all walked home. dr. harford never exceeded twenty minutes, and had often been known to finish his discourse within ten. what might be the length of a sermon of mr. prong's no man or woman could foretell, but he never spared himself or his congregation much under an hour. they all walked home gloomily to their dinner, and ate their cold mutton and potatoes in sorrow and sadness. it seemed as though no sort of conversation was open to them. they could not talk of their usual sunday subjects. their minds were full of one matter, and it seemed that that matter was by common consent to be banished from their lips for the day. in the evening, after tea, the two sisters again went up to cawston church, leaving their mother with her bible;--but hardly a word was spoken between them, and in the same silence they sat till bed-time. to mrs. ray and to rachel it had been one of the saddest, dreariest days that either of them had ever known. i doubt whether the suffering of mrs. prime was so great. she was kept up by the excitement of feeling that some great crisis was at hand. if rachel were not made amenable to authority she would leave the cottage. when rachel had run with hurrying steps from the stile in the churchyard, she left luke rowan still standing there. he watched her till she crossed into the lane, and then he turned and again looked out upon the still ruddy line of the horizon. the blaze of light was gone, but there were left, high up in the heavens, those wonderful hues which tinge with softly-changing colour the edges of the clouds when the brightness of some glorious sunset has passed away. he sat himself on the wooden rail, watching till all of it should be over, and thinking, with lazy half-formed thoughts, of rachel ray. he did not ask himself what he meant by assuring her of his friendship, and by claiming hers, but he declared to himself that she was very lovely,--more lovely than beautiful, and then smiled inwardly at the prettiness of her perturbed spirit. he remembered well that he had called her rachel, and that she had allowed his doing so to pass by without notice; but he understood also how and why she had done so. he knew that she had been flurried, and that she had skipped the thing because she had not known the moment at which to make her stand. he gave himself credit for no undue triumph, nor her discredit for any undue easiness. "what a woman she is!" he said to himself; "so womanly in everything." then his mind rambled away to other subjects, possibly to the practicability of making good beer instead of bad. he was a young man, by no means of a bad sort, meaning to do well, with high hopes in life, one who had never wronged a woman, or been untrue to a friend, full of energy and hope and pride. but he was conceited, prone to sarcasm, sometimes cynical, and perhaps sometimes affected. it may be that he was not altogether devoid of that byronic weakness which was so much more prevalent among young men twenty years since than it is now. his two trades had been those of an attorney and a brewer, and yet he dabbled in romance, and probably wrote poetry in his bedroom. nevertheless, there were worse young men about baslehurst than luke rowan. "and now for mr. tappitt," said he, as he slowly took his legs from off the railing. chapter v. mr. comfort gives his advice. mrs. tappitt was very full of her party. it had grown in her mind as those things do grow, till it had come to assume almost the dimensions of a ball. when mrs. tappitt first consulted her husband and obtained his permission for the gathering, it was simply intended that a few of her daughters' friends should be brought together to make the visit cheerful for miss rowan; but the mistress of the house had become ambitious; two fiddles, with a german horn, were to be introduced because the piano would be troublesome; the drawing-room carpet was to be taken up, and there was to be a supper in the dining-room. the thing in its altered shape loomed large by degrees upon mr. tappitt, and he found himself unable to stop its growth. the word ball would have been fatal; but mrs. tappitt was too good a general, and the girls were too judicious as lieutenants, to commit themselves by the presumption of any such term. it was still mrs. tappitt's evening tea-party, but it was understood in baslehurst that mrs. tappitt's evening tea-party was to be something considerable. a great success had attended this lady at the onset of her scheme. mrs. butler cornbury had called at the brewery, and had promised that she would come, and that she would bring some of the cornbury family. now mr. butler cornbury was the eldest son of the most puissant squire within five miles of baslehurst, and was indeed almost as good as squire himself, his father being a very old man. mrs. butler cornbury had, it is true, not been esteemed as holding any very high rank while shining as a beauty under the name of patty comfort; but she had taken kindly to her new honours, and was now reckoned as a considerable magnate in that part of the county. she did not customarily join in the festivities of the town, and held herself aloof from people even of higher standing than the tappitts. but she was an ambitious woman, and had inspired her lord with the desire of representing baslehurst in parliament. there would be an election at baslehurst in the coming autumn, and mrs. cornbury was already preparing for the fight. hence had arisen her visit at the brewery, and hence also her ready acquiescence in mrs. tappitt's half-pronounced request. the party was to be celebrated on a tuesday,--tuesday week after that sunday which was passed so uncomfortably at bragg's end; and on the monday mrs. tappitt and her daughters sat conning over the list of their expected guests, and preparing their invitations. it must be understood that the rowan family had somewhat grown upon them in estimation since luke had been living with them. they had not known much of him till he came among them, and had been prepared to patronise him; but they found him a young man not to be patronised by any means, and imperceptibly they learned to feel that his mother and sister would have to be esteemed by them rather as great ladies. luke was in nowise given to boasting, and had no intention of magnifying his mother and sister; but things had been said which made the tappitts feel that mrs. rowan must have the best bedroom, and that mary rowan must be provided with the best partners. "and what shall we do about rachel ray?" said martha, who was sitting with the list before her. augusta, who was leaning over her sister, puckered up her mouth and said nothing. she had watched from the house door on that saturday evening, and had been perfectly aware that luke rowan had taken rachel off towards the stile under the trees. she could not bring herself to say anything against rachel, but she certainly wished that she might be excluded. "of course she must be asked," said cherry. cherry was sitting opposite to the other girls writing on a lot of envelopes the addresses of the notes which were afterwards to be prepared. "we told her we should ask her." and as she spoke she addressed a cover to "miss ray, bragg's end cottage, cawston." "stop a moment, my dear," said mrs. tappitt from the corner of the sofa on which she was sitting. "put that aside, cherry. rachel ray is all very well, but considering all things i am not sure that she will quite do for tuesday night. it's not quite in her line, i think." "but we have mentioned it to her already, mamma," said martha. "of course we did," said cherry. "it would be the meanest thing in the world not to ask her now!" "i am not at all sure that mrs. rowan would like it," said mrs. tappitt. "and i don't think that rachel is quite up to what mary has been used to," said augusta. "if she has half a mind to flirt with luke already," said mrs. tappitt, "i ought not to encourage it." "that is such nonsense, mamma," said cherry. "if he likes her he'll find her somewhere if he doesn't find her here." "my dear, you shouldn't say that what i say is nonsense," said mrs. tappitt. "but, mamma, when we have already asked her!--besides, she is a lady," said cherry. "i can't say that i think mrs. butler cornbury would wish to meet her," said mrs. tappitt. "mrs. butler cornbury's father is their particular friend," said martha. "mrs. ray always goes to mr. comfort's parties." in this way the matter was discussed, and at last cherry's eagerness and martha's sense of justice carried the day. the envelope which cherry had addressed was brought into use, and the note to rachel was deposited in the post with all those other notes, the destination of which was too far to be reached by the brewery boy without detrimental interference with the brewery work. we will continue our story by following the note which was delivered by the cawston postman at bragg's end about seven o'clock on the tuesday morning. it was delivered into rachel's own hand, and read by her as she stood by the kitchen dresser before either her mother or mrs. prime had come down from their rooms. there still was sadness and gloom at bragg's end. during all the monday there had been no comfort in the house, and rachel had continued to share her mother's bedroom. at intervals, when rachel had been away, much had been said between mrs. ray and mrs. prime; but no conclusion had been reached; no line of conduct had received their joint adhesion; and the threat remained that mrs. prime would leave the cottage. mrs. ray, while listening to her elder daughter's words, still continued to fear that evil spirits were hovering around them; but yet she would not consent to order rachel to become a devout attendant at the dorcas meetings. monday had not been a dorcas day, and therefore it had been very dull and very tedious. rachel stood a while with the note in her hand, fearing that the contest must be brought on again and fought out to an end before she could send her answer to it. she had told her mother that she was to be invited, and mrs. ray had lacked the courage at the moment which would have been necessary for an absolute and immediate rejection of the proposition. if mrs. prime had not been with them in the house, rachel little doubted but that she might have gone to the party. if mrs. prime had not been there, rachel, as she was now gradually becoming aware, might have had her own way almost in everything. without the support which mrs. prime gave her, mrs. ray would have gradually slid down from that stern code of morals which she had been induced to adopt by the teaching of those around her, and would have entered upon a new school of teaching under rachel's tutelage. but mrs. prime was still there, and rachel herself was not inclined to fight, if fighting could be avoided. so she put the note into her pocket, and neither answered it or spoke of it till mrs. prime had started on her after-dinner walk into baslehurst. then she brought it forth and read it to her mother. "i suppose i ought to answer it by the post this evening, mamma?" "oh, dear, this evening! that's very short." "it can be put off till to-morrow if there's any good in putting it off," said rachel. mrs. ray seemed to think that there might be good in putting it off, or rather that there would be harm in doing it at once. "do you particularly want to go, my dear?" mrs. ray said, after a pause. "yes, mamma; i should like to go." then mrs. ray uttered a little sound which betokened uneasiness, and was again silent for a while. "i can't understand why you want to go to this place,--so particularly. you never used to care about such things. you know your sister won't like it, and i'm not at all sure that you ought to go." "i'll tell you why i wish it particularly, only--" "well, my dear." "i don't know whether i can make you understand just what i mean." "if you tell me, i shall understand, i suppose." rachel considered her words for a moment or two before she spoke, and then she endeavoured to explain herself. "it isn't that i care for this party especially, mamma, though i own that, after what the girls have said, i should like to be there; but i feel--" "you feel what, my dear?" "it is this, mamma. dolly and i do not agree about these things, and i don't intend to let her manage me just in the way she thinks right." "oh, rachel!" "well, mamma, would you wish it? if you could tell me that you really think it wrong to go to parties, i would give them up. indeed it wouldn't be very much to give up, for i don't often get the chance. but you don't say so. you only say that i had better not go, because dolly doesn't like it. now, i won't be ruled by her. don't look at me in that way, mamma. is it right that i should be?" "you have heard what she says about going away." "i shall be very sorry if she goes, and i hope she won't; but i can't think that her threatening you in that way ought to make any difference. and--i'll tell you more; i do particularly wish to go to mrs. tappitt's, because of all that dolly has said about,--about mr. rowan. i wish to show her and you that i am not afraid to meet him. why should i be afraid of any one?" "you should be afraid of doing wrong." "yes; and if it were wrong to meet any other young man i ought not to go; but there is nothing specially wrong in my meeting him. she has said very unkind things about it, and i intend that she shall know that i will not notice them." as rachel spoke mrs. ray looked up at her, and was surprised by the expression of unrelenting purpose which she saw there. there had come over her face that motion in her eyes and that arching of her brows which mrs. ray had seen before, but which hitherto she had hardly construed into their true meaning. now she was beginning to construe these signs aright, and to understand that there would be difficulty in managing her little family. the conversation ended in an undertaking on rachel's part that she would not answer the note till the following day. "of course that means," said rachel, "that i am to answer it just as dolly thinks fit." but she repented of these words as soon as they were spoken, and repented of them almost in ashes when her mother declared, with tears in her eyes, that it was not her intention to be guided by dorothea in this matter. "you ought not to say such things as that, rachel," she said. "no, mamma, i ought not; for there is no one so good as you are; and if you'll say that you think i ought not to go, i'll write to cherry, and explain it to her at once. i don't care a bit about the party,--as far as the party is concerned." but mrs. ray would not now pronounce any injunction on the matter. she had made up her mind as to what she would do. she would call upon mr. comfort at the parsonage, explain the whole thing to him, and be guided altogether by his counsel. not a word was said in the cottage about the invitation when mrs. prime came back in the evening, nor was a word said on the following morning. mrs. ray had declared her intention of going up to the parsonage, and neither of her daughters had asked her why she was going. rachel had no need to ask, for she well understood her mother's purpose. as to mrs. prime, she was in these days black and full of gloom, asking but few questions, watching the progress of events with the eyes of an evil-singing prophetess, but keeping back her words till the moment should come in which she would be driven by her inner impulses to speak them forth with terrible strength. when the breakfast was over, mrs. ray took her bonnet and started forth to the parsonage. i do not know that a widow, circumstanced as was mrs. ray, could do better than go to her clergyman for advice, but nevertheless, when she got to mr. comfort's gate she felt that the task of explaining her purpose would not be without difficulty. it would be necessary to tell everything; how rachel had become suddenly an object of interest to mr. luke rowan, how dorothea suspected terrible things, and how rachel was anxious for the world's vanities. the more she thought over it, the more sure she felt that mr. comfort would put an embargo upon the party. it seemed but yesterday that he had been telling her, with all his pulpit unction, that the pleasures of this world should never be allowed to creep near the heart. with doubting feet and doubting heart she walked up to the parsonage door, and almost immediately found herself in the presence of her husband's old friend. whatever faults there might be in mr. comfort's character, he was at any rate good-natured and patient. that he was sincere, too, no one who knew him well had ever doubted,--sincere, that is, as far as his intentions went. when he endeavoured to teach his flock that they should despise money, he thought that he despised it himself. when he told the little children that this world should be as nothing to them, he did not remember that he himself enjoyed keenly the good things of this world. if he had a fault it was perhaps this,--that he was a hard man at a bargain. he liked to have all his temporalities, and make them go as far as they could be stretched. there was the less excuse for this, seeing that his children were well, and even richly, settled in life, and that his wife, should she ever be left a widow, would have ample provision for her few remaining years. he had given his daughter a considerable fortune, without which perhaps the cornbury grange people would not have welcomed her so kindly as they had done, and now, as he was still growing rich, it was supposed that he would leave her more. he listened to mrs. ray with the greatest attention, having first begged her to recruit her strength with a glass of wine. as she continued to tell her story he interrupted her from time to time with good-natured little words, and then, when she had done, he asked after luke rowan's worldly means. "the young man has got something, i suppose," said he. "got something!" repeated mrs. ray, not exactly catching his meaning. "he has some share in the brewery, hasn't he?" "i believe he has, or is to have. so rachel told me." "yes,--yes; i've heard of him before. if tappitt doesn't take him into the concern he'll have to give him a very serious bit of money. there's no doubt about the young man having means. well, mrs. ray, i don't suppose rachel could do better than take him." "take him!" "yes,--why not? between you and me, rachel is growing into a very handsome girl,--a very handsome girl indeed. i'd no idea she'd be so tall, and carry herself so well." "oh, mr. comfort, good looks are very dangerous for a young woman." "well, yes; indeed they are. but still, you know, handsome girls very often do very well; and if this young man fancies miss rachel--" "but, mr. comfort, there hasn't been anything of that. i don't suppose he has ever thought of it, and i'm sure she hasn't." "but young people get to think of it. i shouldn't be disposed to prevent their coming together in a proper sort of way. i don't like night walkings in churchyards, certainly, but i really think that was only an accident." "i'm sure rachel didn't mean it." "i'm quite sure she didn't mean anything improper. and as for him, if he admires her, it was natural enough that he should go after her. if you ask my advice, mrs. ray, i should just tell her to be cautious, but i shouldn't be especially careful to separate them. marriage is the happiest condition for a young woman, and for a young man, too. and how are young people to get married if they are not allowed to see each other?" "and about the party, mr. comfort?" "oh, let her go; there'll be no harm. and i'll tell you what, mrs. ray; my daughter, mrs. cornbury, is going from here, and she shall pick her up and bring her home. it's always well for a young girl to go with a married woman." then mrs. ray did take her glass of sherry, and walked back to bragg's end, wondering a good deal, and not altogether at ease in her mind as to that great question,--what line of moral conduct might best befit a devout christian. something also had been said at the interview about mrs. prime. mrs. ray had intimated that mrs. prime would separate herself from her mother and her sister unless her views were allowed to prevail in this question regarding the young man from the brewery. but mr. comfort, in what few words he had said on this part of the subject, had shown no consideration whatever for mrs. prime. "then she'll behave very wickedly," he had said. "but i'm afraid mrs. prime has learned to think too much of her own opinion lately. if that's what she has got by going to mr. prong she had better have remained in her own parish." after that, nothing more was said about mrs. prime. "oh, let her go; there'll be no harm." that had been mr. comfort's dictum about the evening party. such as it was, mrs. ray felt herself bound to be guided by it. she had told rachel that she would ask the clergyman's advice, and take it, whatever it might be. nevertheless she did not find herself to be easy as she walked home. mr. comfort's latter teachings tended to upset all the convictions of her life. according to his teaching, as uttered in the sanctum of his own study, young men were not to be regarded as ravening wolves. and that meeting in the churchyard, which had utterly overwhelmed dorothea by the weight of its iniquity, and which even to her had been very terrible, was a mere nothing;--a venial accident on rachel's part, and the most natural proceeding in the world on the part of luke rowan! that it was natural enough for a wolf mrs. ray could understand; but she was now told that the lamb might go out and meet the wolf without any danger! and then those questions about rowan's share in the brewery, and mr. comfort's ready assertion that the young wolf,--man or wolf, as the case might be,--was well to do in the world! in fact mrs. ray's interview with her clergyman had not gone exactly as she had expected, and she was bewildered; and the path into evil,--if it was a path into evil,--was made so easy and pleasant! mrs. ray had already considered the difficult question of rachel's journey to the party, and journey home again; but provision was now made for all that in a way that was indeed very comfortable, but which might make rachel very vain. she was to be ushered into mrs. tappitt's drawing-room under the wing of the most august lady of the neighbourhood. after that, for the remaining half-hour of her walk home, mrs. ray gave her mind up to the consideration of what dress rachel should wear. when mrs. ray reached her own gate, rachel was in the garden waiting for her. "well, mamma?" she said. "is dorothea at home?" mrs. ray asked; and on being informed that dorothea was at work within, she desired rachel to follow her up to her bedroom. when there she told her budget of news,--not stinting her child of the gratification which it was sure to give. she said nothing about luke rowan and his means, keeping that portion of mr. comfort's recommendation to herself; but she declared it out as a fact, that rachel was to accept the invitation, and to be carried to the party by mrs. butler cornbury. "oh, mamma! dear mamma!" said rachel, who was leaning against the side of the bed. then she gave a long sigh, and a bright colour came over her face,--almost as though she were blushing. but she said no more at the moment, but allowed her mind to run off and revel in its own thoughts. she had indeed longed to go to this party, though she had taught herself to believe that she could bear being told that she was not to go without disappointment. "and now we must let dorothea know," said mrs. ray. "yes,--we must let her know," said rachel; but her mind was away, straying, i fear, under the churchyard elms with luke rowan, and looking at the arm amidst the clouds. he had said that it was stretched out as though to take her; and she had never shaken off from her imagination the idea that it was his arm on which she had been bidden to look,--the arm which had afterwards held her when she strove to go. it was tea-time before courage was mustered for telling the facts to mrs. prime. mrs. prime, after dinner, had gone into baslehurst; but the meeting at miss pucker's had not been a regular full gathering, and mrs. prime had come back to tea. there was no hot toast, and no clotted cream. it may appear selfish on the part of mrs. ray and rachel that they should have kept such good things for their only little private banquets, but, in truth, such delicacies did not suit mrs. prime. nice things aggravated her spirits and made her fretful. she liked the tea to be stringy and bitter, and she liked the bread to be stale;--as she preferred also that her weeds should be battered and old. she was approaching that stage of discipline at which ashes become pleasant eating, and sackcloth is grateful to the skin. the self-indulgences of the saints in this respect often exceed anything that is done by the sinners. "dorothea," said mrs. ray, and she looked down upon the dark dingy fluid in her cup as she spoke, "i have been up to mr. comfort's to-day." "yes; i heard you say you were going there." "i went to ask him for advice." "oh." "as i was in much doubt, i thought it right to go to the clergyman of my parish." "i don't think much about parishes myself. mr. comfort is an old man now, and i fear he does not give himself up to the gospel as he used to do. if people were called upon to bind themselves down to parishes, what would those poor creatures do who have over them such a pastor as dr. harford?" "dr. harford is a very good man, i believe," said rachel, "and he keeps two curates." "i'm afraid, rachel, you know but little about it. he does keep two curates,--but what are they? they go to cricket-matches, and among young women with bows and arrows! if you had really wanted advice, mamma, i would sooner have heard that you had gone to mr. prong." "but i didn't go to mr. prong, my dear;--and i don't mean. mr. prong is all very well, i dare say, but i've known mr. comfort for nearly thirty years, and i don't like sudden changes." then mrs. ray stirred her tea with rather a quick motion of her hand. rachel said not a word, but her mother's sharp speech and spirited manner was very pleasant to her. she was quite contented now that mr. comfort should be regarded as the family counsellor. she remembered how well she had loved mr. comfort always, and thought of days when patty comfort had been very good-natured to her as a child. "oh, very well," said mrs. prime. "of course, mamma, you must judge for yourself." "yes, my dear, i must; or rather, as i didn't wish to trust my own judgment, i went to mr. comfort for advice. he says that he sees no harm in rachel going to this party." "party! what party?" almost screamed mrs. prime. mrs. ray had forgotten that nothing had as yet been said to dorothea about the invitation. "mrs. tappitt is going to give a party at the brewery," said rachel, in her very softest voice, "and she has asked me." "and you are going? you mean to let her go?" mrs. prime had asked two questions, and she received two answers. "yes," said rachel; "i suppose i shall go, as mamma says so." "mr. comfort says there is no harm in it," said mrs. ray; "and mrs. butler cornbury is to come from the parsonage to take her up." all question as to dorcas discipline to be inflicted daily upon rachel on account of that sin of which she had been guilty in standing under the elms with a young man was utterly lost in this terrible proposition! instead of being sent to miss pucker in her oldest merino dress, rachel was to be decked in muslin and finery, and sent out to a dancing party at which this young man was to be the hero! it was altogether too much for dorothea prime. she slowly wiped the crumbs from off her dingy crape, and with creaking noise pushed back her chair. "mother," she said, "i couldn't have believed it! i could not have believed it!" then she withdrew to her own chamber. mrs. ray was much afflicted; but not the less did rachel look out for the returning postman, on his road into baslehurst, that she might send her little note to mrs. tappitt, signifying her acceptance of that lady's kind invitation. chapter vi. preparations for mrs. tappitt's party. i am disposed to think that mrs. butler cornbury did mrs. tappitt an injury when she with so much ready goodnature accepted the invitation for the party, and that mrs. tappitt was aware of this before the night of the party arrived. she was put on her mettle in a way that was disagreeable to her, and forced into an amount of submissive supplication to mr. tappitt for funds, which was vexatious to her spirit. mrs. tappitt was a good wife, who never ran her husband into debt, and kept nothing secret from him in the management of her household,--nothing at least which it behoved him to know. but she understood the privileges of her position, and could it have been possible for her to have carried through this party without extra household moneys, or without any violent departure from her usual customs of life, she could have snubbed her husband's objections comfortably, and have put him into the background for the occasion without any inconvenience to herself or power of remonstrance from him. but when mrs. butler cornbury had been gracious, and when the fiddles and horn had become a fact to be accomplished, when mrs. rowan and mary began to loom large on her imagination and a regular supper was projected, then mrs. tappitt felt the necessity of superior aid, and found herself called upon to reconcile her lord. and this work was the more difficult and the more disagreeable to her feelings because she had already pooh-poohed her husband when he asked a question about the party. "just a few friends got together by the girls," she had said. "leave it all to them, my dear. it's not very often they see anybody at home." "i believe i see my friends as often as most people in baslehurst," mr. tappitt had replied indignantly, "and i suppose my friends are their friends." so there had been a little soreness which made the lady's submission the more disagreeable to her. "butler cornbury! he's a puppy. i don't want to see him, and what's more, i won't vote for him." "you need not tell her so, my dear; and he's not coming. i suppose you like your girls to hold their heads up in the place; and if they show that they've respectable people with them at home, respectable people will be glad to notice them." "respectable! if our girls are to be made respectable by giving grand dances, i'd rather not have them respectable. how much is the whole thing to cost?" "well, very little, t.; not much more than one of your christmas dinner-parties. there'll be just the music, and the lights, and a bit of something to eat. what people drink at such times comes to nothing,--just a little negus and lemonade. we might possibly have a bottle or two of champagne at the supper-table, for the look of the thing." "champagne!" exclaimed the brewer. he had never yet incurred the cost of a bottle of champagne within his own house, though he thought nothing of it at public dinners. the idea was too much for him; and mrs. tappitt, feeling how the ground lay, gave that up,--at any rate for the present. she gave up the champagne; but in abandoning that, she obtained the marital sanction, a quasi sanction which he was too honourable as a husband afterwards to repudiate, for the music and the eatables. mrs. tappitt knew that she had done well, and prepared for his dinner that day a beef-steak pie, made with her own hands. tappitt was not altogether a dull man, and understood these little signs. "ah," said he, "i wonder how much that pie is to cost me?" "oh, t., how can you say such things! as if you didn't have beef-steak pie as often as it's good for you." the pie, however, had its effect, as also did the exceeding "boilishness" of the water which was brought in for his gin-toddy that night; and it was known throughout the establishment that papa was in a good humour, and that mamma had been very clever. "the girls must have had new dresses anyway before the month was out," mrs. tappitt said to her husband the next morning before he had left the conjugal chamber. "do you mean to say that they're to have gowns made on purpose for this party?" said the brewer; and it seemed by the tone of his voice that the hot gin and water had lost its kindly effects. "my dear, they must be dressed, you know. i'm sure no girls in baslehurst cost less in the way of finery. in the ordinary way they'd have had new frocks almost immediately." "bother!" mr. tappitt was shaving just at this moment, and dashed aside his razor for a moment to utter this one word. he intended to signify how perfectly well he was aware that a muslin frock prepared for an evening party would not fill the place of a substantial morning dress. "well, my dear, i'm sure the girls ain't unreasonable; nor am i. five-and-thirty shillings apiece for them would do it all. and i shan't want anything myself this year in september." now mr. tappitt, who was a man of sentiment, always gave his wife some costly article of raiment on the 1st of september, calling her his partridge and his bird,--for on that day they had been married. mrs. tappitt had frequently offered to intromit the ceremony when calling upon his generosity for other purposes, but the september gift had always been forthcoming. "will thirty-five shillings a-piece do it?" said he, turning round with his face all covered with lather. then again he went to work with his razor just under his right ear. "well, yes; i think it will. two pounds each for the three shall do it anyway." mr. tappitt gave a little jump at this increased demand for fifteen shillings, and not being in a good position for jumping, encountered an unpleasant accident, and uttered a somewhat vehement exclamation. "there," said he, "now i've cut myself, and it's your fault. oh dear; oh dear! when i cut myself there it never stops. it's no good doing that, margaret; it only makes it worse. there; now you've got the soap and blood all down inside my shirt." mrs. tappitt on this occasion was subjected to some trouble, for the wound on mr. tappitt's cheek-bone declined to be stanched at once; but she gained her object, and got the dresses for her daughters. it was not taken by them as a drawback on their happiness that they had to make the dresses themselves, for they were accustomed to such work; but this necessity joined to all other preparations for the party made them very busy. till twelve at night on three evenings they sat with their smart new things in their laps and their needles in their hands; but they did not begrudge this, as mrs. butler cornbury was coming to the brewery. they were very anxious to get the heavy part of the work done before the rowans should arrive, doubting whether they would become sufficiently intimate with mary to tell her all their little domestic secrets, and do their work in the presence of their new friend during the first day of her sojourn in the house. so they toiled like slaves on the wednesday and thursday in order that they might walk about like ladies on the friday and saturday. but the list of their guests gave them more trouble than aught else. whom should they get to meet mrs. butler cornbury? at one time mrs. tappitt had proposed to word certain of her invitations with a special view to this end. had her idea been carried out people who might not otherwise have come were to be tempted by a notification that they were especially asked to meet mrs. butler cornbury. but martha had said that this she thought would not do for a dance. "people do do it, my dear," mrs. tappitt had pleaded. "not for dancing, mamma," said martha. "besides, she would be sure to hear of it, and perhaps she might not like it." "well, i don't know," said mrs. tappitt. "it would show that we appreciated her kindness." the plan, however, was abandoned. of the baslehurst folk there were so few that were fitted to meet mrs. butler cornbury! there was old miss harford, the rector's daughter. she was fit to meet anybody in the county, and, as she was good-natured, might probably come. but she was an old maid, and was never very bright in her attire. "perhaps captain gordon's lady would come," mrs. tappitt suggested. but at this proposition all the girls shook their heads. captain gordon had lately taken a villa close to baslehurst, but had shown himself averse to any intercourse with the townspeople. mrs. tappitt had called on his "lady," and the call had not even been returned, a card having been sent by post in an envelope. "it would be no good, mamma," said martha, "and she would only make us uncomfortable if she did come." "she is always awfully stuck up in church," said augusta. "and her nose is red at the end," said cherry. therefore no invitation was sent to captain gordon's house. "if we could only get the fawcetts," said augusta. the fawcetts were a large family living in the centre of baslehurst, in which there were four daughters, all noted for dancing, and noted also for being the merriest, nicest, and most popular girls in devonshire. there was a fat good-natured mother, and a thin good-natured father who had once been a banker at exeter. everybody desired to know the fawcetts, and they were the especial favourites of mrs. butler cornbury. but then mrs. fawcett did not visit mrs. tappitt. the girls and the mothers had a bowing acquaintance, and were always very gracious to each other. old fawcett and old tappitt saw each other in town daily, and knew each other as well as they knew the cross in the butter-market; but none of the two families ever went into each other's houses. it had been tacitly admitted among them that the fawcetts were above the tappitts, and so the matter had rested. but now, if anything could be done? "mrs. butler cornbury is all very well, of course," said augusta, "but it would be so nice for mary rowan to see the miss fawcetts dancing here." martha shook her head, but at last she did write a note in the mothers name. "my girls are having a little dance, to welcome a friend from london, and they would feel so much obliged if your young ladies would come. mrs. butler cornbury has been kind enough to say that she would join us, &c., &c., &c." mrs. tappitt and augusta were in a seventh heaven of happiness when mrs. fawcett wrote to say that three of her girls would be delighted to accept the invitation; and even the discreet martha and the less ambitious cherry were well pleased. "i declare i think we've been very fortunate," said mrs. tappitt. "only the miss fawcetts will get all the best partners," said cherry. "i'm not so sure of that," said augusta, holding up her head. but there had been yet another trouble. it was difficult for them to get people proper to meet mrs. butler cornbury; but what must they do as to those people who must come and who were by no means proper to meet her? there were the griggses for instance, who lived out of town in a wonderfully red brick house, the family of a retired baslehurst grocer. they had been asked before mrs. cornbury's call had been made, or, i fear, their chance of coming to the party would have been small. there was one young griggs, a man very terrible in his vulgarity, loud, rampant, conspicuous with villainous jewellery, and odious with the worst abominations of perfumery. he was loathsome even to the tappitt girls; but then the griggses and the tappitts had known each other for half a century, and among their ordinary acquaintances adolphus griggs might have been endured. but what should they do when he asked to be introduced to josceline fawcett? of all men he was the most unconscious of his own defects. he had once shown some symptoms of admiration for cherry, by whom he was hated with an intensity of dislike that had amounted to a passion. she had begged that he might be omitted from the list; but mrs. tappitt had been afraid of angering their father. the rules also would be much in the way. old joshua rule was a maltster, living in cawston, and his wife and daughter had been asked before the accession of the butler cornbury dignity. old rule had supplied the brewery with malt almost ever since it had been a brewery; and no more harmless people than mrs. rule and her daughter existed in the neighbourhood;--but they were close neighbours of the comforts, of mrs. cornbury's father and mother, and mr. comfort would have as soon asked his sexton to dine with him as the rules. the rules never expected such a thing, and therefore lived on very good terms with the clergyman. "i'm afraid she won't like meeting mrs. rule," augusta had said to her mother; and then the mother had shaken her head. early in the week, before rachel had accepted the invitation, cherry had written to her friend. "of course you'll come," cherry had said; "and as you may have some difficulty in getting here and home again, i'll ask old mrs. rule to call for you. i know she'll have a place in the fly, and she's very good-natured." in answer to this rachel had written a separate note to cherry, telling her friend in the least boastful words which she could use that provision had been already made for her coming and going. "mamma was up at mr. comfort's yesterday," rachel wrote, "and he was so kind as to say that mrs. butler cornbury would take me and bring me back. i am very much obliged to you all the same, and to mrs. rule." "what do you think?" said cherry, who had received her note in the midst of one of the family conferences; "augusta said that mrs. butler cornbury would not like to meet rachel ray; but she is going to bring her in her own carriage." "i never said anything of the kind," said augusta. "oh, but you did, augusta; or mamma did, or somebody. how nice for rachel to be chaperoned by mrs. butler cornbury!" "i wonder what she'll wear," said mrs. tappitt, who had on that morning achieved her victory over the wounded brewer in the matter of the three dresses. on the friday morning mrs. rowan came with her daughter, luke having met them at exeter on the thursday. mrs. rowan was a somewhat stately lady, slow in her movements and careful in her speech, so that the girls were at first very glad that they had valiantly worked up their finery before her coming. but mary was by no means stately; she was younger than them, very willing to be pleased, with pleasant round eager eyes, and a kindly voice. before she had been three hours in the house cherry had claimed mary for her own, had told her all about the party, all about the dresses, all about mrs. butler cornbury and the miss fawcetts, and a word or two also about rachel ray. "i can tell you somebody that's almost in love with her." "you don't mean luke?" said mary. "yes, but i do," said cherry; "but of course i'm only in fun." on the saturday mary was hard at work herself assisting in the decoration of the drawing-room, and before the all-important tuesday came even mrs. rowan and mrs. tappitt were confidential. mrs. rowan perceived at once that mrs. tappitt was provincial,--as she told her son, but she was a good motherly woman, and on the whole, mrs. rowan condescended to be gracious to her. at bragg's end the preparations for the party required almost as much thought as did those at the brewery, and involved perhaps deeper care. it may be remembered that mrs. prime, when her ears were first astounded by that unexpected revelation, wiped the crumbs from out of her lap and walked off, wounded in spirit, to her own room. on that evening rachel saw no more of her sister. mrs. ray went up to her daughter's bedroom, but stayed there only a minute or two. "what does she say?" asked rachel, almost in a whisper. "she is very unhappy. she says that unless i can be made to think better of this she must leave the cottage. i told her what mr. comfort says, but she only sneers at mr. comfort. i'm sure i'm endeavouring to do the best i can." "it wouldn't do, mamma, to say that she should manage everything, otherwise i'm sure i'd give up the party." "no, my dear; i don't want you to do that,--not after what mr. comfort says." mrs. ray had in truth gone to the clergyman feeling sure that he would have given his word against the party, and that, so strengthened, she could have taken a course that would have been offensive to neither of her daughters. she had expected, too, that she would have returned home armed with such clerical thunders against the young man as would have quieted rachel and have satisfied dorothea. but in all this she had been,--i may hardly say disappointed,--but dismayed and bewildered by advice the very opposite to that which she had expected. it was perplexing, but she seemed to be aware that she had no alternative now, but to fight the battle on rachel's side. she had cut herself off from all anchorage except that given by mr. comfort, and therefore it behoved her to cling to that with absolute tenacity. rachel must go to the party, even though dorothea should carry out her threat. on that night nothing more was said about dorothea, and mrs. ray allowed herself to be gradually drawn into a mild discussion about rachel's dress. but there was nearly a week left to them of this sort of life. early on the following morning mrs. prime left the cottage, saying that she should dine with miss pucker, and betook herself at once to a small house in a back street of the town, behind the new church, in which lived mr. prong. have i as yet said that mr. prong was a bachelor? such was the fact; and there were not wanting those in baslehurst who declared that he would amend the fault by marrying mrs. prime. but this rumour, if it ever reached her, had no effect upon her. the world would be nothing to her if she were to be debarred by the wickedness of loose tongues from visiting the clergyman of her choice. she went, therefore, in her present difficulty to mr. prong. mr. samuel prong was a little man, over thirty, with scanty, light-brown hair, with a small, rather upturned nose, with eyes by no means deficient in light and expression, but with a mean mouth. his forehead was good, and had it not been for his mouth his face would have been expressive of intellect and of some firmness. but there was about his lips an assumption of character and dignity which his countenance and body generally failed to maintain; and there was a something in the carriage of his head and in the occasional projection of his chin, which was intended to add to his dignity, but which did, i think, only make the failure more palpable. he was a devout, good man; not self-indulgent; perhaps not more self-ambitious than it becomes a man to be; sincere, hard-working, sufficiently intelligent, true in most things to the instincts of his calling,--but deficient in one vital qualification for a clergyman of the church of england; he was not a gentleman. may i not call it a necessary qualification for a clergyman of any church? he was not a gentleman. i do not mean to say that he was a thief or a liar; nor do i mean hereby to complain that he picked his teeth with his fork and misplaced his "h's." i am by no means prepared to define what i do mean,--thinking, however, that most men and most women will understand me. nor do i speak of this deficiency in his clerical aptitudes as being injurious to him simply,--or even chiefly,--among folk who are themselves gentle; but that his efficiency for clerical purposes was marred altogether, among high and low, by his misfortune in this respect. it is not the owner of a good coat that sees and admires its beauty. it is not even they who have good coats themselves who recognize the article on the back of another. they who have not good coats themselves have the keenest eyes for the coats of their better-clad neighbours. as it is with coats, so it is with that which we call gentility. it is caught at a word, it is seen at a glance, it is appreciated unconsciously at a touch by those who have none of it themselves. it is the greatest of all aids to the doctor, the lawyer, the member of parliament,--though in that position a man may perhaps prosper without it,--and to the statesman; but to the clergyman it is a vital necessity. now mr. prong was not a gentleman. mrs. prime told her tale to mr. prong, as mrs. ray had told hers to mr. comfort. it need not be told again here. i fear that she made the most of her sister's imprudence, but she did not do so with intentional injustice. she declared her conviction that rachel might still be made to go in a straight course, if only she could be guided by a hand sufficiently strict and armed with absolute power. then she went on to tell mr. prong how mrs. ray had gone off to mr. comfort, as she herself had now come to him. it was hard,--was it not?--for poor rachel that the story of her few minutes' whispering under the elm tree should thus be bruited about among the ecclesiastical councillors of the locality. mr. prong sat with patient face and with mild demeanour while the simple story of rachel's conduct was being told; but when to this was added the iniquity of mr. comfort's advice, the mouth assumed the would-be grandeur, the chin came out, and to any one less infatuated than mrs. prime it would have been apparent that the purse was not made of silk, but that a coarser material had come to hand in the manufacture. "what shall the sheep do," said mr. prong, "when the shepherd slumbers in the folds?" then he shook his head and puckered up his mouth. "ah!" said mrs. prime; "it is well for the sheep that there are still left a few who do not run from their work, even in the heat of the noonday sun." mr. prong closed his eyes and bowed his head, and then reassumed that peculiarly disagreeable look about his mouth by which he thought to assert his dignity, intending thereby to signify that he would willingly reject the compliment as unnecessary, were he not forced to accept it as being true. he knew himself to be a shepherd who did not fear the noonday heat; but he was wrong in this,--that he suspected all other shepherds of stinting their work. it appeared to him that no sheep could nibble his grass in wholesome content, unless some shepherd were at work at him constantly with his crook. it was for the shepherd, as he thought, to know what tufts of grass were rank, and in what spots the herbage might be bitten down to the bare ground. a shepherd who would allow his flock to feed at large under his eye, merely watching his fences and folding his ewes and lambs at night, was a truant who feared the noonday sun. such a one had mr. comfort become, and therefore mr. prong despised him in his heart. all sheep will not endure such ardent shepherding as that practised by mr. prong, and therefore he was driven to seek out for himself a peculiar flock. these to him were the elect of baslehurst, and of his elect, mrs. prime was the most elect. now this fault is not uncommon among young ardent clergymen. i will not repeat the conversation that took place between the two, because they used holy words and spoke on holy subjects. in doing so they were both sincere, and not, as regarded their language, fairly subject to ridicule. in their judgment i think they were defective. he sustained mrs. prime in her resolution to quit the cottage unless she could induce her mother to put a stop to that great iniquity of the brewery. "the tappitts," he said, "were worldly people,--very worldly people; utterly unfit to be the associates of the sister of his friend. as to the 'young man,' he thought that nothing further should be said at present, but that rachel should be closely watched,--very closely watched." mrs. prime asked him to call upon her mother and explain his views, but he declined to do this. "he would have been most willing,--so willing! but he could not force himself where he would be unwelcome!" mrs. prime was, if necessary, to quit the cottage and take up her temporary residence with miss pucker; but mr. prong was inclined to think, knowing something of mrs. ray's customary softness of character, that if mrs. prime were firm, things would not be driven to such a pass as that. mrs. prime said that she would be firm, and she looked as though she intended to keep her word. mr. prong's manner as he bade adieu to his favourite sheep was certainly of a nature to justify that rumour to which allusion has been made. he pressed mrs. prime's hand very closely, and invoked a blessing on her head in a warm whisper. but such signs among such people do not bear the meaning which they have in the outer world. these people are demonstrative and unctuous,--whereas the outer world is reticent and dry. they are perhaps too free with their love, but the fault is better than that other fault of no love at all. mr. prong was a little free with his love, but mrs. prime took it all in good part, and answered him with an equal fervour. "if i can help you, dear friend,"--and he still held her hand in his,--"come to me always. you never can come too often." "you can help me, and i will come, always," she said, returning his pressure with mutual warmth. but there was no touch of earthly affection in her pressure; and if there was any in his at its close, there had, at any rate, been none at its commencement. while mrs. prime was thus employed, rachel and her mother became warm upon the subject of the dress, and when the younger widow returned home to the cottage, the elder widow was actually engaged in baslehurst on the purchase of trappings and vanities. her little hoard was opened, and some pretty piece of muslin was purchased by aid of which, with the needful ribbons, rachel might be made, not fit, indeed, for mrs. butler cornbury's carriage,--no such august fitness was at all contemplated by herself,--but nice and tidy, so that her presence need not be a disgrace. and it was pretty to see how mrs. ray revelled in these little gauds for her daughter now that the barrier of her religious awe was broken down, and that the waters of the world had made their way in upon her. she still had a feeling that she was being drowned, but she confessed that such drowning was very pleasant. she almost felt that such drowning was good for her. at any rate it had been ordered by mr. comfort, and if things went astray mr. comfort must bear the blame. when the bright muslin was laid out on the counter before her, she looked at it with a pleased eye and touched it with a willing hand. she held the ribbon against the muslin, leaning her head on one side, and enjoyed herself. now and again she would turn her face upon rachel's figure, and she would almost indulge a wish that this young man might like her child in the new dress. ah!--that was surely wicked. but if so, how wicked are most mothers in this christian land! the morning had gone very comfortably with them during dorothea's absence. mrs. prime had hardly taken her departure before a note came from mrs. butler cornbury, confirming mr. comfort's offer as to the carriage. "oh, papa, what have you done?"--she had said when her father first told her. "now i must stay there all the night, for of course she'll want to go on to the last dance!" but, like her father, she was good-natured, and therefore, though she would hardly have chosen the task, she resolved, when her first groans were over, to do it well. she wrote a kind note, saying how happy she should be, naming her hour,--and saying that rachel should name the hour for her return. "it will be very nice," said rachel, rejoicing more than she should have done in thinking of the comfortable grandeur of mrs. butler cornbury's carriage. "and are you determined?" mrs. prime asked her mother that evening. "it is too late to go back now, dorothea," said mrs. ray, almost crying. "then i cannot remain in the house," said dorothea. "i shall go to miss pucker's,--but not till that morning; so that if you think better of it, all may be prevented yet." but mrs. ray would not think better of it, and it was thus that the preparations were made for mrs. tappitt's--ball. the word "party" had now been dropped by common consent throughout baslehurst. chapter vii. an account of mrs. tappitt's ball--commenced. mrs. butler cornbury was a very pretty woman. she possessed that peculiar prettiness which is so often seen in england, and which is rarely seen anywhere else. she was bright, well-featured, with speaking lustrous eyes, with perfect complexion, and full bust, with head of glorious shape and figure like a juno;--and yet with all her beauty she had ever about her an air of homeliness which made the sweetness of her womanhood almost more attractive than the loveliness of her personal charms. i have seen in italy and in america women perhaps as beautiful as any that i have seen in england, but in neither country does it seem that such beauty is intended for domestic use. in italy the beauty is soft, and of the flesh. in america it is hard, and of the mind. here it is of the heart, i think, and as such is the happiest of the three. i do not say that mrs. butler cornbury was a woman of very strong feeling; but her strongest feelings were home feelings. she was going to mrs. tappitt's party because it might serve her husband's purposes; she was going to burden herself with rachel ray because her father had asked her; and her greatest ambition was to improve the worldly position of the squires of cornbury grange. she was already calculating whether it might not some day be brought about that her little butler should sit in parliament for his county. at nine o'clock exactly on that much to be remembered tuesday the cornbury carriage stopped at the gate of the cottage at bragg's end, and rachel, ready dressed, blushing, nervous, but yet happy, came out, and mounting on to the step was almost fearful to take her share of the seat. "make yourself comfortable, my dear," said mrs. cornbury, "you can't crush me. or rather i always make myself crushable on such occasions as this. i suppose we are going to have a great crowd?" rachel merely said that she didn't know. she supposed there would be a good many persons. then she tried to thank mrs. cornbury for being so good to her, and of course broke down. "i'm delighted,--quite delighted," said mrs. cornbury. "it's so good of you to come with me. now that i don't dance myself, there's nothing i like so much as taking out girls that do." "and don't you dance at all?" "i stand up for a quadrille sometimes. when a woman has five children i don't think she ought to do more than that." "oh, i shall not do more than that, mrs. cornbury." "you mean to say you won't waltz?" "mamma never said anything about it, but i'm sure she would not like it. besides--" "well--" "i don't think i know how. i did learn once, when i was very little; but i've forgotten." "it will soon come again to you if you like to try. i was very fond of waltzing before i was married." and this was the daughter of mr. comfort, the clergyman who preached with such strenuous eloquence against worldly vanities! even rachel was a little puzzled, and was almost afraid that her head was sinking beneath the waters. there was a great fuss made when mrs. butler cornbury's carriage drove up to the brewery door, and rachel almost felt that she could have made her way up to the drawing-room more comfortably under mrs. rule's mild protection. all the servants seemed to rush at her, and when she found herself in the hall and was conducted into some inner room, she was not allowed to shake herself into shape without the aid of a maid-servant. mrs. cornbury,--who took everything as a matter of course and was ready in a minute,--had turned the maid over to the young lady with a kind idea that the young lady's toilet was more important than that of the married woman. rachel was losing her head and knew that she was doing so. when she was again taken into the hall she hardly remembered where she was, and when mrs. cornbury took her by the arm and began to walk up-stairs with her, her strongest feeling was a wish that she was at home again. on the first landing,--for the dancing-room was upstairs,--they encountered mr. tappitt, conspicuous in a blue satin waistcoat; and on the second landing they found mrs. tappitt, magnificent in a green irish poplin. "oh, mrs. cornbury, we are so delighted. the miss fawcetts are here; they are just come. how kind of you to bring rachel ray. how do you do, rachel?" then mrs. cornbury moved easily on into the drawing-room, and rachel still found herself carried with her. she was half afraid that she ought to have slunk away from her magnificent chaperon as soon as she was conveyed safely within the house, and that she was encroaching as she thus went on; but still she could not find the moment in which to take herself off. in the drawing-room,--the room from which the carpets had been taken,--they were at once encountered by the tappitt girls, with whom the fawcett girls on the present occasion were so intermingled that rachel hardly knew who was who. mrs. butler cornbury was soon surrounded, and a clatter of words went on. rachel was in the middle of the fray, and some voices were addressed also to her; but her presence of mind was gone, and she never could remember what she said on the occasion. there had already been a dance,--the commencing operation of the night's work,--a thin quadrille, in which the early comers had taken part without much animation, and to which they had been driven up unwillingly. at its close the fawcett girls had come in, as had now mrs. cornbury, so that it may be said that the evening was beginning again. what had been as yet done was but the tuning of the fiddles before the commencement of the opera. no one likes to be in at the tuning, but there are those who never are able to avoid this annoyance. as it was, rachel, under mrs. cornbury's care, had been brought upon the scene just at the right moment. as soon as the great clatter had ceased, she found herself taken by the hand by cherry, and led a little on one side. "you must have a card, you know," said cherry handing her a ticket on which was printed the dances as they were to succeed each other. "that first one is over. such a dull thing. i danced with adolphus griggs, just because i couldn't escape him for one quadrille." rachel took the card, but never having seen such a thing before did not in the least understand its object. "as you get engaged for the dances you must put down their names in this way, you see,"--and cherry showed her card, which already bore the designations of several cavaliers, scrawled in hieroglyphics which were intelligible to herself. "haven't you got a pencil? well, you can come to me. i have one hanging here, you know." rachel was beginning to understand, and to think that she should not have very much need for the pencil, when mrs. cornbury returned to her, bringing a young man in her wake. "i want to introduce my cousin to you, walter cornbury," said she. mrs. cornbury was a woman who knew her duty as a chaperon, and who would not neglect it. "he waltzes delightfully," said mrs. cornbury, whispering, "and you needn't be afraid of being a little astray with him at first. he always does what i tell him." then the introduction was made; but rachel had no opportunity of repeating her fears, or of saying again that she thought she had better not waltz. what to say to mr. walter cornbury she hardly knew; but before she had really said anything he had pricked her down for two dances,--for the first waltz, which was just going to begin, and some not long future quadrille. "she is very pretty," mrs. butler cornbury had said to her cousin, "and i want to be kind to her." "i'll take her in hand and pull her through," said walter. "what a tribe of people they've got here, haven't they?" "yes, and you must dance with them all. every time you stand up may be as good as a vote." "oh," said walter, "i'm not particular;--i'll dance as long as they keep the house open." then he went back to rachel, who had already been at work with cherry's pencil. "if there isn't rachel ray going to waltz with walter cornbury," said augusta to her mother. augusta had just refused the odious griggs, and was about to stand up with a clerk in the brewery, who was almost as odious. "it's because she came in the carriage," said mrs. tappitt; "but i don't think she can waltz." then she hurried off to welcome other comers. rachel had hardly been left alone for a minute, and had been so much bewildered by the lights and crowd and strangeness of everything around her, that she had been unable to turn her thoughts to the one subject on which during the last week her mind had rested constantly. she had not even looked round the room for luke rowan. she had just seen mary rowan in the crowd, but had not spoken to her. she had only known her from the manner in which cherry tappitt had spoken to her, and it must be explained that rachel had not seen young rowan since that parting under the elm-trees. indeed, since then she had seen none of the tappitt family. her mother had said no word to her, cautioning her that she had better not seek them in her evening walks; but she had felt herself debarred from going into baslehurst by all that her sister had said, and in avoiding luke rowan she had avoided the whole party from the brewery. now the room was partially cleared, the non-dancers being pressed back into a border round the walls, and the music began. rachel, with her heart in her mouth, was claimed by her partner, and was carried forward towards the ground for dancing, tacitly assenting to her fate because she lacked words in which to explain to mr. cornbury how very much she would have preferred to be left in obscurity behind the wall of crinoline. "pray wait a minute or two," said she, almost panting. "oh, certainly. there's no hurry, only we'll stand where we can get our place when we like it. you need not be a bit afraid of going on with me. patty has told me all about it, and we'll make it right in a brace of turns." there was something very good-natured in his voice, and she almost felt that she could ask him to let her sit down. "i don't think i can," she said. "oh yes; come, we'll try!" then he took her by the waist, and away they went. twice round the room he took her, very gently, as he thought; but her head had gone from her instantly in a whirl of amazement! of her feet and their movements she had known nothing; though she had followed the music with fair accuracy, she had done so unconsciously, and when he allowed her to stop she did not know which way she had been going, or at which end of the room she stood. and yet she had liked it, and felt some little triumph as a conviction came upon her that she had not conspicuously disgraced herself. "that's charming," said he. she essayed to speak a word in answer, but her want of breath did not as yet permit it. "charming!" he went on. "the music's perhaps a little slow, but we'll hurry them up presently." slow! it seemed to her that she had been carried round in a vortex, of which the rapidity, though pleasant, had been almost frightful. "come; we'll have another start," said he; and she was carried away again before she had spoken a word. "i'd no idea that girl could waltz," said mrs. tappitt to old mrs. rule. "i don't think her mother would like it if she saw it," said mrs. rule. "and what would mrs. prime say?" said mrs. tappitt. however the ice was broken, and rachel, when she was given to understand that that dance was done, felt herself to be aware that the world of waltzing was open to her, at any rate for that night. was it very wicked? she had her doubts. if anybody had suggested to her, before mrs. cornbury's carriage had called for her, that she would waltz on that evening, she would have repudiated the idea almost with horror. how easy is the path down the shores of the avernus! but then,--was she going down the shores of the avernus? she was still walking through the crowd, leaning on her partner's arm, and answering his good-natured questions almost in monosyllables, when she was gently touched on the arm by a fan, and on turning found herself confronted by luke rowan and his sister. "i've been trying to get at you so long," said he, making some sort of half apology to cornbury, "and haven't been able; though once i very nearly danced you down without your knowing it." "we're so much obliged to you for letting us escape," said cornbury; "are we not, miss ray?" "we carried heavy metal, i can tell you," said rowan. "but i must introduce you to my sister. where on earth have you been for these ten days?" then the introduction was made, and young cornbury, finding that his partner was in the hands of another lady, slipped away. "i have heard a great deal about you, miss ray," said mary rowan. "have you? i don't know who should say much about me." the words sounded uncivil, but she did not know what words to choose. "oh, from cherry especially;--and--and from my brother." "i'm very glad to make your acquaintance," said rachel. "he told me that you would have been sure to come and walk with us, and we have all been saying that you had disappeared." "i have been kept at home," said rachel, who could not help remembering all the words of the churchyard interview, and feeling them down to her finger nails. he must have known why she had not again joined the girls from the brewery in their walks. or had he forgotten that he had called her rachel, and held her fast by the hand? perhaps he did these things so often to other girls that he thought nothing of them! "you have been keeping yourself up for the ball," said rowan. "precious people are right to make themselves scarce. and now what vacancies have you got for me?" "vacancies!" said rachel. "you don't mean to say you've got none. look here, i've kept all these on purpose for you, although twenty girls have begged me to dispose of them in their favour." "oh, luke, how can you tell such fibs?" said his sister. "well;--here they are," and he showed his card. "i'm not engaged to anybody," said rachel; "except for one quadrille to mr. cornbury,--that gentleman who just went away." "then you've no excuse for not filling up my vacancies,--kept on purpose for you, mind." and immediately her name was put down for she knew not what dances. then he took her card and scrawled his own name on it in various places. she knew that she was weak to let him thus have his way in everything; but he was strong and she could not hinder him. she was soon left with mary rowan, as luke went off to fulfil the first of his numerous engagements. "do you like my brother?" said she. "but of course i don't mean you to answer that question. we all think him so very clever." "i'm sure he is very clever." "a great deal too clever to be a brewer. but you mustn't say that i said so. i wanted him to go into the army." "i shouldn't at all like that for my brother--if i had one." "and what would you like?" "oh, i don't know. i never had a brother;--perhaps to be a clergyman." "yes; that would be very nice; but luke would never be a clergyman. he was going to be an attorney, but he didn't like that at all. he says there's a great deal of poetry in brewing beer, but of course he's only quizzing us. oh, here's my partner. i do so hope i shall see you very often while i'm at baslehurst." then rachel was alone, but mrs. tappitt came up to her in a minute. "my dear," said she, "mr. griggs desires the honour of your hand for a quadrille." and thus rachel found herself standing up with the odious mr. griggs. "i do so pity you," said cherry, coming behind her for a moment. "remember, you need not do it more than once. i don't mean to do it again." after that she was allowed to sit still while a polka was being performed. mrs. cornbury came to her saying a word or two; but she did not stay with her long, so that rachel could think about luke rowan, and try to make up her mind as to what words she should say to him. she furtively looked down upon her card and found that he had written his own name to five dances, ending with sir roger de coverley at the close of the evening. it was quite impossible that she should dance five dances with him, so she thought that she would mark out two with her nail. the very next was one of them, and during that she would explain to him what she had done. the whole thing loomed large in her thoughts and made her feel anxious. she would have been unhappy if he had not come to her at all, and now she was unhappy because he had thrust himself upon her so violently,--or if not unhappy, she was at any rate uneasy. and what should she say about the elm-trees? nothing, unless he spoke to her about them. she fancied that he would say something about the arm in the cloud, and if so, she must endeavour to make him understand that--that--that--. she did not know how to fix her thoughts. would it be possible to make him understand that he ought not to have called her rachel? while she was thinking of all this mr. tappitt came and sat beside her. "very pretty; isn't it?" said he. "very pretty indeed, i call it." "oh yes, very pretty. i had no idea it would be so nice." to mr. tappitt in his blue waistcoat she could speak without hesitation. ah me! it is the young men who receive all the reverence that the world has to pay;--all the reverence that is worth receiving. when a man is turned forty and has become fat, anybody can speak to him without awe! "yes, it is nice," said mr. tappitt, who, however, was not quite easy in his mind. he had been into the supper room, and had found the waiter handling long-necked bottles, arranging them in rows, apparently by the dozen. "what's that?" said he, sharply. "the champagne, sir! there should have been ice, sir, but i suppose they forgot it." where had mrs. t. procured all that wine? it was very plain to him that she had got the better of him by some deceit. he would smile, and smile, and smile during the evening; but he would have it out with mrs. tappitt before he would allow that lady to have any rest. he lingered in the room, pretending that he was overlooking the arrangements, but in truth he was counting the bottles. after all there was but a dozen. he knew that at griggs's they sold it for sixty shillings. "three pounds!" he said to himself. "three pounds more; dear, dear!" "yes, it is nice!" he said to rachel. "mind you get a glass of champagne when you go in to supper. by-the-by, shall i get a partner for you? here, buckett, come and dance the next dance with miss ray." buckett was the clerk in the brewery. rachel had nothing to say for herself; so buckett's name was put down on the card, though she would rather not have danced with buckett. a week or two ago, before she had been taken up into mrs. cornbury's carriage, or had waltzed with mrs. cornbury's cousin, or had looked at the setting sun with luke rowan, she would have been sufficiently contented to dance with mr. buckett,--if in those days she had ever dreamed of dancing with any one. then mrs. cornbury came to her again, bringing other cavaliers, and rachel's card began to be filled. "the quadrille before supper you dance with me," said walter cornbury. "that's settled, you know." oh, what a new world it was, and so different from the dorcas meetings at miss pucker's rooms! then came the moment of the evening which, of all the moments, was the most trying to her. luke rowan came to claim her hand for the next quadrille. she had already spoken to him,--or rather he to her; but that had been in the presence of a third person, when, of course, nothing could be said about the sunset and the clouds,--nothing about that promise of friendship. but now she would have to stand again with him in solitude,--a solitude of another kind,--in a solitude which was authorized, during which he might whisper what words he pleased to her, and from which she could not even run away. it had been thought to be a great sin on her part to have remained a moment with him by the stile; but now she was to stand up with him beneath the glare of the lights, dressed in her best, on purpose that he might whisper to her what words he pleased. but she was sure--she thought that she was sure, that he would utter no words so sweet, so full of meaning, as those in which he bade her watch the arm in the clouds. till the first figure was over for them he hardly spoke to her. "tell me," said he then, "why has nobody seen you since saturday week last?" "i have been at home." "ah; but tell me the truth. remember what we said as we parted,--about being friends. one tells one's friend the real truth. but i suppose you do not remember what we said?" "i don't think i said anything, mr. rowan." "did you not? then i must have been dreaming. i thought you promised me your friendship." he paused for her answer, but she said nothing. she could not declare to him that she would not be his friend. "but you have not told me yet why it was that you remained at home. come;--answer me a fair question fairly. had i offended you?" again she paused and made him no reply. it seemed to her that the room was going round her, and that the music made her dizzy. if she told him that he had not offended her would she not thereby justify him in having called her rachel? "then i did offend you?" said he. "oh, mr. rowan,--never mind now; you must go on with the figure," and thus for a moment she was saved from her difficulty. when he had done his work of dancing, she began hers, and as she placed both her hands in his to make the final turn, she flattered herself that he would not go back to the subject. nor did he while the quadrille lasted. as they continued to dance he said very little to her, and before the last figure was over she had almost settled down to enjoyment. he merely spoke a word or two about mrs. cornbury's dress, and another word about the singular arrangement of mr. griggs' jewellery, at which word she almost laughed outright, and then a third word laudatory of the tappitt girls. "as for cherry," said he "i'm quite in love with her for her pure good-nature and hearty manners; and of all living female human beings martha is the most honest and just." "oh! i'll tell her that," said rachel. "she will so like it." "no, you mustn't. you mustn't repeat any of the things i tell you in confidence." that word confidence again silenced her, and nothing more was said till he had offered her his arm at the end of the dance. "come away and have some negus on the stairs," he said. "the reason i like these sort of parties is, that one is allowed to go into such queer places. you see that little room with the door open. that's where mr. tappitt keeps his old boots and the whip with which he drives his grey horse. there are four men playing cards there now, and one is seated on the end of an upturned portmanteau." "and where are the old boots?" "packed away on the top of mrs. tappitt's bed. i helped to put them there. some are stuck under the grate because there are no fires now. look here; there's a seat in the window." then he placed her in the inclosure of an old window on the staircase landing, and brought her lemonade, and when she had drunk it he sat down beside her. "hadn't we better go back to the dancing?" "they won't begin for a few minutes. they're only tuning up again. you should always escape from the hot air for a moment or two. besides, you must answer me that question. did i offend you?" "please don't talk of it. please don't. it's all over now." "ah, but it is not all over. i knew you were angry with me because,--shall i say why?" "no, mr. rowan, don't say anything about it." "at any rate, i may think that you have forgiven me. but what if i offend in the same way again? what if i ask permission to do it, so that it may be no offence? only think; if i am to live here in baslehurst all my life, is it not reasonable that i should wish you to be my friend? are you going to separate yourself from cherry tappitt because you are afraid of me?" "oh, no." "but is not that what you have done during the last week, miss ray;--if it must be miss ray?" then he paused, but still she said nothing. "rachel is such a pretty name." "oh, i think it so ugly." "it's the prettiest name in the bible, and the name most fit for poetic use. who does not remember rachel weeping for her children?" "that's the idea, and not the name. ruth is twice prettier, and mary the sweetest of all." "i never knew anybody before called rachel," said he. "and i never knew anybody called luke." "that's a coincidence, is it not?--a coincidence that ought to make us friends. i may call you rachel then?" "oh, no; please don't. what would people think?" "perhaps they would think the truth," said he. "perhaps they would imagine that i called you so because i liked you. but perhaps they might think also that you let me do so because you liked me. people do make such mistakes." at this moment up came to them, with flushed face, mr. buckett. "i have been looking for you everywhere," said he to rachel. "it's nearly over now." "i am so sorry," said rachel, "but i quite forgot." "so i presume," said mr. buckett angrily, but at the same time he gave his arm to rachel and led her away. the fag end of some waltz remained, and he might get a turn with her. people in his hearing had spoken of her as the belle of the room, and he did not like to lose his chance. "oh, mr. rowan," said rachel, looking back as she was being led away. "i must speak one word to mr. rowan." then she separated herself, and returning a step or two almost whispered to her late partner--"you have put me down for ever so many dances. you must scratch out two or three of them." "not one," said he. "an engagement is an engagement." "oh, but i really can't." "of course i cannot make you, but i will scratch out nothing,--and forget nothing." then she rejoined mr. buckett, and was told by him that young rowan was not liked in the brewery at all. "we think him conceited, you know. he pretends to know more than anybody else." chapter viii. an account of mrs. tappitt's ball--concluded. it came to be voted by public acclamation that rachel ray was the belle of the evening. i think this was brought about quite as much by mrs. butler cornbury's powerful influence as by rachel's beauty. mrs. butler cornbury having begun the work of chaperon carried it on heartily, and talked her young friend up to the top of the tree. long before supper her card was quite full, but filled in a manner that was not comfortable to herself,--for she knew that she had made mistakes. as to those spaces on which the letter r was written, she kept them very sacred. she was quite resolved that she would not stand up with him on all those occasions,--that she would omit at any rate two; but she would accept no one else for those two dances, not choosing to select any special period for throwing him over. she endeavoured to explain this when she waltzed with him, shortly before supper; but her explanation did not come easy, and she wanted all her attention for the immediate work she had in hand. "if you'd only give yourself to it a little more eagerly," he said, "you'd waltz beautifully." "i shall never do it well," she answered. "i don't suppose i shall ever try again." "but you like it?" "oh yes; i like it excessively. but one can't do everything that one likes." "no; i can't. you won't let me do what i like." "don't talk in that way, mr. rowan. if you do you'll destroy all my pleasure. you should let me enjoy it while it lasts." in this way she was becoming intimate with him. "how very nicely your house does for a dance," said mrs. cornbury to mrs. tappitt. "oh dear,--i don't think so. our rooms are so small. but it's very kind of you to say so. indeed, i never can be sufficiently obliged--" "by-the-by," said mrs. cornbury, "what a nice girl rachel ray has grown." "yes, indeed," said mrs. tappitt. "and dances so well! i'd no idea of it. the young men seem rather taken with her. don't you think so?" "i declare i think they are. i always fancy that is rather a misfortune to a young girl,--particularly when it must mean nothing, as of course it can't with poor rachel." "i don't see that at all." "her mother, you know, mrs. cornbury;--they are not in the way of seeing any company. it was so kind of you to bring her here, and really she does look very nice. my girls are very good-natured to her. i only hope her head won't be turned. here's mr. tappitt. you must go down mrs. cornbury, and eat a little bit of supper." then mr. tappitt in his blue waistcoat led mrs. cornbury away. "i am a very bad hand at supper," said the lady. "you must take just one glass of champagne," said the gentleman. now that the wine was there, mr. tappitt appreciated the importance of the occasion. for the last dance before supper,--or that which was intended to be the last,--rachel had by long agreement been the partner of walter cornbury. but now that it was over, the majority of the performers could not go into the supper-room because of the crowd. young cornbury therefore proposed that they should loiter about till their time came. he was very well inclined for such loitering with rachel. "you're flirting with that girl, master walter," said mrs. cornbury. "i suppose that's what she came for," said the cousin. "by no means, and she's under my care; therefore i beg you'll talk no nonsense to her." walter cornbury probably did talk a little nonsense to her, but it was very innocent nonsense. most of such flirtations if they were done out loud would be very innocent. young men are not nearly so pointed in their compliments as their elders, and generally confine themselves to remarks of which neither mothers nor grandmothers could disapprove if they heard them. the romance lies rather in the thoughts than in the words of those concerned. walter cornbury believed that he was flirting and felt himself to be happy, but he had uttered nothing warmer to rachel than a hope that he might meet her at the next torquay ball. "i never go to public balls," said rachel. "but why not, miss ray?" said walter. "i never went to a dance of any description before this." "but now that you've begun of course you'll go on." mr. cornbury's flirtation never reached a higher pitch than that. when he had got as far as that luke rowan played him a trick,--an inhospitable trick, seeing that he, rowan, was in some sort at home, and that the people about him were bound to obey him. he desired the musicians to strike up again while the elders were eating their supper,--and then claimed rachel's hand, so that he might have the pleasure of serving her with cold chicken and champagne. "miss ray is going into supper with me," said cornbury. "but supper is not ready," said rowan, "and miss ray is engaged to dance with me." "quite a mistake on your part," said cornbury. "no mistake at all," said rowan. "indeed it is. come, miss ray, we'll take a turn down into the hall, and see if places are ready for us." cornbury rather despised rowan, as being a brewer and mechanical; and probably he showed that he did so. "places are not ready, so you need not trouble miss ray to go down as yet. but a couple is wanted for a quadrille, and therefore i'm sure she'll stand up." "come along, rachel," said cherry. "we just want you. this will be the nicest of all, because we shall have room." rachel had become unhappy seeing that the two men were in earnest. had not cherry spoken she would have remained with mr. cornbury, thinking that to be her safer conduct; but cherry's voice had overpowered her, and she gave her arm to young rowan, moving away with slow, hesitating step. "of course miss ray will do as she pleases," said cornbury. "of course she will," said rowan. "i am so sorry," said rachel, "but i was engaged, and it seems i am really wanted." walter cornbury bowed very stiffly, and there was an end of his flirtation. "that's the sort of thing that always happens when a fellow comes among this sort of people!" it was thus he consoled himself as he went down solitary to his supper. "that's all right," said rowan; "now we've cherry for our vis-ã -vis, and after that we'll go down to supper comfortably." "but i said i'd go with him." "you can't now, for he has gone without you. what a brick cherry is! do you know what she said of you?" "no; do tell me." "i won't. it will make you vain." "oh, dear no; but i want cherry to like me, because i am so fond of her." "she says you're by far-but i won't tell you. i hate compliments, and that would look like one. come, who's forgetting the figure now? i shouldn't wonder if young cornbury went into the brewery and drowned himself in one of the vats." it was very nice,--very nice indeed. this was her third dance with luke rowan, and she was beginning to think that the other two might perhaps come off without any marked impropriety on her part. she was a little unhappy about mr. cornbury,--on his cousin's account rather than on his own. mrs. cornbury had been so kind to her that she ought to have remained with walter when he desired it. so she told herself;--but yet she liked being taken down to supper by luke rowan. she had one other cause of uneasiness. she constantly caught mrs. tappitt's eye fixed upon herself, and whenever she did so mrs. tappitt's eye seemed to look unkindly at her. she had also an instinctive feeling that augusta did not regard her with favour, and that this disfavour arose from mr. rowan's attentions. it was all very nice; but still she felt that there was danger around her, and sometimes she would pause a moment in her happiness, and almost tremble as she thought of things. she was dividing herself poles asunder from mrs. prime. "and now we'll go to supper," said rowan. "come, cherry; do you and boyd go on first." boyd was a friend of rowan's. "do you know, i've done such a clever trick. this is my second descent among the eatables. as i belong in a manner to the house i took down miss harford, and hovered about her for five minutes. then i managed to lose myself in the crowd, and coming up here got the music up. the fellows were just going off. we've plenty of time now, because they're in the kitchen eating and drinking. i contrived all that dodge that i might give you this glass of wine with my own hands." "oh, mr. rowan, it was very wrong!" "and that's my reward! i don't care about its being wrong as long as it's pleasant." "what shocking morality!" "all is fair in-well, never mind, you'll own it is pleasant." "oh, yes; it's very pleasant." "then i'm contented, and will leave the moral of it for mr. cornbury. i'll tell you something further if you'll let me." "pray don't tell me anything that you ought not." "i've done all i could to get up this party on purpose that we might have you here." "nonsense." "but i have. i have cared about it just because it would enable me to say one word to you;--and now i'm afraid to say it." she was sitting there close to him, and she couldn't go away. she couldn't run as she had done from the stile. she couldn't show any feeling of offence before all those who were around her; and yet,--was it not her duty to do something to stop him? "pray don't say such things," she whispered. "i tell you that i'm afraid to say it. here; give me some wine. you'll take some more. no? well; shall we go? i am afraid to say it." they were now out in the hall, standing idly there, with their backs to another door. "i wonder what answer you would make me!" "we had better go up-stairs. indeed we had." "stop a moment, miss ray. why is it that you are so unwilling even to stay a moment with me?" "i'm not unwilling. only we had better go now." "do you remember when i held your arm at the stile?" "no; i don't remember anything about it. you ought not to have done it. do you know, i think you are very cruel." as she made the accusation, she looked down upon the floor, and spoke in a low, trembling voice that almost convinced him that she was in earnest. "cruel!" said he. "that's hard too." "or you wouldn't prevent me enjoying myself while i am here, by saying things which you ought to know i don't like." "i have hardly thought whether you would like what i say or not; but i know this; i would give anything in the world to make myself sure that you would ever look back upon this evening as a happy one." "i will if you'll come up-stairs, and--" "and what?" "and go on without,--without seeming to mind me so much." "ah, but i do mind you. rachel--no; you shall not go for a minute. listen to me for one moment." then he tried to stand before her, but she was off from him, and ran up-stairs by herself. what was it that he wished to say to her? she knew that she would have liked to have heard it;--nay, that she was longing to hear it. but she was startled and afraid of him, and as she gently crept in at the door of the dancing-room, she determined that she would tell mrs. cornbury that she was quite ready for the carriage. it was impossible that she should go through those other two dances with luke rowan; and as for her other engagements, they must be allowed to shift for themselves. one had been made early in the evening with mr. griggs. it would be a great thing to escape dancing with mr. griggs. she would ask cherry to make her apologies to everybody. as she entered the room she felt ashamed of herself, and unable to take any place. she was oppressed by an idea that she ought not to be walking about without some gentleman with her, and that people would observe her. she was still very near the door when she perceived that mr. rowan was also coming in. she determined to avoid him if she could, feeling sure that she could not stop him in anything that he might say, while so many people would be close around them. and yet she felt almost disappointment when she heard his voice as he talked merrily with some one at the door. at that moment mrs. cornbury came up to her, walking across the room on purpose to join her. "what, all alone! i thought your hand was promised for every dance up to five o'clock." "i believe i'm engaged to some one now, but i declare i don't know who it is. i dare say he has forgotten." "ah, yes; people do get confused a little just about this time. will you come and sit down?" "thank you, i should like that. but, mrs. cornbury, when you're ready to go away, i am,--quite ready." "go away! why i thought you intended to dance at least for the next two hours." in answer to this, rachel declared that she was tired. "and, mrs. cornbury, i want to avoid that man," and she pointed out mr. griggs by a glance of her eye. "i think he'll say i'm engaged to him for the next waltz, and--i don't like him." "poor man; he doesn't look very nice, certainly; but if that's all i'll get you out of the scrape without running away." then mr. griggs came up, and, with a very low bow, struck out the point of his elbow towards rachel, expecting her immediately to put her hand within it. "i'm afraid, sir, you must excuse miss ray just at present. she's too tired to dance immediately." mr. griggs looked at his card, then looked at rachel, then looked at mrs. cornbury, and stood twiddling the bunch of little gilt playthings that hung from his chain. "that is too hard," said he; "deuced hard." "i'm very sorry," said rachel. "so shall i be,--uncommon. really, mrs. cornbury, i think a turn or two would do her good. don't you?" "i can't say i do. she says she would rather not, and of course you won't press her." "i don't see it in that light,--i really don't. a gentleman has his rights you know, mrs. cornbury. miss ray won't deny--" "miss ray will deny that she intends to stand up for this dance. and one of the rights of a gentleman is to take a lady at her word." "really, mrs. cornbury, you are down upon one so hard." "rachel," said she, "would you mind coming across the room with me? there are seats on the sofa on the other side." then mrs. cornbury sailed across the floor, and rachel crept after her more dismayed than ever. mr. griggs the while stood transfixed to his place, stroking his mustaches with his hand, and showing plainly by his countenance that he didn't know what he ought to do next. "well, that's cool," said he; "confounded cool!" "anything wrong, griggs, my boy?" said a bank clerk, slapping him on the back. "i call it very wrong; very wrong, indeed," said griggs; "but people do give themselves such airs! miss cherry, may i have the honour of waltzing with you?" "certainly not," said cherry, who was passing by. then mr. griggs made his way back to the door. rachel felt that things were going wrong with her. it had so happened that she had parted on bad terms with three gentlemen. she had offended mr. cornbury and mr. griggs, and had done her best to make mr. rowan understand that he had offended her! she conceived that all the room would know of it, and that mrs. cornbury would become ashamed of her. that mrs. tappitt was already very angry with her she was quite sure. she wished she had not come to the ball, and began to think that perhaps her sister might be right. it almost seemed to herself that she had not known how to behave herself. for a short time she had been happy,--very happy; but she feared that she had in some way committed herself during the moments of her happiness. "i hope you are not angry with me," she said, "about mr. griggs?" appealing to her friend in a plaintive voice. "angry!--oh dear, no. why should i be angry with you? i should be angry with that man, only i'm a person that never gets angry with anybody. you were quite right not to dance with him. never be made to dance with any man you don't like; and remember that a young lady should always have her own way in a ball-room. she doesn't get much of it anywhere else; does she, my dear? and now i'll go whenever you like it, but i'm not the least in a hurry. you're the young lady, and you're to have your own way. if you're quite in earnest, i'll get some one to order the carriage."--rachel said that she was quite in earnest, and then walter was called. "so you're going, are you?" said he. "miss ray has ill-treated me so dreadfully that i can't express my regret." "ill-treated you, too, has she? upon my word, my dear, you've shown yourself quite great upon the occasion. when i was a girl, there was nothing i liked so much as offending all my partners." but rachel was red with dismay, and wretched that such an accusation should be made against her. "oh, mrs. cornbury, i didn't mean to offend him! i'll explain it all in the carriage. what will you think of me?" "think, my dear?--why, i shall think that you are going to turn all the young men's heads in baslehurst. but i shall hear all about it from walter to-morrow. he tells me of all his loves and all his disappointments." while the carriage was being brought round, rachel kept close to her chaperon; but every now and again her eyes, in spite of herself, would wander away to mr. rowan. was he in any way affected by her leaving him, or was it all a joke to him? he was dancing now with cherry tappitt, and rachel was sure that all of it was a joke. but it was a cruel joke,--cruel because it exposed her to so much ill-natured remark. with him she would quarrel,--quarrel really. she would let him know that he should not call her by her christian name just when it suited him to do so, and then take himself off to play with others in the same way. she would tell cherry, and make cherry understand that all walks and visiting and friendly intercommunications must be abandoned because this young man would take advantage of her position to annoy her! he should be made to understand that she was not in his power! then, as she thought of this, she caught his eye as he made a sudden stop in the dance close to her, and all her hard thoughts died away. ah, dear, what was it that she wanted of him? at that moment they got up to go away. such a person as mrs. butler cornbury could not, of course, escape without a parade of adieux. mr. tappitt was searched up from the little room in which the card-party held their meeting in order that he might hand the guest that had honoured him down to her carriage; and mrs. tappitt fluttered about, profuse in her acknowledgments for the favour done to them. "and we do so hope mr. cornbury will be successful," she said, as she bade her last farewell. this was spoken close to mr. tappitt's ear; and mrs. cornbury flattered herself that after that mr. tappitt's vote would be secure. mr. tappitt said nothing about his vote, but handed the lady down stairs in solemn silence. the tappitt girls came and clustered about rachel as she was going. "i can't conceive why you are off so early," said martha. "no, indeed," said mrs. tappitt; "only of course it would be very wrong to keep mrs. cornbury waiting when she has been so excessively kind to you." "the naughty girl! it isn't that at all," said cherry. "it's she that is hurrying mrs. cornbury away." "good night," said augusta very coldly. "and rachel," said cherry, "mind you come up to-morrow and talk it all over; we shall have so much to say." then rachel turned to go, and found luke rowan at her elbow waiting to take her down. she had no alternative;--she must take his arm; and thus they walked down stairs into the hall together. "you'll come up here to-morrow," said he. "no, no; tell cherry that i shall not come." "then i shall go to bragg's end. will your mother let me call?" "no, don't come. pray don't." "i certainly shall;--certainly, certainly! what things have you got? let me put your shawl on for you. if you do not come up to the girls, i shall certainly go down to you. now, good-night. good-night, mrs. cornbury." and luke, getting hold of rachel's reluctant hand, pressed it with all his warmth. "i don't want to ask indiscreet questions," said mrs. cornbury; "but that young man seems rather smitten, i think." "oh, no," said rachel, not knowing what to say. "but i say,--oh, yes; a nice good-looking man he is too, and a gentleman, which is more than i can say for all of them there. what an escape you had of mr. griggs, my dear!" "yes, i had. but i was so sorry that you should have to speak to him." "of course i spoke to him. i was there to fight your battles for you. that's why married ladies go to balls. you were quite right not to dance with him. a girl should always avoid any intimacy with such men as that. it is not that he would have done you any harm; but they stand in the way of your satisfaction and contentment. balls are given specially for young ladies; and it is my theory that they are to make themselves happy while they are there, and not sacrifice themselves to men whom they don't wish to know. you can't always refuse when you're asked, but you can always get out of an engagement afterwards if you know what you're about. that was my way when i was a girl." and this was the daughter of mr. comfort, whose somewhat melancholy discourses against the world's pleasures and vanities had so often filled rachel's bosom with awe! rachel sat silent, thinking of what had occurred at mrs. tappitt's; and thinking also that she ought to make some little speech to her friend, thanking her for all that she had done. ought she not also to apologise in some way for her own conduct? "what was that between you and my cousin walter?" mrs. cornbury asked, after a few moments. "i hope i wasn't to blame," said rachel. "but--" "but what? of course you weren't to blame;--unless it was in being run after by so many gentlemen at once." "he was going to take me down to supper,--and it was so kind of him. and then while we were waiting because the room down-stairs was full, there was another quadrille, and i was engaged to mr. rowan." "ah, yes; i understand. and so master walter got thrown once. his wrath in such matters never lasts very long. here we are at bragg's end. i've been so glad to have you with me; and i hope i may take you again with me somewhere before long. remember me kindly to your mother. there she is at the door waiting for you." then rachel jumped out of the carriage, and ran across the little gravel-path into the house. mrs. ray had been waiting up for her daughter, and had been listening eagerly for the wheels of the carriage. it was not yet two o'clock, and by ball-going people the hour of rachel's return would have been considered early; but to mrs. ray anything after midnight was very late. she was not, however, angry, or even vexed, but simply pleased that her girl had at last come back to her. "oh, mamma, i'm afraid it has been very hard upon you, waiting for me!" said rachel; "but i did come away as soon as i could." mrs. ray declared that she had not found it all hard, and then,--with a laudable curiosity, seeing how little she had known about balls,--desired to have an immediate account of rachel's doings. "and did you get anybody to dance with you?" asked the mother, feeling a mother's ambition that her daughter should have been "respectit like the lave." "oh, yes; plenty of people asked me to dance." "and did you find it come easy?" "quite easy. i was frightened about the waltzing, at first." "do you mean that you waltzed, rachel?" "yes, mamma. everybody did it. mrs. cornbury said she always waltzed when she was a girl; and as the things turned out i could not help myself. i began with her cousin. i didn't mean to do it, but i got so ashamed of myself that i couldn't refuse." mrs. ray still was not angry; but she was surprised, and perhaps a little dismayed. "and did you like it?" "yes, mamma." "were they all kind to you?" "yes, mamma." "you seem to have very little to say about it; but i suppose you're tired." "i am tired, but it isn't that. it seems that there is so much to think about. i'll tell you everything to-morrow, when i get quiet again. not that there is much to tell." "then i'll wish you good-night, dear." "good-night, mamma. mrs. cornbury was so kind,--you can have no idea how good-natured she is." "she always was a good creature." "if i'd been her sister she couldn't have done more for me. i feel as though i were really quite fond of her. but she isn't a bit like what i expected. she chooses to have her own way; but then she is so good-humoured! and when i got into any little trouble she--" "well, what else did she do; and what trouble had you?" "i can't quite describe what i mean. she seemed to make so much of me;--just as she might have done if i'd been some grand young lady down from london, or any, any;--you know what i mean." mrs. ray sat with her candle in her hand, receiving great comfort from the knowledge that her daughter had been "respectit." she knew well what rachel meant, and reflected, with perhaps a pardonable pride, that she herself had "come of decent people." the tappitts were higher than her in the world, and so were the griggses. but she knew that her forbears had been gentlefolk, when there were, so to speak, no griggses and no tappitts in existence. it was pleasant to her to think that her daughter had been treated as a lady. "and she did do me such a kindness. that horrid mr. griggs was going to dance with me, and she wouldn't let him." "i don't like that young man at all." "poor cherry! you should hear her talk of him! and she would have stayed ever so much longer if i had not pressed her to go; and then she has such a nice way of saying things." "she always had that, when she was quite a young girl." "i declare i feel that i quite love her. and there was such a grand supper. champagne!" "no!" "i got some cold turkey. mr. rowan took me down to supper." these last words were spoken very mildly, and rachel, as she uttered them, did not dare to look into her mother's face. "did you dance with him?" "yes, mamma, three times. i should have stayed later only i was engaged to dance with him twice more; and i didn't choose to do so." "was he--? did he--?" "oh, mamma; i can't tell you. i don't know how to tell you. i wish you knew it all without my saying anything. he says he shall come here to-morrow if i don't go up to the brewery; and i can't possibly go there now, after that." "did he say anything more than that, rachel?" "he calls me rachel, and speaks--i can't tell you how he speaks. if you think it wrong, mamma, i won't ever see him again." mrs. ray didn't know whether she ought to think it wrong or not. she was inclined to wish that it was right and to believe that it was wrong. a few minutes ago rachel was unable to open her mouth, and was anxious to escape to bed; but, now that the ice was broken between her and her mother, they sat up for more than an hour talking about luke rowan. "i wonder whether he will really come?" rachel said to herself, as she laid her head upon her pillow--"and why does he want to come?" chapter ix. mr. prong at home. mrs. tappitt's ball was celebrated on a tuesday, and on the preceding monday mrs. prime moved herself off, bag and baggage, to miss pucker's lodgings. miss pucker had been elated with a dismal joy when the proposition was first made to her. "oh, yes; it was very dreadful. she would do anything;--of course she would give up the front bedroom up-stairs to mrs. prime, and get a stretcher for herself in the little room behind, which looked out on the tiles of griggs' sugar warehouse. she hadn't thought such a thing would have been possible; she really had not. a ball! mrs. prime couldn't help coming away;--of course not. and there would be plenty of room for all her boxes in the small room behind the shop. mrs. ray's daughter go to a ball!" and then some threatening words were said as to the destiny of wicked people, which shall not be repeated here. that flitting had been a very dismal affair. an old man out of baslehurst had come for mrs. prime's things with a donkey-cart, and the old man, assisted by the girl, had carried them out together. rachel had remained secluded in her mother's room. the two sisters had met at the same table at breakfast, but had not spoken over their tea and bread and butter. as rachel was taking the cloth away mrs. prime had asked her solemnly whether she still persisted in bringing perdition upon herself and her mother. "you have no right to ask me such a question," rachel had answered, and taking herself up-stairs had secluded herself till the old man with the donkey, followed by mrs. prime, had taken himself away from bragg's end. mrs. ray, as her eldest daughter was leaving her, stood at the door of her house with her handkerchief to her eyes. "it makes me very unhappy, dorothea; so it does." "and it makes me very unhappy, too, mother. perhaps my sorrow in the matter is deeper than yours. but i must do my duty." then the two widows kissed each other with a cold unloving kiss, and mrs. prime had taken her departure from bragg's end cottage. "it will make a great difference in the housekeeping," mrs. ray said to rachel, and then she went to work at her little accounts. it was dorcas-day at miss pucker's, and as the work of the meeting began soon after mrs. prime had unpacked her boxes in the front bedroom and had made her little domestic arrangements with her friend, that first day passed by without much tedium. mrs. prime was used to miss pucker, and was not therefore grievously troubled by the ways and habits of that lady, much as they were unlike those to which she had been accustomed at bragg's end; but on the next morning, as she was sitting with her companion after breakfast, an idea did come into her head that miss pucker would not be a pleasant companion for life. she would talk incessantly of the wickednesses of the cottage, and ask repeated questions about rachel and the young man. mrs. prime was undoubtedly very angry with her mother, and much shocked at her sister, but she did not relish the outspoken sympathy of her confidential friend. "he'll never marry her, you know. he don't think of such a thing," said miss pucker over and over again. mrs. prime did not find this pleasant when spoken of her sister. "and the young men i'm told goes on anyhow, as they pleases at them dances," said miss pucker, who in the warmth of her intimacy forgot some of those little restrictions in speech with which she had burdened herself when first striving to acquire the friendship of mrs. prime. before dinner was over mrs. prime had made up her mind that she must soon move her staff again, and establish herself somewhere in solitude. after tea she took herself out for a walk, having managed to decline miss pucker's attendance, and as she walked she thought of mr. prong. would it not be well for her to go to him and ask his further advice? he would tell her in what way she had better live. he would tell her also whether it was impossible that she should ever return to the cottage, for already her heart was becoming somewhat more soft than was its wont. and as she walked she met mr. prong himself, intent on his pastoral business. "i was thinking of coming to you to-morrow," she said, after their first salutation was over. "do," said he; "do; come early,--before the toil of the day's work commences. i also am specially anxious to see you. will nine be too early,--or, if you have not concluded your morning meal by that time, half-past nine?" mrs. prime assured him that her morning meal was always concluded before nine o'clock, and promised to be with him by that hour. then as she slowly paced up the high street to the cawston bridge and back again, she wondered within herself as to the matter on which mr. prong could specially want to see her. he might probably desire to claim her services for some woman's work in his sheepfold. he should have them willingly, for she had begun to feel that she would sooner co-operate with mr. prong than with miss pucker. as she returned down the high street, and came near to her own door, she saw the cause of all her family troubles standing at the entrance to griggs's wine-store. he was talking to the shopman within, and as she passed she frowned grimly beneath her widow's bonnet. "send them to the brewery at once," said luke rowan to the man. "they are wanted this evening." "i understand," said the man. "and tell your fellow to take them round to the back door." "all right," said the man, winking with one eye. he understood very well that young rowan was ordering the champagne for mrs. tappitt's supper, and that it was thought desirable that mr. tappitt shouldn't see the bottles going into the house. miss pucker possessed at any rate the virtue of being early, so that mrs. prime had no difficulty in concluding her "morning meal," and being at mr. prong's house punctually at nine o'clock. mr. prong, it seemed, had not been quite so steadfast to his purpose, for his teapot was still upon the table, together with the debris of a large dish of shrimps, the eating of small shell-fish being an innocent enjoyment to which he was much addicted. "dear me; so it is; just nine. we'll have these things away in a minute. mrs. mudge; mrs. mudge!" whereupon mrs. mudge came forth, and between the three the table was soon cleared. "i wish you hadn't caught me so late," said mr. prong; "it looks as though i hadn't been thinking of you." then he picked up the stray shell of a shrimp, and in order that he might get rid of it, put it into his mouth. mrs. prime said she hoped she didn't trouble him, and that of course she didn't expect him to be thinking about her particularly. then mr. prong looked at her in a way that was very particular out of the corner of his eyes, and assured her that he had been thinking of her all night. after that mrs. prime sat down on a horsehair-seated chair, and mr. prong sat on another opposite to her, leaning back, with his eyes nearly closed, and his hands folded upon his lap. "i don't think miss pucker's will quite do for me," said mrs. prime, beginning her story first. "i never thought it would, my friend," said mr. prong, with his eyes still nearly closed. "she's a very good woman,--an excellent woman, and her heart is full of love and charity. but--" "i quite understand it, my friend. she is not in all things the companion you desire." "i am not quite sure that i shall want any companion." "ah!" sighed mr. prong, shaking his head, but still keeping his eyes closed. "i think i would rather be alone, if i do not return to them at the cottage. i would fain return if only they--" "if only they would return too. yes! that would be a glorious end to the struggle you have made, if you can bring them back with you from following after the evil one! but you cannot return to them now, if you are to countenance by your presence dancings and love-makings in the open air,"--why worse in the open air than in a close little parlour in a back street, mr. prong did not say,--"and loud revellings, and the absence of all good works, and rebellion against the spirit." mr. prong was becoming energetic in his language, and at one time had raised himself in his chair, and opened his eyes. but he closed them at once, and again fell back. "no, my friend," said he, "no. it must not be so. they must be rescued from the burning; but not so,--not so." after that for a minute or two they both sat still in silence. "i think i shall get two small rooms for myself in one of the quiet streets, near the new church," said she. "ah, yes, perhaps so,--for a time." "till i may be able to go back to mother. it's a sad thing families being divided, mr. prong." "yes, it is sad;--unless it tends to the doing of the lord's work." "but i hope;--i do hope, that all this may be changed. rachel i know is obstinate, but mother means well, mr. prong. she means to do her duty, if only she had good teaching near her." "i hope she may, i hope she may. i trust that they may both be brought to see the true light. we will wrestle for them,--you and me. we will wrestle for them,--together. mrs. prime, my friend, if you are prepared to hear me with attention, i have a proposition to make which i think you will acknowledge to be one of importance." then suddenly he sat bolt upright, opened his eyes wide, and dressed his mouth with all the solemn dignity of which he was the master. "are you prepared to listen to me, mrs. prime?" mrs. prime, who was somewhat astonished, said in a low voice that she was prepared to listen. "because i must beg you to hear me out. i shall fail altogether in reaching your intelligence,--whatever effect i might possibly have upon your heart,--unless you will hear me to the end." "i will hear you certainly, mr. prong." "yes, my friend, for it will be necessary. if i could convey to your mind all that is now passing through my own, without any spoken word, how glad should i be! the words of men, when taken at the best, how weak they are! they often tell a tale quite different from that which the creature means who uses them. every minister has felt that in addressing his flock from the pulpit. i feel it myself sadly, but i never felt it so sadly as i do now." mrs. prime did not quite understand him, but she assured him again that she would give his words her best attention, and that she would endeavour to gather from them no other meaning than that which seemed to be his. "ah,--seemed!" said he. "there is so much of seeming in this deceitful world. but you will believe this of me, that whatever i do, i do as tending to the strengthening of my hands in the ministry." mrs. prime said that she would believe so much; and then as she looked into her companion's face, she became aware that there was something of weakness displayed in that assuming mouth. she did not argue about it within her own mind, but the fact had in some way become revealed to her. "my friend," said he,--and as he spoke he drew his chair across the rug, so as to bring it very near to that on which mrs. prime was sitting--"our destinies in this world, yours and mine, are in many things alike. we are both alone. we both of us have our hands full of work, and of work which in many respects is the same. we are devoted to the same cause: is it not so?" mrs. prime, who had been told that she was to listen and not to speak, did not at first make any answer. but she was pressed by a repetition of the question. "is it not so, mrs. prime?" "i can never make my work equal to that of a minister of the gospel," said she. "but you can share the work of such a minister. you understand me now. and let me assure you of this; that in making this proposition to you, i am not self-seeking. it is not my own worldly comfort and happiness to which i am chiefly looking." "ah," said mrs. prime, "i suppose not." perhaps there was in her voice the slightest touch of soreness. "no;--not chiefly to that. i want assistance, confidential intercourse, sympathy, a congenial mind, support when i am like to faint, counsel when i am pressing on, aid when the toil is too heavy for me, a kind word when the day's work is over. and you,--do you not desire the same? are we not alike in that, and would it not be well that we should come together?" mr. prong as he spoke had put out his hand, and rested it on the table with the palm upwards, as though expecting that she would put hers within it; and he had tilted his chair so as to bring his body closer to hers, and had dropped from his face his assumed look of dignity. he was quite in earnest, and being so had fallen away into his natural dispositions of body. "i do not quite understand you," said mrs. prime. she did however understand him perfectly, but thought it expedient that he should be required to speak a little further before she answered him. she wanted time also to arrange her reply. as yet she had not made up her mind whether she would say yes or no. "mrs. prime, i am offering to make you my wife. i have said nothing of love, of that human affection which one of god's creatures entertains for another;--not, i can assure you, because i do not feel it, but because i think that you and i should be governed in our conduct by a sense of duty, rather than by the poor creature-longings of the heart." "the heart is very deceitful," said mrs. prime. "that is true,--very true; but my heart, in this matter, is not deceitful. i entertain for you all that deep love which a man should feel for her who is to be the wife of his bosom." "but mr. prong--" "let me finish before you give me your answer. i have thought much of this, as you may believe; and by only one consideration have i been made to doubt the propriety of taking this step. people will say that i am marrying you for,--for your money, in short. it is an insinuation which would give me much pain, but i have resolved within my own mind, that it is my duty to bear it. if my motives are pure,"--here he paused a moment for a word or two of encouragement, but received none,--"and if the thing itself be good, i ought not to be deterred by any fear of what the wicked may say. do you not agree with me in that?" mrs. prime still did not answer. she felt that any word of assent, though given by her to a minor proposition, might be taken as involving some amount of assent towards the major proposition. mr. prong had enjoyed the advantage of thinking over his matrimonial prospects in undisturbed solitude, but she had as yet possessed no such advantage. as the idea had never before presented itself to her, she did not feel inclined to commit herself hastily. "and as regards money," he continued. "well," said mrs. prime, looking down demurely upon the ground, for mr. prong had not at once gone on to say what were his ideas about money. "and as regards money,--need i hardly declare that my motives are pure and disinterested? i am aware that in worldly affairs you are at present better off than i am. my professional income from the pew-rents is about a hundred and thirty pounds a year."--it must be admitted that it was very hard work. by this time mr. prong had withdrawn his hand from the table, finding that attempt to be hopeless, and had re-settled his chair upon its four feet. he had commenced by requesting mrs. prime to hear him patiently, but he had probably not calculated that she would have listened with a patience so cruel and unrelenting. she did not even speak a word when he communicated to her the amount of his income. "that is what i receive here," he continued, "and you are probably aware that i have no private means of my own." "i didn't know," said mrs. prime. "no; none. but what then?" "oh, dear no." "money is but dross. who feels that more strongly than you do?" mr. prong in all that he was saying intended to be honest, and in asserting that money was dross, he believed that he spoke his true mind. he thought also that he was passing a just eulogium on mrs. prime, in declaring that she was of the same opinion. but he was not quite correct in this, either as regarded himself, or as regarded her. he did not covet money, but he valued it very highly; and as for mrs. prime, she had an almost unbounded satisfaction in her own independence. she had, after all, but two hundred a year, out of which she gave very much in charity. but this giving in charity was her luxury. fine raiment and dainty food tempted her not at all; but nevertheless she was not free from temptations, and did not perhaps always resist them. to be mistress of her money, and to superintend the gifts, not only of herself but of others; to be great among the poor, and esteemed as a personage in her district,--that was her ambition. when mr. prong told her that money in her sight was dross, she merely shook her head. why was it that she wrote those terribly caustic notes to the agent in exeter if her quarterly payments were ever late by a single week? "defend me from a lone widow," the agent used to say, "and especially if she's evangelical." mrs. prime delighted in the sight of the bit of paper which conveyed to her the possession of her periodical wealth. to her money certainly was not dross, and i doubt if it was truly so regarded by mr. prong himself. "any arrangements that you choose as to settlements or the like of that, could of course be made." mr. prong when he began, or rather when he made up his mind to begin, had determined that he would use all his best power of language in pressing his suit; but the work had been so hard that his fine language had got itself lost in the struggle. i doubt whether this made much difference with mrs. prime; or it may be, that he had sustained the propriety of his words as long as such propriety was needful and salutary to his purpose. had he spoken of the "like of that" at the opening of the negotiation, he might have shocked his hearer; but now she was too deeply engaged in solid serious considerations to care much for the words which were used. "a hundred and thirty from pew-rents," she said to herself, as he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to look under her bonnet into her face. "i think i have said it all now," he continued. "if you will trust yourself into my keeping i will endeavour, with god's assistance, to do my duty by you. i have said but little personally of myself or of my feelings, hoping that it might be unnecessary." "oh, quite so," said she. "i have spoken rather of those duties which we should undertake together in sweet companionship, if you will consent to--to--to be mrs. prong, in short." then he waited for an answer. as she sat in her widow's weeds, there was not, to the eye, the promise in her of much sweet companionship. her old crape bonnet had been lugged and battered about--not out of all shape, as hats and bonnets are sometimes battered by young ladies, in which guise, if the young ladies themselves be pretty, the battered hats and bonnets are often more becoming than ever they were in their proper shapes--but so as closely to fit her head, and almost hide her face. her dress was so made, and so put on, as to give to her the appearance of almost greater age than her mother's. she had studied to divest herself of all outward show of sweet companionship; but perhaps she was not the less, on that account, gratified to find that she had not altogether succeeded. "i have done with the world, and all the world's vanities and cares," she said, shaking her head. "no one can have done with the world as long as there is work in it for him or her to do. the monks and nuns tried that, and you know what they came to." "but i am a widow." "yes, my friend; and have shown yourself, as such, very willing to do your part. but do you not know that you could be more active and more useful as a clergyman's wife than you can be as a solitary woman?" "but my heart is buried, mr. prong." "no; not so. while the body remains in this vale of tears, the heart must remain with it." mrs. prime shook her head; but in an anatomical point of view, mr. prong was no doubt strictly correct. "other hopes will arise,--and perhaps, too, other cares, but they will be sources of gentle happiness." mrs. prime understood him as alluding to a small family, and again shook her head at the allusion. "what i have said may probably have taken you by surprise." "yes, it has, mr. prong;--very much." "and if so, it may be that you would wish time for consideration before you give me an answer." "perhaps that will be best, mr. prong." "let it be so. on what day shall we say? will friday suit you? if i come to you on friday morning, perhaps miss pucker will be there." "yes, she will." "and in the afternoon." "we shall be at the dorcas meeting." "i don't like to trouble you to come here again." mrs. prime herself felt that there was a difficulty. hitherto she had entertained no objection to calling on mr. prong at his own house. his little sitting-room had been as holy ground to her,--almost as part of the church, and she had taken herself there without scruple. but things had now been put on a different footing. it might be that that room would become her own peculiar property, but she could never again regard it in a simply clerical light. it had become as it were a bower of love, and she could not take her steps thither with the express object of assenting to the proposition made to her,--or even with that of dissenting from it. "perhaps," said she, "you could call at ten on saturday. miss pucker will be out marketing." to this mr. prong agreed, and then mrs. prime got up and took her leave. how fearfully wicked would rachel have been in her eyes, had rachel made an appointment with a young man at some hour and some place in which she might be found alone! but then it is so easy to trust oneself, and so easy also to distrust others. "good-morning," said mrs. prime; and as she went she gave her hand as a matter of course to her lover. "good-bye," said he; "and think well of this if you can do so. if you believe that you will be more useful as my wife than you can be in your present position,--then--" "you think it would be my duty to--" "well, i will leave that for you to decide. i merely wish to put the matter before you. but, pray, understand this; money need be no hindrance." then, having said that last word, he let her go. she walked away very slowly, and did not return by the most direct road to miss pucker's rooms. there was much to be considered in the offer that had been made to her. her lot in life would be very lonely if this separation from her mother and sister should become permanent. she had already made up her mind that a continued residence with miss pucker would not suit her; and although, on that very morning, she had felt that there would be much comfort in living by herself, now, as she looked forward to that loneliness, it had for her very little attraction. might it not be true, also, that she could do more good as a clergyman's wife than could possibly come within her reach as a single woman? she had tried that life once already, but then she had been very young. as that memory came upon her, she looked back to her early life, and thought of the hopes which had been hers as she stood at the altar, now so many years ago. how different had been everything with her then! she remembered the sort of love she had felt in her heart, and told herself that there could be no repetition of such love on mr. prong's behalf. she had come round in her walk to that very churchyard stile at which she had seen rachel standing with luke rowan, and as she remembered some passages in her own girlish days, she almost felt inclined to forgive her sister. but then, on a sudden, she drew herself up almost with a gasp, and went on quickly with her walk. had she not herself in those days walked in darkness, and had it not since that been vouchsafed to her to see the light? in her few months of married happiness it had been given to her to do but little of that work which might now be possible to her. then she had been married in the flesh; now she would be married in the spirit;--she would be married in the spirit, if it should, on final consideration, seem good to her to accept mr. prong's offer in that light. then unconsciously, she began to reflect on the rights of a married woman with regard to money,--and also on the wrongs. she was not sure as to the law, and asked herself whether it would be possible for her to consult an attorney. finally, she thought it would not be practicable to do so before giving her answer to mr. prong. and she could not even ask her mother. as to that, too, she questioned herself, and resolved that she could not so far lower herself under existing circumstances. there was no one to whom she could go for advice. but we may say this of her,--let her have asked whom she would, she would have at least been guided by her own judgment. if only she could have obtained some slight amount of legal information, how useful it would have been! chapter x. luke rowan declares his plans as to the brewery. "the truth is, t., there was some joking among the young people about the wine, and then rowan went and ordered it." this was mrs. tappitt's explanation about the champagne, made to her husband on the night of the ball, before she was allowed to go to sleep. but this by no means satisfied him. he did not choose, as he declared, that any young man should order whatever he might think necessary for his house. then mrs. tappitt made it worse. "to tell the truth, t., i think it was intended as a present to the girls. we are doing a great deal to make him comfortable, you know, and i fancy he thought it right to make them this little return." she should have known her husband better. it was true that he grudged the cost of the wine; but he would have preferred to endure that to the feeling that his table had been supplied by another man,--by a young man whom he wished to regard as subject to himself, but who would not be subject, and at whom he was beginning to look with very unfavourable eyes. "a present to the girls? i tell you i won't have such presents. and if it was so, i think he has been very impertinent,--very impertinent indeed. i shall tell him so,--and i shall insist on paying for the wine. and i must say, you ought not to have taken it." "oh, dear t., i have been working so hard all night; and i do think you ought to let me go to sleep now, instead of scolding me." on the following morning the party was of course discussed in the tappitt family under various circumstances. at the breakfast-table mrs. rowan, with her son and daughter, were present; and then a song of triumph was sung. everything had gone off with honour and glory, and the brewery had been immortalized for years to come. mrs. butler cornbury's praises were spoken,--with some little drawback of a sneer on them, because "she had made such a fuss with that girl rachel ray;" and then the girls had told of their partners, and luke had declared it all to have been superb. but when the rowans' backs were turned, and the tappitts were alone together, others besides old tappitt himself had words to say in dispraise of luke. mrs. tappitt had been much inclined to make little of her husband's objections to the young man while she hoped that he might possibly become her son-in-law. he might have been a thorn in the brewery, among the vats, but he would have been a flourishing young bay-tree in the outer world of baslehurst. she had, however, no wish to encourage the growth of a thorn within her own premises, in order that rachel ray, or such as she, might have the advantage of the bay-tree. luke rowan had behaved very badly at her party. not only had he failed to distinguish either of her own girls, but he had, as mrs. tappitt said, made himself so conspicuous with that foolish girl, that all the world had been remarking it. "mrs. butler cornbury seemed to think it all right," said cherry. "mrs. butler cornbury is not everybody," said mrs. tappitt. "i didn't think it right, i can assure you;--and what's more, your papa didn't think it right." "and he was going on all the evening as though he were quite master in the house," said augusta. "he was ordering the musicians to do this and that all the evening." "he'll find that he's not master. your papa is going to speak to him this very day." "what!--about rachel?" asked cherry, in dismay. "about things in general," said mrs. tappitt. then mary rowan returned to the room, and they all went back upon the glories of the ball. "i think it was nice," said mrs. tappitt, simpering. "i'm sure there was no trouble spared,--nor yet expense." she knew that she ought not to have uttered that last word, and she would have refrained if it had been possible to her;--but it was not possible. the man who tells you how much his wine costs a dozen, knows that he is wrong while the words are in his mouth; but they are in his mouth, and he cannot restrain them. mr. tappitt was not about to lecture luke rowan as to his conduct in regard to rachel ray. he found some difficulty in speaking to his would-be partner, even on matters of business, in a proper tone, and with becoming authority. as he was so much the senior, and rowan so much the junior, some such tone of superiority was, as he thought, indispensable. but he had great difficulty in assuming it. rowan had a way with him that was not exactly a way of submission, and tappitt would certainly not have dared to encounter him on any such matter as his behaviour in a drawing-room. when the time came he had not even the courage to allude to those champagne bottles; and it may be as well explained that rowan paid the little bill at griggs's, without further reference to the matter. but the question of the brewery management was a matter vital to tappitt. there, among the vats, he had reigned supreme since bungall ceased to be king, and for continual mastery there it was worth his while to make a fight. that he was under difficulties even in that fight he had already begun to know. he could not talk luke rowan down, and make him go about his work in an orderly, every-day, business-like fashion. luke rowan would not be talked down, nor would he be orderly,--not according to mr. tappitt's orders. no doubt mr. tappitt, under these circumstances, could decline the partnership; and this he was disposed to do; but he had been consulting lawyers, consulting papers, and looking into old accounts, and he had reason to fear, that under bungall's will, luke rowan would have the power of exacting from him much more than he was inclined to give. "you'd better take him into the concern," the lawyer had said. "a young head is always useful." "not when the young head wants to be master," tappitt had answered. "if i'm to do that the whole thing will go to the dogs." he did not exactly explain to the lawyer that rowan had carried his infatuation so far as to be desirous of brewing good beer, but he did make it very clear that such a partner would, in his eyes, be anything but desirable. "then, upon my word, i think you'll have to give him the ten thousand pounds. i don't even know but what the demand is moderate." this was very bad news to tappitt. "but suppose i haven't got ten thousand pounds!" now it was very well known that the property and the business were worth money, and the lawyer suggested that rowan might take steps to have the whole concern sold. "probably he might buy it himself and undertake to pay you so much a year," suggested the lawyer. but this view of the matter was not at all in accordance with mr. tappitt's ideas. he had been brewer in baslehurst for nearly thirty years, and still wished to remain so. mrs. tappitt had been of opinion that all difficulties might be overcome if only luke would fall in love with one of her girls. mrs. rowan had been invited to baslehurst specially with a view to some such arrangement. but luke rowan, as it seemed to them both now, was an obstinate young man, who, in matters of beer as well as in matters of love, would not be guided by those who best knew how to guide him. mrs. tappitt had watched him closely at the ball, and had now given him up altogether. he had danced only once with augusta, and then had left her the moment the dance was over. "i should offer him a hundred and fifty pounds a year out of the concern, and if he didn't like that let him lump it," said mrs. tappitt. "lump it!" said mr. tappitt. "that means going to a london lawyer." he felt the difficulties of his position as he prepared to speak his mind to young rowan on the morning after the party; but on that occasion his strongest feeling was in favour of expelling the intruder. any lot in life would be preferable to working in the brewery with such a partner as luke rowan. "i suppose your head's hardly cool enough for business," he said, as luke came in and took a stool in his office. tappitt was sitting in his customary chair, with his arm resting on a large old-fashioned leather-covered table, which was strewed with his papers, and which had never been reduced to cleanliness or order within the memory of any one connected with the establishment. he had turned his chair round from its accustomed place so as to face rowan, who had perched himself on a stool which was commonly occupied by a boy whom tappitt employed in his own office. "my head not cool!" said rowan. "it's as cool as a cucumber. i wasn't drinking last night." "i thought you might be tired with the dancing." then tappitt's mind flew off to the champagne, and he determined that the young man before him was too disagreeable to be endured. "oh, dear, no. those things never tire me. i was across here with the men before eight this morning. do you know, i'm sure we could save a third of the fuel by altering the flues. i never saw such contrivances. they must have been put in by the coal-merchants, for the sake of wasting coal." "if you please, we won't mind the flues at present." "i only tell you; it's for your sake much more than my own. if you won't believe me, do you ask newman to look at them the first time you see him in baslehurst." "i don't care a straw for newman." "he's got the best concerns in devonshire, and knows what he's about better than any man in these parts." "i dare say. but now, if you please, we won't mind him. the concerns, as i have managed them, have done very well for me for the last thirty years;--very well i may say also for your uncle, who understood what he was doing. i'm not very keen for so many changes. they cost a great deal of money, and as far as i can see don't often lead to much profit." "if we don't go on with the world," said rowan, "the world will leave us behind. look at the new machinery they're introducing everywhere. people don't do it because they like to spend their money. it's competition; and there's competition in beer as well as in other things." for a minute or two mr. tappitt sat in silence collecting his thoughts, and then he began his speech. "i'll tell you what it is, rowan, i don't like these new-fangled ways. they're very well for you, i dare say. you are young, and perhaps you may see your way. i'm old, and i don't see mine among all these changes. it's clear to me that you and i could not go on together as partners in the same concern. i should expect to have my own way,--first because i've a deal of experience, and next because my share in the concern would be so much the greatest." "stop a moment, mr. tappitt; i'm not quite sure that it would be much the greatest. i don't want to say anything about that now; only if i were to let your remark pass without notice it would seem that i had assented." "ah; very well. i can only say that i hope you'll find yourself mistaken. i've been over thirty years in the concern, and it would be odd if i with my large family were to find myself only equal to you, who have never been in the business at all, and ain't even married yet." "i don't see what being married has to do with it." "don't you? you'll find that's the way we look at these things down in these parts. you're not in london here, mr. rowan." "certainly not; but i suppose the laws are the same. this is an affair of capital." "capital!" said mr. tappitt. "i don't know that you've brought in any capital." "bungall did, and i'm here as his representative. but you'd better let that pass by just at present. if we can agree as to the management of the business, you won't find me a hard man to deal with as to our relative shares." hereupon tappitt scratched his head, and tried to think. "but i don't see how we are to agree about the management," he continued. "you won't be led by anybody." "i don't know about that. i certainly want to improve the concern." "ah, yes; and so ruin it. whereas i've been making money out of it these thirty years. you and i won't do together; that's the long of it and the short of it." "it would be a putting of new wine into old bottles, you think?" suggested rowan. "i'm not saying anything about wine; but i do think that i ought to know something about beer." "and i'm to understand," said rowan, "that you have definitively determined not to carry on the old concern in conjunction with me as your partner." "yes; i think i have." "but it will be as well to be sure. one can't allow one's self to depend upon thinking." "well, i am sure; i've made up my mind. i've no doubt you're a very clever young man, but i am quite sure we should not do together; and to tell you the truth, rowan, i don't think you'll ever make your fortune by brewing." "you think not?" "no; never." "i'm sorry for that." "i don't know that you need be sorry. you'll have a nice income for a single man to begin the world with, and there's other businesses besides brewing,--and a deal better." "ah! but i've made up my mind to be a brewer. i like it. there's opportunity for chemical experiments, and room for philosophical inquiry, which gives the trade a charm in my eyes. i dare say it seems odd to you, but i like being a brewer." tappitt only scratched his head, and stared at him. "i do indeed," continued rowan. "now a man can't do anything to improve his own trade as a lawyer. a great deal will be done; but i've made up my mind that all that must come from the outside. all trades want improving; but i like a trade in which i can do the improvements myself,--from the inside. do you understand me, mr. tappitt?" mr. tappitt did not understand him,--was very far indeed from understanding him. "with such ideas as those i don't think baslehurst is the ground for you," said mr. tappitt. "the very ground!" said rowan. "that's just it;--it's the very place i want. brewing, as i take it, is at a lower ebb here than in any other part of england,"--this at any rate was not complimentary to the brewer of thirty years' standing--"than in any other part of england. the people swill themselves with the nasty juice of the apple because sound malt and hops have never been brought within their reach. i think devonshire is the very county for a man who means to work hard, and who wishes to do good; and in all devonshire i don't think there's a more fitting town than baslehurst." mr. tappitt was dumbfounded. did this young man mean him to understand that it was his intention to open a rival establishment under his nose; to set up with bungall's money another brewery in opposition to bungall's brewery? could such ingratitude as that be in the mind of any one? "oh," said tappitt; "i don't quite understand, but i don't doubt but what you say is all very fine." "i don't think that it's fine at all, mr. tappitt, but i believe that it's true. i represent mr. bungall's interest here in baslehurst, and i intend to carry on mr. bungall's business in the town in which he established it." "this is mr. bungall's business;--this here, where i'm sitting, and it is in my hands." "the use of these premises depends on you certainly." "yes; and the name of the firm, and the--the--the--. in point of fact, this is the old establishment. i never heard of such a thing in all my life." "quite true; it is the old establishment; and if i should set up another brewery here, as i think it probable i may, i shall not make use of bungall's name. in the first place it would hardly be fair; and in the next place, by all accounts, he brewed such very bad beer that it would not be a credit to me. if you'll tell me what your plan is, then i'll tell you mine. you'll find that everything shall be above-board, mr. tappitt." "my plan? i've got no plan. i mean to go on here as i've always done." "but i suppose you intend to come to some arrangement with me. my claims are these: i will either come into this establishment on an equal footing with yourself, as regards share and management, or else i shall look to you to give me the sum of money to which my lawyers tell me i am entitled. in fact, you must either take me in or buy me out." "i was thinking of a settled income." "no; it wouldn't suit me. i have told you what are my intentions, and to carry them out i must either have a concern of my own, or a share in a concern. a settled income would do me no good." "two hundred a-year," suggested tappitt. "psha! three per cent. would give me three hundred." "ten thousand pounds is out of the question, you know." "very well, mr. tappitt. i can't say anything fairer than i have done. it will suit my own views much the best to start alone, but i do not wish to oppose you if i can help it. start alone i certainly will, if i cannot come in here on my own terms." after that there was nothing more said. tappitt turned round, pretending to read his letters, and rowan descending from his seat walked out into the yard of the brewery. his intention had been, ever since he had looked around him in baslehurst, to be master of that place, or if not of that, to be master of some other. "it would break my heart to be sending out such stuff as that all my life," he said to himself, as he watched the muddy stream run out of the shallow coolers. he had resolved that he would brew good beer. as to that ambition of putting down the consumption of cider, i myself am inclined to think that the habits of the country would be too strong for him. at the present moment he lighted a cigar and sauntered about the yard. he had now, for the first time, spoken openly of his purpose to mr. tappitt; but, having done so, he resolved that there should be no more delay. "i'll give him till saturday for an answer," he said. "if he isn't ready with one by that time i'll manage it through the lawyers." after that he turned his mind to rachel ray and the events of the past evening. he had told rachel that he would go out to bragg's end if she did not come into town, and he was quite resolved that he would do so. he knew well that she would not come in, understanding exactly those feelings of hers which would prevent it. therefore his walk to bragg's end on that afternoon was a settled thing with him. they were to dine at the brewery at three, and he would go almost immediately after dinner. but what would he say to her when he got there, and what would he say to her mother? he had not even yet made up his mind that he would positively ask her on that day to be his wife, and yet he felt that if he found her at home he would undoubtedly do so. "i'll arrange it all," said he, "as i'm walking over." then he threw away the end of his cigar, and wandered about for the next half-hour among the vats and tubs and furnaces. mr. tappitt took himself into the house as soon as he found himself able to do so without being seen by young rowan. he took himself into the house in order that he might consult with his wife as to this unexpected revelation that had been made to him; or rather that he might have an opportunity of saying to some one all the hard things which were now crowding themselves upon his mind with reference to this outrageous young man. had anything ever been known, or heard, or told, equal in enormity to this wickedness! he was to be called upon to find capital for the establishment of a rival in his own town, or else he was to bind himself in a partnership with a youth who knew nothing of his business, but was nevertheless resolved to constitute himself the chief manager of it! he who had been so true to bungall in his young days was now to be sacrificed in his old age to bungall's audacious representative! in the first glow of his anger he declared to his wife that he would pay no money and admit of no partnership. if rowan did not choose to take his income as old mrs. bungall had taken hers he might seek what redress the law would give him. it was in vain that mrs. tappitt suggested that they would all be ruined. "then we will be ruined," said tappitt, hot with indignation; "but all baslehurst,--all devonshire shall know why." pernicious young man! he could not explain,--he could not even quite understand in what the atrocity of rowan's proposed scheme consisted, but he was possessed by a full conviction that it was atrocious. he had admitted this man into his house; he was even now entertaining as his guests the man's mother and sister; he had allowed him to have the run of the brewery, so that he had seen both the nakedness and the fat of the land; and this was to be his reward! "if i were to tell it at the reading-room," said tappitt, "he would never be able to show himself again in the high street." mrs. tappitt, who was anxious but not enraged, did not see the matter quite in the same light, but she was not able to oppose her husband in his indignation. when she suggested that it might be well for them to raise money and pay off their enemy's claim, merely stipulating that a rival brewery should not be established in baslehurst, he swore an oath that he would raise no money for such a purpose. he would have no dealings with so foul a traitor except through his lawyer, honyman. "but honyman thinks you'd better settle with him," pleaded mrs. t. "then i'll go to another lawyer," said tappitt. "if honyman won't stand to me i'll go to sharpit and longfite. they won't give way as long as there's a leg to stand on." for the time mrs. tappitt let this pass. she knew how useless it would be to tell her husband at the present moment that sharpit and longfite would be the only winners in such a contest as that of which he spoke. at the present moment mr. tappitt felt a pride in his anger, and was almost happy in the fury of his wrath; but mrs. tappitt was very wretched. if that nasty girl, rachel ray, had not come in the way all might have been well. "he shan't eat another meal in this house," said tappitt. "i don't care," he went on, when his wife pleaded that luke rowan must be admitted to their table because of mrs. rowan and mary. "you can say what you like to them. they're welcome to stay if they like it, or welcome to go; but he shan't put his feet under my mahogany again." on this point, however, he was brought to relent before the hour of dinner. baslehurst, his wife told him, would be against him if he turned his guests away from his house hungry. if a fight was necessary for them, it would be everything to them that baslehurst should be with them in the fight. it was therefore arranged that mrs. tappitt should have a conversation with mrs. rowan after dinner, while the young people were out in the evening. "he shan't sleep in this house to-morrow," said tappitt, riveting his assertion with very strong language; and mrs. tappitt understood that her communications were to be carried on upon that basis. at three o'clock the tappitts and rowans all sat down to dinner. mr. tappitt ate his meal in absolute silence; but the young people were full of the ball, and the elder ladies were very gracious to each other. at such entertainments paterfamilias is simply required to find the provender and to carve it. if he does that satisfactorily, silence on his part is not regarded as a great evil. mrs. tappitt knew that her husband's mood was not happy, and martha may have remarked that all was not right with her father. to the others i am inclined to think his ill humour was a matter of indifference. chapter xi. luke rowan takes his tea quite like a steady young man. it was the custom of the miss tappitts, during these long midsummer days, to start upon their evening walk at about seven o'clock, the hour for the family gathering round the tea-table being fixed at six. but, in accordance with the same custom, dinner at the brewery was usually eaten at one. at this immediate time with which we are now dealing, dinner had been postponed till three, out of compliment to mrs. rowan, mrs. tappitt considering three o'clock more fashionable than one; and consequently the afternoon habits of the family were disarranged. half-past seven, it was thought, would be a becoming hour for tea, and therefore the young ladies were driven to go out at five o'clock, while the sun was still hot in the heavens. "no," said luke, in answer to his sister's invitation; "i don't think i will mind walking to-day: you are all going so early." he was sitting at the moment after dinner with his glass of brewery port wine before him. "the young ladies must be very unhappy that their hours can't be made to suit you," said mrs. tappitt, and the tone of her voice was sarcastic and acid. "i think we can do without him," said cherry, laughing. "of course we can," said augusta, who was not laughing. "but you might as well come all the same," said mary. "there's metal more attractive somewhere else," said augusta. "i cannot bear to see so much fuss made with the young men," said mrs. tappitt. "we never did it when i was young. did we, mrs. rowan?" "i don't think there's much change," said mrs. rowan; "we used to be very glad to get the young men when we could, and to do without them when we couldn't." "and that's just the way with us," said cherry. "speak for yourself," said augusta. during all this time mr. tappitt spoke never a word. he also sipped his glass of wine, and as he sipped it he brooded over his wrath. who were these rowans that they should have come about his house and premises, and forced everything out of its proper shape and position? the young man sat there as though he were lord of everything,--so tappitt declared to himself; and his own wife was snubbed in her own parlour as soon as she opened her mouth. there was an uncomfortable atmosphere of discord in the room, which gradually pervaded them all, and made even the girls feel that things were going wrong. mrs. tappitt rose from her chair, and made a stiff bow across the table to her guest, understanding that that was the proper way in which to effect a retreat into the drawing-room; whereupon luke opened the door, and the ladies went. "thank you, sir," said mrs. tappitt very solemnly as she passed by him. mrs. rowan, going first, had given him a loving little nod of recognition, and mary had pinched his arm. martha uttered a word of thanks, intended for conciliation; augusta passed him in silence with her nose in the air; and cherry, as she went by, turned upon him a look of dismay. he returned cherry's look with a shake of his head, and both of them understood that things were going wrong. "i don't think i'll take any more wine, sir," said rowan. "do as you like," said tappitt. "it's there if you choose to take it." "it seems to me, mr. tappitt, that you want to quarrel with me," said luke. "you can form your own opinion about that. i'm not bound to tell my mind to everybody." "oh, no; certainly not. but it's very unpleasant going on in that way in the same house. i'm thinking particularly of mrs. tappitt and the girls." "you needn't trouble yourself about them at all. you may leave me to take care of them." luke had not sat down since the ladies left the room, and now determined that he had better not do so. "i think i'll say good afternoon," said rowan. "good day to you," said tappitt, with his face turned away, and his eyes fixed upon one of the open windows. "well, mr. tappitt, if i have to say good-bye to you in that way in your own house, of course it must be for the last time. i have not meant to offend you, and i don't think i've given you ground for offence." "you don't, don't you?" "certainly not. if, unfortunately, there must be any disagreement between us about matters of business, i don't see why that should be brought into private life." "look here, young man," said tappitt, turning upon him. "you lectured me in my counting-house this morning, and i don't intend that you shall lecture me here also. i'm drinking my own wine in my own parlour, and choose to drink it in peace and quietness." "very well, sir; i will not disturb you much longer. perhaps you will make my apologies to mrs. tappitt, and tell her how much obliged i am by her hospitality, but that i will not trespass upon it any longer. i'll get a bed at the dragon, and i'll write a line to my mother or sister." then luke left the room, took his hat up from the hall, and made his way out of the house. he had much to occupy his mind at the present moment. he felt that he was being turned out of mr. tappitt's house, but would not much have regarded that if no one was concerned in it but mr. tappitt himself. he had, however, been on very intimate terms with all the ladies of the family; even for mrs. tappitt he had felt a friendship; and for the girls--especially for cherry--he had learned to entertain an easy brotherly affection, which had not weighed much with him as it grew, but which it was not in his nature to throw off without annoyance. he had acknowledged to himself, as soon as he found himself among them, that the tappitts did not possess, in their ways and habits of life, quite all that he should desire in his dearest and most intimate friends. i do not know that he had thought much of this; but he had felt it. nevertheless he had determined that he would like them. he intended to make his way in life as a tradesman, and boldly resolved that he would not be above his trade. his mother sometimes reminded him, with perhaps not the truest pride, that he was a gentleman. in answer to this he had once or twice begged her to define the word, and then there had been some slight, very slight, disagreement between them. in the end the mother always gave way to the son; as to whom she believed that the sun shone with more special brilliancy for him than for any other of god's creatures. now, as he left the brewery house, he remembered how intimate he had been with them all but a few hours since, arranging matters for their ball, and giving orders about the place as though he had belonged to the family. he had allowed himself to be at home with them, and to be one of them. he was by nature impulsive, and had thus fallen instantly into the intimacy which had been permitted to him. now he was turned out of the house; and as he walked across the churchyard to bespeak a bed for himself at the inn, and write the necessary note to his sister, he was melancholy and almost unhappy. he felt sure that he was right in his views regarding the business, and could not accuse himself of any fault in his manner of making them known to mr. tappitt; but, nevertheless, he was ill at ease with himself in that he had given offence. and with all these thoughts were mingled other thoughts as to rachel ray. he did not in the least imagine that any of the anger felt towards him at the brewery had been caused by his open admiration of rachel. it had never occurred to him that mrs. tappitt had regarded him as a possible son-in-law, or that, having so regarded him, she could hold him in displeasure because he had failed to fall into her views. he had never regarded himself as being of value as a possible future husband, or entertained the idea that he was a prize. he had taken hold in good faith of the tappitt right hand which had been stretched out to him, and was now grieved that that hand should be suddenly withdrawn. but as he was impulsive, so also was he light-hearted, and when he had chosen his bedroom and written the note to mary, in which he desired her to pack up his belongings and send them to him, he was almost at ease as regarded that matter. old tappitt was, as he said to himself, an old ass, and if he chose to make that brewery business a cause of quarrel no one could help it. mary was bidden in the note to say very civil things to mrs. tappitt; but, at the same time, to speak out the truth boldly. "tell her," said he, "that i am constrained to leave the house because mr. tappitt and i cannot agree at the present moment about matters of business." when this was done he looked at his watch, and started off on his walk to bragg's end. it has been said that rowan had not made up his mind to ask rachel to be his wife,--that he had not made up his mind on this matter, although he was going to bragg's end in a mood which would very probably bring him to such a conclusion. it will, i fear, be thought from this that he was light in purpose as well as light in heart; but i am not sure that he was open to any special animadversion of that nature. it is the way of men to carry on such affairs without any complete arrangement of their own plans or even wishes. he knew that he admired rachel and liked her. i doubt whether he had ever yet declared to himself that he loved her. i doubt whether he had done so when he started on that walk,--thinking it probable, however, that he had persuaded himself of the fact before he reached the cottage door. he had already, as we know, said words to rachel which he should not have said unless he intended to seek her as his wife;--he had spoken words and done things of that nature, being by no means perfect in all his ways. but he had so spoken and so acted without premeditation, and now was about to follow up those little words and little acts to their natural consequence,--also without much premeditation. rachel had told her mother, on her return from the ball, that luke rowan had promised to call; and had offered to take herself off from the cottage for the whole afternoon, if her mother thought it wrong that she should see him. mrs. ray had never felt herself to be in greater difficulty. "i don't know that you ought to run away from him," said she: "and besides, where are you to go to?" rachel said at once that if her absence were desirable she would find whither to betake herself. "i'd stay upstairs in my bedroom, for the matter of that, mamma." "he'd be sure to know it," said mrs. rowan, speaking of the young man as though he were much to be feared;--as indeed he was much feared by her. "if you don't think i ought to go, perhaps it would be best that i should stay," said rachel, at last, speaking in a very low tone, but still with some firmness in her voice. "i'm sure i don't know what i'm to say to him," said mrs. ray. "that must depend upon what he says to you, mamma," said rachel. after that there was no further talk of running away; but the morning did not pass with them lightly or pleasantly. they made an effort to sit quietly at their work, and to talk over the doings at mrs. tappitt's ball; but this coming of the young man threw its shadow, more or less, over everything. they could not talk, or even look at each other, as they would have talked and looked had no such advent been expected. they dined at one, as was their custom, and after dinner i think it probable that each of them stood before her glass with more care than she would have done on ordinary days. it was no ordinary day, and mrs. ray certainly put on a clean cap. "will that collar do?" she said to rachel. "oh, yes, mamma," said rachel, almost angrily. she also had taken her little precautions, but she could not endure to have such precautions acknowledged, even by a word. the afternoon was very tedious. i don't know why luke should have been expected exactly at three; but mrs. ray had, i think, made up her mind that he might be looked for at that time with the greatest certainty. but at three he was sitting down to dinner, and even at half-past five had not as yet left his room at the "dragon." "i suppose that we can't have tea till he's been," said mrs. ray, just at that hour; "that is, if he does come at all." rachel felt that her mother was vexed, because she suspected that mr. rowan was not about to keep his word. "don't let his coming make any difference, mamma," said rachel. "i will go and get tea." "wait a few minutes longer, my dear," said mrs. ray. it was all very well for rachel to beg that it might make "no difference." it did make a very great deal of difference. "i think i'll go over and see mrs. sturt for a few minutes," said rachel, getting up. "pray don't, my dear,--pray don't; i should never know what to say to him if he should come while you were away." so rachel again sat down. she had just, for the second time, declared her intention of getting tea, having now resolved that no weakness on her mother's part should hinder her, when mrs. ray, from her seat near the window, saw the young man coming over the green. he was walking very slowly, swinging a big stick as he came, and had taken himself altogether away from the road, almost to the verge of mrs. sturt's farmyard. "there he is," said mrs. ray, with a little start. rachel, who was struggling hard to retain her composure, could not resist her impulse to jump up and look out upon the green from behind her mother's shoulder. but she did this from some little distance inside the room, so that no one might possibly see her from the green. "yes; there he is, certainly," and, having thus identified their visitor, she immediately sat down again. "he's talking to farmer sturt's ploughboy," said mrs. ray. "he's asking where we live," said rachel. "he's never been here before." rowan, having completed his conversation with the ploughboy, which by the way seemed to mrs. ray to have been longer than was necessary for its alleged purpose, came boldly across the green, and without pausing for a moment made his way through the cottage gate. mrs. ray caught her breath, and could not keep herself quite steady in her chair. rachel, feeling that something must be done, got up from her seat and went quickly out into the passage. she knew that the front door was open, and she was prepared to meet rowan in the hall. "i told you i should call," said he. "i hope you'll let me come in." "mamma will be very glad to see you," she said. then she brought him up and introduced him. mrs. ray rose from her chair and curtseyed, muttering something as to its being a long way for him to walk out there to the cottage. "i said i should come, mrs. ray, if miss ray did not make her appearance at the brewery in the morning. we had such a nice party, and of course one wants to talk it over." "i hope mrs. tappitt is quite well after it,--and the girls," said rachel. "oh, yes. you know we kept it up two hours after you were gone. i can't say mr. tappitt is quite right this morning." "is he ill?" asked mrs. ray. "well, no; not ill, i think, but i fancy that the party put him out a little. middle-aged gentlemen don't like to have all their things poked away anywhere. ladies don't mind it, i fancy." "ladies know where to find them, as it is they who do the poking away," said rachel. "but i'm sorry about mr. tappitt." "i'm sorry, too, for he's a good-natured sort of a man when he's not put out. i say, mrs. ray, what a very pretty place you have got here." "we think so because we're proud of our flowers." "i do almost all the gardening myself," said rachel. "there's nothing i like so much as a garden, only i never can remember the names of the flowers. they've got such grand names down here. when i was a boy, in warwickshire, they used to have nothing but roses and sweetwilliams. one could remember them." "we haven't got anything very grand here," said rachel. soon after that they were sauntering out among the little paths and rachel was picking flowers for him. she felt no difficulty in doing it, as her mother stood by her, though she would not for worlds have given him even a rose if they'd been alone. "i wonder whether mr. rowan would come in and have some tea," said mrs. ray. "oh, wouldn't i," said rowan, "if i were asked?" rachel was highly delighted with her mother, not so much on account of her courtesy to their guest, as that she had shown herself equal to the occasion, and had behaved, in an unabashed manner, as a mistress of a house should do. mrs. ray had been in such dread of the young man's coming, that rachel had feared she would be speechless. now the ice was broken, and she would do very well. the merit, however, did not belong to mrs. ray, but to rowan. he had the gift of making himself at home with people, and had done much towards winning the widow's heart, when, after an interval of ten minutes, they two followed rachel into the house. rachel then had her hat on, and was about to go over the green to the farmer's house. "mamma, i'll just run over to mrs. sturt's for some cream," said she. "mayn't i go with you?" said rowan. "certainly not," said rachel. "you'd frighten mrs. sturt out of all her composure, and we should never get the cream." then rachel went off, and rowan was again left with her mother. he had seated himself at her request in an arm-chair, and there for a minute or two he sat silent. mrs. ray was busy with the tea-things, but she suddenly felt that she was oppressed by the stranger's presence. while rachel had been there, and even when they had been walking among the flower-beds, she had been quite comfortable; but now the knowledge that he was there, in the room with her, as he sat silent in the chair, was becoming alarming. had she been right to ask him to stay for tea? he looked and spoke like a sheep; but then, was it not known to all the world that wolves dressed themselves often in that guise, so that they might carry out their wicked purposes? had she not been imprudent? and then there was the immediate trouble of his silence. what was she to say to him to break it? that trouble, however, was soon brought to an end by rowan himself. "mrs. ray," said he, "i think your daughter is the nicest girl i ever saw in my life." mrs. ray instantly put down the tea-caddy which she had in her hand, and started, with a slight gasp in her throat, as though cold water had been thrown over her. at the instant she said nothing. what was she to say in answer to so violent a proposition? "upon my word i do," said luke, who was too closely engaged with his own thoughts and his own feelings to pay much immediate attention to mrs. ray. "it isn't only that she's good-looking, but there's something,--i don't know what it is,--but she's just the sort of person i like. i told her i should come to-day, and i have come on purpose to say this to you. i hope you won't be angry with me." "pray, sir, don't say anything to her to turn her head." "if i understand her, mrs. ray, it wouldn't be very easy to turn her head. but suppose she has turned mine?" "ah, no. young gentlemen like you are in no danger of that sort of thing. but for a poor girl--" "i don't think you quite understand me, mrs. ray. i didn't mean anything about danger. my danger would be that she shouldn't care twopence for me; and i don't suppose she ever will. but what i want to know is whether you would object to my coming over here and seeing her. i don't doubt but she might do much better." "oh dear no," said mrs. ray. "but i should like to have my chance." "you've not said anything to her yet, mr. rowan?" "well, no; i can't say i have. i meant to do so last night at the party, but she wouldn't stay and hear me. i don't think she cares very much about me, but i'll take my chance if you'll let me." "here she is," said mrs. ray. then she again went to work with the tea-caddy, so that rachel might be led to believe that nothing special had occurred in her absence. nevertheless, had rowan been away, every word would have been told to her. "i hope you like clotted cream," said rachel, taking off her hat. luke declared that it was the one thing in all the world that he liked best, and that he had come into devonshire with the express object of feasting upon it all his life. "other devonshire dainties were not," he said, "so much to his taste. he had another object in life. he intended to put down cider." "i beg you won't do anything of the kind," said mrs. ray, "for i always drink it at dinner." then rowan explained how that he was a brewer, and that he looked upon it as his duty to put down so poor a beverage as cider. the people of devonshire, he averred, knew nothing of beer, and it was his ambition to teach them. mrs. ray grew eager in the defence of cider, and then they again became comfortable and happy. "i never heard of such a thing in my life," said mrs. ray. "what are the farmers to do with all their apple trees? it would be the ruin of the whole country." "i don't suppose it can be done all at once," said luke. "not even by mr. rowan," said rachel. he sat there for an hour after their tea, and mrs. ray had in truth become fond of him. when he spoke to rachel he did so with the utmost respect, and he seemed to be much more intimate with the mother than with the daughter. mrs. ray's mind was laden with the burden of what he had said in rachel's absence, and with the knowledge that she would have to discuss it when rowan was gone; but she felt herself to be happy while he remained, and had begun to hope that he would not go quite yet. rachel also was perfectly happy. she said very little, but thought much of her different meetings with him,--of the arm in the clouds, of the promise of his friendship, of her first dance, of the little fraud by which he had secured her company at supper, and then of those words he had spoken when he detained her after supper in the hall. she knew that she liked him well, but had feared that such liking might not be encouraged. but what could be nicer than this,--to sit and listen to him in her mother's presence? now she was not afraid of him. now she feared no one's eyes. now she was disturbed by no dread lest she might be sinning against rules of propriety. there was no mrs. tappitt by, to rebuke her with an angry look. "oh, mr. rowan, i'm sure you need not go yet," she said, when he got up and sought his hat. "mr. rowan, my dear, has got other things to do besides talking to us." "oh no, he has not. he can't go and brew after eight o'clock." "when my brewery is really going, i mean to brew all night; but just at present i'm the idlest man in baslehurst. when i go away i shall sit upon cawston bridge and smoke for an hour, till some of the briggses of the town come and drive me away. but i won't trouble you any longer. good night, mrs. ray." "good night, mr. rowan." "and i may come and see you again?" mrs. ray was silent. "i'm sure mamma will be very happy," said rachel. "i want to hear her say so herself," said luke. poor woman! she felt that she was driven into a position from which any safe escape was quite impossible. she could not tell her guest that he would not be welcome. she could not even pretend to speak to him with cold words after having chatted with him so pleasantly, and with such cordial good humour; and yet, were she to tell him that he might come, she would be granting him permission to appear there as rachel's lover. if rachel had been away, she would have appealed to his mercy, and have thrown herself, in the spirit, on her knees before him. but she could not do this in rachel's presence. "i suppose business will prevent your coming so far out of town again very soon." it was a foolish subterfuge; a vain, silly attempt. "oh dear no," said he; "i always walk somewhere every day, and you shall see me again before long." then he turned to rachel. "shall you be at mr. tappitt's to-morrow?" "i don't quite know," said rachel. "i suppose i might as well tell you the truth and have done with it," said luke, laughing. "i hate secrets among friends. the fact is mr. tappitt has turned me out of his house." "turned you out?" said mrs. ray. "oh, mr. rowan!" said rachel. "that's the truth," said rowan. "it's about that horrid brewery. he means to be honest, and so do i. but in such matters it is so hard to know what the right of each party really is. i fear we shall have to go to law. but there's a lady coming in, so i'll tell you the rest of it to-morrow. i want you to know it all, mrs. ray, and to understand it too." "a lady!" said mrs. ray, looking out through the open window. "oh dear, if here isn't dorothea!" then rowan shook hands with them both, pressing rachel's very warmly, close under her mother's eyes; and as he went out of the house into the garden, he passed mrs. prime on the walk, and took off his hat to her with great composure. chapter xii. rachel ray thinks "she does like him." luke rowan's appearance at mrs. ray's tea-table, as described in the last chapter, took place on wednesday evening, and it may be remembered that on the morning of that same day mrs. prime had been closeted with mr. prong in that gentleman's parlour. she had promised to give mr. prong an answer to his proposal on saturday, and had consequently settled herself down steadily to think of all that was good and all that might be evil in such an arrangement as that suggested to her. she wished much for legal advice, but she made up her mind that that was beyond her reach, was beyond her reach as a preliminary assistance. she knew enough of the laws of her country to enable her to be sure that, though she might accept the offer, her own money could be so tied up on her behalf that her husband could not touch the principal of her wealth; but she did not know whether things could be so settled that she might have in her own hands the spending of her income. by three o'clock on that day she thought that she would accept mr. prong, if she could be satisfied on that head. her position as a clergyman's wife,--a minister's wife she called it,--would be unexceptionable. the company of miss pucker was distasteful. solitude was not charming to her. and then, could she not work harder as a married woman than in the position which she now held? and also, could she not so work with increased power and increased perseverance? at three o'clock she had almost made up her mind, but still she was sadly in need of counsel and information. then it occurred to her that her mother might have some knowledge in this matter. in most respects her mother was not a woman of the world; but it was just possible that in this difficulty her mother might assist her. her mother might at any rate ask of others, and there was no one else whom she could trust to seek such information for her. and if she did this thing she must tell her mother. it is true that she had quarrelled with them both at bragg's end; but there are affairs in life which will ride over family quarrels and trample them out, unless they be deeper and of longer standing than that between mrs. prime and mrs. ray. therefore it was that she appeared at the cottage at bragg's end just as luke rowan was leaving it. she had entered upon the green with something of the olive-branch in her spirit, and before she reached the gate had determined that, as far as was within her power, all unkindness should be buried on the present occasion; but when she saw luke rowan coming out of her mother's door, she was startled out of all her good feeling. she had taught herself to look on rowan as the personification of mischief, as the very mischief itself in regard to rachel. she had lifted up her voice against him. she had left her home and torn herself from her family because it was not compatible with the rigour of her principles that any one known to her should be known to him also! but she had hardly left her mother's house when this most pernicious cause of war was admitted to all the freedom of family intercourse! it almost seemed to her that her mother must be a hypocrite. it was but the other day that mrs. ray could not hear luke rowan's name mentioned without wholesome horror. but where was that wholesome horror now? on monday, mrs. prime had left the cottage; on tuesday, rachel had gone to a ball, expressly to meet the young man! and on wednesday the young man was drinking tea at bragg's end cottage! mrs. prime would have gone away without speaking a word to her mother or sister, had such retreat been possible. stately and solemn was the recognition which she accorded to luke's salutation, and then she walked on into the house. "oh, dorothea!" said her mother, and there was a tone almost of shame in mrs. ray's voice. "we're so glad to see you, dolly," said rachel, and in rachel's voice there was no tone of shame. it was all just as it should not be! "i did not mean to disturb you, mother, while you were entertaining company." mrs. ray said nothing,--nothing at the moment; but rachel took upon herself to answer her sister. "you wouldn't have disturbed us at all, even if you had come a little sooner. but you are not too late for tea, if you'll have some." "i've taken tea, thank you, two hours ago;" and she spoke as though there were much virtue in the distance of time at which she had eaten and drunk, as compared with the existing rakish and dissipated appearance of her mother's tea-table. tea-things about at eight o'clock! it was all of a piece together. "we are very glad to see you, at any rate," said mrs. ray; "i was afraid you would not have come out to us at all." "perhaps it would have been better if i had not come." "i don't see that," said rachel. "i think it's much better. i hate quarrelling, and i hope you're going to stay now you are here." "no, rachel, i'm not going to stay. mother, it is impossible i should see that young man walking out of your house in that way without speaking of it; although i'm well aware that my voice here goes for nothing now." "that was mr. luke rowan," said mrs. ray. "i know very well who it was," said mrs. prime, shaking her head. "rachel will remember that i've seen him before." "and you'll be likely to see him again if you stay here, dolly," said rachel. this she said out of pure mischief,--that sort of mischief which her sister's rebuke was sure to engender. "i dare say," said mrs. prime; "whenever he pleases, no doubt. but i shall not see him. if you approve of it, mother, of course i can say nothing further,--nothing further than this, that i don't approve of such things." "but what ails him that he shouldn't be a very good young man?" says mrs. ray. "and if it was so that he was growing fond of rachel, why shouldn't he? and if rachel was to like him, i don't see why she shouldn't like somebody some day as well as other girls." mrs. ray had been a little put beside herself or she would hardly have said so much in rachel's presence. she had forgotten, probably, that rachel had not as yet been made acquainted with the nature of rowan's proposal. "mamma, don't talk in that way. there's nothing of that kind," said rachel. "i don't believe there is," said mrs. prime. "i say there is then," said mrs. ray; "and it's very ill-natured in you, dorothea, to speak and think in that way of your sister." "oh, very well. i see that i had better go back to baslehurst at once." "so it is very ill-natured. i can't bear to have these sort of quarrels; but i must speak out for her. i believe he's a very good young man, with nothing bad about him at all, and he is welcome to come here whenever he pleases. and as for rachel, i believe she knows how to mind herself as well as you did when you were her age; only poor mr. prime was come and gone at that time. and as for his not intending, he came out here just because he did intend, and only to ask my permission. i didn't at first tell him he might because rachel was over at the farm getting the cream, and i thought she ought to be consulted first; and if that's not straightforward and proper, i'm sure i don't know what is; and he having a business of his own, too, and able to maintain a wife to-morrow! and if a young man isn't to be allowed to ask leave to see a young woman when he thinks he likes her, i for one don't know how young people are to get married at all." then mrs. ray sat down, put her apron up to her eyes, and had a great cry. it was a most eloquent speech, and i cannot say which of her daughters was the most surprised by it. as to rachel, it must be remembered that very much was communicated to her of which she had hitherto known nothing. very much indeed, we may say, so much that it was of a nature to alter the whole tone and tenor of her life. this young man of whom she had thought so much, and of whom she had been so much in dread,--fearing that her many thoughts of him were becoming dangerous,--this young man who had interested her so warmly, had come out to bragg's end simply to get her mother's leave to pay his court to her. and he had done this without saying a word to herself! there was something in this infinitely sweeter to her than would have been any number of pretty speeches from himself. she had hitherto been angry with him, though liking him well; she had been angry with though almost loving him. she had not known why it was so, but the cause had been this,--that he had seemed in their intercourse together, to have been deficient in that respect which she had a right to claim. but now all that sin was washed away by such a deed as this. as the meaning of her mother's words sank into her heart, and as she came to understand her mother's declaration that luke rowan should be welcome to the cottage as her lover, her eyes became full of tears, and the spirit of her animosity against her sister was quenched by the waters of her happiness. and mrs. prime was almost equally surprised, but was by no means equally delighted. had the whole thing fallen out in a different way, she would probably have looked on a marriage with luke rowan as good and salutary for her sister. at any rate, seeing that the world is as it is, and that all men cannot be hard-working ministers of the gospel, nor all women the wives of such or their assistants in godly ministrations, she would not have taken upon herself to oppose such a marriage. but as it was, she had resolved that luke rowan was a black sheep; that he was pitch, not to be touched without defilement; that he was, in short, a man to be regarded by religious people as anathema,--a thing accursed; and of that idea she was not able to divest herself suddenly. why had the young man walked about under the churchyard elms at night? why, if he were not wicked and abandoned, did he wear that jaunty look,--that look which was so worldly? and, moreover, he went to balls, and tempted others to do the like! in a word, he was a young man manifestly of that class which was esteemed by mrs. prime more dangerous than roaring lions. it was not possible that she should give up her opinion merely because this roaring lion had come out to her mother with a plausible story. upon her at that moment fell the necessity of forming a judgment to which it would be necessary that she should hereafter abide. she must either at once give in her adherence to the rowan alliance; or else, if she opposed it, she must be prepared to cling to that opposition. she was aware that some such decision was now required, and paused for a moment before she declared herself. but that moment only strengthened her verdict against rachel's lover. could any serious young man have taken off his hat with the flippancy which had marked that action on his part? would not any serious young man, properly intent on matrimonial prospects, have been subdued at such a moment to a more solemn deportment? mrs. prime's verdict was still against him, and that verdict she proceeded to pronounce. "oh, very well; then of course i shall interfere no further. i shouldn't have thought that rachel's seeing him twice, in such a way as that, too--hiding under the churchyard trees!" "i wasn't hiding," said rachel, "and you've no business to say so." her tears, however, prevented her from fighting her own battle manfully, or with her usual courage. "it looked very much like it, rachel, at any rate. i should have thought that mother would have wished you to have known a great deal more about any young man before she encouraged you to regard him in that way, than you can possibly know of mr. rowan." "but how are they to know each other, dorothea, if they mustn't see one another?" said mrs. ray. "i have no doubt he knows how to dance very cleverly. as rachel is being taught to live now, that may perhaps be the chief thing necessary." this blow did reach poor mrs. ray, who a week or two since would certainly have agreed with her elder daughter in thinking that dancing was sinful. into this difficulty, however, she had been brought by mr. comfort's advice. "but what else can she know of him?" continued mrs. prime. "he is able to maintain a wife you say,--and is that all that is necessary to consider in the choice of a husband, or is that the chief thing? oh, mother, you should think of your responsibility at such a time as this. it may be very pleasant for rachel to have this young man as her lover, very pleasant while it lasts. but what--what--what?" then mrs. prime was so much oppressed by the black weight of her own thoughts, that she was unable further to express them. "i do think about it," said mrs. ray. "i think about it more than anything else." "and have you concluded that in this way you can best secure rachel's welfare? oh, mother!" "he always goes to church on sundays," said rachel. "i don't know why you are to make him out so bad." this she said with her eyes fixed upon her mother, for it seemed to her that her mother was almost about to yield. a good deal might be said in excuse for mrs. prime. she was not only acting for the best in accordance with her own lights, but the doctrine which she now preached was the doctrine which had been held by the inhabitants of the cottage at bragg's end. the fault, if fault there was, had been in the teaching under which had lived both mrs. prime and her mother. in their desire to live in accordance with that teaching, they had agreed to regard all the outer world, that is all the world except their world, as wicked and dangerous. they had never conceived that in forming this judgment they were deficient in charity; nor, indeed, were they conscious that they had formed any such judgment. in works of charity they had striven to be abundant, but had taken simply the dorcas view of that virtue. the younger and more energetic woman had become sour in her temper under the _rã©gime_ of this life, while the elder and weaker had retained her own sweetness partly because of her weakness. but who can say that either of them were other than good women,--good according to such lights as had been lit for their guidance? but now the younger was stanch to her old lessons while the elder was leaving them. the elder was leaving them, not by force of her own reason, but under the necessity of coming in contact with the world which was brought upon her by the vitality and instincts of her younger child. this difficulty she had sought to master, once and for ever, by a reference to her clergyman. what had been the result of that reference the reader already knows. "mother," said mrs. prime, very solemnly, "is this young man such a one as you would have chosen for rachel's husband six months ago?" "i never wished to choose any man for her husband," said mrs. ray. "i don't think you ought to talk to me in that way, dorothea." "i don't know in what other way to talk to you. i cannot be indifferent on such a subject as this. when you tell me, and that before rachel herself, that you have given this young man leave to come and see her whenever he pleases." "i never said anything of the kind, dorothea." "did you not, mother? i am sure i understood you so." "i said he had come to ask leave, and that i should be glad to see him when he did come, but i didn't say anything of having told him so. i didn't tell him anything of the kind; did i, rachel? but i know he will come, and i don't see why he shouldn't. and if he does, i can't turn him out. he took his tea here quite like a steady young man. he drank three large cups; and if, as rachel says, he always goes to church regularly, i don't know why we are to judge him and say that he's anything out of the way." "i have not judged him, mother." then rachel spoke out, and we may say that it was needful that she should do so. this offering of her heart had been discussed in her presence in a manner that had been very painful to her, though the persons discussing it had been her own mother and her own sister. but in truth she had been so much affected by what had been said, there had been so much in it that was first joyful and then painful to her, that she had not hitherto been able to repress her emotions so as to acquire the power of much speech. but she had struggled, and now so far succeeded as to be able to come to her mother's support. "i don't know, mamma, why anybody should judge him yet; and as to what he has said to me, i'm sure no one has a right to judge him unkindly. dolly has been very angry with me because she saw me speaking to him in the churchyard, and has said that i was--hiding." "i meant that he was hiding." "neither of us were hiding, and it was an unkind word, not like a sister. i have never had to hide from anybody. and as for--for--for liking mr. rowan after such words as that, i will not say anything about it to anybody, except to mamma. if he were to ask me to be--his wife, i don't know what answer i should make,--not yet. but i shall never listen to any one while mamma lives, if she wishes me not." then she turned to her mother, and mrs. ray, who had before been driven to doubt by mrs. prime's words, now again became strong in her resolution to cherish rachel's lover. "i don't believe she'll ever do anything to make me think that i oughtn't to have trusted her," said mrs. ray, embracing rachel and speaking with her own eyes full of tears. it now seemed to mrs. prime that there was nothing left for her but to go. in her eagerness about her sister's affairs, she had for a while forgotten her own; and now, as she again remembered the cause that had brought her on the present occasion to bragg's end, she felt that she must return without accomplishing her object. after having said so much in reprobation of her sister's love-affair, it was hardly possible that she should tell the tale of her own. and yet her need was urgent. she had pledged herself to give mr. prong an answer on friday, and she could hardly bring herself to accept that gentleman's offer without first communicating with her mother on the subject. any such communication at the present moment was quite out of the question. "perhaps it would be better that i should go and leave you," she said. "if i can do no good, i certainly don't want to do any harm. i wish that rachel would have taken to what i think a better course of life." "why, what have i done?" said rachel, turning round sharply. "i mean about the dorcas meetings." "i don't like the women there;--that's why i haven't gone." "i believe them to be good, praiseworthy, godly women. but it is useless to talk about that now. good-night, rachel," and she gave her hand coldly to her sister. "good-night, mother; i wish i could see you alone to-morrow." "come here for your dinner," said mrs. ray. "no;--but if you would come to me in the morning i should take it kindly." this mrs. ray promised to do, and then mrs. prime walked back to baslehurst. rachel, when her sister was gone, felt that there was much to be said between her and her mother. mrs. ray herself was so inconsequent in her mental workings, so shandy-pated if i may say so, that it did not occur to her that an entirely new view of luke rowan's purposes had been exposed to rachel during this visit of mrs. prime's, or that anything had been said, which made a further explanation necessary. she had, as it were, authorized rachel to regard rowan as her lover, and yet was not aware that she had done so. but rachel had remembered every word. she had resolved that she would permit herself to form no special intimacy with luke rowan without her mother's leave; but she was also beginning to resolve that with her mother's leave, such intimacy would be very pleasant. of this she was quite sure within her own heart,--that it should not be abandoned at her sister's instigation. "mamma," she said, "i did not know that he had spoken to you in that way." "in what way, rachel?" mrs. ray's voice was not quite pleasant. now that mrs. prime was gone, she would have been glad to have had the dangerous subject abandoned for a while. "that he had asked you to let him come here, and that he had said that about me." "he did then,--while you were away at mrs. sturt's." "and what answer did you give him?" "i didn't give him any answer. you came back, and i'm sure i was very glad that you did, for i shouldn't have known what to say to him." "but what was it that he did say, mamma?--that is, if you don't think it wrong to tell me." "i hardly know; but i don't suppose it can be wrong, for no young man could have spoken nicer; and it made me happy to hear him,--so it did, for the moment." "oh, mamma, do tell me!" and rachel kneeled down before her. "well;--he said you were the nicest girl he had ever seen." "did he, mamma?" and the girl clung closer to her mother as she heard the pleasant words. "but i oughtn't to tell you such nonsense as that; and then he said that he wanted to come out here and see you, and--and--and--; it is simply this, that he meant to ask you to be his sweetheart, if i would let him." "and what did you say, mamma?" "i couldn't say anything because you came back." "but you told dolly that you would be glad to see him whenever he might choose to come here." "did i?" "yes; you said he was welcome to come whenever he pleased, and that you believed him to be a very good young man." "and so i do. why should he be anything else?" "i don't say that he's anything else; but, mamma--" "well, my dear." "what shall i say to him if he does ask me that question? he has called me by my name two or three times, and spoken to me as though he wanted me to like him. if he does say anything to me like that, what shall i answer?" "if you think you don't like him well enough, you must tell him so, of course." "yes, of course i must." then rachel was silent for a minute or two. she had not as yet received the full answer which she desired. in such an alternative as that which her mother had suggested, we may say that she would have known how to frame her answer to the young man without any advice from her mother. but there was another alternative as to which she thought it well that she should have her mother's judgment and opinion. "but, mamma, i think i do like him," said rachel, burying her face. "i'm sure i don't wonder at it," said mrs. ray, "for i like him very much. he has a way with him so much nicer than most of the young men now; and then, he's very well off, which, after all, must count for something. a young woman should never fall in love with a man who can't earn his bread, not if he was ever so religious or steady. and he's very good-looking, too. good looks are only skin-deep i know, and they won't bring much comfort when sorrow comes; but i do own i love to look on a young fellow with a sonsy face and a quick lively step. mr. comfort seemed to think it would do very well if there was to be any such thing; and if he's not able to tell, i'm sure i don't know who ought to be. and nothing could be fairer than his coming out here and telling me first. there's so many of them are sly; but there was nothing sly about that." in this way, with many more rambling words, with many kisses also, and with some tears, rachel ray received from her mother permission to regard luke rowan as her lover. chapter xiii. mr. tappitt in his counting-house. luke rowan, when he left the cottage, walked quickly back across the green towards baslehurst. he had sauntered out slowly on his road from the brewery to bragg's end, being in doubt as to what he would do when he reached his destination; but there was no longer room for doubt now; he had said that to rachel's mother which made any further doubt impossible, and he was resolved that he would ask rachel to be his wife. he had spoken to mrs. ray of his intention in that respect as though he thought that such an offer on his part might probably be rejected, and in so speaking had at the time spoken the truth; but he was eager, sanguine, and self-confident by nature, and though he was by no means disposed to regard himself as a conquering hero by whom any young lady would only be too happy to find herself beloved, he did not at the present moment look forward to his future fate with despair. he walked quickly home along the dusty road, picturing to himself a happy prosperous future in baslehurst, with rachel as his wife, and the tappitts living in some neighbouring villa on an income paid to old tappitt by him out of the proceeds of the brewery. that was his present solution of the brewery difficulty. tappitt was growing old, and it might be quite as well not only for himself, but for the cause of humanity in devonshire, that he should pass the remainder of his life in that dignity which comfortable retirement from business affords. he did not desire tappitt for a partner any more than tappitt desired him. nevertheless he was determined to brew beer, and was anxious to do so if possible on the spot where his great-uncle bungall had commenced operations in that line. it may be well to explain here that rowan was not without good standing-ground in his dispute with tappitt. old bungall's will had somewhat confused matters, as it is in the nature of wills to do; but it had been bungall's desire that his full share in the brewery should go to his nephew after his widow's death, should he on dying leave a widow. now it had happened that he had left a widow, and that the widow had contrived to live longer than the nephew. she had drawn an income of five hundred a year from the concern, by agreement between her and her lawyer and tappitt and his lawyer; and tappitt, when the elder rowan, bungall's nephew, died, had taught himself to believe that all the affairs of the brewery must now remain for ever in his own hands, unless he himself might choose to make other provision. he knew that some property in the concern would pass away from him when the old lady died, but he had not acknowledged to himself that young rowan would inherit from his father all the rights which old rowan would have possessed had he lived. luke's father had gone into other walks of life, and had lived prosperously, leaving behind him money for his widow, and money also for his children; and tappitt, when he found that there was a young man with a claim to a partnership in his business, had been not only much annoyed, but surprised also. he had been, as we have seen, persuaded to hold out the right hand of friendship, and the left hand of the partnership to the young man. he had thought that he might manage a young man from london who knew nothing of beer; and his wife had thought that the young man might probably like to take a wife as well as an income out of the concern; but, as we have seen, they had both been wrong in their hopes. luke chose to manage the brewery instead of being managed; and had foolishly fallen in love with rachel ray instead of taking augusta tappitt to himself as he should have done. there was much certainly of harshness and cruelty in that idea of an opposition brewery in baslehurst to be established in enmity to bungall and tappitt, and to be so established with bungall's money, and by bungall's heir. but luke, as he walked back to baslehurst, thinking now of his beer and now of his love, declared to himself that he wanted only his own. let tappitt deal justly with him in that matter of the partnership, and he would deal even generously with tappitt. the concern gave an income of some fifteen hundred pounds, out of which mrs. bungall, as taking no share of the responsibility or work, had been allowed to have a third. he was informed by his lawyer that he was entitled to claim one-half of the whole concern. if tappitt would give in his adhesion to that villa arrangement, he should still have his thousand a year for life, and mrs. tappitt afterwards should have due provision, and the girls should have all that could fairly be claimed for them. or, if the villa scheme could not be carried out quite at present, he, rowan, would do two shares of the work, and allow tappitt to take two shares of the pay; but then, in that case, he must be allowed scope for his improvements. good beer should be brewed for the people of baslehurst, and the eyes of devonshire should be opened. pondering over all this, and resolving that he would speak out his mind openly to rachel on the morrow, luke rowan reached his inn. "there's a lady, sir, up-stairs, as wishes to speak to you," said the waiter. "a lady?" "quite elderly, sir," said the waiter, intending to put an end to any excitement on rowan's part. "it's the gentleman's own mother," said the chambermaid, in a tone of reproof, "and she's in number two sitting-room, private." so luke went to number two sitting-room, private, and there he found his mother waiting for him. "this is very sad," she said, when their first greetings were over. "about old tappitt? yes, it is; but what could i do, mother? he's a stupid old man, and pig-headed. he would quarrel with me, so that i was obliged to leave the house. if you and mary like to come into lodgings while you stay here, i can get rooms for you." but mrs. rowan explained that she herself did not wish to come to any absolute or immediate rupture with mrs. tappitt. of course their visit would be shortened, but mrs. tappitt was disposed to be very civil, as were the girls. then mrs. rowan suggested whether there might not be a reconciliation between luke and the brewery family. "but, mother, i have not quarrelled with the family." "it comes to the same thing, luke; does it not? don't you think you could say something civil to mr. tappitt, so as to--to bring him round again? he's older than you are, you know, luke." rowan perceived at once that his mother was ranging herself on the tappitt side in the contest, and was therefore ready to fight with so much the more vigour. he was accustomed to yield to his mother in all little things, mrs. rowan being a woman who liked such yieldings; but for some time past he had held his own against her in all greater matters. now and again, for an hour or so, she would show that she was vexed; but her admiration for him was so genuine, and her love so strong, that this vexation never endured, and luke had been taught to think that his judgment was to be held supreme in all their joint concerns. "yes, mother, he is older than i am; but i do not know that i can say anything particularly civil to him,--that is, more civil than what i have said. the civility which he wants is the surrender of my rights. i can't be so civil as that." "no, luke, i should be the last to ask you to surrender any of your rights; you must be sure of that. but--oh, luke, if what i hear is true i shall be so unhappy!" "and what have you heard, mother?" "i am afraid all this is not about the brewery altogether." "but it is about the brewery altogether;--about that and about nothing else to any smallest extent. i don't at all know what you mean." "luke, is there no young lady in the case?" "young lady! in what case;--in the case of my quarrel with old tappitt;--whether he and i have had a difference about a young lady?" "no, luke; you know i don't mean that." "but what do you mean, mother?" "i'm afraid that you know too well. is there not a young lady whom you've met at mrs. tappitt's, and whom you--you pretend to admire?" "and suppose there is,--for the sake of the argument,--what has that to do with my difference with mr. tappitt?" as rowan asked this question some slight conception of the truth flashed across his mind; some faint idea came home to him of the connecting link between his admiration for rachel ray and mr. tappitt's animosity. "but is it so, luke?" asked the anxious mother. "i care much more about that than i do about all the brewery put together. nothing would make me so wretched as to see you make a marriage that was beneath you." "i don't think i shall ever make you wretched in that way." "and you tell me that there is nothing in this that i have heard;--nothing at all." "no, by heavens!--i tell you no such thing. i do not know what you may have heard. that you have heard falsehood and calumny i guess by your speaking of a marriage that would be beneath me. but, as you think it right to ask me, i will not deceive you by any subterfuge. it is my purpose to ask a girl here in baslehurst to be my wife." "then you have not asked her yet." "you are cross-examining me very closely, mother. if i have not asked her i am bound to do so; not that any binding is necessary,--for without being bound i certainly should do so." "and it is miss ray?" "yes, it is miss ray." "oh, luke, then indeed i shall be very wretched." "why so, mother? have you heard anything against her?" "against her! well; i will not say that, for i do not wish to say anything against any young woman. but do you know who she is, luke; and who her mother is? they are quite poor people." "and is that against them?" "not against their moral character certainly, but it is against them in considering the expediency of a connection with them. you would hardly wish to marry out of your own station. i am told that the mother lives in a little cottage, quite in a humble sphere, and that the sister--" "i intend to marry neither the mother nor the sister; but rachel ray i do intend to marry,--if she will have me. if i had been left to myself i should not have told you of this till i had found myself to be successful; as you have asked me i have not liked to deceive you. but, mother, do not speak against her if you can say nothing worse of her than that she is poor." "you misunderstand me, luke." "i hope so. i do not like to think that that objection should be made by you." "of course it is an objection, but it is not the one which i meant to make. there may be many a young lady whom it would be quite fitting that you should wish to marry even though she had not got a shilling. it would be much pleasanter of course that the lady should have something, though i should never think of making any serious objection about that. but what i should chiefly look to would be the young lady herself, and her position in life." "the young lady herself would certainly be the main thing," said luke. "that's what i say;--the young lady herself and her position in life. have you made any inquiries?" "yes, i have;--and am almost ashamed of myself for doing so." "i have no doubt mrs. ray is very respectable, but the sort of people who are her friends are not your friends. their most particular friends are the farmer's family that lives near them." "how was it then that mrs. cornbury took her to the party?" "ah, yes; i can explain that. and mrs. tappitt has told me how sorry she is that people should have been deceived by what has occurred." luke rowan's brow grew black as mrs. tappitt's name was mentioned, but he said nothing and his mother continued her speech. "her girls have been very kind to miss ray, inviting her to walk with them and all that sort of thing, because of her being so much alone without any companions of her own." "oh, that has been it, has it? i thought she had the farmer's family out near where she lived." "if you choose to listen to me, luke, i shall be obliged to you, but if you take me up at every word in that way, of course i must leave you." then she paused, but as luke said nothing she went on with her discourse. "it was in that way that she came to know the miss tappitts, and then one of them, the youngest i think, asked her to come to the party. it was very indiscreet; but mrs. tappitt did not like to go back from her daughter's word, and so the girl was allowed to come." "and to make the blunder pass off easily, mrs. cornbury was induced to take her?" "mrs. cornbury happened to be staying with her father, in whose parish they had lived for many years, and it certainly was very kind of her. but it has been an unfortunate mistake altogether. the poor girl has for a moment been lifted out of her proper sphere, and,--as you must have seen yourself,--hardly knew how to behave herself. it made mrs. tappitt very unhappy." this was more than luke rowan was able to bear. his anger was not against his own mother, but against the mistress of the brewery. it was manifest that she had been maligning rachel, and instigating his mother to take up the cudgels against her. and he was vexed also that his mother had not perceived that rachel held, or was entitled to hold, among women a much higher position than could be fairly accorded to mrs. tappitt. "i do not care one straw for mrs. tappitt's unhappiness," he said; "and as to miss ray's conduct at her house, i do not think that there was anything in it that did not become her. i do not know what you mean, the least in the world; and i think you would have no such idea yourself, if mrs. tappitt had not put it into your head." "you should not speak in that way to your mother, luke." "i must speak strongly when i am defending my wife,--as i hope she will be. i never heard of anything in my life so little as this woman's conduct! it is mean, paltry jealousy, and nothing else. you, as my mother, may think it better that i should not marry." "but, my dear, i want you to marry." "then i will do as you want. or you may think that i should find some one with money, or with grand friends, or with a better connection. it is natural that you should think like this. but why should she want to belittle a young girl like rachel ray,--a girl that her own daughters call their friend? i'll tell you why, mother. because rachel ray was admired and they were not." "is there anybody in baslehurst that will say that she is your equal?" "i am not disposed to ask any one in baslehurst just at present; and i would not advise any one in baslehurst to volunteer an opinion to me on the subject. i intend that she shall be my equal,--my equal in every respect, if i can make her so. i shall certainly ask her to be my wife; and, mother, as my mind is positively made up on that point,--as nothing on earth will alter me,--i hope you will teach yourself to think kindly of her. i should be very unhappy if my house could not be your home when you may choose to make it so." but mrs. rowan, much as she was accustomed to yield to her son, could not bring herself to yield in this matter,--or, at least, not to yield with grace. she felt that the truth and wisdom all lay on her side in the argument, though she knew that she had lacked words in which to carry it on. she declared to herself that she was not at all inclined to despise anybody for living in a small cottage, or for being poor. she would have been delighted to be very civil to mrs. ray herself, and could have patronized rachel quite as kindly, though perhaps not so graciously, as mrs. cornbury had done. but it was a different thing when her son came to think of making this young woman his wife! old mrs. cornbury would have been very sorry to see either of her sons make such an alliance. when anything so serious as marriage was to be considered, it was only proper to remember that mrs. ray lived in a cottage, and that farmer sturt was her friend and neighbour. but to all this prudence and wisdom luke would not listen at all, and at last mrs. rowan left him in dudgeon. foolish and hasty as he was, he could, as she felt, talk better than she could; and therefore she retreated, feeling that she had been worsted. "i have done my duty," said she, going away. "i have warned you. of course you are your own master and can do as you please." then she left him, refusing his escort, and in the last fading light of the long summer evening, made her way back to the brewery. luke's first impulse was to start off instantly to the cottage, and settle the matter out of hand; but before he had taken up his hat for this purpose he remembered that he could not very well call at bragg's end on such a mission at eleven o'clock at night; so he threw himself back on the hotel sofa, and gave vent to his feelings against the tappitt family. he would make them understand that they were not going to master him. he had come down there disposed to do them all manner of kindness,--to the extent even of greatly improving their fortunes by improving the brewing business,--and they had taken upon themselves to treat him as though he were a dependent. he did not tell himself that a plot had been made to catch him for one of the girls; but he accused them of jealousy, meanness, selfishness, and all those sins and abominations by which such a plot would be engendered. when, about an hour afterwards, he took himself off to bed, he was full of wrath, and determined to display his wrath early on the morrow. as he prayed for forgiveness on condition that he forgave others, his conscience troubled him; but he gulped it down, and went on with his angry feelings till sleep came upon him. but in the morning some of this bitterness had worn away. his last resolve overnight had been to go to the brewery before breakfast, at which period of the day mr. tappitt was always to be found for half an hour in his counting-house, and curtly tell the brewer that all further negotiations between them must be made by their respective lawyers; but as he was dressing, he reflected that mr. tappitt's position was certainly one of difficulty, that amicable arrangements would still be best if amicable arrangements were possible, and that something was due to the man who had for so many years been his uncle's partner. mr. tappitt, moreover, was not responsible for any of those evil things which had been said about rachel by mrs. tappitt. therefore, priding himself somewhat on his charity, he entered mr. tappitt's office without the display of any anger on his face. the brewer was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, with his hands behind the tails of his coat, and his eyes fixed upon a letter which he had just read, and which lay open upon his desk. rowan advanced with his hand out, and tappitt, hesitating a little as he obeyed the summons, put out his own and just touched that of his visitor; then hastily he resumed his position, with his arm behind his coat-tail. "i have come down," said rowan, "because i thought it might be well to have a little chat with you before breakfast." the letter which lay open on the desk was from rowan's lawyer in london, and contained that offer on rowan's part of a thousand a year and retirement, to which luke still looked as the most comfortable termination of all their difficulties. luke had almost forgotten that he had, ten days since, absolutely instructed his lawyer to make the offer; but there was the offer made, and lying on tappitt's table. tappitt had been considering it for the last five minutes, and every additional moment had added to the enmity which he felt against rowan. rowan, at twenty-five, no doubt regarded tappitt, who was nearer sixty than fifty, as a very old man; but men of fifty-five do not like to be so regarded, and are not anxious to be laid upon shelves by their juniors. and, moreover, where was tappitt to find his security for the thousand a year,--as he had not failed to remark to himself on his first glance over the lawyer's letter. buy him out, indeed, and lay him on one side! he hated rowan with all his heart;--and his hatred was much more bitter in its nature than that which rowan was capable of feeling for him. he remembered the champagne; he remembered the young man's busy calling for things in his own house; he remembered the sneers against the beer, and the want of respect with which his experience in the craft had been treated. buy him out! no; not as long as he had a five-pound note to spend, or a leg to stand upon. he was strong in his resolution now, and capable of strength, for mrs. tappitt was also on his side. mrs. rowan had not quite kept her secret as to what had transpired at the inn, and mrs. tappitt was certain that rachel ray had succeeded. when tappitt declared that morning that he would fight it out to the last, mrs. t. applauded his courage. "oh! a little chat, is it?" said tappitt. "about this letter that i've just got, i suppose;" and he gave a contemptuous poke to the epistle with one of his hands. "what letter?" asked rowan. "come now, young man, don't let us have any humbug and trickery, whatever we may do. if there's anything i do hate, it's deceit." all rowan's wrath returned upon him instantly, redoubled and trebled in its energy. "what do you mean, sir?" said he. "who is trying to deceive anybody? how dare you speak to me in such language as that?" "now, look here, mr. rowan. this letter comes from your man in craven street, as of course you know very well. you have chosen to put our business in the hands of the lawyers, and in the hands of the lawyers it shall remain. i have been very wrong in attempting to have any dealings with you. i should have known what sort of a man you were before i let you put your foot in the concern. but i know enough of you now, and, if you please, you'll keep yourself on the other side of those gates for the future. d'ye hear me? unless you wish to be turned out by the men, don't you put your feet inside the brewery premises any more." and tappitt's face as he uttered these words was a face very unpleasant to behold. luke was so astounded that he could not bethink himself at the moment of the most becoming words in which to answer his enemy. his first idea had prompted him to repudiate all present knowledge of the lawyer's letter, seeing that the lawyer's letter had been the ground of that charge against him of deceit. but having been thus kicked out,--kicked out as far as words could kick him, and threatened with personal violence should those words not be obeyed, he found himself unable to go back to the lawyer's letter. "i should like to see any one of your men dare to touch me," said he. "you shall see it very soon if you don't take yourself off," said tappitt. luckily the men were gone to breakfast, and opportunity for violence was wanting. luke looked round, and then remembered that he and tappitt were probably alone in the place. "mr. tappitt," said he, "you're a very foolish man." "i dare say," said tappitt; "very foolish not to give up my own bread, and my wife's and children's bread, to an adventurer like you." "i have endeavoured to treat you with kindness and also with honesty, and because you differ from me, as of course you have a right to do, you think it best to insult me with all the billingsgate you can muster." "if you don't go out of my counting-house, young man, i'll see if i can't put you out myself;" and tappitt, in spite of his fifty-five years, absolutely put his hand down upon the poker. there is no personal encounter in which a young man is so sure to come by the worst as in that with a much older man. this is so surely the case that it ought to be considered cowardly in an old man to attack a young one. if an old man hit a young man over the head with a walking-stick, what can the young man do, except run away to avoid a second blow? then the old man, if he be a wicked old man, as so many are, tells all his friends that he has licked the young man. tappitt would certainly have acted in this way if the weapon in his hand had been a stick instead of a poker. but tappitt, when he saw his own poker in his own hand, was afraid of it. if a woman attack a man with a knife, the man will be held to have fought fairly, though he shall have knocked her down in the encounter. and so also with an old man, if he take a poker instead of a stick, the world will refuse to him the advantage of his gray hairs. some such an idea as this came upon tappitt--by instinct, and thus, though he still held the poker, he refrained his hand. "the man must be mad this morning," said rowan, standing firmly before him, with his two hands fixed upon his hips. "am i to send for the police?" said tappitt. "for a mad-doctor, i should think," said rowan. then tappitt turned round and rang a bell very violently. but as the bell was intended to summon some brewery servant who was now away at his breakfast, it produced no result. "but i have no intention of staying here against your wish, mr. tappitt, whether you're mad or only foolish. this matter must of course be settled by the lawyers now, and i shall not again come on to these premises unless i acquire a legal right to do so as the owner of them." and then, having so spoken, luke rowan walked off. growling inwardly tappitt deposited the poker within the upright fender, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets stood scowling at the door through which his enemy had gone. he knew that he had been wrong; he knew that he had been very foolish. he was a man who had made his way upwards through the world with fair success, and had walked his way not without prudence. he had not been a man of violence, or prone to an illicit use of pokers. he had never been in difficulty for an assault; and had on his conscience not even the blood of a bloody nose, or the crime of a blackened eye. he was hard-working and peaceable; had been churchwarden three times, and mayor of baslehurst once. he was poor-law guardian and way-warden, and filled customarily the various offices of a steady good citizen. what had he to do with pokers, unless it were to extract heat from his coals? he was ashamed of himself as he stood scowling at the door. one fault he perhaps had; and of that fault he had been ruthlessly told by lips that should have been sealed for ever on such a subject. he brewed bad beer; and by whom had this been thrown in his teeth? by bungall's nephew,--by bungall's heir,--by him who claimed to stand in bungall's shoes within that establishment! who had taught him to brew beer--bad or good? had it not been bungall? and now, because in his old age he would not change these things, and ruin himself in a vain attempt to make some beverage that should look bright to the eye, he was to be turned out of his place by this chip from the bungall block, this stave out of one of bungall's vats! "_ruat coelum, fiat justitia_," he said, as he walked forth to his own breakfast. he spoke to himself in other language, indeed, though the roman's sentiment was his own. "i'll stand on my rights, though i have to go into the poor-house." chapter xiv. luke rowan pays a second visit to bragg's end. early after breakfast on that morning,--that morning on which tappitt had for a moment thought of braining luke rowan with the poker,--mrs. ray started from the cottage on her mission into baslehurst. she was going to see her daughter, mrs. prime, at miss pucker's lodgings, and felt sure that the object of her visit was to be a further discourse on the danger of admitting that wolf rowan into the sheepfold at bragg's end. she would willingly have avoided the conference had she been able to do so, knowing well that mrs. prime would get the better of her in words when called upon to talk without having rachel at her back. and indeed she was not happy in her mind. it had been conceded at the cottage as an understood thing that rachel was to have this man as her lover; but what, if after all, the man didn't mean to be a lover in the proper sense; and what, if so meaning, he should still turn out to be a lover of a bad sort,--a worldly, good-for-nothing, rakish lover? "i wonder," says the wicked man in the play, "i wonder any man alive would ever rear a daughter!" mrs. ray knew nothing of the play, and had she done so, she would not have repeated such a line. but the hardness of the task which providence had allotted to her struck her very forcibly on this morning. rachel was dearer to her than aught else in the world. for rachel's happiness she would have made any sacrifice. in rachel's presence, and sweet smile, and winning caresses was the chief delight of her existence. nevertheless, in these days the possession of rachel was hardly a blessing to her. the responsibility was so great; and, worse than that as regarded her own comfort, the doubts were so numerous; and then, they recurred over and over again, as often as they were settled! "i'm sure i don't know what she can have to say to me." mrs. ray, as she spoke, was tying on her bonnet, and rachel was standing close to her with her light summer shawl. "it will be the old story, mamma, i'm afraid; my terrible iniquity and backslidings, because i went to the ball, and because i won't go to miss pucker's. she'll want you to say that i shall go, or else be sent to bed without my supper." "that's nonsense, rachel. dorothea knows very well that i can't make you go." mrs. ray was wont to become mildly petulant when things went against her. "but, mamma, you don't want me to go?" "i don't suppose it's about miss pucker at all. it's about that other thing." "you mean mr. rowan." "yes, my dear. i'm sure i don't know what's for the best. when she gets me to herself she does say such terrible things to me that it quite puts me in a heat to have to go to her. i don't think anybody ought to say those sort of things to me except a clergyman, or a person's parents, or a schoolmaster, or masters and mistresses, or such like." rachel thought so too,--thought that at any rate a daughter should not so speak to such a mother as was her mother; but on that subject she said nothing. "and i don't like going to that miss pucker's house," continued mrs. ray. "i'm sure i don't want her to come here. i wouldn't go, only i said that i would." "i would go now, if i were you, mamma." "of course i shall go; haven't i got myself ready?" "but i would not let her go on in that way." "that's very easy said, rachel; but how am i to help it? i can't tell her to hold her tongue; and if i did, she wouldn't. if i am to go i might as well start. i suppose there's cold lamb enough for dinner?" "plenty, i should think." "and if i find poultry cheap, i can bring a chicken home in my basket, can't i?" and so saying, with her mind full of various cares, mrs. ray walked off to baslehurst. "i wonder when he'll come." rachel, as she said or thought these words, stood at the open door of the cottage looking after her mother as she made her way across the green. it was a delicious midsummer day, warm with the heat of the morning sun, but not yet oppressed with the full blaze of its noonday rays. the air was alive with the notes of birds, and the flowers were in their brightest beauty. "i wonder when he'll come." none of those doubts which so harassed her mother troubled her mind. other doubts there were. could it be possible that he would like her well enough to wish to make her his own? could it be that any one so bright, so prosperous in the world, so clever, so much above herself in all worldly advantages, should come and seek her as his wife,--take her from their little cottage and lowly ways of life? when he had first said that he would come to bragg's end, she declared to herself that it would be well that he should see in how humble a way they lived. he would not call her rachel after that, she said to herself; or, if he did, he should learn from her that she knew how to rebuke a man who dared to take advantage of the humility of her position. he had come, and he had not called her rachel. he had come, and taking advantage of her momentary absence, had spoken of her behind her back as a lover speaks, and had told his love honestly to her mother. in rachel's view of the matter no lover could have carried himself with better decorum or with a sweeter grace; but because he had so done, she would not hold him to be bound to her. he had been carried away by his feelings too rapidly, and had not as yet known how poor and lowly they were. he should still have opened to him a clear path backwards. then if the path backwards were not to his mind, then in that case--. i am not sure that rachel ever declared to herself in plain terms what in such case would happen; but she stood at the door as though she was minded to stand there till he should appear upon the green. "i wonder when he'll come." she had watched her mother's figure disappear along the lane, and had plucked a flower or two to pieces before she returned within the house. he will not come till the evening, she determined,--till the evening, when his day's work in the brewery would be over. then she thought of the quarrel between him and tappitt, and wondered what it might be. she was quite sure that tappitt was wrong, and thought of him at once as an obstinate, foolish, pigheaded old man. yes; he would come to her, and she would take care to be provided in that article of cream which he pretended to love so well. she would not have to run away again. but how lucky on that previous evening had been that necessity, seeing that it had given opportunity for that great display of a lover's excellence on rowan's part. having settled all this in her mind, she went into the house, and was beginning to think of her household work, when she heard a man's steps in the passage. she went at once out from the sitting-room, and encountered luke rowan at the door. "how d'ye do?" said he. "is mrs. ray at home?" "mamma?--no. you must have met her on the road if you've come from baslehurst." "but i could not meet her on the road, because i've come across the fields." "oh!--that accounts for it." "and she's away in baslehurst, is she?" "she's gone in to see my sister, mrs. prime." rachel, still standing at the door of the sitting-room, made no attempt of asking rowan into the parlour. "and mayn't i come in?" he said. rachel was absolutely ignorant whether, under such circumstances, she ought to allow him to enter. but there he was, in the house, and at any rate she could not turn him out. "i'm afraid you'll have to wait a long time if you wait for mamma," she said, slightly making way, so that he obtained admittance. was she not a hypocrite? did she not know that mrs. ray's absence would be esteemed by him as a great gain, and not a loss? why did she thus falsely talk of his waiting a long time? dogs fight with their teeth, and horses with their heels; swans with their wings, and cats with their claws;--so also do women use such weapons as nature has provided for them. "i came specially to see you," said he; "not but what i should be very glad to see your mother, too, if she comes back before i am gone. but i don't suppose she will, for you won't let me stay so long as that." "well, now you mention it, i don't think i shall, for i have got ever so many things to do;--the dinner to get ready, and the house to look after." this she did by way of making him acquainted with her mode of life,--according to the plan which she had arranged for her own guidance. he had come into the room, had put down his hat, and had got himself up to the window, so that his back was turned to her. "rachel," he said, turning round quickly, and speaking almost suddenly. now he had called her rachel again, but she could find at the moment no better way of answering him than by the same plaintive objection which she had made before. "you shouldn't call me by my name in that way, mr. rowan; you know you shouldn't." "did your mother tell you what i said to her yesterday?" he asked. "what you said yesterday?" "yes, when you were away across the green." "what you said to mamma?" "yes; i know she told you. i see it in your face. and i am glad she did so. may i not call you rachel now?" as they were placed the table was still between them, so that he was debarred from making any outward sign of his presence as a lover. he could not take her hand and press it. she stood perfectly silent, looking down upon the table on which she leaned, and gave no answer to his question. "may i not call you rachel now?" he said, repeating the question. i hope it will be understood that rachel was quite a novice at this piece of work which she now had in hand. it must be the case that very many girls are not novices. a young lady who has rejected the first half-dozen suitors who have asked for her love, must probably feel herself mistress of the occasion when she rejects the seventh, and will not be quite astray when she accepts the eighth. there are, moreover, young ladies who, though they may have rejected and accepted none, have had so wide an advantage in society as to be able, when the moment comes, to have their wits about them. but rachel had known nothing of what is called society, and had never before known either the trouble or the joy of being loved. so when the question was pressed upon her, she trembled, and felt that her breath was failing her. she had filled herself full of resolutions as to what she would do when this moment came,--as to how she would behave and what words she would utter. but all that was gone from her now. she could only stand still and tremble. of course he might call her rachel;--might call her what he pleased. to him, with his wider experience, that now became manifest enough. "you must give me leave for more than that, rachel, if you would not send me away wretched. you must let me call you my own." then he moved round the table towards her; and as he moved, though she retreated from him, she did not retreat with a step as rapid as his own. "rachel,"--and he put out his hand to her--"i want you to be my wife." she allowed the tips of her fingers to turn themselves toward him, as though unable altogether to refuse the greeting which he offered her, but as she did so she turned away from him, and bent down her head. she had heard all she wanted to hear. why did he not go away, and leave her to think of it? he had named to her the word so sacred between man and woman. he had said that he sought her for his wife. what need was there that he should stay longer? he got her hand in his, and then passed his arm round her waist. "say, love; say, rachel;--shall it be so? nay, but i will have an answer from you. you shall look it to me, if you will not speak it;" and he got his head round over her shoulder, as though to look into her eyes. "oh, mr. rowan; pray don't;--pray don't pull me." "but, dearest, say a word to me. you must say some word. can you learn to love me, rachel?" learn to love him! the lesson had come to her very easily. how was it possible, she had once thought, not to love him. "say a word to me," said rowan, still struggling to look into her face; "one word, and then i will let you go." "what word?" "say to me, 'dear luke, i will be your wife.'" she remained for a moment quite passive in his hands, trying to say it, but the words would not come. of course she would be his wife. why need he trouble her further? "nay, but, rachel, you shall speak, or i will stay with you here till your mother comes, and she shall answer for you. if you had disliked me i think you would have said so." "i don't dislike you," she whispered. "and do you love me?" she slightly bowed her head. "and you will be my wife?" again she went through the same little piece of acting. "and i may call you rachel now?" in answer to this question she shook herself free from his slackened grasp, and escaped away across the room. "you cannot forbid me now. come and sit down by me, for of course i have got much to say to you. come and sit down, and indeed i will not trouble you again." then she went to him very slowly, and sat with him, leaving her hand in his, listening to his words, and feeling in her heart the full delight of having such a lover. of the words that were then spoken, but very few came from her lips; he told her all his story of the brewery quarrel, and was very eloquent and droll in describing tappitt as he brandished the poker. "and was he going to hit you with it?" said rachel, with all her eyes open. "well, he didn't hit me," said luke; "but to look at him he seemed mad enough to do anything." then he told her how at the present moment he was living at the inn, and how it became necessary, from this unfortunate quarrel, that he should go at once to london. "but under no circumstances would i have gone," said he, pressing her hand very closely, "without an answer from you." "but you ought not to think of anything like that when you are in such trouble." "ought i not? well, but i do, you see." then he explained to her that part of his project consisted in his marrying her out of hand,--at once. he would go up to london for a week or two, and then, coming back, be married in the course of the next month. "oh, mr. rowan, that would be impossible." "you must not call me mr. rowan, or i shall call you miss ray." "but indeed it would be impossible." "why impossible?" "indeed it would. you can ask mamma;--or rather, you had better give over thinking of it. i haven't had time yet even to make up my mind what you are like." "but you say that you love me." "so i do, but i suppose i ought not; for i'm sure i don't know what you are like yet. it seems to me that you're very fond of having your own way, sir;--and so you ought," she added; "but really you can't have your own way in that. nobody ever heard of such a thing. everybody would think we were mad." "i shouldn't care one straw for that." "ah, but i should,--a great many straws." he sat there for two hours, telling her of all things appertaining to himself. he explained to her that, irrespective of the brewery, he had an income sufficient to support a wife,--"though not enough to make her a fine lady like mrs. cornbury," he said. "if you can give me bread and cheese, it's as much as i have a right to expect," said rachel. "i have over four hundred a year," said he: and rachel, hearing it, thought that he could indeed support a wife. why should a man with four hundred a year want to brew beer? "but i have got nothing," said rachel; "not a farthing." "of course not," said rowan; "it is my theory that unmarried girls never ought to have anything. if they have, they ought to be considered as provided for, and then they shouldn't have husbands. and i rather think it would be better if men didn't have anything either, so that they might be forced to earn their bread. only they would want capital." rachel listened to it all with the greatest content, and most unalloyed happiness. she did not quite understand him, but she gathered from his words that her own poverty was not a reproach in his eyes, and that he under no circumstances would have looked for a wife with a fortune. her happiness was unalloyed at all she heard from him, till at last he spoke of his mother. "and does she dislike me?" asked rachel, with dismay. "it isn't that she dislikes you, but she's staying with that mrs. tappitt, who is furious against me because,--i suppose it's because of this brewery row. but indeed i can't understand it. a week ago i was at home there; now i daren't show my nose in the house, and have been turned out of the brewery this morning with a poker." "i hope it's nothing about me," said rachel. "how can it be about you?" "because i thought mrs. tappitt looked at the ball as though--. but i suppose it didn't mean anything." "it ought to be a matter of perfect indifference whether it meant anything or not." "but how can it be so about your mother? if this is ever to lead to anything--" "lead to anything! what it will lead to is quite settled." "you know what i mean. but how could i become your wife if your mother did not wish it?" "look here, rachel; that's all very proper for a girl, i dare say. if your mother thought i was not fit to be your husband, i won't say but what you ought to take her word in such a matter. but it isn't so with a man. it will make me very unhappy if my mother cannot be friends with my wife; but no threats of hers to that effect would prevent me from marrying, nor should they have any effect upon you. i'm my own master, and from the nature of things i must look out for myself." this was all very grand and masterful on rowan's part, and might in theory be true; but there was that in it which made rachel uneasy, and gave to her love its first shade of trouble. she could not be quite happy as luke's promised bride, if she knew that she would not be welcomed to that place by luke's mother. and then what right had she to think it probable that luke's mother would give her such a welcome? at that first meeting, however, she said but little herself on the subject. she had pledged to him her troth, and she would not attempt to go back from her pledge at the first appearance of a difficulty. she would talk to her own mother, and perhaps his mother might relent. but throughout it all there ran a feeling of dismay at the idea of marrying a man whose mother would not willingly receive her as a daughter! "but you must go," said she at last. "indeed you must. i have things to do, if you have nothing." "i'm the idlest man in the world at the present moment. if you turn me out i can only go and sit at the inn." "then you must go and sit at the inn. if you stay any longer mamma won't have any dinner." "if that's so, of course i'll go. but i shall come back to tea." as rachel gave no positive refusal to this proposition, rowan took his departure on the understanding that he might return. "good-bye," said he. "when i come this evening i shall expect you to walk with me." "oh, i don't know," said she. "yes, you will; and we will see the sun set again, and you will not run from me this evening as though i were an ogre." as he spoke he took her in his arms and held her, and kissed her before she had time to escape from him. "you're mine altogether now," said he, "and nothing can sever us. god bless you, rachel!" "good-bye, luke," and then they parted. she had told him to go, alleging her household duties as her ground for dismissing him; but when he was gone she did not at once betake herself to her work. she sat on the seat which he had shared with her, thinking of the thing which she had done. she was now betrothed to this man as his wife, the only man towards whom her fancy had ever turned with the slightest preference. so far love for her had run very smoothly. from her first meetings with him, on those evenings in which she had hardly spoken to him, his form had filled her eye, and his words had filled her mind. she had learned to love to see him before she understood what her heart was doing for her. gradually, but very quickly, all her vacant thoughts had been given to him, and he had become the hero of her life. now, almost before she had had time to question herself on the matter, he was her affianced husband. it had all been so quick and so very gracious that she seemed to tremble at her own good fortune. there was that one little cloud in the sky,--that frown on his mother's brow; but now, in the first glow of her happiness, she could not bring herself to believe that this cloud would bring a storm. so she sat there dreaming of her happiness, and longing for her mother's return that she might tell it all;--that it might be talked of hour after hour, and that luke's merits might receive their fitting mention. her mother was not a woman who on such an occasion would stint the measure of her praise, or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy. but rachel knew that she must not let the whole morning pass by in idle dreams, happy as those dreams were, and closely as they were allied to her waking life. after a while she jumped up with a start. "i declare there will be nothing done. mamma will want her dinner though i'm ever so much going to be married." but she had not been long on foot, or done much in preparation of the cold lamb which it was intended they should eat that day, before she heard her mother's footsteps on the gravel path. she ran out to the front door full of her own news, though hardly knowing as yet in what words she would tell it; but of her mother's news, of any tidings which there might be to tell as to that interview which had just taken place in baslehurst, rachel did not think much. nothing that dorothea could say would now be of moment. so at least rachel flattered herself. and as for dorothea and all her growlings, had they not chiefly ended in this;--that the young man did not intend to present himself as a husband? but he had now done so in a manner which rachel felt to be so satisfactory that even dorothea's criticism must be disarmed. so rachel, as she met her mother, thought only of the tale which she had to tell, and nothing of that which she was to hear. but mrs. ray was so full of her tale, was so conscious of the fact that her tidings were entitled to the immediate and undivided attention of her daughter, and from their first greeting on the gravel path was so ready with her words, that rachel, with all the story of her happiness, was for a while obliterated. "oh, my dear," said mrs. ray, "i have such news for you!" "so have i, mamma, news for you," said rachel, putting out her hand to her mother. "i never was so warm in my life. do let me get in; oh dear, oh dear! it's no good looking in the basket, for when i came away from dorothea i was too full of what i had just heard to think of buying anything." "what have you heard, mamma?" "i'm sure i hope she'll be happy; i'm sure i do. but it's a great venture, a terribly great venture." "what is it, mamma?" and rachel, though she could not yet think that her mother's budget could be equal in importance to her own, felt that there was that which it was necessary that she should hear. "your sister is going to be married to mr. prong." "dolly?" "yes, my dear. it's a great venture; but if any woman can live happy with such a man, she can do so. she's troubled about her money;--that's all." "marry mr. prong! i suppose she may if she likes. oh dear! i can't think i shall ever like him." "i never spoke to him yet, so perhaps i oughtn't to say; but he doesn't look a nice man to my eyes. but what are looks, my dear? they're only skin deep; we ought all of us to remember that always, rachel; they're only skin deep; and if, as she says, she only wants to work in the vineyard, she won't mind his being so short. i dare say he's honest;--at least i'm sure i hope he is." "i should think he's honest, at any rate, or he wouldn't be what he is." "there's some of them are so very fond of money;--that is, if all that we hear is true. perhaps he mayn't care about it; let us hope that he doesn't; but if so he's a great exception. however, she means to have it tied up as close as possible, and i think she's right. where would she be if he was to go away some fine morning and leave her? you see, he's got nobody belonging to him. i own i do like people who have got people belonging to them; you feel sure, in a sort of way, that they'll go on living in their own houses." rachel immediately reflected that luke rowan had people belonging to him,--very nice people,--and that everybody knew who he was and from whence he came. "but she has quite made up her mind about it," continued mrs. ray; "and when i saw that i didn't say very much against it. what was the use? it isn't as though he wasn't quite respectable. he is a clergyman, you know, my dear, though he never was at any of the regular colleges; and he might be a bishop, just as much as if he had been; so they tell me. and i really don't think that she would ever have come back to the cottage,--not unless you had promised to have been ruled by her in everything." "i certainly shouldn't have done that;" and rachel, as she made this assurance with some little obstinacy in her voice, told herself that for the future she meant to be ruled by a very different person indeed. "no, i suppose not; and i'm sure i shouldn't have asked you, because i think it isn't the thing, dragging people away out of their own parishes, here and there, to anybody's church. and i told her that though i would of course go and hear mr. prong now and then if she married him, i wouldn't leave mr. comfort, not as a regular thing. but she didn't seem to mind that now, much as she used always to be saying about it." "and when is it to be, mamma?" "on friday; that is, to-morrow." "to-morrow!" "that is, she's to go and tell him to-morrow that she means to take him,--or he's to come to her at miss pucker's lodgings. it's not to be wondered at when one sees miss pucker, really; and i'm not sure i'd not have done the same if i'd been living with her too; only i don't think i ever should have begun. i think it's living with miss pucker has made her do it; i do indeed, my dear. well, now that i have told you, i suppose i may as well go and get ready for dinner." "i'll come with you, mamma. the potatoes are strained, and kitty can put the things on the table. mamma"--and now they were on the stairs,--"i've got something to tell also." we'll leave mrs. ray to eat her dinner, and rachel to tell her story, merely adding a word to say that the mother did not stint the measure of her praise, or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy. that evening was probably the happiest of rachel's existence, although its full proportions of joy were marred by an unforeseen occurrence. at four o'clock a note came from rowan to his "dearest rachel," saying that he had been called away by telegraph to london about that "horrid brewery business." he would write from there. but rachel was almost as happy without him, talking about him, as she would have been in his presence, listening to him. chapter xv. maternal eloquence. on the friday morning there was a solemn conference at the brewery between mrs. tappitt and mrs. rowan. mrs. rowan found herself to be in some difficulty as to the line of action which she ought to take, and the alliances which she ought to form. she was passionately attached to her son, and for mrs. tappitt she had no strong liking. but then she was very averse to this proposed marriage with rachel ray, and was willing for a while to make a treaty with mrs. tappitt, offensive and defensive, as against her own son, if by doing so she could put a stop to so outrageous a proceeding on his part. he had seen her before he started for london, and had told her both the occurrences of the day. he had described to her how tappitt had turned him out of the brewery, poker in hand, and how, in consequence of tappitt's "pig-headed obstinacy," it was now necessary that their joint affairs should be set right by the hand of the law. he had then told her also that there was no longer any room for doubt or argument between them as regarding rachel. he had gone out to bragg's end that morning, had made his offer, and had been accepted. his mother therefore would see,--so he surmised,--that, as any opposition on her part must now be futile, she might as well take rachel to her heart at once. he went so far as to propose to her that she should go over to rachel in his absence,--"it would be very gracious if you could do it to-morrow, mother," he said,--and go through that little process of taking her future daughter-in-law to her heart. but in answer to this mrs. rowan said very little. she said very little, but she looked much. "my dear, i cannot move so quick as you do; i am older. i am afraid, however, that you have been rash." he said something, as on such occasions young men do, as to his privilege of choosing for himself, as to his knowing what wife would suit him, as to his contempt for money, and as to the fact,--"the undoubted fact," as he declared it,--and in that declaration i am prepared to go hand-in-hand with him,--that rachel ray was a lady. but he was clear-headed enough to perceive that his mother did not intend to agree with him. "when we are married she will come round," he said to himself, and then he took himself off by the night mail train to london. under these circumstances mrs. rowan felt that her only chance of carrying on the battle would be by means of a treaty with mrs. tappitt. had the affair of the brewery stood alone, mrs. rowan would have ranged herself loyally on the side of her son. she would have resented the uplifting of that poker, and shown her resentment by an immediate withdrawal from the brewery. she would have said a word or two,--a stately word or two,--as to the justice of her son's cause, and have carried herself and her daughter off to the inn. as things were now, her visit to the brewery must no doubt be curtailed in its duration; but in the mean time might not a blow be struck against that foolish matrimonial project,--an opportune blow, and by the aid of mrs. tappitt? therefore on that friday morning, when mr. prong was listening with enraptured ears to mrs. prime's acceptance of his suit,--under certain pecuniary conditions,--mrs. rowan and mrs. tappitt were sitting in conference at the brewery. they agreed together at that meeting that rachel ray was the head and front of the whole offence, the source of all the evil done and to be done, and the one great sinner in the matter. it was clear to mrs. rowan that rachel could have no just pretensions to look for such a lover or such a husband as her son; and it was equally clear to mrs. tappitt that she could have had no right to seek a lover or a husband out of the brewery. if rachel ray had not been there all might have gone smoothly for both of them. mrs. tappitt did not, perhaps, argue very logically as to the brewery business, or attempt to show either to herself or to her ally that luke rowan would have made himself an agreeable partner if he had kept himself free from all love vagaries; but she was filled with an indefinite woman's idea that the mischief, which she felt, had been done by rachel ray, and that against rachel and rachel's pretensions her hand should be turned. they resolved therefore that they would go out together and call at the cottage. mrs. tappitt knew, from long neighbourhood, of what stuff mrs. ray was made. "a very good sort of woman," she said to mrs. rowan, "and not at all headstrong and perverse like her daughter. if we find the young lady there we must ask her mamma to see us alone." to this proposition mrs. rowan assented, not eagerly, but with a slow, measured, dignified assent, feeling that she was derogating somewhat from her own position in allowing herself to be led by such a one as mrs. tappitt. it was needful that on this occasion she should act with mrs. tappitt and connect herself with the tappitt interests; but all this she did with an air that distinctly claimed for herself a personal superiority. if mrs. tappitt did not perceive and understand this, it was her fault, and not mrs. rowan's. at two o'clock they stepped into a fly at the brewery door and had themselves driven out to bragg's end. "mamma, there's a carriage," said rachel. "it can't be coming here," said mrs. ray. "but it is; it's the fly from the dragon. i know it by the man's white hat. and, oh dear, there's mrs. rowan and mrs. tappitt! mamma, i shall go away." and rachel, without another word, escaped out into the garden. she escaped, utterly heedless of her mother's little weak prayer that she would remain. she went away quickly, so that not a skirt of her dress might be visible. she felt instantly, by instinct, that these two women had come out there especially as her enemies, as upsetters of her happiness, as opponents of her one great hope in life; and she knew that she could not fight her battle with them face to face. she could not herself maintain her love stoutly and declare her intention of keeping her lover to his word; and yet she did intend to maintain her love, not doubting that he would be true to his word without any effort on her part. her mother would make a very poor fight,--of that she was quite well aware. it would have been well if her mother could have run away also. but, as that could not be, her mother must be left to succumb, and the fight must be carried on afterwards as best it might. the two ladies remained at the cottage for about an hour, and during that time rachel was sequestered in the garden, hardening her heart against all enemies to her love. if luke would only stand by her, she would certainly stand by him. there was a good deal of ceremony between the three ladies when they first found themselves together in mrs. ray's parlour. mrs. rowan and mrs. tappitt were large and stiff in their draperies, and did not fit themselves easily in among mrs. ray's small belongings; and they were stately in their demeanour, conscious that they were visiting an inferior, and conscious also that they were there on no friendly mission. but the interview was commenced with a show of much civility. mrs. tappitt introduced mrs. rowan in due form, and mrs. rowan made her little bow, if with some self-asserting supremacy, still with fitting courtesy. mrs. ray hoped that mrs. tappitt and the young ladies were quite well, and then there was a short silence, very oppressive to mrs. ray, but refreshing rather than otherwise to mrs. rowan. it gave a proper business aspect to the visit, and paved the way for serious words. "miss rachel is out, i suppose," said mrs. tappitt. "yes, she is out," said mrs. ray. "but she's about the place somewhere, if you want to see her." this she added in her weakness, not knowing how she was to sustain the weight of such an interview alone. "perhaps it is as well that she should be away just at present," said mrs. rowan, firmly but mildly. "quite as well," said mrs. tappitt, as firmly, but less mildly. "because we wish to say a few words to you, mrs. ray," said mrs. rowan. "that is what has brought us out so early," said mrs. tappitt. it was only half-past two now, and company visiting was never done at baslehurst till after three. "we want to say a few words to you, mrs. ray, about a very serious matter. i'm sure you know how glad i've always been to see rachel with my girls, and i had her at our party the other night, you know. it isn't likely therefore that i should be disposed to say anything unkind about her." "at any rate not to me, i hope," said mrs. ray. "not to anybody. indeed i'm not given to say unkind things about people. no one in baslehurst would give me that character. but the fact is, mrs. ray--" "perhaps, mrs. tappitt, you'll allow me," said mrs. rowan. "he's my son." "oh, yes, certainly;--that is, if you wish it," said mrs. tappitt, drawing herself up in her chair; "but i thought that perhaps, as i knew miss ray so well--" "if you don't mind, mrs. tappitt--" and mrs. rowan, as she again took the words out of her friend's mouth, smiled upon her with a smile of great efficacy. "oh, dear, certainly not," said mrs. tappitt, acknowledging by her concession the superiority of mrs. rowan's nature. "i believe you are aware, mrs. ray," said mrs. rowan, "that mr. luke rowan is my son." "yes, i'm aware of that." "and i'm afraid you must be aware also that there have been some,--some,--some talkings as it were, between him and your daughter." "oh, yes. the truth is, ma'am, that he has offered himself to my girl, and that she has accepted him. whether it's for good or for bad, the open truth is the best, mrs. tappitt." "truth is truth," said mrs. tappitt; "and deception is not truth." "i didn't think it had gone anything so far as that," said mrs. rowan,--who at the moment, perhaps, forgot that deception is not truth; "and in saying that he has actually offered himself, you may perhaps,--without meaning it, of course,--be attributing a more positive significance to his word than he has intended." "god forbid!" said mrs. ray very solemnly. "that would be a very sad thing for my poor girl. but i think, mrs. rowan, you had better ask him. if he says he didn't intend it, of course there will be an end of it, as far as rachel is concerned." "i can't ask him just at present," said mrs. rowan, "because he has gone up to london. he went away yesterday afternoon, and there's no saying when he may be in baslehurst again." "if ever--," said mrs. tappitt, very solemnly. "perhaps he has not told you, mrs. ray, that that partnership between him and mr. t. is all over." "he did tell us that there had been words between him and mr. tappitt." "words indeed!" said mrs. tappitt. "and therefore it isn't so easy to ask him," said mrs. rowan, ignoring mrs. tappitt and the partnership. "but of course, mrs. ray, our object in this matter must be the same. we both wish to see our children happy and respectable." mrs. rowan, as she said this, put great emphasis on the last word. "as to my girl, i've no fear whatever but what she'll be respectable," said mrs. ray, with more heat than mrs. tappitt had thought her to possess. "no doubt; no doubt. but what i'm coming to is this, mrs. ray; here has this boy of mine been behaving foolishly to your daughter, as young men will do. it may be that he has really said something to her of the kind you suppose--" "said something to her! why, ma'am, he came out here and asked my permission to pay his addresses to her, which i didn't answer because just at that moment rachel came in from farmer sturt's opposite--" "farmer sturt's!" said mrs. tappitt to mrs. rowan, in an under voice and nodding her head. whereupon mrs. rowan nodded her head also. one of the great accusations made against mrs. ray had been that she lived on the farmer sturt level, and not on the tappitt level;--much less on the rowan level. "yes,--from farmer sturt's," continued mrs. ray, not at all understanding this by-play. "so i didn't give him any answer at all." "you wouldn't encourage him," said mrs. rowan. "i don't know about that; but at any rate he encouraged himself, for he came again the next morning when i was in baslehurst." "i hope miss rachel didn't know he was coming in your absence," said mrs. rowan. "it would look so sly;--wouldn't it?" said mrs. tappitt. "no, she didn't, and she isn't sly at all. if she had known anything she would have told me. i know what my girl is, mrs. rowan, and i can depend on her." mrs. ray's courage was up, and she was inclined to fight bravely, but she was sadly impeded by tears, which she now found it impossible to control. "i'm sure it isn't my wish to distress you," said mrs. rowan. "it does distress me very much, then, for anybody to say that rachel is sly." "i said i hoped she wasn't sly," said mrs. tappitt. "i heard what you said," continued mrs. ray; "and i don't see why you should be speaking against rachel in that way. the young man isn't your son." "no," said mrs. tappitt, "indeed he's not;--nor yet he ain't mr. tappitt's partner." "nor wishes to be," said mrs. rowan, with a toss of her head. it was a thousand pities that mrs. ray had not her wits enough about her to have fanned into a fire of battle the embers which glowed hot between her two enemies. had she done so they might probably have been made to consume each other,--to her great comfort. "nor wishes to be!" then mrs. rowan paused a moment, and mrs. tappitt assumed a smile which was intended to indicate incredulity. "but mrs. ray," continued mrs. rowan, "that is neither here nor there. luke rowan is my son, and i certainly have a right to speak. such a marriage as this would be very imprudent on his part, and very disagreeable to me. from the way in which things have turned out it's not likely that he'll settle himself at baslehurst." "the most unlikely thing in the world," said mrs. tappitt. "i don't suppose he'll ever show himself in baslehurst again." "as for showing himself, mrs. tappitt, my son will never be ashamed of showing himself anywhere." "but he won't have any call to come to baslehurst, mrs. rowan. that's what i mean." "if he's a gentleman of his word, as i take him to be," said mrs. ray, "he'll have a great call to show himself. he never can have intended to come out here, and speak to her in that way, and ask her to marry him, and then never to come back and see her any more! i wouldn't believe it of him, not though his own mother said it!" "i don't say anything," said mrs. rowan, who felt that her position was one of some difficulty. "but we all do know that in affairs of that kind young men do allow themselves to go great lengths. and the greater lengths they go, mrs. ray, the more particular the young ladies ought to be." "but what's a young lady to do? how's she to know whether a young man is in earnest, or whether he's only going lengths, as you call it?" mrs. ray's eyes were still moist with tears; and, i grieve to say that though, as far as immediate words are concerned, she was fighting rachel's battle not badly, still the blows of the enemy were taking effect upon her. she was beginning to wish that luke rowan had never been seen, or his name heard, at bragg's end. "i think it's quite understood in the world," said mrs. rowan, "that a young lady is not to take a gentleman at his first word." "oh, quite," said mrs. tappitt. "we've all of us daughters," said mrs. rowan. "yes, all of us," said mrs. tappitt. "that's what makes it so fitting that we should discuss this matter together in a friendly feeling." "my son is a very good young man,--a very good young man indeed." "but a little hasty, perhaps," said mrs. tappitt. "if you'll allow me, mrs. tappitt." "oh, certainly, mrs. rowan." "a very good young man indeed; and i don't think it at all probable that in such a matter as this he will act in opposition to his mother's wishes. he has his way to make in the world." "which will never be in the brewery line," said mrs. tappitt. "he has his way to make in the world," continued mrs. rowan, with much severity; "and if he marries in four or five years' time, that will be quite as soon as he ought to think of doing. i'm sure you will agree with me, mrs. ray, that long engagements are very bad, particularly for the lady." "he wanted to be married next month," said mrs. ray. "ah, yes; that shows that the whole thing couldn't come to much. if there was an engagement at all, it must be a very long one. years must roll by." from the artistic manner in which mrs. rowan allowed her voice to dwell upon the words which signified duration of space, any hope of a marriage between luke and rachel seemed to be put off at any rate to some future century. "years must roll by, and we all know what that means. the lady dies of a broken heart, while the gentleman lives in a bachelor's rooms, and dines always at his club. nobody can wish such a state of things as that, mrs. ray." "i knew a girl who was engaged for seven years," said mrs. tappitt, "and she wore herself to a thread-paper,--so she did. and then he married his housekeeper after all." "i'd sooner see my girl make up her mind to be an old maid than let her have a long engagement," said mrs. rowan. "and so would i, my girls, all three. if anybody comes, i say to them, 'let your papa see them. he'll know what's the meaning of it.' it don't do for young girls to manage those things all themselves. not but what i think my girls have almost as much wit about them as i have. i won't mention any names, but there's a young man about here as well-to-do as any young man in the south hams, but cherry won't as much as look at him." mrs. rowan again tossed her head. she felt her misfortune in being burthened with such a colleague as mrs. tappitt. "what is it you want me to do, mrs. rowan?" asked mrs. ray. "i want you and your daughter, who i am sure is a very nice young lady, and good-looking too,--" "oh, quite so," said mrs. tappitt. "i want you both to understand that this little thing should be allowed to drop. if my boy has done anything foolish i'm here to apologize for him. he isn't the first that has been foolish, and i'm afraid he won't be the last. but it can't be believed, mrs. ray, that marriages should be run up in this thoughtless sort of way. in the first place the young people don't know anything of each other; absolutely nothing at all. and then,--but i'm sure i don't want to insist on any differences that there may be in their positions in life. only you must be aware of this, mrs. ray, that such a marriage as that would be very injurious to a young man like my son luke." "my child wouldn't wish to injure anybody." "and therefore, of course, she won't think any more about it. all i want from you is that you should promise me that." "if rachel will only just say that," said mrs. tappitt, "my daughters will be as happy to see her out walking with them as ever." "rachel has had quite enough of such walking, mrs. tappitt; quite enough." "if harm has come of it, it hasn't been the fault of my girls," said mrs. tappitt. then there was a pause among the three ladies, and it appeared that mrs. rowan was waiting for mrs. ray's answer. but mrs. ray did not know what answer she should make. she was already disposed to regard the coming of luke rowan to baslehurst as a curse rather than a blessing. she felt all but convinced that fate would be against her and hers in that matter. she had ever been afraid of young men, believing them to be dangerous, bringers of trouble into families, roaring lions sometimes, and often wolves in sheep's clothing. since she had first heard of luke rowan in connection with her daughter she had been trembling. if she could have acted in accordance with her own feelings at this moment, she would have begged that luke rowan's name might never again be mentioned in her presence. it would be better for them, she thought, to bear what had already come upon them, than to run further risk. but she could not give any answer to mrs. rowan without consulting rachel;--she could not at least give any such answer as that contemplated without doing so. she had sanctioned rachel's love, and could not now undertake to oppose it. rachel had probably been deceived, and must bear her misfortune. but, as the question stood at present between her and her daughter, she could not at once accede to mrs. rowan's views in the matter. "i will talk to rachel," she said. "give her my kindest respects," said mrs. rowan; "and pray make her understand that i wouldn't interfere if i didn't think it was for both their advantages. good-bye, mrs. ray." and mrs. rowan got up. "good-bye, mrs. ray," said mrs. tappitt, putting out her hand. "give my love to rachel. i hope that we shall be good friends yet, for all that has come and gone." but mrs. ray would not accept mrs. tappitt's hand, nor would she vouchsafe any answer to mrs. tappitt's amenities. "good-bye, ma'am," she said to mrs. rowan. "i suppose you mean to do the best you can by your own child." "and by yours too," said mrs. rowan. "if so, i can only say that you must think very badly of your own son. good-bye, ma'am." then mrs. ray curtseyed them out,--not without a certain amount of dignity, although her eyes were red with tears, and her whole body trembling with dismay. very little was said in the fly between the two ladies on their way back to the brewery, nor did mrs. rowan remain very long as a visitor at mrs. tappitt's house. she had found herself compelled by circumstances to take a part inimical to mrs. ray, but she felt in her heart a much stronger animosity to mrs. tappitt. with mrs. ray she could have been very friendly, only for that disastrous love affair; but with mrs. tappitt she could not again put herself into pleasant relations. i must point out how sadly unfortunate it was that mrs. ray had not known how to fan that flame of anger to her own and her daughter's advantage. "well, mamma," said rachel, returning to the room as soon as she heard the wheels of the fly in motion upon the road across the green. she found her mother in tears,--hardly able to speak because of her sobs. "never mind it, mamma: of course i know the kind of things they have been saying. it was what i expected. never mind it." "but, my dear, you will be broken-hearted." "broken-hearted! why?" "i know you will. now that you have learned to love him, you'll never bear to lose him." "and must i lose him?" "she says so. she says that he doesn't mean it, and that it's all nonsense." "i don't believe her. nothing shall make me believe that, mamma." "she says it would be ruinous to all his prospects, especially just now when he has quarrelled about this brewery." "ruinous to him!" "his mother says so." "i will never wish him to do anything that shall be ruinous to himself; never;--not though i were broken-hearted, as you call it." "ah, that is it, rachel, my darling; i wish he had not come here." rachel went away across the room and looked out of the window upon the green. there she stood in silence for a few minutes while her mother was wiping her eyes and suppressing her sobs. tears also had run down rachel's cheeks; but they were silent tears, few in number and very salt. "i cannot bring myself to wish that yet," said she. "but he has gone away, and what can you do if he does not come again?" "do! oh, i can do nothing. i could do nothing, even though he were here in baslehurst every day of his life. if i once thought that he didn't wish me--to--be--his wife, i should not want to do anything. but, mamma, i can't believe it of him. it was only yesterday that he was here." "they say that young men don't care what they say in that way now-a-days." "i don't believe it of him, mamma; his manner is so steadfast, and his voice sounds so true." "but then she is so terribly against it." then again they were silent for a while, after which rachel ended the conversation. "it is clear, at any rate, that you and i can do nothing, mamma. if she expects me to say that i will give him up, she is mistaken. give him up! i couldn't give him up, without being false to him. i don't think i'll ever be false to him. if he's false to me, then,--then, i must bear it. mamma, don't say anything to dolly about this just at present." in answer to which request mrs. ray promised that she would not at present say anything to mrs. prime about mrs. rowan's visit. the following day and the sunday were not passed in much happiness by the two ladies at bragg's end. tidings reached them that mrs. rowan and her daughter were going to london on the monday, but no letter came to them from luke. by the monday morning mrs. ray had quite made up her mind that luke rowan was lost to them for ever, and rachel had already become worn with care. during that saturday and sunday nothing was seen of mrs. prime at bragg's end. end of vol. i. london: printed by william clowes and sons, stamford street and charing cross. * * * * * * rachel ray a novel. by anthony trollope, author of "barchester towers," "castle richmond," "orley farm," etc. in two volumes. vol. ii. london: chapman and hall, 193, piccadilly. 1863. [the right of translation is reserved.] london: printed by william clowes and sons, stamford street and charing cross. contents. chapter i. rachel ray's first love-letter. chapter ii. electioneering. chapter iii. dr. harford. chapter iv. mr. comfort calls at the cottage. chapter v. showing what rachel ray thought when she sat on the stile, and how she wrote her letter afterwards. chapter vi. mrs. ray goes to exeter, and meets a friend. chapter vii. domestic politics at the brewery. chapter viii. mrs. ray's penitence. chapter ix. the election at baslehurst. chapter x. the baslehurst gazette. chapter xi. cornbury grange. chapter xii. in which the question of the brewery is settled. chapter xiii. what took place at bragg's end farm. chapter xiv. mrs. prime reads her recantation. chapter xv. conclusion. rachel ray chapter i. rachel ray's first love-letter. on the monday evening, after tea, mrs. prime came out to the cottage. it was that monday on which mrs. rowan and her daughter had left baslehurst and had followed luke up to london. she came out and sat with her mother and sister for about an hour, restraining herself with much discretion from the saying of disagreeable things about her sister's lover. she had heard that the rowans had gone away, and she had also heard that it was probable that they would be no more seen in baslehurst. mr. prong had given it as his opinion that luke would not trouble them again by his personal appearance among them. under these circumstances mrs. prime had thought that she might spare her sister. nor had she said much about her own love affairs. she had never mentioned mr. prong's offer in rachel's presence; nor did she do so now. as long as rachel remained in the room the conversation was very innocent and very uninteresting. for a few minutes the two widows were alone together, and then mrs. prime gave her mother to understand that things were not yet quite arranged between herself and mr. prong. "you see, mother," said mrs. prime, "as this money has been committed to my charge, i do not think it can be right to let it go altogether out of my own hands." in answer to this mrs. ray had uttered a word or two agreeing with her daughter. she was afraid to say much against mr. prong;--was afraid, indeed, to express any very strong opinion about this proposed marriage; but in her heart she would have been delighted to hear that the prong alliance was to be abandoned. there was nothing in mr. prong to recommend him to mrs. ray. "and is she going to marry him?" rachel asked, as soon as her sister was gone. "there's nothing settled as yet. dorothea wants to keep her money in her own hands." "i don't think that can be right. if a woman is married the money should belong to the husband." "i suppose that's what mr. prong thinks;--at any rate, there's nothing settled. it seems to me that we know so little about him. he might go away any day to australia, you know." "and did she say anything about--mr. rowan?" "not a word, my dear." and that was all that was then said about luke even between rachel and her mother. how could they speak about him? mrs. ray also believed that he would be no more seen in baslehurst; and rachel was well aware that such was her mother's belief, although it had never been expressed. what could be said between them now,--or ever afterwards,--unless, indeed, rowan should take some steps to make it necessary that his doings should be discussed? the tuesday passed and the wednesday, without any sign from the young man; and during these two sad days nothing was said at the cottage. on that wednesday his name was absolutely not mentioned between them, although each of them was thinking of him throughout the day. mrs. ray had now become almost sure that he had obeyed his mother's behests, and had resolved not to trouble himself about rachel any further; and rachel herself had become frightened if not despondent. could it be that all this should have passed over her and that it should mean nothing?--that the man should have been standing there, only three or four days since, in that very room, with his arm round her waist, begging for her love, and calling her his wife;--and that all of it should have no meaning? nothing amazed her so much as her mother's firm belief in such an ending to such an affair. what must be her mother's thoughts about men and women in general if she could expect such conduct from luke rowan,--and yet not think of him as one whose falsehood was marvellous in its falseness! but on the thursday morning there came a letter from luke addressed to rachel. on that morning mrs. ray was up when the postman passed by the cottage, and though rachel took the letter from the man's hand herself, she did not open it till she had shown it to her mother. "of course it's from him," said rachel. "i suppose so," said mrs. ray, taking the unopened letter in her hand and looking at it. she spoke almost in a whisper, as though there were something terrible in the coming of the letter. "is it not odd," said rachel, "but i never saw his handwriting before? i shall know it now for ever and ever." she also spoke in a whisper, and still held the letter as though she dreaded to open it. "well, my dear," said mrs. ray. "if you think you ought to read it first, mamma, you may." "no, rachel. it is your letter. i do not wish you to imagine that i distrust you." then rachel sat herself down, and with extreme care opened the envelope. the letter, which she read to herself very slowly, was as follows:- my own dearest rachel, it seems so nice having to write to you, though it would be much nicer if i could see you and be sitting with you at this moment at the churchyard stile. that is the spot in all baslehurst that i like the best. i ought to have written sooner, i know, and you will have been very angry with me; but i have had to go down into northamptonshire to settle some affairs as to my father's property, so that i have been almost living in railway carriages ever since i saw you. i am resolved about the brewery business more firmly than ever, and as it seems that "t" --mrs. tappitt would occasionally so designate her lord, and her doing so had been a joke between luke and rachel,- will not come to reason without a lawsuit, i must scrape together all the capital i have, or i shall be fifty years old before i can begin. he is a pig-headed old fool, and i shall be driven to ruin him and all his family. i would have done,--and still would do,--anything for him in kindness; but if he drives me to go to law to get what is as much my own as his share is his own, i will build another brewery just under his nose. all this will require money, and therefore i have to run about and get my affairs settled. but this is a nice love-letter,--is it not? however, you must take me as i am. just now i have beer in my very soul. the grand object of my ambition is to stand and be fumigated by the smoke of my own vats. it is a fat, prosperous, money-making business, and one in which there is a clear line between right and wrong. no man brews bad beer without knowing it,--or sells short measure. whether the fatness and the honesty can go together;--that is the problem i want to solve. you see i write to you exactly as if you were a man friend, and not my own dear sweet girl. but i am a very bad hand at love-making. i considered that that was all done when you nodded your head over my arm in token that you consented to be my wife. it was a very little nod, but it binds you as fast as a score of oaths. and now i think i have a right to talk to you about all my affairs, and expect you at once to get up the price of malt and hops in devonshire. i told you, you remember, that you should be my friend, and now i mean to have my own way. you must tell me exactly what my mother has been doing and saying at the cottage. i cannot quite make it out from what she says, but i fear that she has been interfering where she had no business, and making a goose of herself. she has got an idea into her head that i ought to make a good bargain in matrimony, and sell myself at the highest price going in the market;--that i ought to get money, or if not money, family connexion. i'm very fond of money,--as is everybody, only people are such liars,--but then i like it to be my own; and as to what people call connexion, i have no words to tell you how i despise it. if i know myself i should never have chosen a woman as my companion for life who was not a lady; but i have not the remotest wish to become second cousin by marriage to a baronet's grandmother. i have told my mother all this, and that you and i have settled the matter together; but i see that she trusts to something that she has said or done herself to upset our settling. of course, what she has said can have no effect on you. she has a right to speak to me, but she has none to speak to you;--not as yet. but she is the best woman in the world, and as soon as ever we are married you will find that she will receive you with open arms. you know i spoke of our being married in august. i wish it could have been so. if we could have settled it when i was at bragg's end, it might have been done. i don't, however, mean to scold you, though it was your fault. but as it is, it must now be put off till after christmas. i won't name a day yet for seeing you, because i couldn't well go to baslehurst without putting myself into tappitt's way. my lawyer says i had better not go to baslehurst just at present. of course you will write to me constantly,--to my address here; say, twice a week at least. and i shall expect you to tell me everything that goes on. give my kind love to your mother. yours, dearest rachel, most affectionately, luke rowan. the letter was not quite what rachel had expected, but, nevertheless, she thought it very nice. she had never received a love-letter before, and probably had never read one,--even in print; so that she was in possession of no strong preconceived notions as to the nature or requisite contents of such a document. she was a little shocked when luke called his mother a goose;--she was a little startled when he said that people were "liars," having an idea that the word was one not to be lightly used;--she was amused by the allusion to the baronet's grandmother, feeling, however, that the manner and language of his letter was less pretty and love-laden than she had expected;--and she was frightened when he so confidently called upon her to write to him twice a week. but, nevertheless, the letter was a genial one, joyous, and, upon the whole, comforting. she read it very slowly, going back over much of it twice and thrice, so that her mother became impatient before the perusal was finished. "it seems to be very long," said mrs. ray. "yes, mamma, it is long. it's nearly four sides." "what can he have to say so much?" "there's a good deal of it is about his own private affairs." "i suppose, then, i mustn't see it." "oh yes, mamma!" and rachel handed her the letter. "i shouldn't think of having a letter from him and not showing it to you;--not as things are now." then mrs. ray took the letter and spent quite as much time in reading it as rachel had done. "he writes as though he meant to have everything quite his own way," said mrs. ray. "that's what he does mean. i think he will do that always. he's what people call imperious; but that isn't bad in a man, is it?" mrs. ray did not quite know whether it was bad in a man or no. but she mistrusted the letter, not construing it closely so as to discover what might really be its full meaning, but perceiving that the young man took, or intended to take, very much into his own hands; that he demanded that everything should be surrendered to his will and pleasure, without any guarantee on his part that such surrendering should be properly acknowledged. mrs. ray was disposed to doubt people and things that were at a distance from her. some check could be kept over a lover at baslehurst; or, if perchance the lover had removed himself only to exeter, with which city mrs. ray was personally acquainted, she could have believed in his return. he would not, in that case, have gone utterly beyond her ken. but she could put no confidence in a lover up in london. who could say that he might not marry some one else to-morrow,--that he might not be promising to marry half a dozen? it was with her the same sort of feeling which made her think it possible that mr. prong might go to australia. she would have liked as a lover for her daughter a young man fixed in business,--if not at baslehurst, then at totnes, dartmouth, or brixham,--under her own eye as it were;--a young man so fixed that all the world of south devonshire would know of all his doings. such a young man, when he asked a girl to marry him, must mean what he said. if he did not there would be no escape for him from the punishment of his neighbours' eyes and tongues. but a young man up in london,--a young man who had quarrelled with his natural friends in baslehurst,--a young man who was confessedly masterful and impetuous,--a young man who called his own mother a goose, and all the rest of the world liars, in his first letter to his lady-love;--was that a young man in whom mrs. ray could place confidence as a lover for her pet lamb? she read the letter very slowly, and then, as she gave it back to rachel, she groaned. for nearly half an hour after that nothing was said in the cottage about the letter. rachel had perceived that it had not been thought satisfactory by her mother; but then she was inclined to believe that her mother would have regarded no letter as satisfactory until arguments had been used to prove to her that it was so. this, at any rate, was clear,--must be clear to mrs. ray as it was clear to rachel,--that luke had no intention of shirking the fulfilment of his engagement. and after all, was not that the one thing as to which it was essentially necessary that they should be confident? had she not accepted luke, telling him that she loved him? and was it not acknowledged by all around her that such a marriage would be good for her? the danger which they feared was the expectation of such a marriage without its accomplishment. even the forebodings of mrs. prime had shown that this was the evil to which they pointed. under these circumstances what better could be wished for than a ready, quick, warm assurance on luke's part, that he did intend all that he had said? with rachel now, as with all girls under such circumstances, the chief immediate consideration was as to the answer which should be given. was she to write to him, to write what she pleased; and might she write at once? she felt that she longed to have the pen in her hand, and that yet, when holding it, she would have to think for hours before writing the first word. "mamma," she said at last, "don't you think it's a good letter?" "i don't know what to think, my dear. i doubt whether any letters of that sort are good for much." "of what sort, mamma?" "letters from men who call themselves lovers to young girls. it would be safer, i think, that there shouldn't be any;--very much safer." "but if he hadn't written we should have thought that he had forgotten all about us. that would not have been good. you said yourself that if he did not write soon, there would be an end of everything." "a hundred years ago there wasn't all this writing between young people, and these things were managed better then than they are now, as far as i can understand." "people couldn't write so much then," said rachel, "because there were no railways and no postage stamps. i suppose i must answer it, mamma?" to this proposition mrs. ray made no immediate answer. "don't you think i ought to answer it, mamma?" "you can't want to write at once." "in the afternoon would do." "in the afternoon! why should you be in so much hurry, rachel? it took him four or five days to write to you." "yes; but he was down in northamptonshire on business. besides he hadn't any letter from me to answer. i shouldn't like him to think--" "to think what, rachel?" "that i had forgotten him." "psha!" "or that i didn't treat his letter with respect." "he won't think that. but i must turn it over in my mind; and i believe i ought to ask somebody." "not dolly," said rachel, eagerly. "no, not your sister. i will not ask her. but if you don't mind, my dear, i'll take the young man's letter out to mr. comfort, and consult him. i never felt myself so much in need of somebody to advise me. mr. comfort is an old man, and you won't mind his seeing the letter." rachel did mind it very much, but she had no means of saving herself from her fate. she did not like the idea of having her love-letter submitted to the clergyman of the parish. i do not know any young lady who would have liked it. but bad as that was, it was preferable to having the letter submitted to mrs. prime. and then she remembered that mr. comfort had advised that she might go to the ball, and that he was father to her friend mrs. butler cornbury. chapter ii. electioneering. and now, in these days,--the days immediately following the departure of luke rowan from baslehurst,--the tappitt family were constrained to work very hard at the task of defaming the young man who had lately been living with them in their house. they were constrained to do this by the necessities of their position; and in doing so by no means showed themselves to be such monsters of iniquity as the readers of the story will feel themselves inclined to call them. as for tappitt himself, he certainly believed that rowan was so base a scoundrel that no evil words against him could be considered as malicious or even unnecessary. is it not good to denounce a scoundrel? and if the rascality of any rascal be specially directed against oneself and one's own wife and children, is it not a duty to denounce that rascal, so that his rascality may be known and thus made of no effect? when tappitt declared in the reading-room at the dragon, and afterwards in the little room inside the bar at the king's head, and again to a circle of respectable farmers and tradesmen in the corn market, that young rowan had come down to the brewery and made his way into the brewery-house with a ready prepared plan for ruining him--him, the head of the firm,--he thought that he was telling the truth. and again, when he spoke with horror of rowan's intention of setting up an opposition brewery, his horror was conscientious. he believed that it would be very wicked in a man to oppose the bungall establishment with money left by bungall,--that it would be a wickedness than which no commercial rascality could be more iniquitous. his very soul was struck with awe at the idea. that anything was due in the matter to the consumer of beer, never occurred to him. and it may also be said in tappitt's favour that his opinion,--as a general opinion,--was backed by those around him. his neighbours could not be made to hate rowan as he hated him. they would not declare the young man to be the very mischief, as he did. but that idea of a rival brewery was distasteful to them all. most of them knew that the beer was almost too bad to be swallowed; but they thought that tappitt had a vested interest in the manufacture of bad beer;--that as a manufacturer of bad beer he was a fairly honest and useful man;--and they looked upon any change as the work, or rather the suggestion, of a charlatan. "this isn't staffordshire," they said. "if you want beer like that you can buy it in bottles at griggs'." "he'll soon find where he'll be if he tries to undersell me," said young griggs. "all the same, i hope he'll come back, because he has left a little bill at our place." and then to other evil reports was added that special evil report,--that rowan had gone away without paying his debts. i am inclined to think that mr. tappitt can be almost justified in his evil thoughts and his evil words. i cannot make out quite so good a case for mrs. tappitt and her two elder daughters;--for even martha, martha the just, shook her head in these days when rowan's name was mentioned;--but something may be said even for them. it must not be supposed that mrs. tappitt's single grievance was her disappointment as regarded augusta. had there been no augusta on whose behalf a hope had been possible, the predilection of the young moneyed stranger for such a girl as rachel ray would have been a grievance to such a woman as mrs. tappitt. had she not been looking down on rachel ray and despising her for the last ten years? had she not been wondering among her friends, with charitable volubility, as to what that poor woman at bragg's end was to do with her daughter? had she not been regretting that the young girl should be growing up so big, and promising to look so coarse? was it not natural that she should be miserable when she saw her taken in hand by mrs. butler cornbury, and made the heroine at her own party, to the detriment of her own daughters, by the fashionable lady in catching whom she had displayed so much unfortunate ingenuity? under such circumstances how could she do other than hate luke rowan,--than believe him to be the very mischief,--than prophesying all manner of bad things for rachel,--and assist her husband tooth and nail in his animosity against the sinner? augusta was less strong in her feelings than her parents, but of course she disliked the man who could admire rachel ray. as regards martha, her dislike to him,--or rather, her judicial disapproval,--was founded on his social and commercial improprieties. she understood that he had threatened her father about the business,--and she had been scandalized in that matter of the champagne. cherry was very brave, and still stood up for him before her mother and sisters;--but even cherry did not dare to say a word in his favour before her father. mr. tappitt had been driven to forget himself, and to take a poker in his hand as a weapon of violence! after that let no one speak a word on the offender's behalf in tappitt's house and within tappitt's hearing! in that affair of the champagne rowan was most bitterly injured. he had ordered it, if not at the request, at least at the instigation of mrs. tappitt;--and he had paid for it. when he left baslehurst he owed no shilling to any man in it; and, indeed, he was a man by no means given to owing money to any one. he was of a spirit masterful, self-confident, and perhaps self-glorious;--but he was at the same time honest and independent. that wine had been ordered in some unusual way,--not at the regular counter, and in the same way the bill for it had been paid. griggs, when he made his assertion in the bar-room at the king's head, had stated what he believed to be the truth. the next morning he chanced to hear that the account had been settled, but not, at the moment, duly marked off the books. as far as griggs went that was the end of it. he did not again say that rowan owed money to him; but he never contradicted his former assertion, and allowed the general report to go on,--that report which had been founded on his own first statement. thus before rowan had been a week out of the place it was believed all over the town that he had left unpaid bills behind him. "i am told that young man is dreadfully in debt," said mr. prong to mrs. prime. at this time mr. prong and mrs. prime saw each other daily, and were affectionate in their intercourse,--with a serious, solemn affection; but affairs were by no means settled between them. that affection was, however, strong enough to induce mr. prong to take a decided part in opposing the rowan alliance. "they say he owes money all over the town." "so miss pucker tells me," said mrs. prime. "does your mother know it?" "mother never knows anything that other people know. but he has gone now, and i don't suppose we shall hear of him or see him again." "he has not written to her, dorothea?" "not that i know of." "you should find out. you should not leave them in this danger. your mother is weak, and you should give her the aid of your strength. the girl is your sister, and you should not leave her to grope in darkness. you should remember, dorothea, that you have a duty in this matter." dorothea did not like being told of her duty in so pastoral a manner, and resolved to be more than ever particular in the protection of her own pecuniary rights before she submitted herself to mr. prong's marital authority once and for ever. by miss pucker she was at any rate treated with great respect, and was allowed perhaps some display of pastoral manner on her own part. it began to be with her a matter of doubt whether she might not be of more use in that free vineyard which she was about to leave, than in that vineyard with closed doors and a pastoral overseer, which she was preparing herself to enter. at any rate she would be careful about the money. but, in the mean time, she did agree with mr. prong that rowan's proper character should be made known to her mother, and with this view she went out to the cottage and whispered into mrs. ray's astonished ears the fact that luke was terribly in debt. "you don't say so!" "but i do say so, mother. everybody in baslehurst is talking about it. and they all say that he has treated mr. tappitt shamefully. has anything come from him since he went?" then mrs. ray told her elder daughter of the letter, and told her also that she intended to consult mr. comfort. "oh, mr. comfort!" said mrs. prime, signifying her opinion that her mother was going to a very poor counsellor. "and what sort of a letter was it?" said mrs. prime, with a not unnatural desire to see it. "it was an honest letter enough,--very honest to my thinking; and speaking as though everything between them was quite settled." "that's nonsense, mother." "perhaps it may be nonsense, dorothea; but i am only telling you what the letter said. he called his mother a goose; that was the worst thing in it." "you cannot expect that such a one as he should honour his parents." "but his mother thinks him the finest young man in the world. and i must say this for him, that he has always spoken of her as though he loved her very dearly; and i believe he has been a most excellent son. he shouldn't have said goose;--at any rate in a letter;--not to my way of thinking. but perhaps they don't mind those things up in london." "i never knew a young man so badly spoken of at a place he'd left as he is in baslehurst. i think it right to tell you; but if you have made up your mind to ask mr. comfort--" "yes; i have made up my mind to ask mr. comfort. he has sent to say he will call the day after to-morrow." then mrs. prime went back home, having seen neither the letter nor her sister. it may be remembered that an election was impending over the town of baslehurst, the coming necessities of which had induced mrs. butler cornbury to grace mrs. tappitt's ball. it was now nearly the end of july, and the election was to be made early in september. both candidates were already in the field, and the politicians of the neighbourhood already knew to a nicety how the affair would go. mr. hart the great clothier from houndsditch and regent street,--messrs. hart and jacobs of from 110 to 136 houndsditch, and about as many more numbers in regent street,--would come in at the top of the poll with 173 votes, and butler cornbury, whose forefathers had lived in the neighbourhood for the last four hundred years and been returned for various places in devonshire to dozens of parliaments, would be left in the lurch with 171 votes. a petition might probably unseat the jew clothier; but then, as was well known, the cornbury estate could not bear the expenditure of the necessary five thousand pounds for the petition, in addition to the twelve hundred which the election itself was computed to cost. it was all known and thoroughly understood; and men in baslehurst talked about the result as though the matter were past a doubt. nevertheless there were those who were ready to bet on the cornbury side of the question. but though the thing was thus accurately settled, and though its termination was foreseen by so many and with so perfect a certainty, still the canvassing went on. in fact there were votes that had not even yet been asked, much less promised,--and again, much less purchased. the hart people were striving to frighten the cornbury people out of the field by the fear of the probable expenditure; and had it not been for the good courage of mrs. butler cornbury would probably have succeeded in doing so. the old squire was very fidgety about the money, and the young squire declared himself unwilling to lean too heavily upon his father. but the lady of the household declared her conviction that there was more smoke than fire, and more threats of bribery than intention of bribing. she would go on, she declared; and as her word passed for much at cornbury grange, the battle was still to be fought. among the votes which certainly had not as yet been promised was that of mr. tappitt. mr. hart in person had called upon him, but had not been quite satisfied with his reception. mr. tappitt was a man who thought much of his local influence and local privileges, and was by no means disposed to make a promise of his vote on easy terms, at a moment when his vote was becoming of so much importance. he was no doubt a liberal as was also mr. hart; but in small towns politics become split, and a man is not always bound to vote for a liberal candidate because he is a liberal himself. mr. hart had been confident in his tone, and had not sufficiently freed himself from all outer taint of his ancient race to please mr. tappitt's taste. "he's an impudent low jew," he had said to his wife. "as for butler cornbury he gives himself airs, and is too grand even to come and ask. i don't think i shall vote at all." his wife had reminded him how civil to them mrs. cornbury had been;--this was before the morning of the poker;--but tappitt had only sneered, and declared he was not going to send a man to parliament because his wife had come to a dance. but we, who know tappitt best, may declare now that his vote was to have been had by any one who would have joined him energetically in abuse of luke rowan. his mind was full of his grievance. his heart was laden with hatred of his enemy. his very soul was heavy with that sorrow. honyman, whom he had not yet dared to desert, had again recommended submission to him, submission to one of the three terms proposed. let him take the thousand a year and go out from the brewery. that was honyman's first advice. if not that, then let him admit his enemy to a full partnership. if that were too distasteful to be possible, then let him raise ten thousand pounds on a mortgage on the whole property, and buy rowan out. honyman thought that the money might be raised if tappitt were willing to throw into the lump the moderate savings of his past life. but in answer to either proposal tappitt only raved. had mr. hart known all about this, he might doubtless have secured tappitt's vote. butler cornbury refused to call at the brewery. "the man's a liberal," he said to his wife, "and what's the use? besides he's just the man i can't stand. we've always hated each other." whereupon mrs. b. cornbury determined to call on mrs. tappitt, and to see tappitt himself if it were possible. she had heard something of the rowan troubles, but not all. she had heard, too, of rowan's liking for rachel ray, having also seen something of it, as we know. but, unfortunately for her husband's parliamentary interests, she had not learned that the two things were connected together. and, very unfortunately also for the same interests, she had taken it into her head that rachel should be married to young rowan. she had conceived a liking for rachel; and being by nature busy, fond of employment, and apt at managing other people's affairs, she had put her finger on that match as one which she would task herself to further. this, i say, was unfortunate as regards her husband's present views. her work, now in hand, was to secure tappitt's vote; and to have carried her point in that quarter, her surest method would have been to have entered the brewery open-mouthed against luke rowan and rachel ray. but the conversation, almost at once, led to a word in praise of rachel, and to following words in praise of luke. martha only was in the room with her mother. mrs. cornbury did not at once begin about the vote, but made, as was natural, certain complimentary speeches about the ball. really she didn't remember when she had seen anything better done; and the young ladies looked so nice. she had indeed gone away early; but she had done so by no means on her own account, but because rachel ray had been tired. then she said a nice good-natured genial word or two about rachel ray and her performance on that occasion. "it seemed to me," she added, "that a certain young gentleman was quite smitten." then mrs. tappitt's brow became black as thunder, and mrs. cornbury knew at once that she had trodden on unsafe ground,--on ground which she should specially have avoided. "we are all aware," mrs. tappitt said, "that the certain young gentleman behaved very badly,--disgracefully, i may say;--but it wasn't our fault, mrs. cornbury." "upon my word, mrs. tappitt, i didn't see anything amiss." "i'm afraid everybody saw it. indeed, everybody has been talking of it ever since. as regards him, what he did then was only of a piece with his general conduct, which it doesn't become me to name in the language which it deserves. his behaviour to mr. t. has been shameful;--quite shameful." "i had heard something, but i did not know there was anything like that. i'm so sorry i mentioned his name." "he has disagreed with papa about the brewery business," said martha. "it's more than that, martha, as you know very well," continued mrs. tappitt, still speaking in her great heat. "he has shown himself bad in every way,--giving himself airs all over the town, and then going away without paying his debts." "i don't think we know that, mamma." "everybody says so. your own father heard sam griggs say with his own ears that there was a shop bill left there of i don't know how long. but that's nothing to us. he came here under false pretences, and now he's been turned out, and we don't want to have any more to do with him. but, mrs. cornbury, i am sorry about that poor foolish girl." "i didn't think her poor or foolish at all," said mrs. cornbury, who had quite heart enough to forget the vote her husband wanted in her warmth for her young friend. "i must say, then, i did;--i thought her very foolish, and i didn't at all like the way she went on in my house and before my girls. and as for him, he doesn't think of her any more than he thinks of me. in the first place, he's engaged to another girl." "we are not quite sure that he's engaged, mamma," said martha. "i don't know what you call being sure, my dear. i can't say i've ever heard it sworn to, on oath. but his sister mary told your sister augusta that he was. i think that's pretty good evidence. but, mrs. cornbury, he's one of those that will be engaged to twenty, if he can find twenty foolish enough to listen to him. and for her, who never was at a dance before, to go on with him like that;--i must say that i thought it disgraceful!" "well, mrs. tappitt," said mrs. cornbury, speaking with much authority in her voice, "i can only say that i didn't see it. she was under my charge, and if it was as you say i must be very much to blame,--very much indeed." "i'm sure i didn't mean that," said mrs. tappitt, frightened. "i don't suppose you did,--but i mean it. as for the young gentleman, i know very little about him. he may be everything that is bad." "you'll find that he is, mrs. cornbury." "but as to miss ray, whom i've known all my life, and whose mother my father has known for all her life, i cannot allow anything of the kind to be said. she was under my charge; and when young ladies are under my charge i keep a close eye upon them,--for their own comfort's sake. i know how to manage for them, and i always look after them. on the night of your party i saw nothing in miss ray's conduct that was not nice, ladylike, and well-behaved. i must say so; and if i hear a whisper to the contrary in any quarter, you may be sure that i shall say so open-mouthed. how d'you do, mr. tappitt? i'm so glad you've come in, as i specially wanted to see you." then she shook hands with mr. tappitt, who entered the room at the moment, and the look and manner of her face was altered. mrs. tappitt was cowed. if her husband had not come in at that moment she might have said a word or two in her own defence, being driven to do so by the absence of any other mode of retreating. but as he came in so opportunely, she allowed his coming to cover her defeat. strong as was her feeling on the subject, she did not dare to continue her attack upon rachel in opposition to the defiant bravery which came full upon her from mrs. cornbury's eyes. the words had been bad, but the determined fire of those eyes had been worse. mrs. tappitt was cowed, and allowed rachel's name to pass away without further remark. mrs. cornbury saw it all at a glance;--saw it all and understood it. the vote was probably lost; but it would certainly be lost if tappitt and his wife discussed the matter before he had pledged himself. the vote would probably be lost, even though tappitt should, in his ignorance of what had just passed, pledge himself to give it. all that mrs. cornbury perceived, and knew that she could lose nothing by an immediate request. "mr. tappitt," said she, "i have come canvassing. the fact is this: mr. cornbury says you are a liberal, and that therefore he has not the face to ask you. i tell him that i think you would rather support a neighbour from the county, even though there may be a shade of difference in politics between you, than a stranger, whose trade and religion cannot possibly recommend him, and whose politics, if you really knew them, would probably be quite as much unlike your own as are my husband's." the little speech had been prepared beforehand, but was brought out quite as naturally as though mrs. cornbury had been accustomed to speak on her legs for a quarter of a century. mr. tappitt grunted. the attack came upon him so much by surprise that he knew not what else to do but to grunt. if mr. cornbury had come with the same speech in his mouth, and could then have sided off into some general abuse of luke rowan, the vote would have been won. "i'm sure mrs. tappitt will agree with me," said mrs. cornbury, smiling very sweetly upon the foe she had so lately vanquished. "women don't know anything about it," said tappitt, meaning to snub no one but his own wife, and forgetting that mrs. cornbury was a woman. he blushed fiery red when the thought flashed upon him, and wished that his own drawing-room floor would open and receive him; nevertheless he was often afterwards heard to boast how he had put down the politician in petticoats when she came electioneering to the brewery. "well, that is severe," said mrs. cornbury, laughing. "oh, t.! you shouldn't have said that before mrs. cornbury!" "i only meant my own wife, ma'am; i didn't indeed." "i'll forgive your satire if you'll give me your vote," said mrs. cornbury, with her sweetest smile. "he owes it me now; doesn't he, mrs. tappitt?" "well,--i really think he do." mrs. tappitt, in her double trouble,--in her own defeat and her shame on behalf of her husband's rudeness,--was driven back, out of all her latter-day conventionalities, into the thoughts and even into the language of old days. she was becoming afraid of mrs. cornbury, and submissive, as of old, to the rank and station of cornbury grange. in her terror she was becoming a little forgetful of niceties learned somewhat late in life. "i really think he do," said mrs. tappitt. tappitt grunted again. "it's a very serious thing," he said. "so it is," said mrs. cornbury, interrupting him. she knew that her chance was gone if the man were allowed to get himself mentally upon his legs. "it is very serious; but the fact that you are still in doubt shows that you have been thinking of it. we all know how good a churchman you are, and that you would not willingly send a jew to parliament." "i don't know," said tappitt. "i'm not for persecuting even the jews;--not when they pay their way and push themselves honourably in commerce." "oh, yes; commerce! there is nobody who has shown himself more devoted to the commercial interests than mr. cornbury. we buy everything in baslehurst. unfortunately our people won't drink beer because of the cider." "tappitt doesn't think a bit about that, mrs. cornbury." "i'm afraid i shall be called upon in honour to support my party," said tappitt. "exactly; but which is your party? isn't the protestant religion of your country your party? these people are creeping down into all parts of the kingdom, and where shall we be if leading men like you think more of shades of difference between liberal and conservative than of the fundamental truths of the church of england? would you depute a jew to get up and speak your own opinions in your own vestry-room?" "that you wouldn't, t.," said mrs. tappitt, who was rather carried away by mrs. cornbury's eloquence. "not in a vestry, because it's joined on to a church," said tappitt. "or would you like a jew to be mayor in baslehurst;--a jew in the chair where you yourself were sitting only three years ago?" "that wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on roundabout sunday." roundabout sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. "would you like to have a jew partner in your own business?" mrs. butler cornbury should have said nothing to mr. tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, jew or christian. "i don't want any partner, and what's more, i don't mean to have any." "mrs. cornbury is in favour of luke rowan; she takes his side," said mrs. tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. mr. tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon mrs. cornbury with an evil eye. that lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. there are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. she could smile when tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when mrs. tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. she could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about jews and her own church feelings. she could have given up to them luke rowan,--if he had stood alone. but she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. she felt that a word said against rowan would be a word said also against rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "well, yes; i do," said she, meeting tappitt's eye steadily. she was not going to be looked out of countenance by mr. tappitt. "she thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at bragg's end," said mrs. tappitt; "but i say that he'll never dare to show his face in baslehurst again." "that young woman is making a great fool of herself," said tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him." "perhaps, mrs. tappitt," said mrs. cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing miss ray. it's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and i'm sure i never said that i thought she was engaged to mr. rowan. had i done so i should have been very wrong, for i know nothing about it. what little i saw of the gentleman i liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked tappitt full in the face; "and for miss ray, i've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. about the vote, mr. tappitt--; at any rate you'll think of it." but had he not been defied in his own house? and as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? whose courage would not have risen under such provocation? mrs. cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "i'm an honest man, mrs. cornbury," said the brewer, "and i like to speak out my mind openly. mr. hart is a liberal, and i mean to support my party. will you tell mr. cornbury so with my compliments? it's all nonsense about jews not being in parliament. it's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. i shall vote for mr. hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." "and mrs. cornbury, if you have so much regard for miss rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. he's no good; he's not indeed. if you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere." "swindler!" said tappitt. "i don't suppose it can be very bad with miss rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,--though she was so intimate with him at our party." mrs. butler cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. mrs. tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and mr. tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage. "she's a nasty meddlesome woman," said tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. "and how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said mrs. tappitt, holding up both her hands. "she was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now i suppose she likes others to be the same. if that's what she calls manners, i shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "and him a gentleman!" said tappitt. "if those are to be our gentlemen i'd sooner have all the jews out of jerusalem. but they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! he'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. mrs. cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. even when declaring that she intended to take rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. but when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "i don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." that in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "i don't believe it." and she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. she knew the ins and outs of baslehurst life and baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. if the tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob rachel ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage rachel ray in her love by spreading the truth;--if, as she believed, the truth should speak in rowan's favour. she would have considerable pleasure in countermining mr. and mrs. tappitt. as to mr. tappitt's vote for the election;--that was gone! chapter iii. dr. harford. the current of events forced upon rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. it had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. during these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. when first mrs. prime had brought home tidings that miss pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with miss pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. and when mrs. prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. at that time, though she had thought much of luke rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. she had thought of him as having no right to call her rachel, because he could not possibly become so. there had been great danger;--there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. in her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as luke rowan. though her mother was not herself ascetic,--liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,--she had preached ascetisms till rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. the dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. idle she had never been. since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. she had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. she was not prepared to deny,--did not deny even to herself,--that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to luke rowan. then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. she had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,--well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. that some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,--hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,--may not be denied. she had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. but would he,--would he give occasion for further accusation? she believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. she told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. we know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. she had certainly fled from him. when she left the brewery-house, inducing mrs. cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. but she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. her heart was his. she had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. she was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. when she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. but she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. that her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,--so expressed that mrs. ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,--was not understood by rachel. her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. she seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. but now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. she did not say to herself, "they have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. she had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. the chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. if he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,--as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,--as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. during these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. "i could not make mr. comfort come any sooner, rachel," said mrs. ray. "no, mamma." "i can see how impatient you are." "i don't know that i'm impatient. i'm sure that i haven't said anything." "if you said anything i shouldn't mind it so much; but i can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. i'm sure i only wish to do what's best. you can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." "oh, mamma, don't talk about it!" "you don't like me to ask your sister; and i'm sure it's natural i should want to ask somebody. he's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. and then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. not that i should have liked to have said a word about it to mr. prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." "pray, mamma, don't. i haven't made any objection to mr. comfort. it isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all." "but what was i to do? i'm sure i liked the young man very much. i never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. and as for his manners and his way of talking, i had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. i had indeed. as far as that goes, he's just the young man that i could make a son of." "dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "stop there. you shan't say another word." "i'm sure i didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "no, you did not; and i won't be impatient." "only i can't bear that look. and you know what his mother said,--and mrs. tappitt. not that i care about mrs. tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." it must be acknowledged that rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in baslehurst were talking about her and rowan. that rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries mrs. tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. "i'm sorry for her," miss harford said, mildly. mrs. tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. mr. tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. "oh yes;--very sorry for her," said mrs. tappitt. "very sorry indeed," said augusta, who was with her mother. "she always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said miss harford. "still waters run deepest, you know, miss harford," said mrs. tappitt. "i should never have imagined it of her;--never. but she certainly met him half-way." "but we all thought he was respectable, you know," said miss harford. miss harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as luke rowan. "well;--yes; at first we did. he had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. we were on our guard,"--and she looked proudly round on augusta,--"till we should hear what the young man really was. he has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. mr. tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed." "that may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said miss harford, who in defending rachel was well enough inclined to give up luke. indeed, baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that luke was a wolf. "oh, quite so," said mrs. tappitt. "the poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt." after that she took her leave of the rectory. on that evening mr. comfort dined with dr. harford, as did also butler cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. the chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of mr. tappitt, and in talking of tappitt they came to talk of luke rowan. it has already been said that dr. harford had been rector of baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. he had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. but, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. a man cannot change as men change. individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. the chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. dr. harford had in his time been an active, popular man,--a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. in his parish he had been more than a clergyman. he had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. he had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the reform bill when baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. but liberal politics had gone on and had left dr. harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. and then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. not that the act of parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. i doubt whether he had then thought much of it. but when men calling themselves commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,--then dr. harford became a violent tory. and my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. one might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. no shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. his whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. it was no question of money in any degree. sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,--could any power have given such order. his parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. he was no longer _totus teres atque rotundus_. the beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. he knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,--a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded! but perhaps hatred of mr. prong was the strongest passion of dr. harford's heart at the present moment. he had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. in devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the church of england clergymen. dr. harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. but they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of mr. prong in baslehurst. he would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the south hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with mr. prong. mr. prong was to him the evil thing! anathema! he believed all bad things of mr. prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. he thought that mr. prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;--dr. harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended mr. prong's chapel;--that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. there was nothing which dr. harford could not believe of mr. prong. now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. dr. harford of course intended to vote for mr. cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of mr. tappitt. tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. tappitt opposed the prong faction at all points. tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. church of england principles had always been held at the brewery, and bungall had been ever in favour with dr. harford's predecessor. "he calls himself a liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "you can't expect that he should desert his own party." "but a jew!" said old mr. comfort. "well; why not a jew?" said the doctor. whereupon mr. comfort, and butler cornbury, and dr. harford's own curate, young mr. calclough, and captain byng, an old bachelor, who lived in baslehurst, all stared at him; as dr. harford had intended that they should. "upon my word," said he, "i don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; i don't indeed. in the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, i don't see why jews shouldn't serve us as well in parliament as christians. if i am to have my brains knocked out, i'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." "but our brains are not knocked out yet," said butler cornbury. "i don't know anything about yours, but mine are." "i don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. "nor do i. i said nothing about the world coming to an end. but if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "it's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "you couldn't divide a ship." "oh, well; you'll see." "i don't think any christian should vote for a jew," said the curate. "a verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into parliament?" said dr. harford. "may not that be a carrying on of the curse?" "there's consolation in that idea for butler if he loses his election," said mr. comfort. "parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "there's no doubt about that." "and who is to blame?" said mr. comfort, who had never supported the reform bill as his neighbour had done. "i say nothing about blame. it's natural that things should get worse as they grow older." "dr. harford thinks parliament is worn out," said butler cornbury. "and what if i do think so? have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? did not the roman senate wear out, as you call it? and as for these jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? i am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only i wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places." "now i believe just the contrary," said the captain. "i don't think we have come to our full growth yet." "could we lick the french as we did at trafalgar and waterloo?" said the doctor. the captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "yes," said he, "i think we could. and i hope the time will soon come when we may." "we shan't do it if we send jews to parliament," said mr. comfort. "i must say i think tappitt wrong," said young cornbury. "of course, near as the thing is going, i'm sorry to lose his vote; but i'm not speaking because of that. he has always pretended to hold on to the church party here, and the church party has held on to him. his beer is none of the best, and i think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." "i don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "he shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." "but the jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours." "the truth is," said cornbury, "that tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. he's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. there's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. it's hard upon me, for i don't know that i ever saw the young man in my life." "i believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. "i hope not," said mr. comfort, thinking of rachel and her hopes. "we all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "but we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. there are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."--everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to mr. prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.--"but i fear this fellow rowan is a scamp, and i think he has treated tappitt badly. tappitt told me all about it only this morning." "audi alteram partem," said mr. comfort. "the scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "i haven't the means of doing that. if in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. i hear that he's in debt; i believe he behaved very badly to tappitt himself, so that tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." "i think he should leave the brewery alone," said mr. comfort. "of course he should," said the doctor. "and i hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." "i don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "it won't be a wicked game if he marries her." then rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. but i grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in dr. harford's dining-room, went against luke rowan. mr. tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years. no one in that room loved or felt for him anything like real friendship; but the old familiarity of the place was in his favour, and his form was known of old upon the high street. he was not a drunkard, he lived becomingly with his wife, he had paid his way, and was a fellow-townsman. what was it to dr. harford, or even to mr. comfort, that he brewed bad beer? no man was compelled to drink it. why should not a man employ himself, openly and legitimately, in the brewing of bad beer, if the demand for bad beer were so great as to enable him to live by the occupation? on the other hand, luke rowan was personally known to none of them; and they were jealous that a change should come among them with any view of teaching them a lesson or improving their condition. they believed, or thought they believed, that mr. tappitt had been ill-treated in his counting-house. it was grievous to them that a man with a wife and three daughters should have been threatened by a young unmarried man,--by a man whose shoulders were laden with no family burden. whether rowan's propositions had been in truth good or evil, just or unjust, they had not inquired, and would not probably have ascertained had they done so. but they judged the man and condemned him. mr. comfort was brought round to condemn him as thoroughly as did dr. harford,--not reflecting, as he did so, how fatal his condemnation might be to the happiness of poor rachel ray. "the fact is, butler," said the doctor, when mr. comfort had left them, and gone to the drawing-room;--"the fact is, your wife has not played her cards at the brewery as well as she usually does play them. she has been taking this young fellow's part; and after that i don't know how she was to expect that tappitt would stand by you." "no general can succeed always," said cornbury, laughing. "well; some generals do. but i must confess your wife is generally very successful. come; we'll go up-stairs; and don't you tell her that i've been finding fault. she's as good as gold, and i can't afford to quarrel with her; but i think she has tripped here." when the old doctor and butler cornbury reached the drawing-room the names of rowan and tappitt had not been as yet banished from the conversation; but to them had been added some others. rachel's name had been again mentioned, as had also that of rachel's sister. "papa, who do you think is going to be married?" said miss harford. "not you, my dear, is it?" said the doctor. "mr. prong is going to be married to mrs. prime," said miss harford, showing by the solemnity of her voice that she regarded the subject as one which should by its nature repress any further joke. nor was dr. harford inclined to joke when he heard such tidings as these. "mr. prong!" said he. "nonsense; who told you?" "well, it was baker told me." mrs. baker was the housekeeper at the baslehurst rectory, and had been so for the last thirty years. "she learned it at drabbit's in the high street, where mrs. prime had been living since she left her mother's cottage." "if that's true, comfort," said the doctor, "i congratulate you on your parishioner." "mrs. prime is no parishioner of mine," said the vicar of cawston. "if it's true, i'm very sorry for her mother,--very sorry." "i don't believe a word of it," said mrs. cornbury. "poor, wretched, unfortunate woman!" said the doctor. "her little bit of money is all in her own hands; is it not?" "i believe it is," said mr. comfort. "ah, yes; i dare say it's true," said the vicar. "she's been running after him ever since he's been here. i don't doubt it's true. poor creature!--poor creature! poor thing!" and the doctor absolutely sighed as he thought of the misery in store for mr. prong's future bride. "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," he said after a while. "he'll go off, no doubt, when he has got the money in his hand, and we shall be rid of him. poor thing;--poor thing!" before the evening was over mrs. cornbury and her father had again discussed the question of rachel's possible engagement with luke rowan. mr. comfort had declared his conviction that it would be dangerous to encourage any such hopes; whereas his daughter protested that she would not see rachel thrown over if she could help it. "don't condemn him yet, papa," she said. "i don't condemn him at all, my dear; but i hardly think we shall see him back at baslehurst. and he shouldn't have gone away without paying his debts, patty!" chapter iv. mr. comfort calls at the cottage. mrs. ray, in her trouble occasioned by luke's letter, had walked up to mr. comfort's house, but had not found him at home. therefore she had written to him, in his own study, a few very simple words, telling the matter on which she wanted his advice. almost any other woman would have half hidden her real meaning under a cloud of ambiguous words; but with her there was no question of hiding anything from her clergyman. "rachel has had a letter from young mr. rowan," she said, "and i have begged her not to answer it till i have shown it to you." so mr. comfort sent word down to bragg's end that he would call at the cottage, and fixed an hour for his coming. this task was to be accomplished by him on the morning after dr. harford's dinner; and he had thought much of the coming conference between himself and rachel's mother while rowan's character was being discussed at dr. harford's house: but on that occasion he had said nothing to any one, not even to his daughter, of the application which had been made to him by mrs. ray. at eleven o'clock he presented himself at the cottage door, and, of course, found mrs. ray alone. rachel had taken herself over to mrs. sturt, and greatly amazed that kindhearted person by her silence and confusion. "why, my dear," said mrs. sturt, "you hain't got a word to-day to throw at a dog." rachel acknowledged that she had not; and then mrs. sturt allowed her to remain in her silence. "oh, mr. comfort, this is so good of you!" mrs. ray began as soon as her friend was inside the parlour. "when i went up to the parsonage i didn't think of bringing you down here all the way;--i didn't indeed." mr. comfort assured her that he thought nothing of the trouble, declared that he owed her a visit, and then asked after rachel. "to tell you the truth, then, she's just stept across the green to mrs. sturt's, so as to be out of the way. it's a trying time to her, mr. comfort,--very; and whatever way it goes, she's a good girl,--a very good girl." "you needn't tell me that, mrs. ray." "oh! but i must. there's her sister thinks she's encouraged this young man too freely, but--" "by-the-by, mrs. ray, i've been told that mrs. prime is engaged to be married herself." "have you, now?" "well, yes; i heard it in baslehurst yesterday;--to mr. prong." "she's kept it so close, mr. comfort, i didn't think anybody had heard it." "it is true, then?" "i can't say she has accepted him yet. he has offered to her;--there's no doubt about that, mr. comfort,--and she hasn't said him no." "do let her look sharp after her money," said mr. comfort. "well, that's just it. she's not a bit inclined to give it up to him, i can tell you." "i can't say, mrs. ray, that the connexion is one that i like very much, in any way. there's no reason at all why your eldest daughter should not marry again, but--" "what can i do, mr. comfort? of course i know he's not just what he should be,--that is, for a clergyman. when i knew he hadn't come from any of the colleges, i never had any fancy for going to hear him myself. but of course i should never have left your church, mr. comfort,--not if anybody had come there. and if i could have had my way with dorothy, she would never have gone near him,--never. but what could i do, mr. comfort? of course she can go where she likes." "mr. prime was a gentleman and a christian," said the vicar. "that he was, mr. comfort; and a husband for a young woman to be proud of. but he was soon taken away from her--very soon! and she hasn't thought much of this world since." "i don't know what she's thinking of now." "it isn't of herself, mr. comfort; not a bit. dorothy is very stern; but, to give her her due, it's not herself she's thinking of." "why does she want to marry him, then?" "because he's lonely without some one to do for him." "lonely!--and he should be lonely for me, mrs. ray." "and because she says she can work in the vineyard better as a clergyman's wife." "pshaw! work in the vineyard, indeed! but it's no business of mine; and, as you say, i suppose you can't help it." "indeed i can't. she'd never think of asking me." "i hope she'll look after her money, that's all. and what's all this about my friend rachel? i'd a great deal sooner hear that she was going to be married,--if i knew that the man was worthy of her." then mrs. ray put her hand into her pocket, and taking out rowan's letter, gave it to the vicar to read. as she did so, she looked into his face with eyes full of the most intense anxiety. she was herself greatly frightened by the magnitude of this marriage question. she feared the enmity of mrs. rowan; and she doubted the firmness of luke. she could not keep herself from reflecting that a young man from london was very dangerous; that he might probably be a wolf; that she could not be safe in trusting her one lamb into such custody. but, nevertheless, she most earnestly hoped that mr. comfort's verdict might be in the young man's favour. if he would only say that the young man was not a wolf,--if he would only take upon his own clerical shoulders the responsibility of trusting the young man,--mrs. ray would become for the moment one of the happiest women in devonshire. with what a beaming face,--with what a true joy,--with what smiles through her tears, would she then have welcomed rachel back from the farm-house! how she would have watched her as she came across the green, beckoning to her eagerly, and telling all her happy tale beforehand by the signs of her joy! but there was to be no such happy tale as that told on this morning. she watched the vicar's face as he read the letter, and soon perceived that the verdict was to be given against the writer of it. i do not know that mrs. ray was particularly quick at reading the countenances of men, but, in this instance, she did read the countenance of mr. comfort. we, all of us, read more in the faces of those with whom we hold converse, than we are aware of doing. of the truth, or want of truth in every word spoken to us, we judge, in great part, by the face of the speaker. by the face of every man and woman seen by us, whether they speak or are silent, we form a judgment,--and in nine cases out of ten our judgment is true. it is because our tenth judgment,--that judgment which has been wrong,--comes back upon us always with the effects of its error, that we teach ourselves to say that appearances cannot be trusted. if we did not trust them we should be walking ever in doubt, in darkness, and in ignorance. as mr. comfort read the letter, mrs. ray knew that it would not be allowed to her to speak words of happiness to rachel on that day. she knew that the young man was to be set down as dangerous; but she was by no means aware that she was reading the vicar's face with precise accuracy. mr. comfort had been slow in his perusal, weighing the words of the letter; and when he had finished it he slowly refolded the paper and put it back into its envelope. "he means what he says," said he, as he gave the letter back to mrs. ray. "yes; i think he means what he says." "but we cannot tell how long he may mean it; nor can we tell as yet whether such a connection would be good for rachel, even if he should remain stedfast in such meaning. if you ask me, mrs. ray--" "i do ask you, mr. comfort." "then i think we should all of us know more about him, before we allow rachel to give him encouragement;--i do indeed." mrs. ray could not quite repress in her heart a slight feeling of anger against the vicar. she remembered the words,--so different not only in their meaning, but in the tone in which they were spoken,--in which he had sanctioned rachel's going to the ball: "young people get to think of each other," he had then said, speaking with good-humoured, cheery voice, as though such thinking were worthy of all encouragement. he had spoken then of marriage being the happiest condition for both men and women, and had inquired as to rowan's means. every word that had then fallen from him had expressed his opinion that luke rowan was an eligible lover. but now he was named as though he were undoubtedly a wolf. why had not mr. comfort said then, at that former interview, when no harm had as yet been done, that it would be desirable to know more of the young man before any encouragement was given to him? mrs. ray felt that she was injured; but, nevertheless, her trust in her counsellor was not on that account the less. "i suppose it must be answered," said mrs. ray. "oh, yes; of course it should be answered." "and who should write it, mr. comfort?" "let rachel write it herself. let her tell him that she is not prepared to correspond with him as yet, any further that is, you understand, than the writing of that letter." "and about,--about,--about what he says as to loving her, you know? there has been a sort of promise between them, mr. comfort, and no young man could have spoken more honestly than he did." "and he meant honestly, no doubt; but you see, mrs. ray, it is necessary to be so careful in these matters! it is quite evident his mother doesn't wish this marriage." "and he shouldn't have called her a goose; should he?" "i don't think much about that." "don't you, now?" "it was all meant in good-humour. but she thinks it a bad marriage for him as regards money, and money considerations always go so far, you know. and then he's away, and you've got no hold upon him." "that's quite true, mr. comfort." "he has quarrelled with the people here. and upon my word i'm inclined to think he has not behaved very well to mr. tappitt." "hasn't he, now?" "i'm afraid not, mrs. ray. they were talking about him last night in baslehurst, and i'm afraid he has behaved badly at the brewery. there were words between him and mr. tappitt,--very serious words." "yes; i know that. he told rachel as much as that. i think he said he was going to law with mr. tappitt." "and if so, the chances are that he may never be seen here again. it's ill coming to a place where one is quarrelling with people. and as to the lawsuit, it seems to me, from what i hear, that he would certainly lose it. no doubt he has a considerable property in the brewery; but he wants to be master of everything, and that can't be reasonable, you know. and then, mrs. ray, there's worse than that behind." "worse than that!" said mrs. ray, in whose heart every gleam of comfort was quickly being extinguished by darkening shadows. "they tell me that he has gone away without paying his debts. if that is so, it shows that his means cannot be very good." then why had mr. comfort taken upon himself expressly to say that they were good at that interview before mrs. tappitt's party? that was the thought in the widow's mind at the present moment. mr. comfort, however, went on with his caution. "and then, when the happiness of such a girl as rachel is concerned, it is impossible to be too careful. where should we all be if we found that we had given her to a scamp?" "oh dear, oh dear! i don't think he can be a scamp;--he did take his tea so nicely." "i don't say he is;--i don't judge him. but then we should be careful. why didn't he pay his debts before he went away? a young man should always pay his debts." "perhaps he's sent it down in a money-order," said mrs. ray. "they are so very convenient,--that is if you've got the money." "if he hasn't i hope he will, for i can assure you i don't want to think badly of him. maybe he will turn out all right. and you may be sure of this, mrs. ray, that if he is really attached to rachel he won't give her up, because she doesn't throw herself into his arms at his first word. there's nothing becomes a young woman like a little caution, or makes a young man think more of her. if rachel fancies that she likes him let her hold back a while and find out what sort of stuff he's made of. if i were her i should just tell him that i thought it better to wait a little before i made any positive engagement." "but, mr. comfort, how is she to begin it? you see he calls her dearest rachel." "let her say dear mr. rowan. there can't be any harm in that." "she mustn't call him luke, i suppose." "i think she'd better not. young men think so much of those things." "and she's not to say 'yours affectionately' at the end?" "she'll understand all that when she comes to write the letter better than we can tell her. give her my love; and tell her from me i'm quite sure she's a dear, good girl, and that it must be a great comfort to you to know that you can trust her so thoroughly." then, having spoken these last words, mr. comfort took himself away. rachel, sitting in the window of mrs. sturt's large front kitchen on the other side of the green, could see mr. comfort come forth from the cottage and get into his low four-wheeled carriage, which, with his boy in livery, had been standing at the garden gate during the interview. mrs. sturt was away among the milk-pans, scalding cream or preparing butter, and did not watch either rachel or the visitor at the cottage. but she knew with tolerable accuracy what was going on, and with all her heart wished that her young friend might have luck with her lover. rachel waited for a minute or two till the little carriage was out of sight, till the sound of the wheels could be no longer heard, and then she prepared to move. she slowly got herself up from her chair as though she were afraid to show herself upon the green, and paused still a few moments longer before she left the kitchen. "so, thou's off," said mrs. sturt, coming in from the back regions of her territory, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up, enveloped in a large roundabout apron which covered almost all her dress. mrs. sturt would no more have thought of doing her work in the front kitchen than i should think of doing mine in the drawing-room. "so thou's off home again, my lass," said mrs. sturt. "yes, mrs. sturt. mr. comfort has been with mamma,--about business; and as i didn't want to be in the way i just came over to you." "thou art welcome, as flowers in may, morning or evening; but thee knowest that, girl. as for mr. comfort,--it's cold comfort he is, i always say. it's little i think of what clergymen says, unless it be out of the pulpit or the like of that. what does they know about lads and lasses?" "he's a very old friend of mamma's." "old friends is always best, i'll not deny that. but, look thee here, my girl; my man's an old friend too. he's know'd thee since he lifted thee in his arms to pull the plums off that bough yonder; and he's seen thee these ten years a deal oftener than mr. comfort. if they say anything wrong of thy joe there, tell me, and sturt 'll find out whether it be true or no. don't let ere a parson in devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart. it's passing sweet, when true hearts meet. but it breaks the heart, when true hearts part." with the salutary advice contained in these ancient local lines mrs. sturt put her arms round rachel, and having kissed her, bade her go. with slow step she made her way across the green, hardly daring to look to the door of the cottage. but there was no figure standing at the door; and let her have looked with all her eyes, there was nothing there to have told her anything. she walked very slowly, thinking as she went of mrs. sturt's words--"don't let ere a parson in devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." was it not hard upon her that she should be subjected to the misery of such discussion, seeing that she had given no hope, either to her lover or to herself, till she had received full warranty for doing so? she would do what her mother should bid her, let it be what it might; but she would be wronged,--she felt that she would be wronged and injured, grievously injured, if her mother should now bid her think of rowan as one thinks of those that are gone. she entered the cottage slowly, and turning into the parlour, found her mother seated there on the old sofa, opposite to the fireplace. she was seated there in stiff composure, waiting the work which she had to do. it was no customary place of hers, and she was a woman who, in the ordinary occupations of her life, never deserted her customary places. she had an old easy chair near the fireplace, and another smaller chair close to the window, and in one of these she might always be found, unless when, on special occasions like the present, some great thing had occurred to throw her out of the grooves of her life. "well, mamma?" said rachel, coming in and standing before her mother. mrs. ray, before she spoke, looked up into her child's face, and was afraid. "well, mamma, what has mr. comfort said?" was it not hard for mrs. ray that at such a moment she should have had no sort of husband on whom to lean? does the reader remember that in the opening words of this story mrs. ray was described as a woman who specially needed some standing-corner, some post, some strong prop to bear her weight,--some marital authority by which she might be guided? such prop and such guiding she had never needed more sorely than she needed them now. she looked up into rachel's face before she spoke, and was afraid. "he has been here, my dear," she said, "and has gone away." "yes, mamma, i knew that," said rachel. "i saw his phaeton drive off; that's why i came over from mrs. sturt's." rachel's voice was hard, and there was no comfort in it. it was so hard that mrs. ray felt it to be unkind. no doubt rachel suffered; but did not she suffer also? would not she have given blood from her breast, like the maternal pelican, to have secured from that clerical counsellor a verdict that might have been comforting to her child? would she not have made any sacrifice of self for such a verdict, even though the effecting of it must have been that she herself would have been left alone and deserted in the world? why, then, should rachel be stern to her? if misery was to fall on both of them, it was not of her doing. "i know you will think it's my fault, rachel; but i cannot help it, even though you should say so. of course i was obliged to ask some one; and who else was there that would be able to tell me so well as mr. comfort? you would not have liked it at all if i had gone to dorothea; and as for mr. prong--" "oh! mamma, mamma, don't! i haven't said anything. i haven't complained of mr. comfort. what has he said now? you forget that you have not told me." "no, my dear, i don't forget; i wish i could. he says that mr. rowan has behaved badly to mr. tappitt, and that he hasn't paid his debts, and that the lawsuit will be sure to go against him, and that he will never show his face in baslehurst again; and he says, too, that it would be very wrong for you to correspond with him,--very; because a young girl like you must be so careful about such things; and he says he'll be much more likely to respect you if you don't,--don't,--don't just throw yourself into his arms like. those were his very words; and then he says that if he really cares for you, he'll be sure to come back again, and so you're to answer the letter, and you must call him dear mr. rowan. don't call him luke, because young men think so much about those things. and you are to tell him that there isn't to be any engagement, or any letter-writing, or anything of that sort at all. but you can just say something friendly,--about hoping he's quite well, or something of that kind. and then when you come to the end, you had better sign yourself 'yours truly.' it won't do to say anything about affection, because one never knows how it may turn out. and,--let me see; there was only one thing more. mr. comfort says that you are a good girl, and that he is sure you have done nothing wrong,--not even in a word or a thought; and i say so too. you are my own beautiful child; and, rachel,--i do so wish i could make it all right between you." nobody can deny that mrs. ray had given, with very fair accuracy, an epitome of mr. comfort's words; but they did not leave upon rachel's mind a very clear idea of what she was expected to do. "go away in debt!" she said; "who says so?" "mr. comfort told me so just now. but perhaps he'll send the money in a money-order, you know." "i don't think he would go away in debt. and why should the lawsuit go against him if he's got right on his side? he does not wish to do any harm to mr. tappitt." "i don't know about that, my dear; but at any rate they've quarrelled." "but why shouldn't that be mr. tappitt's fault as much as his? and as for not showing his face in baslehurst--! oh, mamma! don't you know him well enough to be sure that he will never be ashamed of showing his face anywhere? he not show his face! mamma, i don't believe a word of it all,--not a word." "mr. comfort said so; he did indeed." then mrs. sturt's words came back upon rachel. "don't let ere a parson in devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." this lover of hers was her only possession,--the only thing of her own winning that she had ever valued. he was her great triumph, the rich upshot of her own prowess,--and now she felt that this parson was indeed robbing her. had he been then present, she would have risen up and spoken at him, as she had never spoken before. the spirit of rebellion against all the world was strong within her;--against all the world except that one weak woman who now sat before her on the sofa. her eyes were full of anger, and mrs. ray saw that it was so; but still she was minded to obey her mother. "it's no good talking," said rachel; "but when they say that he's afraid to show himself in baslehurst, i don't believe them. does he look like a man afraid to show himself?" "looks are so deceitful, rachel." "and as for debts,--people, if they're called away by telegraph in a minute, can't pay all that they owe. there are plenty of people in baslehurst that owe a deal more than he does, i'm sure. and he's got his share in the brewery, so that nobody need be afraid." "mr. comfort didn't say that you were to quarrel with him altogether." "mr. comfort! what's mr. comfort to me, mamma?" this was said in such a tone that mrs. ray absolutely started up from her seat. "but, rachel, he is my oldest friend. he was your father's friend." "why did he not say it before, then? why--why--why--? mamma, i can't throw him off now. didn't i tell him that,--that,--that i would--love him? didn't you say that it might be so,--you yourself? how am i to show my face, if i go back now? mamma, i do love him, with all my heart and all my strength, and nothing that anybody can say can make any difference. if he owed ever so much money i should love him the same. if he had killed mr. tappitt it wouldn't make any difference." "oh, rachel!" "no more it would. if mr. tappitt began it first, it wasn't his fault." "but rachel, my darling,--what can we do? if he has gone away we cannot make him come back again." "but he wrote almost immediately." "and you are going to answer it;--are you not?" "yes;--but what sort of an answer, mamma? how can i expect that he will ever want to see me again when i have written to him in that way? i won't say anything about hoping that he's very well. if i may not tell him that he's my own, own, own luke, and that i love him with all my heart, i'll bid him stay away and not trouble himself any further. i wonder what he'll think of me when i write in that way!" "if he's constant-hearted he'll wait a while and then he'll come back again." "why should he come back when i've treated him in that way? what have i got to give him? mamma, you may write the letter yourself, and put in it what you please." "mr. comfort said that you had better write it." "mr. comfort! i don't know why i'm to do all that mr. comfort tells me," and then those other words of mrs. sturt's recurred to her, "it's little i think of what a clergyman says unless it be out of a pulpit." after that there was nothing further said for some minutes. mrs. ray still sat on the sofa, and as she gazed upon the table which stood in the middle of the room, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. rachel was now seated in a chair with her back almost turned to her mother, and was beating with her impatient fingers on the table. she was very angry,--angry even with her mother; and she was half broken-hearted, truly believing that such a letter as that which she was desired to write would estrange her lover from her for ever. so they sat, and for a few minutes no word was spoken between them. "rachel," said mrs. ray at last, "if wrong has been done, is it not better that it should be undone?" "what wrong have i done?" said rachel, jumping up. "it is i that have done it,--not you." "no, mamma; you have done no wrong." "i should have known more before i let him come here and encouraged you to think of him. it has been my fault. my dear, will you not forgive me?" "mamma, there has been no fault. there is nothing to forgive." "i have made you unhappy, my child," and then mrs. ray burst out into open tears. "no, mamma, i won't be unhappy;--or if i am i will bear it." then she got up and threw her arms round her mother's neck, and embraced her. "i will write the letter, but i will not write it now. you shall see it before it goes." chapter v. showing what rachel ray thought when she sat on the stile, and how she wrote her letter afterwards. rachel, as soon as she had made her mother the promise that she would write the letter, left the parlour and went up to her own room. she had many thoughts to adjust in her mind which could not be adjusted satisfactorily otherwise than in solitude, and it was clearly necessary that they should be adjusted before she could write her letter. it must be remembered, not only that she had never before written a letter to a lover, but that she had never before written a letter of importance to any one. she had threatened at one moment that she would leave the writing of it to her mother; but there came upon her a feeling, of which she was hardly conscious, that she herself might probably compose the letter in a strain of higher dignity than her mother would be likely to adopt. that her lover would be gone from her for ever she felt almost assured; but still it would be much to her that, on going, he should so leave her that his respect might remain, though his love would be a thing of the past. in her estimation he was a noble being, to have been loved by whom even for a few days was more honour than she had ever hoped to win. for a few days she had been allowed to think that her great fortune intended him to be her husband. but fate had interposed, and now she feared that all her joy was at an end. but her joy should be so relinquished that she herself should not be disgraced in the giving of it up. she sat there alone for an hour, and was stronger, when that hour was over, than she had been when she left her mother. her pride had supported her, and had been sufficient for her support in that first hour of her sorrow. it is ever so with us in our misery. in the first flush of our wretchedness, let the outward signs of our grief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of some inner strength which shall suffice to us at any rate as against the eyes of the outer world. but anon, and that inner staff fails us; our pride yields to our tears; our dignity is crushed beneath the load with which we have burdened it, and then with loud wailings we own ourselves to be the wretches which we are. but now rachel was in the hour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolved that her sorrow should be buried in her own bosom. she had known what it was to love,--had known it, perhaps, for one whole week,--and now that knowledge was never to avail her again. among them all she had been robbed of her sweetheart. she had been bidden to give her heart to this man,--her heart and hand; and now, when she had given all her heart, she was bidden to refuse her hand. she had not ventured to love till her love had been sanctioned. it had been sanctioned, and she had loved; and now that sanction was withdrawn! she knew that she was injured,--deeply, cruelly injured, but she would bear it, showing nothing, and saying nothing. with this resolve she came down from her room, and began to employ herself on her household work. mrs. ray watched her carefully, and rachel knew that she was watched; but she took no outward notice of it, going on with her work, and saying a soft, gentle word now and again, sometimes to her mother, and sometimes to the little maiden who attended them. "will you come to dinner, mamma?" she said with a smile, taking her mother by the hand. "i shouldn't mind if i never sat down to dinner again," said mrs. ray. "oh, mamma! don't say that; just when you are going to thank god for the good things he gives you." then mrs. ray, in a low voice, as though rebuked, said the grace, and they sat down together to their meal. the afternoon went with them very slowly and almost in silence. neither of them would now speak about luke rowan; and to neither of them was it as yet possible to speak about aught else. one word on the subject was said during those hours. "you won't have time for your letter after tea," mrs. ray said. "i shall not write it till to-morrow," rachel answered; "another day will do no harm now." at tea mrs. ray asked her whether she did not think that a walk would do her good, and offered to accompany her; but rachel, acceding to the proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. "it's very bad of me to say so, isn't it, when you're so good as to offer to go with me?" but mrs. ray kissed her; saying, with many words, that she was satisfied that it should be so. "you want to think of things, i know," said the mother. rachel acknowledged, by a slight motion of her head, that she did want to think of things, and soon after that she started. "i believe i'll call on dolly," she said. "it would be bad to quarrel with her; and perhaps now she'll come back here to live with us;--only i forgot about mr. prong." it was agreed, however, that she should call on her sister, and ask her to dine at the cottage on the following day. she walked along the road straight into baslehurst, and went at once to her sister's lodgings. she had another place to visit before she returned home, but it was a place for which a later hour in the evening would suit her better. mrs. prime was at home; and rachel, on being shown up into the sitting-room,--a room in which every piece of furniture had become known to her during those dorcas meetings,--found not only her sister sitting there, but also miss pucker and mr. prong. rachel had not seen that gentleman since she had learned that he was to become her brother-in-law, and hardly knew in what way to greet him; but it soon became apparent to her that no outward show of regard was expected from her at that moment. "i think you know my sister, mr. prong," said dorothea. whereupon mr. prong rose from his chair, took rachel's hand, pressing it between his own, and then sat down again. rachel, judging from his countenance, thought that some cloud had passed also across the sunlight of his love. she made her little speech, giving her mother's love, and adding her own assurance that she hoped her sister would come out and dine at the cottage. "i really don't know," said mrs. prime. "such goings about do cut up one's time so much. i shouldn't be here again till--" "of course you'd stay for tea with us," said rachel. "and lose the whole afternoon!" said mrs. prime. "oh do!" said miss pucker. "you have been working so hard; hasn't she now, mr. prong? at this time of the year a sniff of fresh air among the flowers does do a body so much good." and miss pucker looked and spoke as though she also would like the sniff of fresh air. "i'm very well in health, and am thankful for it. i can't say that it's needed in that way," said mrs. prime. "but mamma will be so glad to see you," said rachel. "i think you ought to go, dorothea," said mr. prong; and even rachel could perceive that there was some slight touch of authority in his voice. it was the slightest possible intonation of a command; but, nevertheless, it struck rachel's ears. mrs. prime merely shook her head and sniffed. it was not for a supply of air that she used her nostrils on this occasion, but that she might indicate some grain of contempt for the authority which mr. prong had attempted to exercise. "i think i'd rather not, rachel, thank you;--not to dinner, that is. perhaps i'll walk out in the evening after tea, when the work of the day is over. if i come then, perhaps my friend, miss pucker, may come with me." "and if your esteemed mamma will allow me to pay my respects," said mr. prong, "i shall be most happy to accompany the ladies." it will be acknowledged that rachel had no alternative left to her. she said that her mother would be happy to see mr. prong, and happy to see miss pucker also. as to herself, she made no such assertion, being in her present mood too full of her own thoughts to care much for the ordinary courtesies of life. "i'm very sorry you won't come to dinner, dolly," she said; but she abstained from any word of asking the others to tea. "if it had only been mr. prong," she said to her mother afterwards, "i should have asked him; for i suppose he'll have to come to the house sooner or later. but i wouldn't tell that horrid, squinting woman that you wanted to see her, for i'm sure you don't." "but we must give them some cake and a glass of sweet wine," said mrs. ray. "she won't have to take her bonnet off for that as she would for tea, and it isn't so much like making herself at home here. i couldn't bear to have to ask her up to my room." on leaving the house in the high street, which she did about eight o'clock, she took her way towards the churchyard,--not passing down brewery lane, by mr. tappitt's house, but taking the main street which led from the high street to the church. but at the corner, just as she was about to leave the high street, she was arrested by a voice that was familiar to her, and, turning round, she saw mrs. cornbury seated in a low carriage, and driving a pair of ponies. "how are you, rachel?" said mrs. cornbury, shaking hands with her friend, for rachel had gone out into the street up to the side of the carriage, when she found that mrs. cornbury had stopped. "i'm going by the cottage,--to papa's. i see you are turning the other way; but if you've not much delay, i'll stay for you and take you home." but rachel had before her that other visit to make, and she was not minded either to omit it or postpone it. "i should like it so much," said rachel, "only--" "ah! well; i see. you've got other fish to fry. but, rachel, look here, dear." and mrs. cornbury almost whispered into her ear across the side of the pony carriage. "don't you believe quite all you hear. i'll find out the truth, and you shall know. good-bye." "good-bye, mrs. cornbury," said rachel, pressing her friend's hand as she parted from her. this allusion to her lover had called a blush up over her whole face, so that mrs. cornbury well knew that she had been understood. "i'll see to it," she said, driving away her ponies. see to it! how could she see to it when that letter should have been written? and rachel was well aware that another day must not pass without the writing of it. she went down across the churchyard, leaving the path to the brewery on her left, and that leading out under the elm trees to her right, and went on straight to the stile at which she had stood with luke rowan, watching the reflection of the setting sun among the clouds. this was the spot which she had determined to visit; and she had come hither hoping that she might again see some form in the heavens which might remind her of that which he had shown her. the stile, at any rate, was the same, and there were the trees beneath which they had stood. there were the rich fields, lying beneath her, over which they two had gazed together at the fading lights of the evening. there was no arm in the clouds now, and the perverse sun was retiring to his rest without any of that royal pageantry and illumination with which the heavens are wont to deck themselves when their king goes to his couch. but rachel, though she had come thither to look for these things and had not found them, hardly marked their absence. her mind became so full of him and of his words, that she required no outward signs to refresh her memory. she thought so much of his look on that evening, of the tones of his voice, and of every motion of his body, that she soon forgot to watch the clouds. she sat herself down upon the stile with her face turned away from the fields, telling herself that she would listen for the footsteps of strangers, so that she might move away if any came near her; but she soon forgot also to listen, and sat there thinking of him alone. the words that had been spoken between them on that occasion had been but trifling,--very few and of small moment; but now they seemed to her to have contained all her destiny. it was there that love for him had first come upon her--had come over her with broad outspread wings like an angel; but whether as an angel of darkness or of light, her heart had then been unable to perceive. how well she remembered it all; how he had taken her by the hand, claiming the right of doing so as an ordinary farewell greeting; and how he had held her, looking into her face, till she had been forced to speak some word of rebuke to him! "i did not think you would behave like that," she had said. but yet at that very moment her heart was going from her. the warm friendliness of his touch, the firm, clear brightness of his eye, and the eager tone of his voice, were even then subduing her coy unwillingness to part with her maiden love. she had declared to herself then that she was angry with him; but, since that, she had declared to herself that nothing could have been better, finer, sweeter than all that he had said and done on that evening. it had been his right to hold her, if he intended afterwards to claim her as his own. "i like you so very much," he had said; "why should we not be friends?" she had gone away from him then, fleeing along the path, bewildered, ignorant as to her own feelings, conscious almost of a sin in having listened to him; but still filled with a wondrous delight that any one so good, so beautiful, so powerful as he, should have cared to ask for her friendship in such pressing words. during all her walk home she had been full of fear and wonder and mysterious delight. then had come the ball, which in itself had hardly been so pleasant to her, because the eyes of many had watched her there. but she thought of the moment when he had first come to her in mrs. tappitt's drawing-room, just as she was resolving that he did not intend to notice her further. she thought of those repeated dances which had been so dear to her, but which, in their repetition, had frightened her so grievously. she thought of the supper, during which he had insisted on sitting by her; and of that meeting in the hall, during which he had, as it were, forced her to remain and listen to him,--forced her to stay with him till, in her agony of fear, she had escaped away to her friend and begged that she might be taken home! as she sat by mrs. cornbury in the carriage, and afterwards as she had thought of it all while lying in her bed, she had declared to herself that he had been very wrong;--but since that, during those few days of her permitted love, she had sworn to herself as often that he had been very right. and he had been right. she said so to herself now again, though the words which he had spoken and the things which he had done had brought upon her all this sorrow. he had been right. if he loved her it was only manly and proper in him to tell his love. and for herself,--seeing that she had loved, had it not been proper and womanly in her to declare her love? what had she done; when, at what point, had she gone astray, that she should be brought to such a pass as this? at the beginning, when he had held her hand on the spot where she was now sitting, and again when he had kept her prisoner in mr. tappitt's hall, she had been half conscious of some sin, half ashamed of her own conduct; but that undecided fear of sin and shame had been washed out, and everything had been made white as snow, as pure as running water, as bright as sunlight, by the permission to love this man which had been accorded to her. what had she since done that she should be brought to such a pass as that in which she now found herself? as she thought of this she was bitter against all the world except him;--almost bitter against her own mother. she had said that she would obey in this matter of the letter, and she knew well that she would in truth do as her mother bade her. but, sitting there, on the churchyard stile, she hatched within her mind plans of disobedience,--dreadful plans! she would not submit to this usage. she would go away from baslehurst without knowledge of any one, and would seek him out in his london home. it would be unmaidenly;--but what cared she now for that;--unless, indeed, he should care? all her virgin modesty and young maiden fears,--was it not for him that she would guard them, for his delight and his pride? and if she were to see him no more, if she were to be forced to bid him go from her, of what avail would it be now to her to cherish and maintain the unsullied brightness of her woman's armour? if he were lost to her, everything was lost. she would go to him, and throwing herself at his feet would swear to him that life without his love was no longer possible for her. if he would then take her as his wife she would strive to bless him with all that the tenderness of a wife could give. if he should refuse her,--then she would go away and die. in such case what to her would be the judgment of any man or any woman? what to her would be her sister's scorn and the malignant virtue of such as miss pucker and mr. prong? what the upturned hands and amazement of mr. comfort? it would have been they who had driven her to this. but how about her mother when she should have thus thrown herself overboard from the ship and cast herself away from the pilotage which had hitherto been the guide of her conduct? why--why--why had her mother deserted her in her need? as she thought of her mother she knew that her plan of rebellion was nothing; but why--why had her mother deserted her? as for him, and these new tidings which had come to the cottage respecting him, she would have cared for them not a jot. mrs. cornbury had cautioned her not to believe all that she heard; but she had already declined,--had altogether declined to believe any of it. it was to her, whether believed or disbelieved, matter altogether irrelevant. a wife does not cease to love her husband because he gets into trouble. she does not turn against him because others have quarrelled with him. she does not separate her lot from his because he is in debt! those are the times when a wife, a true wife, sticks closest to her husband, and strives the hardest to lighten the weight of his cares by the tenderness of her love! and had she not been permitted to place herself in that position with regard to him when she had been permitted to love him? in all her thoughts she recognized the right of her mother to have debarred her from the privilege of loving this man, if such embargo had been placed on her before her love had been declared. she had never, even within her own bosom, assumed to herself the right of such privilege without authority expressed. but her very soul revolted against this withdrawal of the sanction that had been given to her. the spirit within her rebelled, though she knew that she would not carry on that rebellion by word or deed. but she had been injured;--injured almost to death; injured even to death itself as regarded all that life could give her worth her taking! as she thought of this injury that fierce look of which i have spoken came across her brow! she would obey her pastors and masters. yes; she would obey them. but she could never again be soft and pliable within their hands. obedience in this matter was a necessity to her. in spite of that wild thought of throwing off her maiden bonds and allowing her female armour to be splashed and sullied in the gutter, she knew that there was that which would hinder her from the execution of such scheme. she was bound by her woman's lot to maintain her womanly purity. let her suffer as she might there was nothing for her but obedience. she could not go forth as though she were a man, and claim her right to stand or fall by her love. she had been injured in being brought to such plight as this, but she would bear her injury as best might be within her power. she was still thinking of all this, and still sitting with her eyes turned towards the tower of the church, when she was touched on the back by a light hand. she turned round quickly, startled by the touch,--for she had heard no footstep,--and saw martha tappitt and cherry. it was cherry who had come close upon her, and it was cherry's voice that she first heard. "a penny for your thoughts," said cherry. "oh, you have so startled me!" said rachel. "then i suppose your thoughts were worth more than a penny. perhaps you were thinking of an absent knight." and then cherry began to sing--"away, away, away. he loves and he rides away." poor rachel blushed and was unable to speak. "don't be so foolish," said martha to her sister. "it's ever so long since we've seen you, rachel. why don't you come and walk with us?" "yes, indeed,--why don't you?" said cherry, whose good-nature was quite as conspicuous as her bad taste. she knew now that she had vexed rachel, and was thoroughly sorry that she had done so. if any other girl had quizzed her about her lover it would not have annoyed her, and she had not understood at first that rachel ray might be different from herself. "i declare we have hardly seen you since the night of the party, and we think it very ill-natured in you not to come to us. do come and walk to-morrow." "oh, thank you;--not to-morrow, because my sister is coming out from baslehurst, to spend the evening with us." "well;--on saturday, then," said cherry, persistingly. but rachel would make no promise to walk with them on any day. she felt that she must henceforth be divided from the tappitts. had not he quarrelled with mr. tappitt; and could it be fitting that she should keep up any friendship with the family that was hostile to him? she was also aware that mrs. tappitt was among those who were desirous of robbing her of her lover. mrs. tappitt was her enemy as mr. tappitt was his. she asked herself no question as to that duty of forgiving them the injuries they had done her, but she felt that she was divided from them,--from mr. and mrs. tappitt, and also from the girls. and, moreover, in her present strait she wanted no friend. she could not talk to any friend about her lover, and she could not bring herself even to think on any other subject. "it's late," she said, "and i must go home, as mamma will be expecting me." cherry had almost replied that she had not been in so great a hurry once before, when she had stood in the churchyard with another companion; but she thought of rachel's reproachful face when her last little joke had been uttered, and she refrained. "she's over head and ears in love," said cherry to her sister, when rachel was gone. "i'm afraid she has been very foolish," said martha, seriously. "i don't see that she has been foolish at all. he's a very nice fellow, and as far as i can see he's just as fond of her as she is of him." "but we know what that means with young men," said martha, who was sufficiently serious in her way of thinking to hold by that doctrine as to wolves in sheep's clothing in which mrs. ray had been educated. "but young men do marry,--sometimes," said cherry. "but not merely for the sake of a pretty face or a good figure. i believe mamma is right in that, and i don't think he'll come back again." "if he were my lover i'd have him back," said cherry, stoutly;--and so they went away to the brewery. rachel on her way home determined that she would write her letter that night. her mother was to read it when it was written; that was understood to be the agreement between them; but there would be no reason why she should not be alone when she wrote it. she could word it very differently, she thought, if she sat alone over it in her own bedroom, than she could do immediately under her mother's eye. she could not pause and think and perhaps weep over it, sitting at the parlour table, with her mother in her arm-chair, close by, watching her. it needed that she should write it with tears, with many struggles, with many baffled attempts to find the words that would be wanted,--with her very heart's blood. it must not be tender. no; she was prepared to omit all tenderness. and it must probably be short;--but if so its very shortness would be another difficulty. as she walked along she could not tell herself with what words she would write it; but she thought that the words would perhaps come to her if she waited long enough for them in the solitude of her own chamber. she reached home by nine o'clock and sat with her mother for an hour, reading out loud some book on which they were then engaged. "i think i'll go to bed now, mamma," she said. "you always want to go to bed so soon," said mrs. ray. "i think you are getting tired of reading out loud. that will be very sad for me with my eyes." "no, i'm not, mamma, and i'll go on again for half an hour, if you please; but i thought you liked going to bed at ten." the watch was consulted, and as it was not quite ten rachel did go on for another half-hour, and then she went up to her bedroom. she sat herself down at her open window and looked out for a while upon the heavens. the summer moon was at its full, so that the green before the cottage was as clear before her as in the day, and she could see over into the gloom of mr. sturt's farmyard across it. she had once watched rowan as he came over the turf towards the cottage swinging his stick in his hand, and now she gazed on the spot where the baslehurst road came in as though she expected that his figure might again appear. she looked and looked, thinking of this, till she would hardly have been surprised had that figure really come forth upon the road. but no figure was to be seen, and after awhile she withdrew from the window and sat herself down at the little table. it was very late when she undressed herself and went to her bed, and later still when her eyes, red with many tears, were closed in sleep;--but the letter had been written and was ready for her mother's inspection. this was the letter as it stood after many struggles in the writing of it,- bragg's end, thursday, 186- my dear mr. rowan, i am much obliged to you for having written the letter which i received from you the other day, and i should have answered it sooner, only mamma thought it best to see mr. comfort first, as he is our clergyman here, and to ask his advice. i hope you will not be annoyed because i showed your letter to mamma, but i could not receive any letter from you without doing so, and i may as well tell you that she will read this before it goes. and now that i have begun i hardly know how to write what i have to say. mr. comfort and mamma have determined that there must be nothing fixed as an engagement between us, and that for the present, at least, i may not correspond with you. this will be my first and last letter. as that will be so, of course i shall not expect you to write any more, and i know that you will be very angry. but if you understood all my feelings i think that perhaps you would not be very, very angry. i know it is true that when you asked me that question, i nodded my head as you say in your letter. if i had sworn the twenty oaths of which you speak they would not, as you say, have bound me tighter. but neither could bind me to anything against mamma's will. i thought that you were very generous to come to me as you did;--oh, so generous! i don't know why you should have looked to such a one as me to be your wife. but i would have done my best to make you happy, had i been able to do as i suppose you then wished me. but you well know that a man is very different from a girl, and of course i must do as mamma wishes. they say that as the business here about the brewery is so very unsettled they think it probable that you will not have to come back to baslehurst any more; and that as our acquaintance has been so very short, it is not reasonable to suppose that you will care much about me after a little while. perhaps it is not reasonable, and after this i shall have no right to be angry with you if you forget me. i don't think you will quite forget me; but i shall never expect or even hope to see you again. twice in writing her letter rachel cut out this latter assertion, but at last, sobbing in despair, she restored the words. what right would she have to hope that he would come to her, after she had taken upon herself to break that promise which had been conveyed to him, when she bent her head over his arm? i shall not forget you, and i will always be your friend, as you said i should be. being friends is very different to anything else, and nobody can say that i may not do that. i will always remember what you showed me in the clouds; and, indeed, i went there this very evening to see if i could see another arm. but there was nothing there, and i have taken that as an omen that you will not come back to baslehurst.-"to me," had been the words as she had first written them; but there was tenderness in those words, and she found it necessary to alter them. i will now say good-bye to you, for i have told you all that i have to tell. mamma desires that i will remember her to you kindly. may god bless you and protect you always! believe me to be your sincere friend, rachel ray. in the morning she took down the letter in her hand and gave it to her mother. mrs. ray read it very slowly and demurred over it at sundry places. she especially demurred at that word about the omen, and even declared that it ought to be expunged. but rachel was very stern and held her ground. she had put into the letter, she said, all that she had been bidden to say. such a word from herself to one who had been so dear to her must be allowed to her. the letter was not altered and was taken away by the postman that evening. chapter vi. mrs. ray goes to exeter, and meets a friend. six weeks passed over them at bragg's end, and nothing was heard of luke rowan. rachel's letter, a copy of which was given in our last chapter, was duly sent away by the postman, but no answer to it came to bragg's end. it must, however, be acknowledged that it not only required no answer, but that it even refused to be answered. rachel had told her lover that he was not to correspond with her, and that she certainly would not write to him again. having so said, she had no right to expect an answer; and she protested over and over again that she did expect none. but still she would watch, as she thought unseen, for the postman's coming; and her heart would sink within her as the man would pass the gate without calling. "he has taken me at my word," she said to herself very bitterly. "i deserve nothing else from him; but--but--but--" in those days she was ever silent and stern. she did all that her mother bade her, but she did little or nothing from love. there were no more banquets, with clotted cream brought over from mrs. sturt's. she would speak a word or two now and then to mrs. sturt, who understood the whole case perfectly; but such words were spoken on chance occasions, for rachel now never went over to the farm. farmer sturt's assistance had been offered to her; but what could the farmer do for her in such trouble as hers? during the whole of these six weeks she did her household duties; but gradually she became slower in them and still more slow, and her mother knew that her disappointment was becoming the source of permanent misery. rachel never said that she was ill; nor, indeed, of any special malady did she show signs: but gradually she became thin and wan, her cheeks assumed a haggard look, and that aspect of the brow which her mother feared had become habitual to her. mrs. ray observed her closely in all that she did. she knew well of those watchings for the postman. she was always thinking of her child, and, after a while, longing that luke rowan might come back to them, with a heart almost as sore with longing as was that of rachel herself. but what could she do? she could not bring him back. in all that she had done,--in giving her sanction to this lover, and again in withdrawing it, she had been guided by the advice of her clergyman. should she go again to him and beg him to restore that young man to them? ah! no; great as was her trust in her clergyman she knew that even he could not do that for her. during all these weeks hardly a word was spoken openly between the mother and daughter about the matter that chiefly occupied the thoughts of them both. luke rowan's name was hardly mentioned between them. once or twice some allusion was made to the subject of the brewery, for it was becoming generally known that the lawyers were already at work on behalf of rowan's claim; but even on such occasions as these mrs. ray found that her speech was stopped by the expression of rachel's eyes, and by those two lines which on such occasions would mark her forehead. in those days mrs. ray became afraid of her younger daughter,--almost more so than she had ever been afraid of the elder one. rachel, indeed, never spoke as mrs. prime would sometimes speak. no word of scolding ever passed her mouth; and in all that she did she was gentle and observant. but there was ever on her countenance that look of reproach which by degrees was becoming almost unendurable. and then her words during the day were so few! she was so anxious to sit alone in her own room! she would still read to her mother for some hours in the evening; but this reading was to her so manifestly a task, difficult and distasteful! it may be remembered that mrs. prime, with her lover, mr. prong, and her friend miss pucker, had promised to call at bragg's end on the evening after rachel's walk into baslehurst. they did come as they had promised, about half an hour after rachel's letter to luke had been carried away by the postman. they had come, and had remained at bragg's end for an hour, eating cake and drinking currant wine, but not having, on the whole, what our american friends call a good time of it. that visit had been terrible to mrs. ray. rachel had sat there cold, hard, and speechless. not only had she not asked miss pucker to take off her bonnet, but she had absolutely declined to speak to that lady. it was wonderful to her mother that she should thus, in so short a time, have become wilful, masterful, and resolved in following out her own purposes. not one word on that occasion did she speak to miss pucker; and mrs. prime, observing this, had grown black and still blacker, till the horror of the visit had become terrible to mrs. ray. miss pucker had grinned and smiled, and striven gallantly, poor woman, to make the best of it. she had declared how glad she had been to see miss rachel on the previous evening, and how well miss rachel had looked, and had expressed quite voluminous hopes that miss rachel would come to their dorcas meetings. but to all this rachel answered not a syllable. now and then she addressed a word or two to her sister. now and then she spoke to her mother. when mr. prong specially turned himself to her, asking her some question, she would answer him with one or two monosyllables, always calling him sir; but to miss pucker she never once opened her mouth. mrs. prime became very angry,--very black and very angry; and the time of the visit was a terrible time to mrs. ray. but this visit is to be noticed in our story chiefly on account of a few words which mr. prong found an opportunity of saying to mrs. ray respecting his proposed marriage. mrs. ray knew that there were difficulties about the money, and was disposed to believe, and perhaps to hope, that the match would be broken off. but on this occasion mr. prong was very marked in his way of speaking to mrs. ray, as though everything were settled. mrs. ray was thoroughly convinced by this that it was so, and her former beliefs and possible hopes were all dispersed. but then mrs. ray was easily convinced by any assertion. in thus speaking to his future mother-in-law he had contrived to turn his back round upon the other three ladies, so as to throw them together for the time, and thus make their position the more painful. it must be acknowledged that rachel was capable of something great, after her determined resistance to miss pucker's blandishments under such circumstances as these. "mrs. ray," mr. prong had said,--and as he spoke his voice was soft with mingled love and sanctity,--"i cannot let this moment pass without expressing one word of what i feel at the prospect of connecting myself with your amiable family." "i'm sure i'm much obliged," mrs. ray had answered. "of course i am aware that dorothea has mentioned the matter to you." "oh yes; she has mentioned it, certainly." "and therefore i should be remiss, both as regards duty and manners, if i did not take this opportunity of assuring you how much gratification i feel in becoming thus bound up in family affection with you and miss rachel. family ties are sweet bonds of sanctified love; and as i have none of my own,--nearer, that is, than geelong, the colony of victoria, where my mother and brother and sisters have located themselves,--i shall feel the more pleasure in taking you and miss rachel to my heart." this was complimentary to mrs. ray; but with her peculiar feelings as to the expediency of people having their own belongings, she almost thought that it would have been better for all parties if mr. prong had gone to geelong with the rest of the prong family: this opinion, however, she did not express. as to taking mr. prong to her heart, she felt some doubts of her own capacity for such a performance. it would be natural for her to love a son-in-law. she had loved mr. prime very dearly, and trusted him thoroughly. she would have been prepared to love luke rowan, had fate been propitious in that quarter. but she could not feel secure as to loving mr. prong. such love, moreover, should come naturally, of its own growth, and not be demanded categorically as a right. it certainly was a pity that mr. prong had not made himself happy, with that happiness for which he sighed, in the bosom of his family at geelong. "i'm sure you're very kind," mrs. ray had said. "and when we are thus united in the bonds of this world," continued mr. prong, "i do hope that other bonds, more holy in their nature even than those of family, more needful even than them, may join us together. dorothea has for some months past been a constant attendant at my church--" "oh, i couldn't leave mr. comfort; indeed i couldn't," said mrs. ray in alarm. "i couldn't go away from my own parish church was it ever so." "no, no; not altogether, perhaps. i am not sure that it would be desirable. but will it not be sweet, mrs. ray, when we are bound together as one family, to pour forth our prayers in holy communion together?" "i think so much of my own parish church, mr. prong," mrs. ray replied. after that mr. prong did not, on that occasion, press the matter further, and soon turned round his chair so as to relieve the three ladies behind him. "i think we had better be going, mr. prong," said mrs. prime, rising from her seat with a display of anger in the very motion of her limbs. "good-evening, mother: good-evening to you, rachel. i'm afraid our visit has put you out. had i guessed as much, we would not have come." "you know, dolly, that i am always glad to see you,--only you come to us so seldom," said rachel. then with a very cold bow to miss pucker, with a very warm pressure of the hand from mr. prong, and with a sisterly embrace for dorothea, that was not cordial as it should have been, she bade them good-bye. it was felt by all of them that the visit had been a failure;--it was felt so, at least, by all the ray family. mr. prong had achieved a certain object in discussing his marriage as a thing settled; and as regarded miss pucker, she also had achieved a certain object in eating cake and drinking wine in mrs. ray's parlour. for some weeks after that but little had been seen of mrs. prime at the cottage; and nothing had been said of her matrimonial prospects. rachel did not once go to her sister's lodgings; and, on the few occasions of their meeting, asked no questions as to mr. prong. indeed, as the days and weeks went on, her heart became too heavy to admit of her asking any questions about the love affairs of others. she still went about her work, as i have before said. she was not ill,--not ill so as to demand the care due to an invalid. but she moved about the house slowly, as though her limbs were too heavy for her. she spoke little, unless when her mother addressed her. she would sit for hours on the sofa doing nothing, reading nothing, and looking at nothing. but still, at the postman's morning hours, she would keep her eye upon the road over which he came, and that dull look of despair would come across her face when he passed on without calling at the cottage. but on a certain morning towards the end of the six weeks the postman did call,--as indeed he had called on other days, though bringing with him no letter from luke rowan. neither now, on this occasion, did he bring a letter from luke rowan. the letter was addressed to mrs. ray; and, as rachel well knew from the handwriting, it was from the gentleman who managed her mother's little money matters,--the gentleman who had succeeded to the business left by mr. ray when he died. so rachel took the letter up to her mother and left it, saying that it was from mr. goodall. mrs. ray's small income arose partly from certain cottages in baslehurst, which had been let in lump to a baslehurst tradesman, and partly from shares in a gas company at exeter. now the gas company at exeter was the better investment of the two, and was considered to be subject to less uncertainty than the cottages. the lease under which the cottages had been let was out, and mrs. ray had been advised to sell the property. building ground near the town was rising in value; and she had been advised by mr. goodall to part with her little estate. both mrs. ray and rachel were aware that this business, to them very important, was imminent; and now had come a letter from mr. goodall, saying that mrs. ray must go to exeter to conclude the sale. "we should only bungle matters," mr. goodall had said, "if i were to send the deeds down to you; and as it is absolutely necessary that you should understand all about it, i think you had better come up on tuesday; you can get back to baslehurst easily on the same day." "my dear," said mrs. ray, coming into the parlour, "i must go to exeter." "to-day, mamma?" "no, not to-day, but on tuesday. mr. goodall says i must understand all about the sale. it is a dreadful trouble." but, dreadful as the trouble was, it seemed that mrs. ray was not made unhappy by the prospect of the little expedition. she fussed and fretted as ladies do on such occasions, but--as is also common with ladies,--the excitement of the journey was, upon the whole, a gratification to her. she asked rachel to accompany her, and at first pressed her to do so strongly; but such work at the present moment was not in accord with rachel's mood, and at last she escaped from it under the plea of expense. "i think it would be foolish, mamma," she said. "now that dolly has gone you will be run very close; and when mr. goodall first spoke of selling the cottages, he said that perhaps you might be without anything from them for a quarter." "but he has sold them now, my dear; and there will be the money at once." "i don't see why you should throw away ten and sixpence, mamma," said rachel. and as she spoke in that resolved and masterful tone, her mother, of course, gave up the point. so when the tuesday morning came, she went with her mother only as far as the station. "don't mind meeting me, because i can't be sure about the train," said mrs. ray. "but i shall be back to-night, certainly." "and i'll wait tea for you," said rachel. then, when her mother was gone, she walked back to the cottage by herself. she walked back at once, but took a most devious course. she was determined to avoid the length of the high street, and she was determined also to avoid brewery lane; but she was equally determined to pass through the churchyard. so she walked down from the railway station to the hamlet at the bottom of the hill below the church, and from thence went up by the field-path to the stile. in order to accomplish this she went fully two miles out of her way, and now the sun over her head was very hot. but what was the distance or the heat of the sun to her when her object was to stand for a few moments in that place? her visit, however, to the spot which was so constantly in her thoughts did her no good. why had she been so injured? why had this sacrifice of herself been demanded from her? as she sat for a moment on the stile this was the matter that filled her breast. she had been exalted to the heavens when she first heard her mother speak of mr. rowan as an acceptable suitor. she had been filled with joy as though paradise had been opened to her, when she found herself to be the promised bride of luke rowan. then had come her lover's letter, and the clergyman's counsel, and her own reply; and after that the gates of her paradise had been closed against her! "i wonder whether it's the same thing to him," she said to herself. "but i suppose not. i don't think it can be the same thing or he would come. wouldn't i go to him if i were free as he is!" she barely rested in the churchyard, and then walked on between the elms at a quick pace, with a heart sore,--sore almost to breaking. she would never have been brought to this condition had not her mother told her that she might love him! thence came her vexation of spirit. there was the cruelty. all the world knew that this man had been her lover;--all her world knew it. cherry tappitt had sung her little witless song about it. mrs. tappitt had called at the cottage about it. mr. comfort had given his advice about it. mrs. cornbury had whispered to her about it out of her pony carriage. mrs. sturt had counselled her about it. mr. prong had thought it very wrong on her part to love the man. mr. sturt had thought it very right, and had offered his assistance. all this would have been as nothing had her lover remained to her. cherry might have sung till her little throat was tired, and mr. prong might have expressed his awe with outspread hands, and have looked as though he expected the skies to fall. had her paradise not been closed to her, all this talking would have been a thing of course. but such talking,--such wide-spread knowledge of her condition, with the gates of her paradise closed against her, was very hard to bear! and who had closed the gates? her own hands had done it. he, her lover, had not deserted her. he had done for her all that truth and earnestness demanded, and perhaps as much as love required. men were not so soft as girls, she argued within her own breast. let a man be ever so true it could not be expected that he should stand by his love after he had been treated with such cold indifference as had been shown in her letter! she would have stood by her love, let his letter have been as cold as it might. but then she was a woman, and her love, once encouraged, had become a necessity to her. a man, she said to herself, would be more proud but less stanch. of course she would hear no more from him. of course the gates of her paradise were shut. such were her thoughts as she walked home, and such the thoughts over which she sat brooding alone throughout the entire day. at half-past seven in the evening mrs. ray came back home, wearily trudging across the green. she was very weary, for she had now walked above two miles from the station. she had also been on her feet half the day, and, which was probably worse than all the rest had she known it, she had travelled nearly eighty miles by railway. she was very tired, and would under ordinary circumstances have been disposed to reckon up her grievances in the evening quite as accurately as rachel had reckoned hers in the morning. but something had occurred in exeter, the recollection of which still overcame the sense of weariness which mrs. ray felt;--overcame it, or rather overtopped it; so that when rachel came out to her at the cottage door she did not speak at once of her own weariness, but looked lovingly into her daughter's face,--lovingly and anxiously, and said some little word intended to denote affection. "you must be very tired," said rachel, who, with many self-reproaches and much communing within her own bosom, had for the time vanquished her own hard humour. "yes, i am tired, my dear; very. i thought the train never would have got to the baslehurst station. it stopped at all the little stations, and really i think i could have walked as fast." a dozen years had not as yet gone by since the velocity of these trains had been so terrible to mrs. ray that she had hardly dared to get into one of them! "and whom have you seen?" said rachel. "seen!" said mrs. ray. "who told you that i had seen anybody?" "i suppose you saw mr. goodall." "oh yes, i saw him of course. i saw him, and the cottages are all sold. we shall have seven pounds ten a year more than before. i'm sure it will be a very great comfort. seven pounds ten will buy so many things." "but ten pounds would buy more." "of course it would, my dear. and i told mr. goodall i wished he could make it ten, as it would make it sound so much more regular like; but he said he couldn't do it because the gas has gone up so much. he could have done it if i had sixty pounds, but of course i hadn't." "but, mamma, whom did you see except mr. goodall? i know you saw somebody, and you must tell me." "that's nonsense, rachel. you can't know that i saw anybody." it may, however, be well to explain at once the cause of mrs. ray's hesitation, and that this may be done in the proper course, we will go back to her journey to exeter. all the incidents of her day may be told very shortly; but there was one incident in her day which filled her with so much anxiety, and almost dismay, that it must be narrated. on arriving at exeter she got into an omnibus which would have taken her direct to mr. goodall's office in the close; but she was minded to call at a shop in the high street, and had herself put down at the corner of one of those passages which lead from the high street to the close. she got down from the step of the vehicle, very carefully, as is the wont with middle-aged ladies from the country, and turned round to walk directly into the shop; but before her, on the pavement, she saw luke rowan. he was standing close to her, so that it was impossible that they should have pretended to miss seeing each other, even had they been so minded. any such pretence would have been impossible to mrs. ray, and would have been altogether contrary to luke rowan's nature. he had been coming out of the shop, and had been arrested at once by mrs. ray's figure as he saw it emerging from the door of the omnibus. "how d'you do?" said he, coming forward with outstretched hand, and speaking as though there was nothing between him and mrs. ray which required any peculiar word or tone. "oh, mr. rowan! is this you?" said she. "dear, dear! i'm sure i didn't expect to see you in exeter." "i dare say not, mrs. ray; and i didn't expect to see you. but the odd thing is i've come here about the same business as you, though i didn't know anything about it till yesterday." "what business, mr. rowan?" "i've bought your cottages in baslehurst." "no!" "but i have, and i've paid for them too, and you're going this very minute to mr. goodall to sign the deed of sale. isn't that true? so you see i know all about it." "well, that is strange! isn't it, now?" "the fact is i must have a bit of land at baslehurst for building. tappitt will go on fighting; and as i don't mean to be beaten, i'll have a place of my own there." "and you'll pull down the cottages?" "if i don't pull him down first, so as to get the old brewery. i was obliged to buy your bit of ground now, as i might not have been able to get any just when i wanted it. you've sold it a deal too cheap. you tell mr. goodall i say so." "but he says i'm to gain something by selling it." "does he? if it is so, i'm very glad of it. i only came down from london yesterday to finish this piece of business, and i'm going back to-day." during all this time not a word had been said about rachel. he had not even asked after her in the ordinary way in which men ask after their ordinary acquaintance. he had not looked as though he were in the least embarrassed in speaking to rachel's mother, and now it seemed as though he were going away, as though all had been said between them that he cared to say. mrs. ray at the first moment had dreaded any special word; but now, as he was about to leave her, she felt disappointed that no special word had been spoken. but he was not as yet gone. "i literally haven't a minute to spare," he said, offering her his hand for a second time; "for i've two or three people to see before i get to the train." "good-bye," said mrs. ray. "good-bye, mrs. ray. i don't think i've been very well treated among you. i don't indeed. but i won't say any more about that at present. is she quite well?" "pretty well, thank you," said she, all of a tremble. "i won't send her any message. as things are at present, no message would be of any service. good-bye." and so saying he went from her. mrs. ray at that moment had no time for making up her mind as to what she would do or say in consequence of this meeting,--or whether she would do or say anything. she looked forward to all the leisure time of her journey home for thinking of that; so she finished her shopping and hurried on to mr. goodall's office without resolving whether or no she would tell rachel of the encounter. at mr. goodall's she remained some little time, dining at that gentleman's house as well as signing the deed, and asking questions about the gas company. he had grateful recollections of kindnesses received from mr. ray, and always exercised his hospitality on those rare occasions which brought mrs. ray up to exeter. as they sat at table he asked questions about the young purchaser of the property which somewhat perplexed mrs. ray. yes, she said, she did know him. she had just met him in the street and heard his news. young rowan, she told her friend, had been at the cottage more than once, but no mention had been made of his desire to buy these cottages. was he well spoken of in baslehurst? well;--she was so little in baslehurst that she hardly knew. she had heard that he had quarrelled with mr. tappitt, and she believed that many people had said that he was wrong in his quarrel. she knew nothing of his property; but certainly had heard somebody say that he had gone away without paying his debts. it may easily be conceived how miserable and ineffective she would be under this cross-examination, although it was made by mr. goodall without any allusion to rachel. "at any rate we have got our money," said mr. goodall; "and i suppose that's all we care about. but i should say he's rather a harum-scarum sort of fellow. why he should leave his debts behind him i can't understand, as he seems to have plenty of money." all this made mrs. ray's task the more difficult. during the last two or three weeks she had been wishing that she had not gone to mr. comfort,--wishing that she had allowed rachel to answer rowan's letter in any terms of warmest love that she might have chosen,--wishing, in fact, that she had permitted the engagement to go on. but now she began again to think that she had been right. if this man were in truth a harum-scarum fellow was it not well that rachel should be quit of him,--even with any amount of present sorrow? thinking of this on her way back to baslehurst she again made up her mind that rowan was a wolf. but she had not made up her mind as to what she would, or what she would not tell rachel about the meeting, even when she reached her own door. "i will send her no message," he had said. "as things are at present no message would be of service." what had he meant by this? what purpose on his part did these words indicate? these questions mrs. ray had asked herself, but had failed to answer them. but no resolution on mrs. ray's part to keep the meeting secret would have been of avail, even had she made such resolution. the fact would have fallen from her as easily as water falls from a sieve. rachel would have extracted from her the information, had she been ever so determined not to impart it. as things had turned out she had at once given rachel to understand that she had met some one in exeter whom she had not expected to meet. "but, mamma, whom did you see except mr. goodall?" rachel asked. "i know you saw somebody, and you must tell me." "that's nonsense, rachel; you can't know that i saw anybody." after that there was a pause for some moments, and then rachel persisted in her inquiry. "but, mamma, i do know that you met somebody."--then there was another pause.--"mamma, was it mr. rowan?" mrs. ray stood convicted at once. had she not spoken a word, the form of her countenance when the question was asked would have answered it with sufficient clearness. but she did speak a word. "well; yes, it was mr. rowan. he had come down to exeter on business." "and what did he say, mamma?" "he didn't say anything,--at least, nothing particular. it is he that has bought the cottages, and he had come down from london about that. he told me that he wanted some ground near baslehurst, because he couldn't get the brewery." "and what else did he say, mamma?" "i tell you that he said nothing else." "he didn't--didn't mention me then?" mrs. ray had been looking away from rachel during this conversation,--had been purposely looking away from her. but now there was a tone of agony in her child's voice which forced her to glance round. ah me! she beheld so piteous an expression of woe in rachel's face that her whole heart was melted within her, and she began to wish instantly that they might have rowan back again with all his faults. "tell me the truth, mamma; i may as well know it." "well, my dear, he didn't mention your name, but he did say a word about you." "what word, mamma?" "he said he would send no message because it would be no good." "he said that, did he?" "yes, he said that. and so i suppose he meant it would be no good sending anything till he came himself." "no, mamma; he didn't mean quite that. i understand what he meant. as it is to be so, he was quite right. no message could be of any use. it has been my own doing, and i have no right to blame him. mamma, if you don't mind, i think i'll go to bed." "my dear, you're wrong. i'm sure you're wrong. he didn't mean that." "didn't he, mamma?" and as she spoke a sad, weary, wobegone smile came over her face,--a smile so sad and piteous that it went to her mother's heart more keenly than would have done any sound of sorrow, any sobs, or wail of grief. "but i think he did mean that, mamma. it's no good doubting or fearing any longer. it's all over now." "and it has been my fault!" "no, dearest. it has not been your fault, nor do i think that it has been mine. i think we'd better not talk of faults. ah dear;--i do wish he had never come here!" "perhaps it may be all well yet, rachel." "perhaps it may,--in another world. it will never be well again for me in this. good-night, mamma. you must never think that i am angry with you." then she went up stairs, leaving mrs. ray alone with her sorrow. chapter vii. domestic politics at the brewery. in the mean time things were not going on very pleasantly at the brewery, and mr. tappitt was making himself unpleasant in the bosom of his family. a lawsuit will sometimes make a man extremely pleasant company to his wife and children. even a losing lawsuit will sometimes do so, if he be well backed up in his pugnacity by his lawyer, and if the matter of the battle be one in which he can take a delight to fight. "ah," a man will say, "though i spend a thousand pounds over it, i'll stick to him like a burr. he shan't shake me off." and at such times he is almost sure to be in a good humour, and in a generous mood. then let his wife ask him for money for a dinner-party, and his daughters for new dresses. he has taught himself for the moment to disregard money, and to think that he can sow five-pound notes broadcast without any inward pangs. but such was by no means the case with mr. tappitt. his lawyer honyman was not backing him up; and as cool reflection came upon him he was afraid of trusting his interests to those other men, sharpit and longfite. and mrs. tappitt, when cool reflection came on her, had begun to dread the ruin which it seemed possible that terrible young man might inflict upon them. she had learned already, though mrs. ray had not, how false had been that report which had declared luke rowan to be frivolous, idle, and in debt. to her it was very manifest that honyman was afraid of the young man; and honyman, though he might not be as keen as some others, was at any rate honest. honyman also thought that if the brewery were given up to rowan that thousand a year which had been promised would be paid regularly; and to this solution of the difficulty mrs. tappitt was gradually bending herself to submit as the best which an untoward fate offered to them. honyman himself had declared to her that mr. tappitt, if he were well advised, would admit rowan in as a partner, on equal terms as regarded power and ultimate possession, but with that lion's share of the immediate concern for himself which rowan offered. but this she knew that tappitt would not endure; and she knew, also, that if he were brought to endure it for a while, it would ultimately lead to terrible sorrows. "they would be knocking each other about with the pokers, mr. honyman," she had said; "and where would the custom be when that got into the newspapers?" "if i were mr. tappitt, i would just let him have his own way," honyman had replied. "that shows that you don't know tappitt," had been mrs. tappitt's rejoinder. no;--the thousand a year and dignified retirement in a villa had recommended itself to mrs. tappitt's mind. she would use all her influence to attain that position,--if only she could bring herself to feel assured that the thousand a year would be forthcoming. as to tappitt himself, he was by no means so anxious to prolong the battle as he had been at the time of rowan's departure. his courage for fighting was not maintained by good backing. had honyman clapped him on the shoulder and bade him put ready money in his purse, telling him that all would come out right eventually, and that rowan would be crushed, he would have gone about baslehurst boasting loudly, and would have been happy. then mrs. t. and the girls would have had a merry time of it; and the tappitts would have come out of the contest with four or five hundred a year for life instead of the thousand now offered to them, and nobody would have blamed anybody for such a result. but honyman had not spirit for such backing. in his dull, slow, droning way he had shaken his head and said that things were looking badly. then tappitt had cursed and had sworn, and had half resolved to go to sharpit and longfite. sharpit and longfite would have clapped him on the back readily enough, and have bade him put plenty of money in his purse. but we may suppose that fate did not intend the ruin of tappitt, seeing that she did not make him mad enough to seek the counsels of sharpit and longfite. fate only made him very cross and unpleasant in the bosom of his family. looking out himself for some mode of escape from this terrible enemy that had come upon him, he preferred the raising of the sum of money which would be necessary to buy off rowan altogether. rowan had demanded ten thousand pounds, but tappitt still thought that seven, or, at any rate, eight thousand would do it. "i don't think he'll take less than ten," said honyman, "because his share is really worth as much as that." this was very provoking; and who can wonder that tappitt was not pleasant company in his own house? on the day after mrs. ray's visit to exeter, tappitt, as was now his almost daily practice, made his way into mr. honyman's little back room, and sat there with his hat on, discussing his affairs. "i find that mr. rowan has bought those cottages of the widow ray's," said honyman. "nonsense!" shouted tappitt, as though such a purchase on rowan's part was a new injury done to himself. "oh, but he has," said honyman. "there's not a doubt in life about it. if he does mean to build a new brewery, it wouldn't be a bad place. you see it's out of the thoroughfare of the town, and yet, as one may say, within a stone's throw of the high street." i will not repeat mr. tappitt's exclamation as he listened to these suggestions of his lawyer, but it was of a nature to show that he had not heard the news with indifference. "you see he's such a fellow that you don't know where to have him," continued honyman. "it's not only that he don't mind ruining you, but he don't mind ruining himself either." "i don't believe he's got anything to lose." "ah! that's where you're wrong. he has paid ready money for this bit of land to begin with, or goodall would never have let him have it. goodall knows what he's about as well as any man." "and do you mean to tell me that he's going to put up buildings there at once?" and tappitt's face as he asked the question would have softened the heart of any ordinary lawyer. but honyman was one whom nothing could harden and nothing soften. "i don't know what he's going to put up, mr. tappitt, and i don't know when. but i know this well enough; that when a man buys little bits of property about a place it shows that he means to do something there." "if he had twenty thousand pounds, he'd lose it all." "that's very likely; but the question is, how would you fare in the mean time? if he hadn't this claim upon you, of course you'd let him build what he liked, and only laugh at him." then mr. tappitt uttered another exclamation, and pulling his hat tighter on to his head, walked out of the lawyer's office and returned to the brewery. they dined at three o'clock at the brewery, and during dinner on this day the father of the family made himself very disagreeable. he scolded the maid-servant till the poor girl didn't know the spoons from the forks. he abused the cook's performances till that valuable old retainer declared that if "master got so rampageous he might suit hisself, the sooner the better; she didn't care how soon; she'd cooked victuals for his betters and would again." he snarled at his daughters till they perked up their faces and came silently to a mutual agreement that they would not condescend to notice him further while he held on in his present mood. and he replied to his wife's questions,--questions intended to be soothing and kindly conjugal,--in such a tone that she determined to have it out with him before she allowed him to go to bed. "she knew her duty," she said to herself, "and she could stand a good deal. but there were some things she couldn't stand and some things that weren't her duty." after dinner tappitt took himself out at once to his office in the brewery, and then, for the first time, saw the "baslehurst gazette and totnes chronicle" for that week. the "baslehurst gazette and totnes chronicle" was an enterprising weekly newspaper, which had been originally intended to convey on sunday mornings to the inhabitants of south devonshire the news of the past week, and the paper still bore the dates of successive sundays. but it had gradually pushed itself out into the light of its own world before its own date, gaining first a night and then a day, till now, at the period of which i am speaking, it was published on the friday morning. "you ought just to look at this," a burly old foreman had said, handing him the paper in question, with his broad thumb placed upon a certain column. this foreman had known bungall, and though he respected tappitt, he did not fear him. "you should just look at this. of course it don't amount to nothing; but it's as well to see what folks say." and he handed the paper to his master, almost making a hole in it by screwing his thumb on to the spot he wished to indicate. tappitt read the article, and his spirit was very bitter within him. it was a criticism on his own beer written in no friendly tone. "there is no reason," said the article, "why baslehurst should be flooded with a liquor which no christian ought to be asked to drink. baslehurst is as capable of judging good beer from bad as any town in the british empire. let mr. tappitt look to it, or some young rival will spring up beneath his feet and seize from his brow the hop-leaf wreath which bungall won and wore." this attack was the more cruel because the paper had originally been established by bungall's money, and had, in old days, been altogether devoted to the bungall interest. that this paper should turn against him was very hard. but what else had he a right to expect? it was known that he had promised his vote to the jew candidate, and the paper in question supported the cornbury interest. a man that lives in a glass house should throw no stones. the brewer who brews bad beer should vote for nobody. but tappitt would not regard this attack upon him in its proper political light. every evil at present falling upon him was supposed to come from his present enemy. "it's that dirty underhand blackguard," he said to the foreman. "i don't think so, mr. tappitt," said the foreman. "i don't think so indeed." "but i tell you it is," said tappitt, "and i don't care what you think." "just as you please, mr. tappitt," said the foreman, who thereupon retired from the office, leaving his master to meditate over the newspaper in solitude. it was a very bitter time for the poor brewer. he was one of those men whose spirit is not wanting to them while the noise and tumult of contest are around them, but who cannot hold on by their own convictions in the quiet hours. he could storm, and talk loud, and insist on his own way while men stood around him listening and perhaps admiring; but he was cowed when left by himself to think of things which seemed to be adverse. what could he do, if those around him, who had known him all his life as those newspaper people had known him,--what could he do if they turned against him, and talked of bad beer as rowan had talked? he was not man enough to stand up and face this new enemy unless he were backed by his old friends. honyman had told him that he would be beaten. how would it fare with him and his family if he were beaten? as he sat in his little office, with his hat low down over his eyes, balancing himself on the hind legs of his chair, he abused honyman roundly. had honyman been possessed of wit, of skill, of professional craft,--had he been the master of any invention, all might have been well. but the attorney was a fool, an ass, a coward. might it not be that he was a knave? but luckily for honyman, and luckily also for mr. tappitt himself, this abuse did not pass beyond the precincts of tappitt's own breast. we all know how delightful is the privilege of abusing our nearest friends after this fashion; but we generally satisfy ourselves with that limited audience to which mr. tappitt addressed himself on the present occasion. in the mean time mrs. tappitt was sitting up-stairs in the brewery drawing-room with her daughters, and she also was not happy in her mind. she had been snubbed, and almost browbeaten, at dinner time, and she also had had a little conversation in private with mr. honyman. she had been snubbed, and, if she did not look well about her, she was going to be ruined. "you mustn't let him go on with this lawsuit," mr. honyman had said. "he'll certainly get the worst of it if he does, and then he'll have to pay double." she disliked rowan quite as keenly as did her husband, but she was fully alive to the folly of spiting rowan by doing an injury to her own face. she would speak to tappitt that night very seriously, and in the mean time she turned the rowan controversy over in her own mind, endeavouring to look at it from all sides. it had never been her custom to make critical remarks on their father's conduct to any of the girls except martha; but on the present great occasion she waived that rule, and discussed the family affairs in full female family conclave. "i don't know what's come over your papa," she began by saying. "he seems quite beside himself to-day." "i think he is troubled about mr. rowan and this lawsuit," said the sagacious martha. "nasty man! i wish he'd never come near the place," said augusta. "i don't know that he's very nasty either," said cherry. "we all liked him when he was staying here." "but to be so false to papa!" said augusta. "i call it swindling, downright swindling." "one should know and understand all about it before one speaks in that way," said martha. "i dare say it is very vexatious to papa; but after all perhaps mr. rowan may have some right on his side." "i don't know about right," said mrs. tappitt. "i don't think he can have any right to come and set himself up here in opposition, as one may say, to the very ghost of his own uncle. i agree with augusta, and think it is a very dirty thing to do." "quite shameful," said augusta, indignantly. "but if he has got the law on his side," continued mrs. tappitt, "it's no good your papa trying to go against that. where should we be if we were to lose everything and be told to pay more money than your papa has got? it wouldn't be very pleasant to be turned out of the house." "i don't think he'd ever do it," said cherry. "i declare, cherry, i think you are in love with the man," said augusta. "if i ain't i know who was," said cherry. "as for love," said mrs. tappitt, "we all know who is in love with him,--nasty little sly minx! in the whole matter nothing makes me so angry as to think that she should have come here to our dance." "that was cherry's doing," said augusta. this remark cherry noticed only by a grimace addressed specially to her sister. a battle in rachel's favour under present circumstances would have been so losing an affair that cherry had not pluck enough to adventure it on her friend's behalf. "but the question is,--what are we to do about the lawsuit?" said mrs. tappitt. "it is easy to see from your papa's manner that he is very much harassed. he won't admit him as a partner;--that's certain." "oh dear! i should hope not," said augusta. "that's all very well," said martha; "but if the young man can prove his right, he must have it. mamma, do you know what mr. honyman says about it?" "yes, my dear, i do." mrs. tappitt's manner became very solemn, and the girls listened with all their ears. "yes, my dear, i do. mr. honyman thinks your father should give way." "and take him in as a partner?" said augusta. "papa has got that spirit that he couldn't do it." "it doesn't follow that your papa should take mr. rowan in as a partner because he gives up the lawsuit. he might pay him the money that he asks." "but has he got it?" demanded martha. "besides, it's such a deal; isn't it?" said augusta. "or," continued mrs. tappitt, "your papa might accept his offer by retiring with a very handsome income for us all. your papa has been in business for a great many years, working like a galley-slave. nobody knows how he has toiled and moiled, except me. it isn't any joke being a brewer,--and having it all on himself as he has had. and if young rowan ever begins it, i wish him joy of it." "but would he pay the income?" martha asked. "mr. honyman says that he would; and if he did not, there would be the property to fall back upon." "and where should we live?" said cherry. "that can't be settled quite yet. it must be somewhere near, so that your papa might keep an eye on the concern, and know that it was going all right. perhaps torquay would be the best place." "torquay would be delicious," said cherry. "and would that man come and live at the brewery?" said augusta. "of course he would, if he pleased," said martha. "and bring rachel ray with him as his wife?" said cherry. "he'll never do that," said mrs. tappitt with energy. "never; never!" said augusta,--with more energy. in this way the large and influential feminine majority of the family at the brewery was brought round to look at one of the propositions made by rowan without disfavour. it was not that that young man's sins had been in any degree forgiven, but that they all perceived, with female prudence, that it would be injudicious to ruin themselves because they hated him. and then to what lady living in a dingy brick house, close adjoining to the smoke and smells of beer-brewing, would not the idea of a marine villa at torquay be delicious? none of the family, not even mrs. tappitt herself, had ever known what annual profit had accrued to mr. t. as the reward of his life's work. but they had been required to live in a modest, homely way,--as though that annual profit had not been great. under the altered circumstances, as now proposed, they would all know that papa had a thousand a year to spend;--and what might not be done at torquay with a thousand a year? before mr. tappitt came home for the evening,--which he did not do on that day till past ten, having been detained, by business, in the bar of the dragon inn,--they had all resolved that the combined ease and dignity of a thousand a year should be accepted. mr. tappitt was still perturbed in spirit when he took himself to the marital chamber. what had been the nature of the business which had detained him at the bar of the dragon he did not condescend to say, but it seemed to have been of a nature not well adapted to smooth his temper. mrs. tappitt perhaps guessed what that business had been; but if so, she said nothing of the subject in direct words. one little remark she did make, which may perhaps have had allusion to that business. "bah!" she exclaimed, as mr. tappitt came near her; "if you must smoke at all, i wish to goodness you'd smoke good tobacco." "so i do," said tappitt, turning round at her sharply. "it's best mixed bird's-eye. as if you could know the difference, indeed!" "so i do, t. i know the difference very well. it's all poison to me,--absolute poison,--as you're very well aware. but that filthy strong stuff that you've taken to lately, is enough to kill anybody." "i haven't taken to any filthy strong stuff," said tappitt. this was the beginning of that evening's conversation. i am inclined to think that mrs. tappitt had made her calculations, and had concluded that she could put forth her coming observations more efficaciously by having her husband in bad humour, than she could, if she succeeded in coaxing him into a good humour. i think that she made the above remarks, not solely because the fumes of tobacco were distasteful to her, but because the possession of a grievance might give her an opportunity of commencing the forthcoming debate with some better amount of justified indignation on her own side. it was not often that she begrudged tappitt his pipe, or made ill-natured remarks about his gin and water. "t.," she said, when tappitt had torn off his coat in some anger at the allusion to "filthy strong stuff,"--"t., what do you mean to do about this lawsuit?" "i don't mean to do anything." "that's nonsense, t.; you must do something, you know. what does mr. honyman say?" "honyman is a fool." "nonsense, t.; he's not a fool. or if he is, why have you let him manage your affairs so long? but i don't believe he's a fool at all. i believe he knows what he's talking about, quite as well as some others, who pretend to be so clever. as to your going to sharpit and longfite, it's quite out of the question." "who's talking of going to them?" "you did talk of it." "no i didn't. you heard me mention their names; but i never said that i should go to them at all. i almost wish i had." "now, t., don't talk in that way, or you'll really put me beside myself." "i don't want to talk of it at all. i only want to go to bed." "but we must talk of it, t. it's all very well for you to say you don't want to talk of things; but what is to become of me and my girls if everything goes astray at the brewery? you can't expect me to sit by quiet and see you ruined." "who talks about my being ruined?" "well, i believe all baslehurst pretty well is talking about it. if a man will go on with a lawsuit when his own lawyer says he oughtn't, what else can come to him but ruin?" "you don't know anything about it. i wish you'd hold your tongue, and let me go to bed." "i do know something about it, mr. tappitt; and i won't hold my tongue. it's all very well for you to bid me hold my tongue; but am i to sit by and see you ruined, and the girls left without a bit to eat or a thing to wear? goodness knows i've never thought much about myself. nobody will ever say that of me. but it has come to this, t.; that something must be settled about rowan's claim. if he hasn't got justice, he's got law on his side; and he seems to be one of those who don't care much as long as he's got that. if you ask me, t.--" "but i didn't ask you," said tappitt. tappitt never actually succumbed in these matrimonial encounters, and would always maintain courage for a sharp word, even to the last. "no, i know you didn't;--and more shame to you, not to consult the wife of your bosom and the mother of your children, when such an affair as this has to be settled. but if you think i'm going to hold my tongue, you're mistaken. i know very well how things are going. you must either let this young man come in as a partner--" "i'll be ----" tappitt would not have disgraced himself by such an exclamation in his wife's bedroom as he then used if his business in the bar of the dragon had been legitimate. "very well, sir. i say nothing about the coarseness of your language on the present occasion, though i might say a great deal if i pleased. but if you don't choose to have him for a partner,--why then you must do something else." "of course i must." "exactly;--and therefore the only thing is for you to take the offer of a thousand a year that he has made. now, t., don't begin cursing and swearing again, because you know that can't do any good. honyman says that he'll pay the income;--and if he don't,--if he gets into arrear with it, then you can come down upon him and turn him out. think how you'd like that! you've only just to keep a little ready money by you, so that you'll have something for six months or so, if he should get into arrear." "and i'm to give up everything myself?" "no, t.; you would not give up anything; quite the other way. you would have every comfort round you that any man can possibly want. you can't go on at it always, toiling and moiling as you're doing now. it's quite dreadful for a man never to have a moment to himself at your time of life, and of course it must tell on any constitution if it's kept up too long. you're not the man you were, t.; and of course you couldn't expect it." "oh, bother!" "that's all very well; but it's my duty to see these things, and to think of them, and to speak of them too. where should i be, and the girls, if you was hurried into your grave by working too hard?" mrs. tappitt's voice, as this terrible suggestion fell from her, was almost poetic, through the depth of its solemnity. "do you think i don't know what it is that takes you to the dragon so late at night?" "i don't go to the dragon late at night." "i'm not finding fault, t.; and you needn't answer me so sharp. it's only natural you should want something to sustain you after such slavery as you have to go through. i'm not unreasonable. i know very well what a man is, and what it is he can do, and what he can't. it would be all very well your going on if you had a partner you could trust." "nothing on earth shall induce me to carry on with that fellow." "and therefore you ought to take him at his word and retire. it would be the gentlemanlike thing to do. of course you'd have the power of going over and seeing that things was straight. and if we was living comfortable at some genteel place, such as torquay or the like, of course you wouldn't want to be going out to dragons every evening then. i shouldn't wonder if, in two or three years, you didn't find yourself as strong as ever again." tappitt, beneath the clothes, insisted that he was strong; and made some virile remark in answer to that further allusion to the dragon. he by no means gave way to his wife, or uttered any word of assent; but the lady's scheme had been made known to him; the ice had been broken; and mrs. tappitt, when she put out the candle, felt that she had done a good evening's work. chapter viii. mrs. ray's penitence. another fortnight went by, and still nothing further was heard at bragg's end from luke rowan. much was heard of him in baslehurst. it was soon known by everybody that he had bought the cottages; and there was a widely-spread and well-credited rumour that he was going to commence the necessary buildings for a new brewhouse at once. nor were these tidings received by baslehurst with all that horror,--with that loud clamour of indignation,--which tappitt conceived to be due to them. baslehurst, i should say, as a whole, received the tidings with applause. why should not bungall's nephew carry on a brewery of his own? especially why should he not, if he were resolved to brew good beer? very censorious remarks about the tappitt beer were to be heard in all bar-rooms, and were re-echoed with vehemence in the kitchens of the baslehurst aristocracy. "it ain't beer," said dr. harford's cook, who had come from the midland counties, and knew what good beer was. "it's a nasty muddle of stuff, not fit for any christian who has to earn her victuals over a kitchen fire." it came to pass speedily that luke rowan was expected to build a new brewery, and that the event of the first brick was looked for with anxious expectation. and that false report which had spread itself through baslehurst respecting him and his debts had taken itself off. it had been banished by a contrary report; and there now existed in baslehurst a very general belief that rowan was a man of means,--of very considerable means,--a man of substantial capital, whom to have settled in the town would be very beneficial to the community. that false statement as to the bill at griggs' had been sifted, and the truth made known,--and somewhat to the disgrace of the tappitt faction. the only article supplied by griggs to rowan's order had been the champagne consumed at tappitt's supper, and for this rowan had paid ready money within a week of the transaction. it was mrs. cornbury who discovered all this, and who employed means for making the truth known in baslehurst. this truth also became known at last to mrs. ray,--but of what avail was it then? she had desired her daughter to treat the young man as a wolf, and as a wolf he had been hounded off from her little sheep-cot. she heard now that he was expected back at baslehurst;--that he was a wealthy man; that he was thought well of in the town; that he was going to do great things. with what better possible husband could any young woman have been blessed? and yet she had turned him away from her cottage as though he had been a wolf! it was from mrs. sturt that mrs. ray first learned the truth. mr. sturt was a tenant on the cornbury estate, and mrs. sturt was of course well known to mrs. cornbury. that lady, when she had sifted to the bottom the story of griggs' bill, and had assured herself that rowan was by no means minded to surrender his interest in baslehurst, determined that the truth should be made known to mrs. ray. but she was not willing to call on mrs. ray herself, nor did she wish to present herself before rachel at the cottage, unless she could bring with her some more substantial comfort than could be afforded by simple evidence as to rowan's good character. she therefore took herself to mrs. sturt, and discussed the matter with her. "i suppose she does care about him," said mrs. cornbury, sitting in mrs. sturt's little parlour that opened out upon the kitchen garden. mrs. sturt was also seated, leaning on the corner of the table, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up, ready for work when the squire's lady should be gone, but very willing to postpone her work as long as the squire's lady would stay and gossip with her. "oh! that she do, mrs. butler,--in her heart of hearts. if i know anything of true love, she do love that young man." "and he did offer to her? there can be no doubt about that, i suppose." "not a doubt on earth, mrs. butler. she never told me so outright,--nor yet didn't her mother;--but if he didn't, i'll give my head for a cream cheese. laws love you, mrs. butler, i know what's what well enough. i know when a girl's wild and flighty, and thinks of things as she oughtn't;--and i know when she's proper behaved, and gives a young man encouragement only when it becomes her." "of course you do, mrs. sturt." "it isn't for me, mrs. butler, to say anything against your papa. nobody can have more respect for their clergyman than sturt has and i; and before it was all settled like, sturt never had a word with mr. comfort about tithes; but, mrs. butler, i think your papa was wrong here. as far as i can learn, it was he that told mrs. ray that this young man wasn't all that he should be." "papa meant it for the best. there were strange things said about him, you know." "i never believes one word of what i hears, and never will. people are such liars; bean't they, mrs. butler? and i didn't believe a word again him. he's as fine a young man as you'd wish to see in a hundred years, and of course that goes a long way with a young woman. well, mrs. butler, i'll tell mrs. ray what you say, but i'm afeard it's too late; i'm afeard it is. he's of a stubborn sort, i think. he's one of them that says, 'if you will not when you may, when you will you shall have nay.'" mrs. cornbury still entertained hope that the stubbornness of the stubborn man might be overcome; but as to that she said nothing to mrs. sturt. mrs. sturt, with what friendly tact she possessed, made her communication to mrs. ray, but it may be doubted whether more harm than good was not thus done. "and he didn't owe a shilling then?" asked mrs. ray. "not a shilling," said mrs. sturt. "and he is going to come back to baslehurst about this brewery business?" "there's not a doubt in life about that," answered mrs. sturt. if these tidings could have come in time they would have been very salutary; but what was mrs. ray to do with them now? she felt that she could not honestly withhold them from rachel; and yet she knew not how to tell them without adding to rachel's misery. it was very improbable that rachel should hear anything about rowan from other lips than her own. it was clear that mrs. sturt did not intend to speak to her, and also clear that mrs. sturt expected that mrs. ray would do so. rachel's demeanour at this time was cause of great sorrow to mrs. ray. she never smiled. she sought no amusement. she read no books. she spoke but little, and when she did speak her words were hard and cold, and confined almost entirely to household affairs. her mother knew that she was not ill, because she ate and drank and worked. even dorothea must have been satisfied with the amount of needlework which she produced in these days. but though not ill, she was thin and pale, and unlike herself. but perhaps of all the signs which her mother watched so carefully, the signs which tormented her most were those ever-present lines on her daughter's forehead,--lines which mrs. ray had now learned to read correctly, and which indicated some settled inward purpose, and an inward resolve that that purpose should become the subject of no outward discussion. rachel had formerly been everything to her mother;--her friend, her minister, her guide, her great comfort;--the subject on which could be lavished all the soft tenderness of her nature, the loving object to whom could be addressed all the little innocent petulances of her life. but now mrs. ray did not dare to be either tender with rachel, or petulant. she hardly dared to speak to her on subjects that were not indifferent. on this matter of luke rowan she did not dare to speak to her. rachel never upbraided her with words,--had never spoken one word of reproach. but every moment of their passing life was an unspoken reproach, so severe and heavy that the poor mother hardly knew how to bear the burden of her fault. as mrs. ray became more afraid of her younger daughter she became less afraid of the elder. this was occasioned partly, no doubt, by the absence of mrs. prime from the cottage. when there she only came as a visitor; and no visitor to a house can hold such dominion there as may be held by a domestic tyrant, present at all meals, and claiming an ascendancy in all conversations. but it arose in part also from the overwhelming solicitude which filled mrs. ray's heart from morning to night, as she watched poor rachel in her misery. her bowels yearned towards her child, and she longed to give her relief with an excessive longing. had the man been a very wolf indeed,--such were her feelings at present,--i think that she would have welcomed him to the cottage. in ordering his repulse she had done a deed of which she had by no means anticipated the consequences, and now she repented in the sackcloth and ashes of a sorrow-stricken spirit. ah me! what could she do to relieve that oppressed one! so thoroughly did this desire override all others in her breast, that she would snub mrs. prime without dreading or even thinking of the consequences. her only hopes and her only fears at the present moment had reference to rachel. had rachel proposed to her that they should both start off to london and there search for luke rowan, i doubt whether she would have had the heart to decline the journey. in these days mrs. prime came to the cottage regularly twice a week,--on wednesdays and saturdays. on wednesday she came after tea, and on saturday she drank tea with her mother. on these occasions much was, of course, said as to the prospect of her marriage with mr. prong. nothing was as yet settled, and rachel had concluded, in her own mind, that there would be no such wedding. as to mrs. ray's opinion, she, of course, thought there would be a wedding or that there would not, in accordance with the last words spoken by mrs. prime to herself on the occasion of that special conversation. "she'll never give up her money," rachel had said, "and he'll never marry her unless she does." mrs. prime at this period acknowledged to her mother that she was not happy. "i want," said she, "to do what's right. but it's not always easy to find out what is right." "that's very true," said mrs. ray, thinking that there were difficulties in the affairs of other people quite as embarrassing as those of which mrs. prime complained. "he says," continued the younger widow, "that he wants nothing for himself, but that it is not fitting that a married woman should have a separate income." "i think he's right there," said mrs. ray. "i quite believe what he says about himself," said mrs. prime. "it is not that he wants my money for the money's sake, but that he chooses to dictate to me how i shall use it." "so he ought if he's to be your husband," said mrs. ray. these conversations usually took place in rachel's absence. when mrs. prime came rachel would remain long enough to say a word to her, and on the saturdays would pour out the tea for her and would hand to her the bread and butter with the courtesy due to a visitor; but after that she would take herself to her own bedroom, and only come down when mrs. prime had prepared herself for going. at last, on one of these evenings, there came a proposition from mrs. prime that she should return to the cottage, and live again with her mother and sister. she had not said that she had absolutely rejected mr. prong, but she spoke of her return as though it had become expedient because the cause of her going away had been removed. very little had been said between her and her mother about rachel's love affair, nor was mrs. prime inclined to say much about it now; but so much as that she did say. "no doubt it's all over now about that young man, and therefore, if you like it, i don't see why i shouldn't come back." "i don't at all know about it's being all over," said mrs. ray, in a hurried quick tone, and as she spoke she blushed with emotion. "but i suppose it is, mother. from all that i can hear he isn't thinking of her; and i don't suppose he ever did much." "i don't know what he's thinking about, dorothea; and i ain't sure that there's any good talking about it. besides, if you're going to have mr. prong at last--" "if i did, mother, it needn't prevent my coming here for a month or two first. it wouldn't be quite yet certainly,--if at all. and i thought that perhaps, if i am going to settle myself in that way, you'd be glad that we should be altogether again for a little while." "so i should, dorothea,--of course. i have never wanted to be divided from my children. your going away was your own doing, not mine. i'm sure it made me so wretched i didn't know what to do at the time. only other things have come since, that have pretty nearly put all that out of my mind." "but you can't think i was wrong to go when i felt it to be right." "i don't know how that may be," said mrs. ray. "if you thought it right to go i suppose you were right to go; but perhaps you shouldn't have had such thoughts." "well, mother, we won't go back to that." "no; we won't, if you please." "this at any rate is certain, that rachel, in departing from our usual ways of life, has brought great unhappiness upon herself. i'm afraid she is thinking of this young man now more than she ought to do." "of course she is thinking of him. why should she not think of him?" "why, mother! surely it cannot be good that any girl should think of a man who thinks nothing of her!" then mrs. ray spoke out,--as perhaps she had never spoken before. "what right have you to say that he thinks nothing of her? who can tell? he did think of her,--as honestly as any man ever thought of the woman he wished to mate with. he came to her fairly, and asked her to be his wife. what can any man do more by a girl than that? and she didn't say a word to him to encourage him till those she had a right to look to had encouraged him too. so she didn't. and i don't believe any woman ever had a child that behaved better, or truer, or more maidenly than she has done. and i was a fool, and worse than a fool, when i allowed any one to have an evil thought of her for a moment." "do you mean me, mother?" "i don't mean anybody except myself; so i don't." mrs. ray as she spoke was weeping bitterly, and rubbing the tears from her red eyes with her apron. "i've behaved like a fool to her,--worse than a fool,--and i've broken her heart. not think of him! how's a girl not to think of a man day and night when she loves him better than herself? think of him! she'll think of him till she's in her grave. she'll think of him till she's past all other thinking. i hate such cruelty; and i hate myself for having been cruel. i shall never forgive myself, the longest day i have to live." "you only did your duty, mother." "no; i didn't do my duty at all. it can't be a mother's duty to break her child's heart and to be set against her by what anybody else can say. she was ever and always the best child that ever lived; and she came away from him, and strove to banish him from her thoughts, and wouldn't own to herself that she cared for him the least in the world, till he'd come here and spoken out straight, like a man as he is. i tell you what, dorothea, i'd go to london, on my knees to him, if i could bring him back to her! i would. and if he comes here, i will go to him." "oh, mother!" "i know he loves her. he's not one of your inconstant ones that take up with a girl for a week or so and then forgets her. but she has offended him, and he's stubborn. she has offended him at my bidding, and it's my doing;--and i'd humble myself in the dust to bring him back to her;--so i would. never tell me of her not thinking of him. i tell you, dorothea, she'll think of him always not because she has loved him, but because she has been brought to confess her love." mrs. ray was so strong in her mingled passion and grief, that mrs. prime made no attempt to rebuke her. the daughter was indeed quelled by her mother's vehemence, and felt that for the present the subject of rachel's love and rachel's lover was not a fitting one for the exercise of her own talents as a preacher. the tragedy had progressed beyond the reach of her preaching. mrs. ray protested that rachel had been right throughout, and that she herself had been wrong only when she had opposed rachel's wishes. such a view of the matter was altogether at variance with that entertained by mrs. prime, who was still of opinion that young people shouldn't be allowed to please themselves, and who feared the approach of any lover who came with lute in hand, and with light, soft, loving, worldly words. men and women, according to her theory, were right to marry and have children; but she thought that such marriages should be contracted not only in a solemn spirit, but with a certain dinginess of solemnity, with a painstaking absence of mirth, that would divest love of its worldly alloy. rachel had gone about her business in a different spirit, and it may almost be said that mrs. prime rejoiced that she had failed. she did not believe in broken hearts; she did believe in the efficacy of chastisement; and she thought that on the whole the present state of affairs would be beneficial to her sister. had she been possessed of sufficient power she would now, on this occasion, have preached her sermon again as she had preached it before; but her mother's passion had overcome her, and she was unable to express her convictions. "i hope that she will be better soon," she said. "i hope she will," said mrs. ray. at this moment rachel came down from her own room and joined them in the parlour. she came in with that same look of sad composure on her face, as though she were determined to speak nothing of her thoughts to any one, and sat herself down near to her sister. in doing so, however, she caught a glimpse of her mother's face, and saw that she had been crying,--saw, indeed, that she was still crying at that moment. "mamma," she said, "what is the matter;--has anything happened?" "no, dear, nothing;--nothing has happened." "but you would not cry for nothing. what is it, dolly?" "we have been talking," said dorothea. "things in this world are not so pleasant in themselves that they can always be spoken of without tears,--either outward tears or inward. people are too apt to think that there is no true significance in their words when they say that this world is a vale of tears." "all the same. i don't like to see mamma crying like that." "don't mind it, rachel," said mrs. ray. "if you will not regard me i shall be better soon." "i was saying that i thought i would come back to the cottage," said mrs. prime; "that is, if mother likes it." "but that did not make mamma cry." "there were other things arose out of my saying so." then rachel asked no further questions, but sat silent, waiting till her sister should go. "of course we shall be very glad to have you back again if it suits you to come," said mrs. ray. "i don't think it at all nice that a family should be divided,--that is, as long as they are the same family." having received so much encouragement with reference to her proposed return, mrs. prime took her departure and walked back to baslehurst. for some minutes after they had been so left, neither mrs. ray nor rachel spoke. the mother sat rocking herself in her chair, and the daughter remained motionless in the seat which she had taken when she first came into the room. their faces were not turned to each other, but rachel was so placed that she could watch her mother without being observed. every now and again mrs. ray would put her hand up to her eyes to squeeze away the tears, and a low gurgling sound would come from her, as though she were striving without success to repress her sobs. she had thought that she would speak to rachel when mrs. prime was gone,--that she would confess her error in having sent rowan away, and implore her child to pardon her and to love her once again. it was not, however, that she doubted rachel's love,--that she feared that rachel was casting her out from her heart, or that she was learning to hate her. she knew well enough that her child still loved her. it was this,--that her life had become barren to her, cold, and altogether tasteless without those thousand little signs of ever-present affection to which she had been accustomed. if it was to be always thus between them, what would the world be to her for the remainder of her days? she could have borne to part with rachel, had rachel married, as in parting with her she would have looked forward to some future return of her girl's caresses; and in such case she would at least have felt that her loss had come from no cessation of the sweet loving nature of their mutual connexion. she would have wept as she gave rachel over to a husband, but her tears would have been sweet as well as bitter. but there was nothing of sweetness in her tears as she shed them now,--nothing of satisfaction in her sorrow. if she could get rachel to talk with her freely on the matter, if she could find an opportunity for confessing herself to have been wrong, might it not be that the soft caresses would be restored to her,--caresses that would be soft, though moistened with salt tears? but she feared to speak to her child. she knew that rachel's face was still hard and stern, and that her voice was not the voice of other days. she knew that her daughter brooded over the injury that had been done to her,--though she knew also that no accusation was made, even in the girl's own bosom, against herself. she thoroughly understood the state of rachel's mind, but she was unable to find the words that might serve to soften it. "i suppose we may as well go to bed," she said at last, giving the matter up, at any rate for that evening. "mamma, why were you crying when i came into the room?" said rachel. "was i crying, my dear?" "you are crying still, mamma. is it i that make you unhappy?" mrs. ray was anxious to declare that the reverse of that was true,--that it was she who had made the other unhappy; but even now she could not find the words in which to say this. "no," she said; "it isn't you. it isn't anybody. i believe it's true what mr. comfort has told us so often when he's preaching. it's all vanity and vexation. there isn't anything to make anybody happy. i suppose i cry because i'm foolisher than other people. i don't know that anybody is happy. i'm sure dorothea is not, and i'm sure you ain't." "i don't want you to be unhappy about me, mamma." "of course you don't. i know that. but how can i help it when i see how things have gone? i tried to do for the best, and i have--" broken my child's heart, mrs. ray intended to say; but she failed altogether before she got as far as that, and bursting out into a flood of tears, hid her face in her apron. rachel still kept her seat, and her face was still hard and unmoved. her mother did not see it; she did not dare to look upon it; but she knew that it was so; she knew her daughter would have been with her, close to her, embracing her, throwing her arms round her, had that face relented. but rachel still kept her chair, and mrs. ray sobbed aloud. "i wish i could be a comfort to you, mamma," rachel said after another pause, "but i do not know how. i suppose in time we shall get over this, and things will be as they used to be." "they'll never be to me as they used to be before he came to baslehurst," said mrs. ray, through her tears. "at any rate that is not his fault," said rachel, almost angrily. "whoever may have done wrong, no one has a right to say that he has done wrong." "i'm sure i never said so. it is i that have done wrong," exclaimed mrs. ray. "i know it all now, and i wish i'd never asked anybody but just my own heart. i didn't mean to say anything against him, and i don't think it. i'm sure i liked him as i never liked any young man the first time of seeing him, that night he came out here to tea; and i know that what they said against him was all false. so i do." "what was all false, mamma?" "about his going away in debt, and being a ne'er-do-well, and about his going away from baslehurst and not coming back any more. everybody has a good word for him now." "have they, mamma?" said rachel. and mrs. ray learned in a moment, from the tone of her daughter's voice, that a change had come over her feeling. she asked her little question with something of the softness of her old manner, with something of the longing loving wishfulness which used to make so many of her questions sweet to her mother's ears. "have they, mamma?" "yes they have, and i believe it was those wicked people at the brewery who spread the reports about him. as for owing anybody money, i believe he's got plenty. of course he has, or how could he have bought our cottages and paid for them all in a minute? and i believe he'll come back and live at baslehurst; so i do; only--" "only what, mamma?" "if he's not to come back to you i'd rather that he never showed his face here again." "he won't come to me, mamma. had he meant it, he would have sent me a message." "perhaps he meant that he wouldn't send the message till he came himself," said mrs. ray. but she made the suggestion in a voice so full of conscious doubt that rachel knew that she did not believe in it herself. "i don't think he means that, mamma. if he did why should he keep me in doubt? he is very true and very honest, but i think he is very hard. when i wrote to him in that way after accepting the love he had offered me, he was angered, and felt that i was false to him. he is very honest, but i think he must be very hard." "i can't think that if he loved you he would be so hard as that." "men are different from women, i suppose. i feel about him that whatever he might do i should forgive it. but then i feel, also, that he would never do anything for me to forgive." "i'll never forgive him, never, if he doesn't come back again." "don't say that, mamma. you've no right even to be angry with him, because it was we who told him that there was to be no engagement,--after i had promised him." "i didn't think he'd take you up so at the first word," said mrs. ray;--and then there was again silence for a few minutes. "mamma," said rachel. "well, rachel." mrs. ray was still rocking her chair, and had hardly yet repressed that faint gurgling sound of half-controlled sobs. "i am so glad to hear you say that you--respect him, and don't believe of him what people have said." "i don't believe a word bad of him, except that he oughtn't to take huff in that way at one word that a girl says to him. he ought to have known that you couldn't write just what letter you liked, as he could." "we won't say anything more about that. but as long as you don't think him bad--" "i don't think him bad. i don't think him bad at all. i think him very good. i'd give all i have in the world to bring him back again. so i would." "dear mamma!" and now rachel moved away from her chair and came up to her mother. "and i know it's been all my fault. oh, my child, i am so unhappy! i don't get half an hour's sleep at night thinking of what i have done;--i, that would have given the very blood out of my veins to make you happy." "no, mamma; it wasn't you." "yes, it was. i'd no business going away to other people after i had told him he might come here. you, who had always been so good too!" "you mustn't say again that you wish he hadn't come here." "oh! but i do wish it, because then he would have been nothing to you. i do wish he hadn't ever come, but now i'd do anything to bring him back again. i believe i'll go to him and tell him that it was my doing." "no, mamma, you won't do that." "why should i not? i don't care what people say. isn't your happiness everything to me?" "but i shouldn't take him if he came in that way. what! beg him to come and have compassion on me, as if i couldn't live without him! no, mother; that wouldn't do. i do love him. i do love him. i sometimes think i cannot live without his love. i sometimes feel as though stories about broken hearts might be true. but i wouldn't have him in that way. how could he love me afterwards, when i was his wife? but, mamma, we'll be friends again;--shall we not? i've been so unhappy that you should have thought ill of him!" that night the mother and daughter shared the same bed together, and mrs. ray was able to sleep. she would not confess to herself that her sorrow had been lightened, because nothing had been said or done to lessen that of her daughter; but on the morrow rachel came and hovered round her again, and the bitterness of mrs. ray's grief was removed. chapter ix. the election at baslehurst. towards the end of september the day of the election arrived, and with it arrived luke rowan at baslehurst. the vacancy had been occasioned by the acceptance of the then sitting member of that situation under the crown which is called the stewardship of the manor of helpholme. in other words an old gentleman who had done his life's work retired and made room for some one more young and active. the old member had kept his seat till the end of the session, just leaving time for the moving for a new writ, and now the election was about to be held, almost at the earliest day possible. it had been thought that a little reflection would induce the baslehurst people to reject the smiles of the jew tailor from london, and therefore as little time for reflection was given to them as possible. the wealth, the liberal politics, the generosity, and the successes of mr. hart were dinned into their ears by a succession of speeches, and by an overpowering flight of enormous posters; and then the jewish hero, the tailor himself, came among them, and astonished their minds by the ease and volubility of his speeches. he did not pronounce his words with any of those soft slushy judaic utterances by which they had been taught to believe he would disgrace himself. his nose was not hookey, with any especial hook, nor was it thicker at the bridge than was becoming. he was a dapper little man, with bright eyes, quick motion, ready tongue, and a very new hat. it seemed that he knew well how to canvass. he had a smile and a good word for all,--enemies as well as friends. the task of abusing the cornbury party he left to his committee and backers. he spent a great deal of money,--throwing it away in every direction in which he could do so, without laying himself open to the watchful suspicion of the other side. he ate and drank like a christian, and only laughed aloud when some true defender of the protestant faith attempted to scare him away out of the streets by carrying a gammon of bacon up on high. perhaps his strength as a popular candidate was best shown by his drinking a pint of tappitt's beer in the little parlour behind the bar at the dragon. "he beats me there," said butler cornbury, when he heard of that feat. but the action was a wise one. the question as to tappitt's brewery and tappitt's beer was running high at baslehurst, and in no stronger way could mr. hart have bound to him the tappitt faction than by swallowing in public that pint of beer. "let me have a small glass of brandy at once," said mr. hart to his servant, having retired to his room immediately after the performance of the feat. his constitution was good, and i may as well at once declare that before half an hour had passed over his head he was again himself, and at his work. the question of tappitt's beer and tappitt's brewery was running high in baslehurst, and had gotten itself involved in the mouths of the people of baslehurst, not only with the loves and sorrows of poor rachel ray, but with the affairs of this election. we know how tappitt had been driven to declare himself a stanch supporter of the jew. he had become very stanch,--stanch beyond the promising of his own vote,--stanch even to a final sitting on the jew's committee, and an active canvasser on the jew's behalf. his wife, whose passions were less strong than his own and her prudence greater, had remonstrated with him on the matter. "you can vote against cornbury, if you please," she had said, "but do it quietly. keep your toe in your pump and say nothing. just as we stand at present about the business of rowan's, it would almost be better that you shouldn't vote at all." but tappitt was an angry man, at this moment uncontrollable by the laws of prudence, and he went into these election matters heart and soul, to his wife's great grief. butler cornbury, or mrs. butler cornbury,--it was all the same to him which,--had openly taken up rowan's part in the brewery controversy. a rumour had reached tappitt that the inmates of cornbury grange had loudly expressed a desire for good beer! under such circumstances it was not possible for him not to rush to the fight. he did rush into the thick of it, and boasted among his friends that the jew was safe. i think he was right,--right at any rate as regarded his own peace of mind. nothing gives a man such spirit for a fight, as the act of fighting. during these election days he was almost regardless of rowan. he was to second the nomination of the jew, and so keen was he as to the speech that he would make, and as to the success of what he was doing against mr. cornbury, that he was able to talk down his wife, and browbeat honyman in his own office. honyman was about to vote for butler cornbury, was employed in the cornbury interest, and knew well on which side his bread was buttered. sharpit and longfite were local attorneys for the jew, and in this way tappitt was thrown into close intercourse with that eminent firm. "of course we wouldn't interfere," said sharpit confidently to the brewer. "we never do interfere with the clients of another firm. we never did such a thing yet, and don't mean to begin. we find people drop into us quick enough without that. but in a friendly way, mr. tappitt, let me caution you, not to let your fine business be injured by that young sharper." mr. tappitt found this to be very kind,--and very sensible too. he gave no authority to sharpit on that occasion to act for him; but he thought of it, resolving that he would set his shoulders firmly to that wheel as soon as he had carried through this business of the election. but even in the matter of the election everything did not go well with tappitt. he had appertaining to his establishment a certain foreman of the name of worts, a heavy, respectable, useful man, educated on the establishment by bungall and bequeathed by bungall to tappitt,--a man by no means ambitious of good beer, but very ambitious of profits to the firm, a servant indeed almost invaluable in such a business. but tappitt had ever found him deficient in this,--that he had a certain objectionable pride in having been bungall's servant, and that as such he thought himself absolved from the necessity of subserviency to his latter master. once a day indeed he did touch his cap, but when that was done he seemed to fancy that he was almost equal to mr. tappitt upon the premises. he never shook in his shoes if tappitt were angry, nor affected to hasten his steps if tappitt were in a hurry, nor would he even laugh at tappitt's jokes, if,--as was too usual,--such jokes were not mirth-moving in their intrinsic nature. clearly he was not at all points a good servant, and tappitt in some hours of his prosperity had ventured to think that the brewery could go on without him. now, since the day in which rowan's treachery had first loomed upon tappitt, he had felt much inclined to fraternize on easier terms with his foreman. worts when he touched his cap had been received with a smile, and his advice had been asked in a flattering tone,--not demanded as belonging to the establishment by right. then tappitt began to talk of rowan to his man, and to speak evil things of him, as was natural, expecting a reciprocity of malignity from worts. but worts on such occasions had been ominously silent. "h--m, i bean't so zure o' that," worts had once said, thus differing from his master on some fundamental point of tappitt strategy as opposed to rowan strategy. "ain't you?" said tappitt, showing his teeth. "you'd better go now and look after those men at the carts." worts had looked after the men at the carts, but he had done so with an idea in his head that perhaps he would not long look after tappitt's men or tappitt's carts. he had not himself been ambitious of good beer, but the idea had almost startled him into acquiescence by its brilliancy. now worts had a vote in the borough, and it came to tappitt's ears that his servant intended to give that vote to mr. cornbury. "worts," said he, a day or two before the election, "of course you intend to vote for mr. hart?" worts touched his cap, for it was the commencement of the day. "i don't jest know," said he. "i was thinking of woting for the young squoire. i've know'd him ever since he was born, and i ain't never know'd the jew gentleman;--never at all." "look here, worts; if you intend to remain in this establishment i shall expect you to support the liberal interest, as i support it myself. the liberal interest has always been supported in baslehurst by bungall and tappitt ever since bungall and tappitt have existed." "the old maister, he wouldn't a woted for ere a jew in christendom,--not agin the squoire. the old maister was allays for the protestant religion." "very well, worts; there can't be two ways of thinking here, that's all; especially not at such a time as this, when there's more reason than ever why those connected with the brewery should all stand shoulder to shoulder. you've had your bread out of this establishment, worts, for a great many years." "and i've 'arned it hard;--no man can't say otherwise. the sweat o' my body belongs to the brewery, but i didn't ever sell 'em my wote;--and i don't mean." saying which words, with an emphasis that was by no means servile, worts went out from the presence of his master. "that man's turning against me," said tappitt to his wife at breakfast time, in almost mute despair. "what! worts?" said mrs. tappitt. "yes;--the ungrateful hound. he's been about the place almost ever since he could speak, for more than forty years. he's had two pound a week for the last ten years;--and now he's turning against me." "is he going over to rowan?" "i don't know where the d---he's going. he's going to vote for butler cornbury, and that's enough for me." "oh, t., i wouldn't mind that; especially not just now. only think what a help he'll be to that man!" "i tell you he shall walk out of the brewery the week after this, if he votes for cornbury. there isn't room for two opinions here, and i won't have it." for a moment or two mrs. tappitt sat mute, almost in despair. then she took courage and spoke out. "t.," said she, "it won't do." "what won't do?" "all this won't do. we shall be ruined and left without a home. i don't mind myself; i never did; but think of the girls! what would they do if we was turned out of this?" "who's to turn you out?" "i know. i see it. i am beginning to understand. t., that man would not go against you and the brewery if he didn't know which way the wind is blowing. worts is wide awake,--quite wide; he always was. t., you must take the offer rowan has made of a regular income and live retired. if you don't do it,--i shall!" and mrs. tappitt, as she spoke the audacious words, rose up from her chair, and stood with her arms leaning upon the table. "what!" said tappitt, sitting aghast with his mouth open. "yes, t.; if you don't think of your family i must. what i'm saying mr. honyman has said before; and indeed all baslehurst is saying the same thing. there's an offer made to you that will put your family on a footing quite genteel,--no gentlefolks in the county more so; and you, too, that are getting past your work!" "i ain't getting past my work." "i shouldn't say so, t., if it weren't for your own good,--and if i'm not to know about that, who is? it's all very well going about electioneering; and indeed it's just what gentlefolks is fit for when they're past their regular work; and i'm sure i shan't begrudge it so long as it don't cost anything; but that's not work you know, t." "ain't i in the brewery every day for seven or eight hours, and often more?" "yes, t., you are; and what's like to come of it if you go on so? what would be my feelings if i saw you brought into the house struck down with apoplepsy and paralepsy because i let you go on in that way when you wasn't fit? no, t.; i know my duty and i mean to do it. you know dr. haustus said only last month that you were that bilious--" "pshaw! bilious! it's enough to make any man bilious!" "or any dog," he would have added, had he thought of it. thereupon tappitt rushed away from his wife, back into his little office, and from that soon made his way to the jew's committee-room at the dragon, at which he was detained till nearly eleven o'clock at night. "it's a kind of work in which one has to do as much after dinner as before," he said to his wife when he got back. "for the matter of that," said she, "i think the after-dinner work is the chief part of it." on the day of the election luke rowan was to be seen standing in the high street talking to butler cornbury the candidate. rowan was not an elector, for the cottages had not been in his possession long enough to admit of his obtaining from them a qualification to vote; but he was a declared friend of the cornbury party. mrs. butler cornbury had sent a message to him saying that she hoped to see him soon after the election should be over: on the following day or on the next, and butler cornbury himself had come to him in the town. though absent from baslehurst rowan had managed to declare his opinions before that time, and was suspected by many to have written those articles in the "baslehurst gazette" which advocated the right of any constituency to send a jew to parliament if it pleased, but which proved at the same time that any constituency must be wrong to send any jew to parliament, and that the constituency of baslehurst would in the present instance be specially wrong to send mr. hart to parliament. "we have always advocated," said one of these articles, "the right of absolute freedom of choice for every borough and every county in the land; but we trust that the day is far distant in which the electors of england shall cease to look to their nearest neighbours as their best representatives." there wasn't much in the argument, but it suited the occasion, and added strength to rowan's own cause in the borough. all the stanch protestants began to feel a want of good beer. questions very ill-natured as toward tappitt were asked in the newspapers. "who owns the spotted dog at busby-porcorum; and who compels the landlord to buy his liquor at tappitt's brewery?" there were scores of questions of the same nature, all of which tappitt attributed, wrongly, to luke rowan. luke had written that article about freedom of election, but he had not condescended to notice the beer at the spotted dog. and there was another quarrel taking place in baslehurst, on the score of that election, between persons with whom we are connected in this story. mr. prong had a vote in the borough, and was disposed to make use of it; and mrs. prime, regarding her own position as mr. prong's affianced bride, considered herself at liberty to question mr. prong as to the use which he proposed to make of that vote. to mrs. prime it appeared that anything done in any direction for the benefit of a jew was a sin not to be forgiven. to mr. prong it seemed to be as great a sin not to do anything in his power for the hindrance and vexation of those with whom dr. harford and mr. comfort were connected by ties of friendship. mrs. prime, who, of the two, was the more logical, would not disjoin her personal and her scriptural hatreds. she also hated dr. harford; but she hated the jews more. she was not disposed to support a jew in baslehurst because mr. comfort, in his doctrines, had fallen away from the purity of his early promise. her idea was that a just man and a good christian could not vote for either of the baslehurst candidates under the present unhappy local circumstances;--but that under no circumstances should a christian vote for a jew. all this she said, in a voice not so soft as should be the voice of woman to her betrothed. "dorothea," said mr. prong very solemnly;--they were sitting at the time in his own little front parlour, as to the due arrangement of the furniture in which mrs. prime had already ventured to make some slight alterations which had not been received favourably by mr. prong,--"dorothea, in this matter you must allow me to be the best judge. voting for members of parliament is a thing which ladies naturally are not called upon to understand." "ladies can understand as well as gentlemen," said mrs. prime, "that a curse has gone out from the lord against that people; and gentlemen have no more right than ladies to go against the will of the lord." it was in vain that mr. prong endeavoured to explain to her that the curse attached to the people as a nation, and did not necessarily follow units of that people who had adopted other nationalities. "let the units become christians before they go into parliament," said mrs. prime. "i wish they would," said mr. prong. "i heartily wish they would: and mr. hart, if he be returned, shall have my prayers." but this did not at all suffice for mrs. prime, who, perhaps, in the matter of argument had the best of it. she told her betrothed to his face that he was going to commit a great sin, and that he was tempted to this sin by grievous worldly passions. when so informed mr. prong closed his eyes, crossed his hands meekly on his breast, and shook his head. "not from thee, dorothea," said he, "not from thee should this have come." "who is to speak out to you if i am not?" said she. but mr. prong sat in silence, and with closed eyes again shook his head. "perhaps we had better part," said mrs. prime, after an interval of five minutes. "perhaps it will be better for both of us." mr. prong, however, still shook his head in silence; and it was difficult for a lady in mrs. prime's position to read accurately the meaning of such shakings under such circumstances. but mrs. prime was a woman sufficiently versed in the world's business to be able to resolve that she would have an answer to her question when she required an answer. "mr. prong," she said, "i remarked just now that perhaps we had better part." "i heard the words," said mr. prong,--"i heard the cruel words." but even then he did not open his eyes, or remove his hands from his breast. "i heard the words, and i heard those other words, still more cruel. you had better leave me now that i may humble myself in prayer." "that's all very well, mr. prong, and i'm sure i hope you will; but situated as we are, of course i should choose to have an answer. it seems to me that you dislike that kind of interference which i regard as a wife's best privilege and sweetest duty. if this be so, it will be better for us to part,--as friends of course." "you have accused me of a great sin," he said; "of a great sin;--of a great sin!" "and so in my mind it would be." "judge not, lest ye be judged, dorothea; remember that." "that doesn't mean, mr. prong, that we are not to have our opinions, and that we are not to warn those that are near us when we see them walking in the wrong path. i might as well say the same to you, when you--" "no, dorothea; it is my bounden duty. it is my work. it is that to which i am appointed as a minister. if you cannot see the difference i have much mistaken your character,--have much mistaken your character." "do you mean to say that nobody but a clergyman is to know what's right and what's wrong? that must be nonsense, mr. prong. i'm sorry to say anything to grieve you,--" mr. prong was now shaking his head again, with his eyes most pertinaciously closed,--"but there are some things which really one can't bear." but he only shook his head. his inward feelings were too many for him, so that he could not at the present moment bring himself to give a reply to the momentous proposition which his betrothed had made him. nor, indeed, had he at this moment fixed his mind as to the step which duty and wisdom combined would call upon him to take in this matter. the temper of the lady was not certainly all that he had desired. as an admiring member of his flock she had taken all his ghostly counsels as infallible; but now it seemed to him as though most of his words and many of his thoughts and actions were made subject by her to a bitter criticism. but in this matter he was inclined to rely much upon his own strength. should he marry the lady, as he was still minded to do for many reasons, he would be to her a loving, careful husband; but he would also be her lord and master,--as was intended when marriage was made a holy ordinance. in this respect he did not doubt himself or his own powers. hard words he could bear, and, as he thought, after a time control. so thinking, he was not disposed to allow the lady to recede from her troth to him, simply because in her anger she expressed a wish to do so. therefore he had wisely been silent, and had shaken his head in reproach. but unfortunately the terms of their compact had not been finally settled with reference to another heading. mrs. prime had promised to be his wife, but she had burdened her promise with certain pecuniary conditions which were distasteful to him,--which were much opposed to that absolute headship and perfect mastery, which, as he thought, should belong to the husband as husband. his views on this subject were very strong, and he was by no means inclined to abate one jot of his demand. better remain single in his work than accept the name of husband without its privileges! but he had hoped that by mingled firmness and gentle words he might bring his dorothea round to a more womanly way of thinking. he had flattered himself that there was a power of eloquence in him which would have prevailed over her. once or twice he thought that he was on the brink of success. he knew well that there were many points in his favour. a woman who has spoken of herself, and been spoken of, as being on the point of marriage, does not like to recede; and his dorothea, though not specially womanly among women, was still a woman. moreover he had the law on his side,--the old law as coming from the scriptures. he could say that such a pecuniary arrangement as that proposed by his dorothea was sinful. he had said so,--as he had then thought not without effect; but now she retaliated upon him with accusation of another sin! it was manifestly in her power to break away from him on that money detail. it seemed now to be her wish to break away from him; but she preferred doing so on that other matter. he began to fear that he must lose his wife, seeing that he was resolved never to yield on the money question; but he did not choose to be entrapped into an instant resignation of his engagement by dorothea's indignation on a point of abstruse scripturo-political morality. his dorothea had assumed her indignation as a cloak for her pecuniary obstinacy. it might be that he must yield; but he would not surrender thus at the sound of a false summons. so he closed his eyes very pertinaciously and shook his head. "i think upon the whole," said she again, "that we had better make up our minds to part." then she stood up, feeling that she should thus employ a greater power in forcing an answer from him. he must have seen her motion through some cranny of his pertinaciously closed eyes, for he noticed it by rising from his own chair, with both his hands firmly fixed upon the table; but still he did not open his eyes,--unless it might be to the extent of that small cranny. "good-bye, mr. prong," said she. then he altered the form of his hands, and taking them from the table he dashed them together before his face. "god bless you, dorothea!" said he. "god bless you! god bless you!" and he put out his hands as though blessing her in his darkness. she, perceiving the inutility of endeavouring to shake hands with a man who wouldn't open his eyes, moved away from her chair towards the door, purposely raising a sound of motion with her dress, so that he might know that she was going. in that i think she took an unnecessary precaution, for the cranny at the corner of his eye was still at his disposal. "good-bye, mr. prong," she said again, as she opened the door for herself. "god bless you, dorothea!" said he. "may god bless you!" then, without assistance at the front door she made her way out into the street, and as she stepped along the pavement, she formed a resolve,--which no eloquence from mr. prong could ever overcome,--that she would remain a widow for the rest of her days. at twelve o'clock on the morning of the election mr. hart was declared by his own committee to be nine ahead, and was admitted to be six ahead by mr. cornbury's committee. but the cornbury folk asserted confidently that in this they saw certain signs of success. their supporters were not men who could be whipped up to the poll early in the day, whereas hart's voters were all, more or less, under control, and had been driven up hurriedly to the hustings so as to make this early show of numbers. mr. hart was about everywhere speaking, and so was butler cornbury; but in the matter of oratory i am bound to acknowledge that the jew had by much the mastery over the christian. there are a class of men,--or rather more than a class, a section of mankind,--to whom a power of easy expression by means of spoken words comes naturally. english country gentlemen, highly educated as they are, undaunted as they usually are, self-confident as they in truth are at the bottom, are clearly not in this section. perhaps they are further removed from it, considering the advantages they have for such speaking, than any other class of men in england,--or i might almost say elsewhere. the fact, for it is a fact, that some of the greatest orators whom the world has known have been found in this class, does not in any degree affect the truth of my proposition. the best grapes in the world are perhaps grown in england, though england is not a land of grapes. and for the same reason. the value of the thing depends upon its rarity, and its value instigates the efforts for excellence. the power of vocal expression which seems naturally to belong to an american is to an ordinary englishman very marvellous; but in america the talking man is but little esteemed. "very wonderful power of delivery,--that of mr. so-and-so," says the englishman, speaking of an american. "guess we don't think much of that kind of thing here," says the yankee. "there's a deal too much of that coin in circulation." english country gentlemen are not to be classed among that section of mankind which speaks easily in public, but jews, i think, may be so classed. the men who speak thus easily and with natural fluency, are also they who learn languages easily. they are men who observe rather than think, who remember rather than create, who may not have great mental powers, but are ever ready with what they have, whose best word is at their command at a moment, and is then serviceable though perhaps incapable of more enduring service. at any rate, as regarded oratory in baslehurst the dark little man with the bright new hat from london was very much stronger than his opponent,--so much stronger that poor butler cornbury began to sicken of elections and to wish himself comfortably at home at cornbury grange. he knew that he was talking himself down while the israelitish clothier was talking himself up. "it don't matter," honyman said to him comfortably. "it's only done for the show of the thing and to fill up the day. if gladstone were here he wouldn't talk a vote out of them one way or the other;--nor yet the devil himself." this consoled butler cornbury, but nevertheless he longed that the day might be over. and tappitt spoke too more than once,--as did also luke rowan, in spite of various noisy interruptions in which he was told that he was not an elector, and in spite also of an early greeting with a dead cat. tappitt, in advocating the claims of mr. hart to be returned to parliament as member for baslehurst, was clever enough to introduce the subject of his own wrongs. and so important had this brewery question become that he was listened to with every sign of interest when he told the people for how many years bungall and tappitt had brewed beer for them, there in baslehurst. doubtless he was met by sundry interruptions from the rowanites. "what sort of tipple has it been, t.?" was demanded by one voice. "do you call that beer?" said a second. "where do you buy your hops?" asked a third. but he went on manfully, and was buoyed up by a strong belief that he was fighting his own battle with success. nor was rowan slow to answer him. he was proud to say that he was bungall's heir, and as such he intended to continue bungall's business. whether he could improve the quality of the old tap he didn't know, but he would try. people had said a few weeks ago that he had been hounded out of baslehurst, and did not mean to come back again. here he was. he had bought property in baslehurst. he meant to live in baslehurst. he pledged himself to brew beer in baslehurst. he already regarded himself as belonging to baslehurst. and, being a bachelor, he hoped that he might live to marry a wife out of baslehurst. this last assurance was received with unqualified applause from both factions, and went far in obtaining for rowan that local popularity which was needful to him. certainly the rowan contest added much to the popular interest of that election. at the close of the poll on that evening it was declared by the mayor that mr. butler cornbury had been elected to serve the borough in parliament by a majority of one vote. chapter x. the baslehurst gazette. by one vote! old mr. cornbury when he heard of it gasped with dismay, and in secret regretted that his son had not been beaten. what seat could be gained by one vote and not be contested, especially when the beaten candidate was a jew clothier rolling in money? and what sums would not a petition and scrutiny cost? butler cornbury himself was dismayed, and could hardly participate in the exultation of his more enthusiastic wife. mr. hart of course declared that he would petition, and that he was as sure of the seat as though he already occupied it. but as it was known that every possible electioneering device had been put in practice on his behalf during the last two hours of the poll, the world at large in baslehurst believed that young cornbury's position was secure. tappitt and some few others were of a different opinion. at the present moment tappitt could not endure to acknowledge to himself that he had been beaten. nothing but the prestige and inward support of immediate success could support him in that contest, so much more important to himself, in which he was now about to be engaged. that matter of the petition, however, can hardly be brought into the present story. the political world will understand that it would be carried on with great vigour. the news of the election of butler cornbury reached the cottage at bragg's end by the voice of mr. sturt on the same evening; and mrs. ray, in her quiet way, expressed much joy that mr. comfort's son-in-law should have been successful, and that baslehurst should not have disgraced itself by any connexion with a jew. to her it had appeared monstrous that such a one should have been even permitted to show himself in the town as a candidate for its representation. to such she would have denied all civil rights, and almost all social rights. for a true spirit of persecution one should always go to a woman; and the milder, the sweeter, the more loving, the more womanly the woman, the stronger will be that spirit within her. strong love for the thing loved necessitates strong hatred for the thing hated, and thence comes the spirit of persecution. they in england who are now keenest against the jews, who would again take from them rights that they have lately won, are certainly those who think most of the faith of a christian. the most deadly enemies of the roman catholics are they who love best their religion as protestants. when we look to individuals we always find it so, though it hardly suits us to admit as much when we discuss these subjects broadly. to mrs. ray it was wonderful that a jew should have been entertained in baslehurst as a future member for the borough, and that he should have been admitted to speak aloud within a few yards of the church tower! on the day but one after the election mrs. sturt brought over to the cottage an extra sheet of the "baslehurst gazette," which had been published out of its course, and which was devoted to the circumstances of the election. i am not sure that mrs. sturt would have regarded this somewhat dull report of the election speeches as having any peculiar interest for mrs. ray and her daughter had it not been for one special passage. luke rowan's speech about baslehurst was given at length, and in it was contained that public promise as to his matrimonial intentions. mrs. sturt came into the cottage parlour with the paper doubled into four, and with her finger on a particular spot. to her it had seemed that rowan's promise must have been intended for rachel, and it seemed also that nothing could be more manly, straightforward, or gallant than that assurance. it suited her idea of chivalry. but she was not quite sure that rachel would enjoy the publicity of the declaration, and therefore she was prepared to point the passage out more particularly to mrs. ray. "i've brought 'ee the account of it all," said she, still holding the paper in her hand. "the gudeman,--he's done with t' paper, and you'll keep it for good and all. one young man that we know of has made t' finest speech of 'em all to my mind. luik at that, mrs. ray." then, with a knowing wink at the mother, and a poke at the special words with her finger, she left the sheet in mrs. ray's hand, and went her way. mrs. ray, who had not quite understood the pantomime, and whose eye had not caught the words relating to marriage, saw however that the column indicated contained the report of a speech made by luke rowan, and she began it at the beginning and read it throughout. luke had identified himself with the paper, and therefore received from it almost more than justice. his words were given at very full length, and for some ten minutes she was reading before she came to the words which mrs. sturt had hoped would be so delightful. "what is it, mamma?" rachel asked. "a speech, my dear, made at the election." "and who made it, mamma?" mrs. ray hesitated for a moment before she answered, thereby letting rachel know full well who made the speech before the word was spoken. but at last she did speak the word--"mr. rowan, my dear." "oh!" said rachel; she longed to get hold of the newspaper, but she would utter no word expressive of such longing. since that evening on which she had been bidden to look at the clouds she had regarded luke as a special hero, cleverer than other men around her, as a man born to achieve things and make himself known. it was not astonishing to her that a speech of his should be reported at length in the newspaper. he was a man certain to rise, to make speeches, and to be reported. so she thought of him; and so thinking had almost wished that it were not so. could she expect that such a one would stoop to her? or that if he did so that she could be fit for him? he had now perceived that himself, and therefore had taken her at her word, and had left her. had he been more like other men around her;--more homely, less prone to rise, with less about him of fire and genius, she might have won him and kept him. the prize would not have been so precious; but still, she thought, it might have been sufficient for her heart. a young man who could find printers and publishers to report his words in that way, on the first moment of his coming among them, would he turn aside from his path to look after her? would he not bring with him some grand lady down from london as his wife? "dear me!" said mrs. ray, quite startled. "oh, dear! what do you think he says?" "what does he say, mamma?" "well, i don't know. perhaps he mayn't mean it. i don't think i ought to have spoken of it." "if it's in the newspaper i suppose i should have heard of it, unless you sent it back without letting me see it." "she said we were to keep it, and it's because of that, i'm sure. she was always the most good-natured woman in the world. i don't know what we should have done if we hadn't found such a neighbour as mrs. sturt." "but what is it, mamma, that you are speaking of in the newspapers?" "mr. rowan says--oh, dear! i wish i'd let you come to it yourself. how very odd that he should get up and say that kind of thing in public before all the people. he says;--but any way i know he means it because he's so honest. and after all if he means it, it doesn't much matter where he says it. handsome is that handsome does. there, my dear; i don't know how to tell it you, so you had better read it yourself." rachel with eager hands took the paper, and began the speech as her mother had done, and read it through. she read it through till she came to those words, and then she put the paper down beside her. "i understand what you mean, mamma, and what mrs. sturt meant; but mr. rowan did not mean that." "what did he mean, my dear?" "he meant them to understand that he intended to become a man of baslehurst like one of themselves." "but then why did he talk about finding a wife there?" "he wouldn't have said that, mamma, if he had meant anything particular. if anything of that sort had been at all in his mind, it would have kept him from saying what he did say." "but didn't he mean that he intended to marry a baslehurst lady?" "he meant it in that sort of way in which men do mean such things. it was his way to make them think well of him. but don't let us talk any more about it, mamma. it isn't nice." "well, i'm sure i can't understand it," said mrs. ray. but she became silent on the subject, and the reading of the newspaper was passed over to rachel. this had not been completed when a step was heard on the gravel walk outside, and mrs. ray, jumping up, declared it to be the step of her eldest daughter. it was so, and mrs. prime was very soon in the room. it was at this time about four o'clock in the afternoon, and therefore, as the hour for tea at the cottage was half-past five, it was naturally understood that mrs. prime had come there to join them at their evening meal. after their first greeting she had seated herself on the sofa, and there was that in her manner which showed both to her mother and sister that she was somewhat confused,--that she had something to say as to which there was some hesitation. "do take off your bonnet, dorothea," said her mother. "will you come up-stairs, dolly," said her sister, "and put your hair straight after your walk?" but dolly did not care whether her hair was straight or tossed, as the irish girls say when the smoothness of their locks has been disarranged. she took off her bonnet, however, and laid it on the sofa beside her. "mother," she said, "i've got something particular that i want to say to you." "i hope it's not anything serious the matter," said mrs. ray. "well, mother, it is serious. things are serious mostly, i think,--or should be." "shall i go into the garden while you are speaking to mamma?" said rachel. "no, rachel; not on my account. what i've got to say should be said to you as well as to mother. it's all over between me and mr. prong." "no!" said mrs. ray. "i thought it would be," said rachel. "and why did you think so?" said mrs. prime, turning round upon her sister, almost angrily. "i felt that he wouldn't suit you, dolly; that's why i thought so. if it's all over now, i suppose there's no harm in saying that i didn't like him well enough to hope he'd be my brother-in-law." "but that couldn't make you think it. however, it's all over between us. we agreed that it should be so this morning; and i thought it right to come out and let you know at once." "i'm glad you've told us," said mrs. ray. "was there any quarrel?" asked rachel. "no, rachel, there was no quarrel; not what you call a quarrel, i suppose. we found there were subjects of disagreement between us,--matters on which we had adverse opinions; and therefore it was better that we should part." "it was about the money, perhaps?" said mrs. ray. "well, yes; it was in part about the money. had i known then as much as i do now about the law in such matters, i should have told mr. prong from the first that it could not be. he is a good man, and i hope i have not disturbed his happiness." "i used to be afraid that he would disturb yours," said rachel, "and therefore i cannot pretend to regret it." "that's not charitable, rachel. but if you please we won't say anything more about it. it's over, and that is enough. and now, mother, i want to know if you will object to my returning here and living at the cottage again." mrs. ray could not bethink herself at the moment what answer she might best make, and therefore for some moments she made none. for herself she would have been delighted that her eldest daughter should return to the cottage. under no circumstances could she refuse her own child a home under her own roof. but at the present moment she could not forget the circumstances under which mrs. prime had gone, and it militated sorely against mrs. ray's sense of justice that the return should be made to depend on other circumstances. mrs. prime had gone away in loud disapproval of rachel's conduct; and now she proposed to return, on this breaking up of her own matrimonial arrangements, as though she had left the cottage because of her proposed marriage. mrs. prime should be welcomed back, but her return should be accompanied by a withdrawal of her accusation against rachel. mrs. ray did not know how to put her demand into words, but her mind was clear on the subject. "well, mother," said mrs. prime; "is there any objection?" "no, my dear; no objection at all: of course not. i shall be delighted to have you back, and so, i'm sure, will rachel; but--" "but what? is it about money?" "oh, dear, no! nothing about money at all. if you do come back,--and i'm sure i hope you will; and indeed it seems quite unnatural that you should be staying in baslehurst, while we are living here. but i think you ought to say, my dear, that rachel behaved just as she ought to behave in all that matter about,--about mr. rowan, you know." "don't mind me, mamma," said rachel,--who could, however, have smothered her mother with kisses, on hearing these words. "but i think we all ought to understand each other, rachel. you and your sister can't go on comfortably together, if there's to be more black looks about that." "i don't know that there have been any black looks," said mrs. prime, looking very black as she spoke. "at any rate we should understand each other," continued mrs. ray, with admirable courage. "i've thought a great deal about it since you've been away. indeed i haven't thought about much else. and i don't think i shall ever forgive myself for having let a hard word be said to rachel about it." "oh, mamma, don't,--don't," said rachel. but those meditated embraces were continued in her imagination. "i don't want to say any hard words," said mrs. prime. "no; i'm sure you don't;--only they were said,--weren't they, now? didn't we blame her about being out there in the churchyard that evening?" "mamma!" exclaimed rachel. "well, my dear, i won't say any more;--only this. your sister went away because she thought you weren't good enough for her to live with; and if she comes back again,--which i'm sure i hope she will,--i think she ought to say that she's been mistaken." mrs. prime looked very black, and no word fell from her. she sat there silent and gloomy, while mrs. ray looked at the fireplace, lost in wonder at her own effort. whether she would have given way or not, had she and mrs. prime been alone, i cannot say. that mrs. prime would have uttered no outspoken recantation i feel sure. it was rachel at last who settled the matter. "if dolly comes back to live here, mamma," said she, "i shall take that as an acknowledgment on her part that she thinks i am good enough to live with." "well, my dear," said mrs. ray, "perhaps that'll do; only there should be an understanding, you know." mrs. prime at the moment said nothing; but when next she spoke her words showed her intention of having her things brought back to the cottage on the next day. i think it must be felt that rachel had won the victory. she felt it so herself, and was conscious that no further attempt would be made to carry her off to dorcas meetings against her own will. chapter xi. cornbury grange. luke rowan had been told that mrs. butler cornbury wished to see him when the election should be over; and on the evening of the election the victorious candidate, before he returned home, asked luke to come to the grange on the following monday and stay till the next wednesday. now it must be understood that rowan during this period of the election had become, in a public way, very intimate with cornbury. they were both young men, the new member of parliament not being over thirty, and for the time they were together employed on the same matter. luke rowan was one with whom such a man as mr. cornbury could not zealously co-operate without reaching a considerable extent of personal intimacy. he was pleasant-mannered, free in speech, with a bold eye, assuming though not asserting his equality with the best of those with whom he might be brought in contact. had cornbury chosen to consider himself by reason of his social station too high for rowan's fellowship, he might of course have avoided him; but he could not have put himself into close contact with the man, without submitting himself to that temporary equality which rowan assumed, and to that temporary familiarity which sprung from it. butler cornbury had thought little about it. he had found rowan to be a pleasant associate and an able assistant, and had fallen into that mode of fellowship which the other man's ways and words had made natural to him. when his wife begged him to ask rowan up to the grange, he had been startled for a moment, but had at once assented. "well," said he; "he's an uncommon pleasant fellow. i don't see why he shouldn't come." "i've a particular reason," said mrs. butler. "all right," said the husband. "do you explain it to my father." and so the invitation had been given. but rowan was a man more thoughtful than cornbury, and was specially thoughtful as to his own position. he was a radical at heart if ever there was a radical. but in saying this i must beg my reader to understand that a radical is not necessarily a revolutionist or even a republican. he does not, by reason of his social or political radicalism, desire the ruin of thrones, the degradation of nobles, the spoliation of the rich, or even the downfall of the bench of bishops. many a young man is frightened away from the just conclusions of his mind and the strong convictions of his heart by dread of being classed with those who are jealous of the favoured ones of fortune. a radical may be as ready as any aristocrat to support the crown with his blood, and the church with his faith. it is in this that he is a radical; that he desires, expects, works for, and believes in, the gradual progress of the people. no doctrine of equality is his. liberty he must have, and such position, high or low, for himself and others, as each man's individual merits will achieve for him. the doctrine of outward equality he eschews as a barrier to all ambition, and to all improvement. the idea is as mean as the thing is impracticable. but within,--is it in his soul or in his heart?--within his breast there is a manhood that will own no inferiority to the manhood of another. he retires to a corner that an earl with his suite may pass proudly through the doorway, and he grudges the earl nothing of his pride. it is the earl's right. but he also has his right; and neither queen, nor earl, nor people shall invade it. that is the creed of a radical. rowan, as i have said, was a man thoughtful as to his own position. he had understood well the nature of the league between himself and butler cornbury. it was his intention to become a brewer in baslehurst; and a brewer in baslehurst would by no means be as the mighty brewers of great name, who marry lord's daughters, and give their daughters in marriage to mighty lords. he would simply be a tradesman in the town. it might well be that he should not find the society of the tappitts and the griggses much to his taste, but such as it was he would make the best of it. at any rate he would make no attempt to force his way into other society. if others came to him let that be their look out. now, when cornbury asked him thus to come to cornbury grange, as though they two were men living in the same class of life,--as though they were men who might be bound together socially in their homes as well as politically on the hustings, the red colour came to his face and he hesitated for a moment in his answer. "you are very kind," said he. "oh! you must come," said cornbury. "my wife particularly desires it." "she is very kind," said he. "but if you ask all your supporters over to the grange you'll get rather a mixed lot." "i suppose i should; but i don't mean to do that. i shall be very glad, however, to see you;--very glad." "and i shall be very happy to come," said rowan, having again hesitated as he gave his answer. "i wish i hadn't promised that i'd go there," he said to himself afterwards. this was on the sunday, after evening church,--an hour or more after the people had all gone home, and he was sitting on that stile, looking to the west, and thinking, as he looked, of that sunset which he and another had seen as they stood there together. he did wish that he had not undertaken to go to mr. cornbury's house. what to him would be the society of such people as he should find there,--to him who had laid out for himself a career that would necessarily place his life among other associates? "i'll send and excuse myself," he said. "i'll be called away to exeter. i have things to do there. i shall only get into a mess by knowing people who will drop me when this ferment of the election is over." and yet the idea of an intimacy at such a house as cornbury grange,--with such people as mrs. butler cornbury, was very sweet to him; only this, that if he associated with them or such as them it must be on equal terms. he could acknowledge them to be people apart from him, as ice creams and sponge cakes are things apart from the shillingless schoolboy. but as the schoolboy, if brought within the range of cakes and creams, must devour them with unchecked relish, as though his pocket were lined with coin; so must he, rowan, carry himself with these curled darlings of society if he found himself placed among them. he liked cakes and creams, but had made up his mind that other viands were as wholesome and more comfortably within his reach. was it worth his while to go to this banquet which would unsettle his taste, and at which perhaps if he sat there at his ease, he might not be wholly welcome? all his thoughts were not noble. he had declared to himself that a certain thing could not be his except at a cost which he would not pay, and yet he hankered for that thing. he had declared to himself that no social position in which he might ever find himself should make a change in him, on his inner self or on his outward manner; and now he feared to go among these people, lest he should find himself an inferior among superiors. it was not all noble; but there was beneath it a basis of nobility. "i will go," he said at last, fearing that if he did not, there would have been some grain of cowardice in the motives of his action. "if they don't like me it's their fault for asking me." of course as he sat there he was thinking of rachel. of course he had thought of rachel daily, almost hourly, since he had been with her at the cottage, when she had bent her head over his shoulder, and submitted to have his arm round her waist. but his thoughts of her were not as hers of him. nor is it often that a man's love is like a woman's,--restless, fearful, uncomfortable, sleepless, timid, and all-pervading. not the less may it be passionate, constant, and faithful. he had been angered by rachel's letter to him,--greatly angered. of a truth when mrs. ray met him in exeter he had no message to send back to cawston. he had done his part, and had been rejected;--had been rejected too clearly because on the summing up of his merits and demerits at the cottage, his demerits had been found to be the heavier. he did not suspect that the calculation had been made by rachel herself; and therefore he had never said to himself that all should be over between them. he had never determined that there should be a quarrel between them. but he was angered, and he would stand aloof from her. he would stand aloof from her, and would no longer acknowledge that he was in any way bound by the words he had spoken. all such bonds she had broken. nevertheless i think he loved her with a surer love after receiving that letter than he had ever felt before. he had been here, at this spot, every evening since his return to baslehurst; and here had thought much of his future life, and something, too, of the days that were past. looking to the left he could see the trees that stood in front of the old brewery, hiding the building from his eyes. that was the house in which old bungall had lived, and there tappitt had lived for the last twenty years. "i suppose," said he, speaking to himself, "it will be my destiny to live there too, with the vats and beer barrels under my nose. but what farmer ever throve who disliked the muck of his own farm-yard?" then he had thought of tappitt and of the coming battle, and had laughed as he remembered the scene with the poker. at that moment his eye caught the bright colours of women's bonnets coming into the field beneath him, and he knew that the tappitt girls were returning home from their walk. he had retired quickly round the chancel of the church, and had watched, thinking that rachel would be with them. but rachel, of course, was not there. he said to himself that they had thrown her off; and said also that the time should come when they should be glad to win from her a kind word and an encouraging smile. his love for rachel was as true and more strong than ever; but it was of that nature that he was able to tell himself that it had for the present moment been set aside by her act, and that it became him to leave it for a while in abeyance. "what on earth shall i do with myself all tuesday?" he said again as he walked away from the churchyard on the sunday evening. "i don't know what these people do with themselves when there's no hunting and shooting. it seems unnatural to me that a man shouldn't have his bread to earn,--or a woman either in some form." after that he went back to his inn. on the monday he went out to cornbury grange late in the afternoon. butler cornbury drove into baslehurst with a pair of horses, and took him back in his phaeton. "give my fellow your portmanteau. that's all right. you never were at the grange, were you? it's the prettiest five miles of a drive in devonshire; but the walk along the river is the prettiest walk in england,--which is saying a great deal more." "i know the walk well," said rowan, "though i never was inside the park." "it isn't much of a park. indeed there isn't a semblance of a park about it. grange is just the name for it, as it's an upper-class sort of homestead for a gentleman farmer. we've lived there since long before adam, but we've never made much of a house of it." "that's just the sort of place that i should like to have myself." "if you had it you wouldn't be content. you'd want to pull down the house and build a bigger one. it's what i shall do some day, i suppose. but if i do it will never be so pretty again. i suppose that fellow will petition; won't he?" "i should say he would;--though he won't get anything by it." "he knows his purse is longer than ours, and he'll think to frighten us;--and, by george, he will frighten us too! my father is not a rich man by any means." "you should stand to your guns now." "i mean to do so, if i can. my wife's father is made of money." "what! mr. comfort?" "yes. he's been blessed with the most surprising number of unmarried uncles and aunts that ever a man had. he's rather fond of me, and likes the idea of my being in parliament. i think i shall hint to him that he must pay for the idea. here we are. will you come and take a turn round the place before dinner?" rowan was then taken into the house and introduced to the old squire, who received him with the stiff urbanity of former days. "you are welcome to the grange, mr. rowan. you'll find us very quiet here; which is more, i believe, than can have been said of baslehurst these last two or three days. my daughter-in-law is somewhere with the children. she'll be here before dinner. butler, has that tailor fellow gone back to london yet?" butler told his father that the tailor had at least gone away from baslehurst; and then the two younger men went out and walked about the grounds till dinner time. it was mrs. butler cornbury who gave soul and spirit to daily life at cornbury grange,--who found the salt with which the bread was quickened, and the wine with which the heart was made glad. marvellous is the power which can be exercised, almost unconsciously, over a company, or an individual, or even upon a crowd by one person gifted with good temper, good digestion, good intellects, and good looks. a woman so endowed charms not only by the exercise of her own gifts, but she endows those who are near her with a sudden conviction that it is they whose temper, health, talents, and appearance is doing so much for society. mrs. butler cornbury was such a woman as this. the grange was a popular house. the old squire was not found to be very dull. the young squire was thought to be rather clever. the air of the house was lively and bracing. men and women did not find the days there to be over long. and mrs. butler cornbury did it all. rowan did not see her till he met her in the drawing-room, just before dinner, when he found that two or three other ladies were also staying there. she came up to him when he entered the room, and greeted him as though he were an old friend. all conversation at that moment of course had reference to the election. thanks were given and congratulations received; and when old mr. cornbury shook his head, his daughter-in-law assured him that there would be nothing to fear. "i don't know what you call nothing to fear, my dear. i call two thousand pounds a great deal to fear." "i shouldn't wonder if we don't hear another word about him," said she. the old man uttered a long sigh. "it seems to me," said he, "that no gentleman ought to stand for a seat in parliament since these people have been allowed to come up. purity of election, indeed! it makes me sick. come along, my dear." then he gave his arm to one of the young ladies, and toddled into the dining-room. mrs. butler cornbury said nothing special to luke rowan on that evening, but she made the hours very pleasant to him. all those half-morbid ideas as to social difference between himself and his host's family soon vanished. the house was very comfortable, the girls were very pretty, mrs. cornbury was very kind, and everything went very well. on the following morning it was nearly ten when they sat down to breakfast, and half the morning before lunch had passed away in idle chat before the party bethought itself of what it should do for the day. at last it was agreed that they would all stroll out through the woods up to a special reach of the river which there ran through a ravine of rock, called cornbury cleeves. many in those parts declared that cornbury cleeves was the prettiest spot in england. i am not prepared to bear my testimony to the truth of that very wide assertion. i can only say that i know no prettier spot. the river here was rapid and sparkling; not rapid because driven into small compass, for its breadth was greater and more regular in its passage through the cleeves than it was either above or below, but rapid from the declivity of its course. on one side the rocks came sheer down to the water, but on the other there was a strip of meadow, or rather a grassy amphitheatre, for the wall of rocks at the back of it was semi-circular, so as to enclose the field on every side. there might be four or five acres of green meadow here; but the whole was so interspersed with old stunted oak trees and thorns standing alone that the space looked larger than it was. the rocks on each side were covered here and there with the richest foliage; and the spot might be taken to be a valley from which, as from that of rasselas, there was no escape. down close upon the margin of the water a bathing-house had been built, from which a plunge could be taken into six or seven feet of the coolest, darkest, cleanest water that a bather could desire in his heart. "i suppose you never were here before," said mrs. cornbury to rowan. "indeed i have," said he. "i always think it such a grand thing that you landed magnates can't keep all your delights to yourself. i dare say i've been here oftener than you have during the last three months." "that's very likely, seeing that it's my first visit this summer." "and i've been here a dozen times. i suppose you'll think i'm a villanous trespasser when i tell you that i've bathed in that very house more than once." "then you've done more than i ever did; and yet we had it made thinking it would do for ladies. but the water looks so black." "ah! i like that, as long as it's a clear black." "i like bathing where i can see the bright stones like jewels at the bottom. you can never do that in fresh water. it's only in some nook of the sea, where there is no sand, when the wind outside has died away, and when the tide is quiet and at its full. then one can drop gently in and almost fancy that one belongs to the sea as the mermaids do. i wonder how the idea of mermaids first came?" "some one saw a crowd of young women bathing." "but then how came they to have looking-glasses and fishes' tails?" "the fishes' tails were taken as granted because they were in the sea, and the looking-glasses because they were women," said rowan. "and the one with as much reason as the other. by-the-by, mr. rowan, talking of women, and fishes' tails, and looking-glasses, and all other feminine attractions, when did you see miss ray last?" rowan paused before he answered her, and looking round perceived that he had strayed with mrs. cornbury to the furthest end of the meadow, away from their companions. it immediately came across his mind that this was the matter on which mrs. cornbury wished to speak to him, and by some combative process he almost resolved that he would not be spoken to on that matter. "when did i see miss ray?" said he, repeating her question. "two or three days after mrs. tappitt's party. i have not seen her since that." "and why don't you go and see her?" said mrs. cornbury. now this was asked him in a tone which made it necessary that he should either answer her question or tell her simply that he would not answer it. the questioner's manner was so firm, so eager, so incisive, that the question could not be turned away. "i am not sure that i am prepared to tell you," said he. "ah! but i want you to be prepared," said she; "or rather, perhaps, to tell the truth, i want to drive you to an answer without preparation. is it not true that you made her an offer, and that she accepted it?" rowan thought a moment, and then he answered her, "it is true." "i should not have asked the question if i had not positively known that such was the case. i have never spoken a word to her about it, and yet i knew it. her mother told my father." "well?" "and as that is so, why do you not go and see her? i am sure you are not one of those who would play such a trick as that upon such a girl with the mere purpose of amusing yourself." "upon no girl would i do so, mrs. cornbury." "i feel sure of it. therefore why do you not go to her?" they walked along together for a few minutes under the rocks in silence, and then mrs. cornbury again repeated her question, "why do you not go to her?" "mrs. cornbury," he said, "you must not be angry with me if i say that that is a matter which at the present moment i am not willing to discuss." "nor must you be angry with me if, as rachel's friend, i say something further about it. as you do not wish to answer me, i will ask no other question; but at any rate you will be willing to listen to me. rachel has never spoken to me on this subject--not a word; but i know from others who see her daily that she is very unhappy." "i am grieved that it should be so." "yes, i knew you would be grieved. but how could it be otherwise? a girl, you know, mr. rowan, has not other things to occupy her mind as a man has. i think of rachel ray that she would have been as happy there at bragg's end as the day is long, if no offer of love had come in her way. she was not a girl whose head had been filled with romance, and who looked for such things. but for that very reason is she less able to bear the loss of it when the offer has come in her way. i think, perhaps, you hardly know the depth of her character and the strength of her love." "i think i know that she is constant." "then why do you try her so hardly?" mrs. cornbury had promised that she would ask no more questions; but the asking of questions was her easiest mode of saying that which she had to say. and rowan, though he had declared that he would answer no question, could hardly avoid the necessity of doing so. "it may be that the trial is the other way." "i know;--i understand. they made her write a letter to you. it was my father's doing. i will tell you the whole truth. it was my father's doing, and therefore it is that i think myself bound to speak to you. her mother came to him for advice, and he had heard evil things spoken of you in baslehurst. you will see that i am very frank with you. and i will take some credit to myself too. i believed such tidings to be altogether false, and i made inquiry which proved that i was right. but my father had given the advice which he thought best. i do not know what rachel wrote to you, but a girl's letter under such circumstances can hardly do more than express the will of those who guide her. it was sad enough for her to be forced to write such a letter, but it will be sadder still if you cannot be brought to forgive it." then she paused, standing under the gray rock and looking up eagerly into his face. but he made her no answer, nor gave her any sign. his heart was very tender at that moment towards rachel, but there was that in him of the stubbornness of manhood which would not let him make any sign of his tenderness. "i will not press you to say anything, mr. rowan," she continued, "and i am much obliged to you for having listened to me. i've known rachel ray for many years, and that must be my excuse." "no excuse is wanting," he said. "if i do not say anything it is not because i am offended. there are things on which a man should not allow himself to speak without considering them." "oh, certainly. come; shall we go back to them at the bathing-house? they'll think we've lost ourselves." thus mrs. cornbury said the words which she had desired to speak on rachel ray's behalf. when they reached the grange there were still two hours left before the time of dressing for dinner should come, and during these hours luke returned by himself to the cleeves. he escaped from his host, and retraced his steps, and on reaching the river sat himself down on the margin, and looked into the cool dark running water. had he been severe to rachel? he would answer no such question when asked by mrs. cornbury, but he was very desirous of answering it to himself. the women at the cottage had doubted him,--mrs. ray and her daughter, with perhaps that other daughter of whom he had only heard; and he had resolved that they should see him no more and hear of him no more till there should be no further room for doubt. then he would show himself again at the cottage, and again ask rachel to be his wife. there was some manliness in this; but there was also a hardness in his pride which deserved the rebuke which mrs. cornbury's words had conveyed to him. he had been severe to rachel. lying there, with his full length stretched upon the grass, he acknowledged to himself that he had thought more of his own feelings than of hers. while mrs. cornbury had been speaking he could not bring himself to feel that this was the case. but now in his solitude he did acknowledge it. what amount of sin had she committed against him that she should be so punished by him who loved her? he took out her letter from his pocket, and found that her words were loving, though she had not been allowed to put into them that eager, pressing, speaking love which he had desired. "spoken ill of me, have they?" said he to himself, as he got up to walk back to the grange. "well, that was natural too. what an ass a man is to care for such things as that!" on that evening and the next morning the cornburys were very gracious to him; and then he returned to baslehurst, on the whole well pleased with his visit. chapter xii. in which the question of the brewery is settled. during the day or two immediately subsequent to the election, mr. tappitt found himself to be rather downhearted. the excitement of the contest was over. he was no longer buoyed up by the consoling and almost triumphant assurances of success for himself against his enemy rowan, which had been administered to him by those with whom he had been acting on behalf of mr. hart. he was alone and thoughtful in his counting-house, or else subjected to the pressure of his wife's arguments in his private dwelling. he had never yet been won over to say that he would agree to any proposition, but he knew that he must now form some decision. rowan would not even wait till the lawsuit should be decided by legal means. if mr. tappitt would not consent to one of the three propositions made to him, rowan would at once commence the building of his new brewery. "he is that sort of man," said honyman, "that if he puts a brick down nothing in the world will prevent him from going on." "of course it won't," said mrs. tappitt. "oh dear, oh dear, t.! if you go on in this way we shall all be ruined; and then people will say that it was my fault, and that i ought to have had you inquired into about your senses." tappitt gnashed his teeth and rushed out of the dining-room back into his brewery. among all those who were around him there was not one to befriend him. even worts had turned against him, and had received notice to go with a stern satisfaction which tappitt had perfectly understood. tappitt was in this frame of mind, and was seated on his office stool, with his hat over his eyes, when he was informed by one of the boys about the place that a deputation from the town had come to wait upon him;--so he pulled off his hat, and begged that the deputation might be shown into the counting-house. the deputation consisted of three tradesmen who were desirous of convening a meeting with the view of discussing the petition against mr. cornbury's return to parliament, and they begged that mr. tappitt would take the chair. the meeting was to be held at the dragon, and it was proposed that after the meeting there should be a little dinner. mr. tappitt would perhaps consent to take the chair at the dinner also. mr. tappitt did consent to both propositions, and when the deputation withdrew, he felt himself to be himself once more. his courage had returned to him, and he would at once rebuke his wife for the impropriety of the words she had addressed to him. he would rebuke his wife, and would then proceed to meet mr. sharpit the attorney, at the dragon, and to take the chair at the meeting. it could not be that a young adventurer such as rowan could put down an old-established firm, such as his own, or banish from the scene of his labours a man of such standing in the town as himself! it was all the fault of honyman,--of honyman who never was firm on any matter. when the meeting should be over he would say a word or two to sharpit, and see if he could not put the matter into better training. with a heavy tread, a tread that was intended to mark his determination, he ascended to the drawing-room and from thence to the bed-room above in which mrs. tappitt was then seated. she understood the meaning of the footfall, and knew well that it indicated a purpose of marital authority. a woman must have much less of natural wit than had fallen to mrs. tappitt's share, who has not learned from the experience of thirty years the meaning of such marital signs and sounds. so she sat herself firmly in her seat, caught hold of the petticoat which she was mending with a stout grasp, and prepared herself for the battle. "margaret," said he, when he had carefully closed the door behind him, "i have come up to say that i do not intend to dine at home to-day." "oh, indeed," said she. "at the dragon, i suppose then." "yes; at the dragon. i've been asked to take the chair at a popular meeting which is to be held with reference to the late election." "take the chair!" "yes, my dear, take the chair at the meeting and at the dinner." "now, t., don't you make a fool of yourself." "no, i won't; but margaret, i must tell you once for all that that is not the way in which i like you to speak to me. why you should have so much less confidence in my judgment than other people in baslehurst, i cannot conceive; but--" "now, t., look here; as for your taking the chair as you call it, of course you can do it if you like it." "of course i can; and i do like it, and i mean to do it. but it isn't only about that i've come to speak to you. you said something to me to-day, before honyman, that was very improper." "what i say always is improper, i know." "i don't suppose you could have intended to insinuate that you thought that i was a lunatic." "i didn't say so." "you said something like it." "no, i didn't, t." "yes you did, margaret." "if you'll allow me for a moment, t., i'll tell you what i did say, and if you wish it, i'll say it again." "no; i'd rather not hear it said again." "but, t., i don't choose to be misunderstood, nor yet misrepresented." "i haven't misrepresented you." "but i say you have misrepresented me. if i ain't allowed to speak a word, of course it isn't any use for me to open my mouth. i hope i know what my duty is and i hope i've done it;--both by you, t., and by the children. i know i'm bound to submit, and i hope i have submitted. very hard it has been sometimes when i've seen things going as they have gone; but i've remembered my duty as a wife, and i've held my tongue when any other woman in england would have spoken out. but there are some things which a woman can't stand and shouldn't; and if i'm to see my girls ruined and left without a roof over their heads, or a bit to eat, or a thing to wear, it shan't be for want of a word from me." "didn't they always have plenty to eat?" "but where is it to come from if you're going to rush openmouthed into the lion's jaws in this way? i've done my duty by you, t., and no man nor yet no woman can say anything to the contrary. and if it was myself only i'd see myself on the brink of starvation before i'd say a word; but i can't see those poor girls brought to beggary without telling you what everybody in baslehurst is talking about; and i can't see you, t., behaving in such a way and sit by and hold my tongue." "behave in what way? haven't i worked like a horse? do you mean to tell me that i am to give up my business, and my position, and everything i have in the world, and go away because a young scoundrel comes to baslehurst and tells me that he wants to have my brewery? i tell you what, margaret, if you think i'm that sort of man, you don't know me yet." "i don't know about knowing you, t." "no; you don't know me." "if you come to that, i know very well that i have been deceived. i didn't want to speak of it, but now i must. i have been made to believe for these last twenty years that the brewery was all your own, whereas it now turns out that you've only got a share in it, and for aught i can see, by no means the best share. why wasn't i told all that before?" "woman!" shouted mr. tappitt. "yes; woman indeed! i suppose i am a woman, and therefore i'm to have no voice in anything. will you answer me one question, if you please? are you going to that man, sharpit?" "yes, i am." "then, mr. tappitt, i shall consult my brothers." mrs. tappitt's brothers were grocers in plymouth; men whom mr. tappitt had never loved. "they mayn't hold their heads quite as high as you do,--or rather as you used to do when people thought that the establishment was all your own; but such as it is nobody can turn them out of their shop in the market-place. if you are going to sharpit, i shall consult them." "you may consult the devil, if you like it." "oh, oh! very well, mr. tappitt. it's clear enough that you're not yourself any longer, and that somebody must take up your affairs and manage them for you. if you'll follow my advice you'll stay at home this evening and take a dose of physic and see dr. haustus quietly in the morning." "i shall do nothing of the kind." "very well. of course i can't make you. as yet you're your own master. if you choose to go to this silly meeting and then to drink gin and water and to smoke bad tobacco till all hours at the dragon, and you in the dangerous state you are at present, i can't help it. i don't suppose that anything i could do now, that is quite immediately, would enable me to put you under fitting restraint." "put me where?" then mr. tappitt looked at his wife with a look that was intended to annihilate her, for the time being,--seeing that no words that he could speak had any such effect,--and he hurried out of the room without staying to wash his hands or brush his hair before he went off to preside at the meeting. mrs. tappitt remained where she was for about half an hour and then descended among her daughters. "isn't papa going to dine at home?" said augusta. "no, my dear; your papa is going to dine with some friends of mr. hart's, the candidate who was beaten." "and has he settled anything about the brewery?" cherry asked. "no; not as yet. your papa is very much troubled about it, and i fear he is not very well. i suppose he must go to this electioneering dinner. when gentlemen take up that sort of thing, they must go on with it. and as they wish your father to preside over the petition, i suppose he he can't very well help himself." "is papa going to preside over the petition?" asked augusta. "yes, my dear." "i hope it won't cost him anything," said martha. "people say that those petitions do cost a great deal of money." "it's a very anxious time for me, girls; of course, you must all of you see that. i'm sure when we had our party i didn't think things were going to be as anxious as this, or i wouldn't have had a penny spent in such a way as that. if your papa could bring himself to give up the brewery, everything would be well." "i do so wish he would," said cherry, "and let us all go and live at torquay. i do so hate this nasty dirty old place." "i shall never live in a house i like so well," said martha. "the house is well enough, my dears, and so is the brewery, but it can't be expected that your father should go on working for ever as he does at present. it's too much for his strength;--a great deal too much. i can see it, though i don't suppose any one else can. no one knows, only me, what your father has gone through in that brewery." "but why doesn't he take mr. rowan's offer?" said cherry. "everybody seems to say now that rowan is ever so rich," said augusta. "i suppose papa doesn't like the feeling of being turned out," said martha. "he wouldn't be turned out, my dear; not the least in the world," said mrs. tappitt. "i don't choose to interfere much myself because, perhaps, i don't understand it; but certainly i should like your papa to retire. i have told him so; but gentlemen sometimes don't like to be told of things." mrs. tappitt could be very severe to her husband, could say to him terrible words if her spirit were put up, as she herself was wont to say. but she understood that it did not become her to speak ill of their father before her girls. nor would she willingly have been heard by the servants to scold their master. and though she said terrible things she said them with a conviction that they would not have any terrible effect. tappitt would only take them for what they were worth, and would measure them by the standard which his old experience had taught him to adopt. when a man has been long consuming red pepper, it takes much red pepper to stimulate his palate. had mrs. tappitt merely advised her husband, in proper conjugal phraseology, to relinquish his trade and to retire to torquay, her advice, she knew, would have had no weight. she was eager on the subject, feeling convinced that this plan of retirement was for the good of the family generally, and therefore she had advocated it with energy. there may be those who think that a wife goes too far in threatening a husband with a commission of lunacy, and frightening him with a prospect of various fatal diseases; but the dose must be adapted to the constitution, and the palate that is accustomed to large quantities of red pepper must have quantities larger than usual whenever some special culinary effect is to be achieved. on the present occasion mrs. tappitt went on talking to the girls of their father in language that was quite eulogistic. no threat against the absent brewer passed her mouth,--or theirs. but they all understood each other, and were agreed that everything was to be done to induce papa to accept mr. rowan's offer. "then," said cherry, "he'll marry rachel ray, and she'll be mistress of the brewery house." "never!" said mrs. tappitt, very solemnly. "never! he'll never be such a fool as that." "never!" said augusta. "never!" in the mean time the meeting went on at the dragon. i can't say that mr. tappitt was on this occasion called upon to preside over the petition. he was simply invited to take the chair at a meeting of a dozen men at baslehurst who were brought together by mr. sharpit in order that they might be induced by him to recommend mr. hart to employ him, mr. sharpit, in getting up the petition in question; and in order that there might be some sufficient temptation to these twelve men to gather themselves together, the dinner at the dragon was added to the meeting. mr. tappitt took the chair in the big, uncarpeted, fusty room upstairs, in which masonic meetings were held once a month, and in which the farmers of the neighbourhood dined once a week, on market days. he took the chair and some seven or eight of his townsmen clustered round him. the others had sent word that they would manage to come in time for the dinner. mr. sharpit, before he put the brewer in his place of authority, prompted him as to what he was to do, and in the course of a quarter of an hour two resolutions, already prepared by mr. sharpit, had been passed unanimously. mr. hart was to be told by the assembled people of baslehurst that he would certainly be seated by a scrutiny, and he was to be advised to commence his proceedings at once. these resolutions were duly committed to paper by one of mr. sharpit's clerks, and mr. tappitt, before he sat down to dinner, signed a letter to mr. hart on behalf of the electors of baslehurst. when the work of the meeting was completed it still wanted half an hour to dinner, during which the nine electors of baslehurst sauntered about the yard of the inn, looked into the stables, talked to the landlady at the bar, indulged themselves with gin and bitters, and found the time very heavy on their hands. they were nine decent-looking, middle-aged men, dressed in black not of the newest, in swallow-tailed coats and black trousers, with chimney-pot hats, and red faces; and as they pottered about the premises of the dragon they seemed to be very little at their ease. "what's up, jim?" said one of the postboys to the ostler. "sharpit's got 'em all here to get some more money out of that ere jew gent;--that's about the ticket," said the ostler. "he's a clever un," said the postboy. at last the dinner was ready; and the total number of the party having now completed itself, the liberal electors of baslehurst prepared to enjoy themselves. no bargain had been made on the subject, but it was understood by them all that they would not be asked to pay for their dinner. sharpit would see to that. he would probably know how to put it into his little bill; and if he failed in that the risk was his own. but while the body of the liberal electors was peeping into the stables and drinking gin and bitters, mr. sharpit and mr. tappitt were engaged in a private conference. "if you come to me," said sharpit, "of course i must take it up. the etiquette of the profession don't allow me to decline." "but why should you wish to decline?" said tappitt, not altogether pleased by mr. sharpit's manner. "oh, by no means; no. it's just the sort of work i like;--not much to be made by it, but there's injury to be redressed and justice to be done. only you see poor honyman hasn't got much of a practice left to him, and i don't want to take his bread out of his mouth." "but i'm not to be ruined because of that!" "as i said before, if you bring the business to me i must take it up. i can't help myself, if i would. and if i do take it up i'll see you through it. everybody who knows me knows that of me." "i suppose i shall find you at home about ten to-morrow?" "yes; i'll be in my office at ten;--only you should think it well over, you know, mr. tappitt. i've nothing to say against mr. honyman,--not a word. you'll remember that, if you please, if there should be anything about it afterwards. ah! you're wanted for the chair, mr. tappitt. i'll come and sit alongside of you, if you'll allow me." the dinner itself was decidedly bad, and the company undoubtedly dull. i am inclined to think that every individual there would have dined more comfortably at home. a horrid mess concocted of old gravy, catsup, and bad wine was distributed under the name of soup. then there came upon the table half a huge hake,--the very worst fish that swims, a fish with which devonshire is peculiarly invested. some hard dark brown mysterious balls were handed round, which on being opened with a knife were found to contain sausage-meat, very greasy and by no means cooked through. even the _dura ilia_ of the liberal electors of baslehurst declined to make acquaintance with these dainties. after that came the dinner, consisting of a piece of roast beef very raw, and a leg of parboiled mutton, absolutely blue in its state of rawness. when the gory mess was seen which displayed itself on the first incision made into these lumps of meat, the vice-president and one or two of his friends spoke out aloud. that hard and greasy sausage-meat might have been all right for anything they knew to the contrary, and the soup they had swallowed without complaint. but they did know what should be the state of a joint of meat when brought to the table, and therefore they spoke out in their anger. tappitt himself said nothing that was intended to be carried beyond the waiter, seeing that beer from his own brewery was consumed in the tap of the dragon; but the vice-president was a hardware dealer with whom the dragon had but small connection of trade, and he sent terrible messages down to the landlady, threatening her with the blue boar, the mitre, and even with that nasty little pothouse the chequers. "what is it they expects for their three-and-sixpence?" said the landlady, in her wrath; for it must be understood that sharpit knew well that he was dealing with one who understood the value of money, and that he did not feel quite sure of passing the dinner in mr. hart's bill. then came a pie with crust an inch thick, which nobody could eat, and a cabinet pudding, so called, full of lumps of suet. i venture to assert that each liberal elector there would have got a better dinner at home, and would have been served with greater comfort; but a public dinner at an inn is the recognized relaxation of a middle-class englishman in the provinces. did he not attend such banquets his neighbours would conceive him to be constrained by domestic tyranny. others go to them, and therefore he goes also. he is bored frightfully by every speech to which he listens. he is driven to the lowest depths of dismay by every speech which he is called upon to make. he is thoroughly disgusted when he is called on to make no speech. he has no point of sympathy with the neighbours between whom he sits. the wine is bad. the hot water is brought to him cold. his seat is hard and crowded. no attempt is made at the pleasures of conversation. he is continually called upon to stand up that he may pretend to drink a toast in honour of some person or institution for which he cares nothing; for the hero of the evening, as to whom he is probably indifferent; for the church, which perhaps he never enters; the army, which he regards as a hotbed of aristocratic insolence; or for the queen, whom he reveres and loves by reason of his nature as an englishman, but against whose fulsome praises as repeated to him ad nauseam in the chairman's speech his very soul unconsciously revolts. it is all a bore, trouble, ennui, nastiness, and discomfort. but yet he goes again and again,--because it is the relaxation natural to an englishman. the frenchman who sits for three hours tilted on the hind legs of a little chair with his back against the window-sill of the cafã©, with first a cup of coffee before him and then a glass of sugar and water, is perhaps as much to be pitied as regards his immediate misery; but the liquids which he imbibes are not so injurious to him. mr. tappitt with the eleven other liberal electors of baslehurst went through the ceremony of their dinner in the usual way. they drank the health of the queen, and of the volunteers of the county because there was present a podgy little grocer who had enrolled himself in the corps and who was thus enabled to make a speech; and then they drank the health of mr. hart, whose ultimate return for the borough they pledged themselves to effect. having done so much for business, and having thus brought to a conclusion the political work of the evening, they adjourned their meeting to a cosy little parlour near the bar, and then they began to be happy. some few of the number, including the angry vice-president, who sold hardware, took themselves home to their wives. "mrs. tongs keeps him sharp enough by the ears," said sharpit, winking to tappitt. "come along, old fellow, and we'll get a drop of something really hot." tappitt winked back again and shook his head with an affected laugh; but as he did so he thought of mrs. t. at home, and the terrible words she had spoken to him;--and at the same moment an idea came across him that mr. sharpit was a very dangerous companion. about half a dozen entered the cosy little parlour, and there they remained for a couple of hours. while sitting in that cosy little parlour they really did enjoy themselves. about nine o'clock they had a bit of the raw beef broiled, and in that guise it was pleasant enough; and the water was hot, and the tobacco was grateful and the stiffness of the evening was gone. the men chatted together and made no more speeches, and they talked of matters which bore a true interest to them. sharpit explained to them how each man might be assisted in his own business if this rich london tailor could be brought in for the borough. and by degrees they came round to the affairs of the brewery, and tappitt, as the brandy warmed him, spoke loudly against rowan. "by george!" said the podgy grocer, "if anybody would offer me a thousand a year to give up, i'd take it hopping." "then i wouldn't," said tappitt, "and what's more, i won't. but brewing ain't like other businesses;--there's more in it than in most others." "of course there is," said sharpit; "it isn't like any common trade." "that's true too," said the podgy grocer. a man usually receives some compensation for having gone through the penance of the chairman's duties. for the remainder of the evening he is entitled to the flattery of his companions, and generally receives it till they become tipsy and insubordinate. tappitt had not the character of an intemperate man, but on this occasion he did exceed the bounds of a becoming moderation. the room was hot and the tobacco smoke was thick. the wine had been bad and the brandy was strong. sharpit, too, urged him to new mixtures and stronger denunciations against rowan, till at last, at eleven o'clock, when he took himself to the brewery, he was not in a condition proper for the father of such daughters or for the husband of such a wife. "shall i see him home?" said the podgy grocer to mr. sharpit. tappitt, with the suspicious quickness of a drunken man, turned sharply upon the podgy and abashed grocer, and abused him for his insolence. he then made his way out of the inn-yard, and along the high street, and down brewery lane to his own door, knowing the way as well as though he had been sober, and passing over it as quickly. nor did he fall or even stumble, though now and again he reeled slightly. and as he went the idea came strongly upon him that sharpit was a dangerous man, and that perhaps at this very moment he, tappitt, was standing on the brink of a precipice. then he remembered that his wife would surely be watching for him, and as he made his first attempt to insert the latch-key into the door his heart became forgetful of the brandy, and sank low within his breast. how affairs went between him and mrs. tappitt on that night i will not attempt to describe. that she used her power with generosity i do not doubt. that she used it with discretion i am quite convinced. on the following morning at ten o'clock tappitt was still in bed; but a note had been written by mrs. t. to messrs. sharpit and longfite, saying that the projected visit had, under altered circumstances, become unnecessary. that tappitt's head was racked with pain, and his stomach disturbed with sickness, there can be no doubt, and as little that mrs. t. used the consequent weakness of her husband for purposes of feminine dominion; but this she did with discretion and even with kindness. only a word or two was said as to the state in which he had returned home,--a word or two with the simple object of putting that dominion on a firm basis. after that mrs. tappitt took his condition as an established fact, administered to him the comforts of her medicine-chest and teapot, excused his illness to the girls as having been produced by the fish, and never left his bedside till she had achieved her purpose. if ever a man got tipsy to his own advantage, mr. tappitt did so on that occasion. and if ever a man in that condition was treated with forbearing kindness by his wife, mr. tappitt was so treated then. "don't disturb yourself, t.," she said; "there's nothing wants doing in the brewery, and if it did what would it signify in comparison with your health? the brewery won't be much to you now, thank goodness; and i'm sure you've had enough of it. thirty years of such work as that would make any man sick and weak. i'm sure i don't wonder at your being ill;--not the least. the wonder is that you've ever stood up against it so long as you have. if you'll take my advice you'll just turn round and try to sleep for an hour or so." tappitt took her advice at any rate, so far that he turned round and closed his eyes. up to this time he had not given way about the brewery. he had uttered no word of assent. but he was gradually becoming aware that he would have to yield before he would be allowed to put on his clothes. and now, in the base and weak condition of his head and stomach, yielding did not seem to him to be so very bad a thing. after all, the brewery was troublesome, the fight was harassing. rowan was young and strong, and mr. sharpit was very dangerous. rowan, too, had risen in his estimation as in that of others, and he could not longer argue, even to himself, that the stipulated income would not be paid. he did not sleep, but got into that half-drowsy state in which men think of their existing affairs, but without any power of active thought. he knew that he ought to be in his counting-house and at work. he half feared that the world was falling away from him because he was not there. he was ashamed of himself, and sometimes almost entertained a thought of rising up and shaking off his lethargy. but his stomach was bad, and he could not bring himself to move. his head was tormented, and his pillow was soft; and therefore there he lay. he wondered what was the time of day, but did not think of looking at his watch which was under his head. he heard his wife's steps about the room as she shaded some window from his eyes, or crept to the door to give some household order to one of her girls outside; but he did not speak to her, nor she to him. she did not speak to him as long as he lay there motionless, and when he moved with a small low groan she merely offered him some beef tea. it was nearly six o'clock, and the hour of dinner at the brewery was long passed, when mrs. tappitt sat herself down by the bedside determined to reap the fruit of her victory. he had just raised himself in his bed and announced his intention of getting up,--declaring, as he did so, that he would never again eat any of that accursed fish. the moment of his renovation had come upon him, and mrs. tappitt perceived that if he escaped from her now, there might even yet be more trouble. "it wasn't only the fish, t.," she said, with somewhat of sternness in her eye. "i hardly drank anything," said tappitt. "of course i wasn't there to see what you took," said she; "but you were very bad when you came home last night;--very bad indeed. you couldn't have got in at the door only for me." "that's nonsense." "but it is quite true. it's a mercy, t., that neither of the girls saw you. only think! but there'll be nothing more of that kind, i'm sure, when we are out of this horrid place; and it wouldn't have happened now, only for all this trouble." to this tappitt made no answer, but he grunted, and again said that he thought he would get up. "of course it's settled now, t., that we're to leave this place." "i don't know that at all." "then, t., you ought to know it. come now; just look at the common sense of the thing. if we don't give up the brewery what are we to do? there isn't a decent respectable person in the town in favour of our staying here, only that rascal sharpit. you desired me this morning to write and tell him you'd have nothing more to do with him; and so i did." tappitt had not seen his wife's letter to the lawyer,--had not asked to see it, and now became aware that his only possible supporter might probably have been driven away from him. sharpit too, though dangerous as an enemy, was ten times more dangerous as a friend! "of course you'll take that young man's offer. shall i sit down and write a line to honyman, and tell him to come in the morning?" tappitt groaned again and again, said that he would get up, but mrs. t. would not let him out of bed till he had assented to her proposition that honyman should be again invited to the brewery. he knew well that the battle was gone from him,--had in truth known it through all those half-comatose hours of his bedridden day. but a man, or a nation, when yielding must still resist even in yielding. tappitt fumed and fussed under the clothes, protesting that his sending for honyman would be useless. but the letter was written in his name and sent with his knowledge; and it was perfectly understood that that invitation to honyman signified an unconditional surrender on the part of mr. tappitt. one word mrs. t. said as she allowed her husband to escape from his prison amidst the blankets, one word by which to mark that the thing was done, and one word only. "i suppose we needn't leave the house for about a month or so,--because it would be inconvenient about the furniture." "who's to turn you out if you stay for six months?" said tappitt. the thing was marked enough then, and mrs. tappitt retired in muffled triumph,--retired when she had made all things easy for the simplest ceremony of dressing. "just sponge your face, my dear," she said, "and put on your dressing-gown, and come down for half an hour or so." "i'm all right now," said tappitt. "oh! quite so;--but i wouldn't go to the trouble of much dressing." then she left him, descended the stairs, and entered the parlour among her daughters. when there she could not abstain from one blast of the trumpet of triumph. "well, girls," she said, "it's all settled, and we shall be in torquay now before the winter." "no!" said augusta. "that'll be a great change," said martha. "in torquay before the winter!" said cherry. "oh, mamma, how clever you have been!" "and now your papa is coming down, and you should thank him for what he's doing for you. it's all for your sake that he's doing it." mr. tappitt crept into the room, and when he had taken his seat in his accustomed arm-chair, the girls went up to him and kissed him. then they thanked him for his proposed kindness in taking them out of the brewery. "oh, papa, it is so jolly!" said cherry. mr. tappitt did not say much in answer to this;--but luckily there was no necessity that he should say anything. it was an occasion on which silence was understood as giving a perfect consent. chapter xiii. what took place at bragg's end farm. when mrs. tappitt had settled within her own mind that the brewery should be abandoned to rowan, she was by no means, therefore, ready to assent that rachel ray should become the mistress of the brewery house. "never," she had exclaimed when cherry had suggested such a result; "never!" and augusta had echoed the protestation, "never, never!" i will not say that she would have allowed her husband to remain in his business in order that she might thus exclude rachel from such promotion, but she could not bring herself to believe that luke rowan would be so fatuous, so ignorant of his own interests, so deluded, as to marry that girl from bragg's end! it is thus that the mrs. tappitts of the world regard other women's daughters when they have undergone any disappointment as to their own. she had no reason for wishing well to rowan, and would not have cared if he had taken to his bosom a harpy in marriage; but she could not endure to hear of the success of the girl whose attractions had foiled her own little plan. "i don't believe that the man can ever be such a fool as that!" she said again to augusta, when on the evening of the day following tappitt's abdication, a rumour reached the brewery that luke rowan had been seen walking out upon the cawston road. mr. honyman, in accordance with his instructions, called at the brewery on that morning, and was received by mr. tappitt with a sullen and almost savage submission. mrs. t. had endeavoured to catch him first, but in that she had failed; she did, however, manage to see the attorney as he came out from her husband. "it's all settled," said honyman; "and i'll see rowan myself before half an hour is over." "i'm sure it's a great blessing, mr. honyman," said the lady,--not on that occasion assuming any of the glory to herself. "it was the only thing for him," said mr. honyman;--"that is if he didn't like to take the young man in as acting partner." "that wouldn't have done at all," said mrs. t. and then the lawyer went his way. in the mean time tappitt sat sullen and wretched in the counting-house. such moments occur in the lives of most of us,--moments in which the real work of life is brought to an end,--and they cannot but be sad. it is very well to talk of ease and dignity; but ease of spirit comes from action only, and the world's dignity is given to those who do the world's work. let no man put his neck from out of the collar till in truth he can no longer draw the weight attached to it. tappitt had now got rid of his collar, and he sat very wretched in his brewery counting-house. "be i to go, sir?" tappitt in his meditation was interrupted by these words, spoken not in a rough voice, and looking up he saw worts standing in the counting-house before him. worts had voted for butler cornbury, whereas, had he voted for mr. hart, mr. hart would have been returned; and, upon that, worts, as a rebellious subject, had received notice to quit the premises. now his time was out, and he came to ask whether he was to leave the scene of his forty years of work. but what would be the use of sending worts away even if the wish to punish his contumacy still remained? in another week worts would be brought back again in triumph, and would tread those brewery floors with the step almost of a master, while he, tappitt, could tread them only as a stranger, if he were allowed to tread them at all. "you can stay if you like," said tappitt, hardly looking up at the man. "i know you be a going, mr. tappitt," said the man; "and i hear you be a going very handsome like. gentlefolk such as yeu needn't go on working allays like uz. if so be yeu be a going, mr. tappitt, i hope yeu and me'll part friendly. we've been together a sight o' years;--too great a sight for uz to part unfriendly." mr. tappitt admitted the argument, shook hands with the man, and then of course took him into his immediate confidence with more warmth than he would have done had there been no quarrel between them. and i think he found some comfort in this. he walked about the premises with worts, telling him much that was true, and some few things that were not strictly accurate. for instance, he said that he had made up his mind to leave the place, whereas that action of decisive resolution which we call making up our minds had perhaps been done by mrs. tappitt rather than by him. but worts took all these assertions with an air of absolute belief which comforted the brewer. worts was very wise in his discretion on that day, and threw much oil on the troubled waters; so that tappitt when he left him bade god bless him, and expressed a hope that the old place might still thrive for his sake. "and for your'n too, master," said worts, "for yeu'll allays have the best egg still. the young master, he'll only be a working for yeu." there was comfort in this thought; and tappitt, when he went into his dinner, was able to carry himself like a man. the tidings which had reached mrs. tappitt as to rowan having been seen on that evening walking on the cawston road with his face towards bragg's end were true. on that morning mr. honyman had come to him, and his career in life was at once settled for him. "mr. tappitt is quite in time, mr. honyman," he had said. "but he would not have been in time this day week unless he had consented to pay for what work had been already done; for i had determined to begin at once." "the truth is, mr. rowan, you step into an uncommon good thing; but mr. tappitt is tired of the work, and glad to give it up." thus the matter was arranged between them, and before nightfall everybody in baslehurst knew that tappitt and rowan had come to terms, and that tappitt was to retire upon a pension. there was some little discrepancy as to the amount of tappitt's annuity, the liberal faction asserting that he was to receive two thousand a year, and those of the other side cutting him down to two hundred. on the evening of that day--in the cool of the evening--luke rowan sauntered down the high street of baslehurst, and crossed over cawston bridge. on the bridge he was all alone, and he stood there for a moment or two leaning upon the parapet looking down upon the little stream beneath the arch. during the day many things had occupied him, and he had hardly as yet made up his mind definitely as to what he would do and what he would say during the hours of the evening. from the moment in which honyman had announced to him tappitt's intended resignation he became aware that he certainly should go out to bragg's end before that day was over. it had been with him a settled thing, a thing settled almost without thought ever since the receipt of rachel's letter, that he would take this walk to bragg's end when he should have put his affairs at baslehurst on some stable footing; but that he would not take that walk before he had so done. "they say," rachel had written in her letter, "they say that as the business here about the brewery is so very unsettled, they think it probable that you will not have to come back to baslehurst any more." in that had been the offence. they had doubted his stability, and, beyond that, had almost doubted his honesty. he would punish them by taking them at their word till both should be put beyond all question. he knew well that the punishment would fall on rachel, whereas none of the sin would have been rachel's sin; but he would not allow himself to be deterred by that consideration. "it is her letter," he said to himself, "and in that way will i answer her. when i do go there again they will all understand me better." it had been, too, a matter of pride to him that mr. comfort and mrs. butler cornbury should thus be made to understand him. he would say nothing of himself and his own purposes to any of them. he would speak neither of his own means nor his own stedfastness. but he would prove to them that he was stedfast, and that he had boasted of nothing which he did not possess. when mrs. butler cornbury had spoken to him down by the cleeves, asking him of his purpose, and struggling to do a kind thing by rachel, he had resolved at once that he would tell her nothing. she should find him out. he liked her for loving rachel; but neither to her, nor even to rachel herself, would he say more till he could show them that the business about the brewery was no longer unsettled. but up to this moment--this moment in which he was standing on the bridge, he had not determined what he would say to rachel or to rachel's mother. he had never relaxed in his purpose of making rachel his wife since his first visit to the cottage. he was one who, having a fixed resolve, feels certain of their ultimate success in achieving it. he was now going to bragg's end to claim that which he regarded as his own; but he had not as yet told himself in what terms he would put forward his claim. so he stood upon the bridge thinking. he stood upon the bridge thinking, but his thoughts would only go backwards, and would do nothing for him as to his future conduct. he remembered his first walk with her, and the churchyard elms with the setting sun, and the hot dances in mrs. tappitt's house; and he remembered them without much of the triumph of a successful lover. it had been very sweet, but very easy. in so saying to himself he by no means threw blame upon rachel. things were easy, he thought, and it was almost a pity that they should be so. as for rachel, nothing could have been more honest or more to his taste, than her mode of learning to love him. a girl who, while intending to accept him, could yet have feigned indifference, would have disgusted him at once. nevertheless he could not but wish that there had been some castles for him to storm in his career. tappitt had made but poor pretence of fighting before he surrendered; and as to rachel, it had not been in rachel's nature to make any pretence. he passed from the bridge at last without determining what he would say when he reached the cottage, but he did not pass on till he had been seen by the scrutinizing eyes of miss pucker. "if there ain't young rowan going out to bragg's end again!" she said to herself, comforting herself, i fear, or striving to comfort herself, with an inward assertion that he was not going there for any good. striving to comfort herself, but not effectually; for though the assertion was made by herself to herself, yet it was not believed. though she declared, with well-pronounced mental words, that luke rowan was going on that path for no good purpose, she felt a wretched conviction at her heart's core that rachel ray would be made to triumph over her and her early suspicions by a happy marriage. nevertheless she carried the tidings up into baslehurst, and as she repeated it to the grocer's daughters and the baker's wife she shook her head with as much apparent satisfaction as though she really believed that rachel oscillated between a ruined name and a broken heart. he walked on very slowly towards bragg's end, as though he almost dreaded the interview, swinging his stick as was his custom, and keeping his feet on the grassy edges of the road till he came to the turn which brought him on to the green. when on the green he did not take the highway, but skirted along under farmer sturt's hedge, so that he had to pass by the entrance of the farmyard before he crossed over to the cottage. here, just inside her own gate, he encountered mrs. sturt standing alone. she had been intent on the cares of her poultry-yard till she had espied luke rowan; but then she had forgotten chickens and ducks and all, and had given herself up to thoughts of rachel's happiness in having her lover back again. "it's he as sure as eggs," she had said to herself when she first saw him; "how mortal slow he do walk, to be sure! if he was coming as joe to me i'd soon shake him into quicker steps than them." "oh, mrs. sturt!" said he, "i hope you're quite well," and he stopped short at her gate. "pretty bobbish, thankee, mr. rowan; and how's yourself? are you going over to the cottage this evening?" "who's at home there, mrs. sturt?" "well, they're all at home; mrs. ray, and rachel, and mrs. prime. i doubt whether you know the eldest daughter, mr. rowan?" luke did not know mrs. prime, and by no means wished to spend any of the hours of the present evening in making her acquaintance. "is mrs. prime there?" he asked. "'deed she is, mr. rowan. she's come back these last two days." thereupon rowan paused for a moment, having carefully placed himself inside the gate-posts of the farmyard so that he might not be seen by the inmates of the cottage, if haply he had hitherto escaped their eyes. "mrs. sturt," said he, "i wonder whether you'd do me a great favour." "that depends--" said mrs. sturt. "if it's to do any good to any of them over there, i will." "if i wanted to do harm to any of them i shouldn't come to you." "well, i should hope not. is she and you going to be one, mr. rowan? that's about the whole of it." "it shan't be my fault if we're not," said rowan. "that's spoken honest," said the lady; "and now i'll do anything in my power to bring you together. if you'll just go into my little parlour, i'll bring her to you in five seconds; i will indeed, mr. rowan. you won't mind going through the kitchen for once, will you?" luke did not mind going through the kitchen, and immediately found himself shut up in mrs. sturt's back parlour, looking out among the mingled roses and cabbages. mrs. sturt walked quickly across the road to the cottage door, and went at once to the open window of the sitting-room. mrs. ray was there with a book in her hand,--a serious book, the perusal of which i fear was in some degree due to the presence of her elder daughter; and mrs. prime was there with another book, evidently very serious; and rachel was there too, seated on the sofa, deeply buried in the manipulation of a dress belonging to her mother. mrs. sturt was sure at once that they had not seen luke rowan as he passed inside the farmyard gate, and that they did not suspect that he was near them. "oh, mrs. sturt, is that you?" said the widow, looking up. "you'll just come in for a minute, won't you?" and mrs. ray showed by a suppressed yawn that her attention had not been deeply fixed by that serious book. rachel looked up, and bade the visitor welcome with a little nod; but it was not a cheery nod as it would have been in old days, before her sorrow had come upon her. "i'll have the cherries back in her cheeks before the evening's over," said mrs. sturt to herself, as she looked at the pale-faced girl. mrs. prime also made some little salutation to their neighbour; but she did so with the very smallest expenditure of thoughts or moments. mrs. sturt was all very well, but mrs. prime had greater work on hand than gossiping with mrs. sturt. "i'll not just come in, thankee, mrs. ray; but if it ain't troubling you i want to speak a word to you outside; and a word to rachel too, if she don't mind coming." "a word to me!" said rachel getting up and putting down her dress. her thoughts now-a-days were always fixed on the same subject, and it seemed that any special word to her must have reference to that. mrs. ray also got up, leaving her mark in her book. mrs. prime went on reading, harder than ever. there was to be some conference of importance from which she could not but feel herself to be excluded in a very special way. something wicked was surely to be proposed, or she would have been allowed to hear it. she said nothing, but her head was almost shaken by the vehemence with which she read the book in her lap. mrs. sturt retired beyond the precincts of the widow's front garden before she said a word. rachel had followed her first through the gate, and mrs. ray came after with her apron turned over her head. "what is it, mrs. sturt?" said rachel. "have you heard anything?" "heard anything? well; i'm always a hearing of something. do you slip across the green while i speak just one word to your mother. and rachel, wait for me at the gate. mrs. ray, he's in my little parlour." "who? not luke rowan?" "but he is though; that very young man! he's come over to make it up with her. he's told me so with his own mouth. you may be as sure of it as,--as,--as anything. you leave 'em to me, mrs. ray; i wouldn't bring them together if it wasn't for good. it's my belief our pet would a' died if he hadn't come back to her--it is then." and mrs. sturt put her apron up to her eyes. rachel having paused for a moment, as she looked first at her mother and then at mrs. sturt, had done as she was bidden, and had walked quickly across the green. mrs. ray, when she heard her neighbour's tidings, stood fixed by dismay and dread, mingled with joy. she had longed for his coming back; but now that he was there, close upon them, intending to do all that she had wished him to do, she was half afraid of him! after all was he not a young man; and might he not, even yet, be a wolf? she was horrorstricken at the idea of sending rachel over to see a lover, and looked back at the cottage window, towards mrs. prime, as though to see whether she was being watched in her iniquity. "oh, mrs. sturt!" she said, "why didn't you give us time to think about it?" "give you time! how could i give you time, and he here on the spot? there's been too much time to my thinking. when young folk are agreeable and the old folk are agreeable too, there can't be too little time. come along over and we'll talk of it in the kitchen while they talks in the parlour. he'd a' been in there among you all only for mrs. prime. she is so dour like for a young man to have to say anything before her, of the likes of that. that's why i took him into our place." they overtook rachel at the house door and they all went through together into the great kitchen. "oh, rachel!" said mrs. ray. "oh, dear!" "what is it, mamma?" said rachel. then looking into her mother's face, she guessed the truth. "mamma," she said, "he's here! mr. rowan is here!" and she took hold of her mother's arm, as though to support herself. "and that's just the truth," said mrs. sturt, triumphantly. "he's through there in the little parlour, and you must just go to him, my dear, and hear what he's got to say to you." "oh, mamma!" said rachel. "i suppose you must do what she tells you," said mrs. ray. "of course she must," said mrs. sturt. "mamma, you must go to him," said rachel. "that won't do at all," said mrs. sturt. "and why has he come here?" said rachel. "ah! i wonder why," said mrs. sturt. "i wonder why any young man should come on such an errand! but it won't do to leave him there standing in my parlour by himself, so do you come along with me." so saying mrs. sturt took rachel by the arm to lead her away. mrs. ray in this great emergency was perfectly helpless. she could simply look at her daughter with imploring, loving eyes, and stand quivering in doubt against the dresser. mrs. sturt had very decided views on the matter. she had put luke rowan into the parlour with a promise that she would bring rachel to him there, and she was not going to break her word through any mock delicacy. the two young people liked one another, and they should have this opportunity of saying so in each other's hearing. so she took rachel by the arm, and opening the door of the parlour led her into the room. "mr. rowan," she said, "when you and miss rachel have had your say out, you'll find me and her mamma in the kitchen." then she closed the door and left them alone. rachel, when first summoned out of the cottage, had felt at once that mrs. sturt's visit must have reference to luke rowan. indeed everything with her in her present moods had some reference to him,--some reference though it might be ever so remote. but now before she had time to form a thought, she was told that he was there in the same house with her, and that she was taken to him in order that she might hear his words and speak her own. it was very sudden; and for the space of a few moments she would have fled away from mrs. sturt's kitchen had such flight been possible. since rowan had gone from her there had been times in which she would have fled to him, in which she would have journeyed alone any distance so that she might tell him of her love, and ask whether she had got any right to hope for his. but all that seemed to be changed. though her mother was there with her and her friend, she feared that this seeking of her lover was hardly maidenly. should he not have come to her,--every foot of the way to her feet, and there have spoken if he had aught to say, before she had been called on to make any sign? would he like her for thus going to him? but then she had no chance of escape. she found herself in mrs. sturt's kitchen under her mother's sanction, before she had been able to form any purpose; and then an idea did come to her, even at that moment, that poor luke would have had a hard task of it in her sister's presence. when she was first told that he was there in the farm-house parlour, her courage left her and she dreaded the encounter; but she was able to collect her thoughts as she passed out of the kitchen, and across the passage, and when she followed mrs. sturt into the room she had again acquired the power to carry herself as a woman having a soul of her own. "rachel!" rowan said, stepping up to her and tendering his hand to her. "i have come to answer your letter in person." "i knew," she said, "when i wrote it, that my letter did not deserve any answer. i did not expect an answer." "but am i wrong now to bring you one in person? i have thought so much of seeing you again! will you not say a word of welcome to me?" "i am glad to see you, mr. rowan." "mr. rowan! nay; if it is to be mr. rowan i may as well go back to baslehurst. it has come to that, that it must be luke now, or there must be no naming of names between us. you chided me once when i called you rachel." "you called me so once, sir, when i should have chided you and did not. i remember it well. you were very wrong, and i was very foolish." "but i may call you rachel now?" then, when she did not answer him at the moment, he asked the question again in that imperious way which was common with him. "may i not call you now as i please? if it be not so my coming here is useless. come, rachel, say one word to me boldly. do you love me well enough to be my wife?" she was standing at the open window, looking away from him, while he remained at a little distance from her as though he would not come close to her till he had exacted from her some positive assurance of her love as a penance for the fault committed by her letter. he certainly was not a soft lover, nor by any means inclined to abate his own privileges. he paused a moment as though he thought that his last question must elicit a plain reply. but no reply to it came. she still looked away from him through the window, as though resolved that she would not speak till his mood should have become more tender. "you said something in your letter," he continued, "about my affairs here in baslehurst being unsettled. i would not show myself here again till that matter was arranged." "it was not i," she said, turning sharply round upon him. "it was not i who thought that." "it was in your letter, rachel." "do you know so little of a girl like me as to suppose that what was written there came from me, myself? did i not tell you that i said what i was told to say? did i not explain to you that mamma had gone to mr. comfort? did you not know that all that had come from him?" "i only know that i read it in your letter to me,--the only letter you had ever written to me." "you are unfair to me, mr. rowan. you know that you are unfair." "call me luke," he said. "call me by my own name." "luke," she said, "you are unfair to me." "then by heavens it shall be for the last time. may things in this world and the next go well with me as i am fair to you for the future!" so saying he came up close to her, and took her at once in his arms. "luke, luke; don't. you frighten me; indeed you do." "you shall give me a fair open kiss, honestly, before i leave you,--in truth you shall. if you love me, and wish to be my wife, and intend me to understand that you and i are now pledged to each other beyond the power of any person to separate us by his advice, or any mother by her fears, give me a bold, honest kiss, and i will understand that it means all that." still she hesitated for a moment, turning her face away from him while he held her by the waist. she hesitated while she was weighing the meaning of his words, and taking them home to herself as her own. then she turned her neck towards him, still holding back her head till her face was immediately under his own, and after another moment's pause she gave him her pledge as he had asked it. mrs. sturt's words had come true, and the cherries had returned to her cheek. "my own rachel! and now tell me one thing: are you happy?" "so happy!" "my own one!" "but, luke,--i have been wretched;--so wretched! i thought you would never come back to me." "and did that make you wretched?" "ah!--did it? what do you think yourself? when i wrote that letter to you i knew i had no right to expect that you would think of me again." "but how could i help thinking of you when i loved you?" "and then when mamma saw you in exeter, and you sent me no word of message!" "i was determined to send none till this business was finished." "ah! that was cruel. but you did not understand. i suppose no man can understand. i couldn't have believed it myself till--till after you had gone away. it seemed as though all the sun had deserted us, and that everything was cold and dark." they stood at the open window looking out upon the roses and cabbages till the patience of mrs. sturt and of mrs. ray was exhausted. what they said, beyond so much of their words as i have repeated, need not be told. but when a low half-abashed knock at the door interrupted them, luke thought that they had hardly been there long enough to settle the preliminaries of the affair which had brought him to bragg's end. "may we come in?" said mrs. sturt very timidly. "oh, mamma, mamma!" said rachel, and she hid her face upon her mother's shoulder. chapter xiv. mrs. prime reads her recantation. above an hour had passed after the interruption mentioned at the end of the last chapter before mrs. ray and rachel crossed back from the farm-house to the cottage, and when they went they went alone. during that hour they had been sitting in mrs. sturt's parlour; and when at last they got up to go they did not press luke rowan to go with them. mrs. prime was at the cottage, and it was necessary that everything should be explained to her before she was asked to give her hand to her future brother-in-law. the farmer had come in and had joked his joke, and mrs. sturt had clacked over them as though they were a brood of chickens of her own hatching; and mrs. ray had smiled and cried, and sobbed and laughed till she had become almost hysterical. then she had jumped up from her seat, saying, "oh, dear, what will dorothea think has become of us?" after that rachel insisted upon going, and the mother and daughter returned across the green, leaving luke at the farm-house, ready to take his departure as soon as mrs. ray and rachel should have safely reached their home. "i knew thee was minded stedfast to take her," said mrs. sturt, "when it came out upon the newspaper how thou hadst told them all in baslehurst that thou wouldst wed none but a baslehurst lass." in answer to this luke protested that he had not thought of rachel when he was making that speech, and tried to explain that all that was "soft sawder" as he called it, for the election. but the words were too apposite to the event, and the sentiment too much in accordance with mrs. sturt's chivalric views to allow of her admitting the truth of any such assurance as this. "i know," she said; "i know. and when i read them words in the newspaper i said to the gudeman there, we shall have bridecake from the cottage now before christmas." "for the matter of that, so you shall," said luke, shaking hands with her as he went, "or the fault will not be mine." rachel, as she followed her mother out from the farmyard gate, had not a word to say. could it have been possible she would have wished to remain silent for the remainder of the evening and for the night, so that she might have time to think of this thing which she had done, and to enjoy the full measure of her happiness. hitherto she had hardly had any joy in her love. the cup had been hardly given to her to drink before it had been again snatched away, and since then she had been left to think that the draught for which she longed would never again be offered to her lips. the whole affair had now been managed so suddenly, and the action had been so quick, that she had hardly found a moment for thought. could it be that things were so fixed that there was no room for further disappointment? she had been scalded so cruelly that she still feared the hot water. her heart was sore with the old hurt, as the head that has ached will be still sore when the actual malady has passed away. she longed for hours of absolute quiet, in which she might make herself sure that her malady had also passed away, and that the soreness which remained came only from the memory of former pain. but there was no such perfect rest within her reach as yet. "will you tell her or shall i?" said mrs. ray, pausing for a moment at the cottage gate. "you had better tell her, mamma." "i suppose she won't set herself against it; will she?" "i hope not, mamma. i shall think her very ill-natured if she does. but it can't make any real difference now, you know." "no; it can't make any difference. only it will be so uncomfortable." then with half-frightened, muffled steps they entered their own house, and joined mrs. prime in the sitting-room. mrs. prime was still reading the serious book; but i am bound to say that her mind had not been wholly intent upon it during the long absence of her mother and sister. she had struggled for a time to ignore the slight fact that her companions were away gossiping with the neighbouring farmer's wife; she had made a hard fight with her book, pinning her eyes down upon the page over and over again, as though in pinning down her eyes she could pin down her mind also. but by degrees the delay became so long that she was tantalized into surmises as to the subject of their conversation. if it were not wicked, why should not she have been allowed to share it? she did not imagine it to be wicked according to the world's ordinary wickedness;--but she feared that it was wicked according to that tone of morals to which she was desirous of tying her mother down as a bond slave. they were away talking about love and pleasure, and those heart-throbbings in which her sister had so unfortunately been allowed to indulge. she felt all but sure that some tidings of luke rowan had been brought in mrs. sturt's budget of news, and she had never been able to think well of luke rowan since the evening on which she had seen him standing with rachel in the churchyard. she knew nothing against him; but she had then made up her mind that he was pernicious, and she could not bring herself to own that she had been wrong in that opinion. she had been loud and defiant in her denunciation when she had first suspected rachel of having a lover. since that she had undergone some troubles of her own by which the tone of her remonstrances had been necessarily moderated; but even now she could not forgive her sister such a lover as luke rowan. she would have been quite willing to see her sister married, but the lover should have been dingy, black-coated, lugubrious, having about him some true essence of the tears of the valley of tribulation. alas, her sister's taste was quite of another kind! "i'm afraid you will have been thinking that we were never coming back again," said mrs. ray, as she entered the room. "no, mother, i didn't think that. but i thought you were staying late with mrs. sturt." "so we were,--and really i didn't think we had been so long. but, dorothea, there was some one else over there besides mrs. sturt, and he kept us." "he! what he?" said mrs. prime. she had not even suspected that the lover had been over there in person. "mr. rowan, my dear. he has been at the farm." "what! the young man that was dismissed from mr. tappitt's?" it was ill said of her,--very ill said, and so she was herself aware as soon as the words were out of her mouth. but she could not help it. she had taken a side against luke rowan, and could not restrain herself from ill-natured words. rachel was still standing in the middle of the room when she heard her lover thus described; but she would not condescend to plead in answer to such a charge. the colour came to her cheeks, and she threw up her head with a gesture of angry pride, but at the moment she said nothing. mrs. ray spoke. "it seems to me, dorothea," she said, "that you are mistaken there. i think he has dismissed mr. tappitt." "i don't know much about it," said mrs. prime; "i only know that they've quarrelled." "but it would be well that you should learn, because i'm sure you will be glad to think as well of your brother-in-law as possible." "do you mean that he is engaged to marry rachel?" "yes, dorothea. i think we may say that it is all settled now;--mayn't we, rachel? and a very excellent young man he is,--and as for being well off, a great deal better than what a child of mine could have expected. and a fine comely fellow he is, as a woman's eye would wish to rest on." "beauty is but skin deep," said mrs. prime, with no little indignation in her tone, that a thing so vile as personal comeliness should have been mentioned by her mother on such an occasion. "when he came out here and drank tea with us that evening," continued mrs. ray, "i took a liking to him most unaccountable, unless it was that i had a foreshadowing that he was going to be so near and dear to me." "mother, there can have been nothing of the kind. you should not say such things. the lord in his providence allows us no foreshadowing of that kind." "at any rate i liked him very much; didn't i, rachel?--from the first moment i set eyes on him. only i don't think he'll ever do away with cider in devonshire, because of the apple trees. but if people are to drink beer it stands to reason that good beer will be better than bad." all this time rachel had not spoken a word, nor had her sister uttered anything expressive of congratulation or good wishes. now, as mrs. ray ceased, there came a silence in the room, and it was incumbent on the elder sister to break it. "if this matter is settled, rachel--" "it is settled,--i think," said rachel. "if it is settled i hope that it may be for your lasting happiness and eternal welfare." "i hope it will," said rachel. "marriage is a most important step." "that's quite true, my dear," said mrs. ray. "a most important step, and one that requires the most exact circumspection,--especially on the part of the young woman. i hope you may have known mr. rowan long enough to justify your confidence in him." it was still the voice of a raven! mrs. prime as she spoke thus knew that she was croaking, and would have divested herself of her croak and spoken joyously, had such mode of speech been possible to her. but it was not possible. though she would permit no such foreshadowings as those at which her mother had hinted, she had committed herself to forebodings against this young man, to such extent that she could not wheel her thoughts round and suddenly think well of him. she could not do so as yet, but she would make the struggle. "god bless you, rachel!" she said, when they parted for the night. "you have my best wishes for your happiness. i hope you do not doubt my love because i think more of your welfare in another world than in this." then she kissed her sister and they parted for the night. rachel now shared her mother's room; and from her mother, when they were alone together, she received abundance of that sympathy for which her heart was craving. "you mustn't mind dorothea," the widow said. "no, mamma; i do not." "i mean that you mustn't mind her seeming to be so hard. she means well through it all, and is as affectionate as any other woman." "why did she say that he had been dismissed when she knew that it wasn't true?" "ah, my dear! can't you understand? when she first heard of mr. rowan--" "call him luke, mamma." "when she first heard of him she was taught to believe that he was giddy, and that he didn't mean anything." "why should she think evil of people? who taught her?" "miss pucker, and mr. prong, and that set." "yes; and they are the people who talk most of christian charity!" "but, my dear, they don't mean to be uncharitable. they try to do good. if dorothea really thought that this young man was a dangerous acquaintance what could she do but say so? and you can't expect her to turn round all in a minute. think how she has been troubled herself about this affair of mr. prong's." "but that's no reason she should say that luke is dangerous. dangerous! what makes me so angry is that she should think everybody is a fool except herself. why should anybody be more dangerous to me than to anybody else?" "well, my dear, i think that perhaps she is not so wrong there. of course everything is all right with you now, and i'm sure i'm the happiest woman in the world to feel that it is so. i don't know how to be thankful enough when i think how things have turned out;--but when i first heard of him i thought he was dangerous too." "but you don't think he is dangerous now, mamma?" "no, my dear; of course i don't. and i never did after he drank tea here that night; only mr. comfort told me it wouldn't be safe not to see how things went a little before you,--you understand, dearest?" "yes, i understand. i ain't a bit obliged to mr. comfort, though i mean to forgive him because of mrs. cornbury. she has behaved best through it all,--next to you, mamma." i am afraid it was late before mrs. ray went to sleep that night, and i almost doubt whether rachel slept at all. it seemed to her that in the present condition of her life sleep could hardly be necessary. during the last month past she had envied those who slept while she was kept awake by her sorrow. she had often struggled to sleep as she sat in her chair, so that she might escape for a few moments from the torture of her waking thoughts. but why need she sleep now that every thought was a new pleasure? there was no moment that she had ever passed with him that had not to be recalled. there was no word of his that had not to be re-weighed. she remembered, or fancied that she remembered, her idea of the man when her eye first fell upon his outside form. she would have sworn that her first glance of him had conveyed to her far more than had ever come to her from many a day's casual looking at any other man. she could almost believe that he had been specially made and destined for her behoof. she blushed even while lying in bed as she remembered how the gait of the man, and the tone of his voice, had taken possession of her eyes and ears from the first day on which she had met him. when she had gone to mrs. tappitt's party, so consciously alive to the fact that he was to be there, she had told herself that she was sure she thought no more of him than of any other man that she might meet; but she now declared to herself that she had been a weak fool in thus attempting to deceive herself; that she had loved him from the first,--or at any rate from that evening when he had told her of the beauty of the clouds; and that from that day to the present hour there had been no other chance of happiness to her but that chance which had now been so wondrously decided in her favour. when she came down to breakfast on the next morning she was very quiet,--so quiet that her sister almost thought she was frightened at her future prospects; but i think that there was no such fear. she was so happy that she could afford to be tranquil in her happiness. on that day rowan came out to the cottage in the evening and was formally introduced to mrs. prime. mrs. ray, i fear, did not find the little tea-party so agreeable on that evening as she had done on the previous occasion. mrs. prime did make some effort at conversation; she did endeavour to receive the young man as her future brother-in-law; she was gracious to him with such graciousness as she possessed;--but the duration of their meal was terribly long, and even mrs. ray herself felt relieved when the two lovers went forth together for their evening walk. i think there must have been some triumph in rachel's heart as she tied on her hat before she started. i think she must have remembered the evening on which her sister had been so urgent with her to go to the dorcas meeting;--when she had so obstinately refused that invitation, and had instead gone out to meet the tappitt girls, and had met with them the young man of whom her sister had before been speaking with so much horror. now he was there on purpose to take her with him, and she went forth with him, leaning lovingly on his arm, while yet close under her sister's eyes. i think there must have been a gleam of triumph in her face as she put her hand with such confidence well round her lover's arm. girls do triumph in their lovers,--in their acknowledged and permitted lovers, as young men triumph in their loves which are not acknowledged or perhaps permitted. a man's triumph is for the most part over when he is once allowed to take his place at the family table, as a right, next to his betrothed. he begins to feel himself to be a sacrificial victim,--done up very prettily with blue and white ribbons round his horns, but still an ox prepared for sacrifice. but the girl feels herself to be exalted for those few weeks as a conqueror, and to be carried along in an ovation of which that bucolic victim, tied round with blue ribbons on to his horns, is the chief grace and ornament. in this mood, no doubt, both rachel and luke rowan went forth, leaving the two widows together in the cottage. "it is pretty to see her so happy, isn't it now?" said mrs. ray. the question for the moment made mrs. prime uncomfortable and almost wretched, but it gave her the opportunity which in her heart she desired of recanting her error in regard to luke rowan's character. she wished to give in her adhesion to the marriage,--to be known to have acknowledged its fitness so that she could, with some true word of sisterly love, wish her sister well. in rachel's presence she could not have first made this recantation. though rachel spoke no triumph, there was a triumph in her eye, which prevented almost the possibility of such yielding on the part of dorothea. but when the thing should have been once done, when she should once have owned that rachel was not wrong, then gradually she could bring herself round to the utterance of some kindly expression. "pretty," she said; "yes, it is pretty. i do not know that anybody ever doubted its prettiness." "and isn't it nice too? dear girl! it does make me so happy to see her light-hearted again. she has had a sad time of it, dorothea, since we made her write that letter to him; a very sad time of it." "people here, mother, do mostly have what you call a sad time of it. are we not taught that it is better for us that it should be so? have not you and i, mother, had a sad time of it? it would be all sad enough if this were to be the end of it." "yes, just so; of course we know that. but it can't be wrong that she should be happy now, when things are so bright all around her. you wouldn't have thought it better for her, or for him either, that they should be kept apart, seeing that they really love each other?" "no; i don't say that. if they love one another of course it is right that they should marry. i only wish we had known him longer." "i am not sure that these things always go much better because young people have known each other all their lives. it seems to be certain that he is an industrious, steady young man. everybody seems to speak well of him now." "well, mother, i have nothing to say against him,--not a word. and if it will give rachel any pleasure,--though i don't suppose it will, the least in the world; but if it would, she may know that i think she has done wisely to accept him." "indeed it will; the greatest pleasure." "and i hope they will be happy together for very many years. i love rachel dearly, though i fear she does not think so, and anything i have said, i have said in love, not in anger." "i'm sure of that, dorothea." "now that she is to be settled in life as a married woman, of course she must not look for counsel either to you or to me. she must obey him, and i hope that god may give him grace to direct her steps aright." "amen!" said mrs. ray, solemnly. it was thus that mrs. prime read her recantation, which was repeated on that evening to rachel with some little softening touches. "you won't be living together in the same house after a bit," said mrs. ray, thinking, with some sadness, that those little evening festivities of buttered toast and thick cream were over for her now,--"but i do hope you will be friends." "of course we will, mamma. she has only to put out her hand the least little bit in the world, and i will go the rest of the way. as for her living, i don't know what will be best about that, because luke says that of course you'll come and live with us." it was two or three days after this that rachel saw the tappitt girls for the first time since the fact of her engagement had become known. it was in the evening, and she had been again walking with luke, when she met them; but at that moment she was alone. augusta would have turned boldly away, though they had all come closely together before either had been aware of the presence of the other. but to this both martha and cherry objected. "we have heard of your engagement," said martha, "and we congratulate you. you have heard, of course, that we are going to move to torquay, and we hope that you will be comfortable at the brewery." "yes," said augusta, "the place isn't what it used to be, and so we think it best to go. mamma has already looked at a villa near torquay, which will suit us delightfully." then they passed on, but cherry remained behind to say another word. "i am so happy," said cherry, "that you and he have hit it off. he's a charming fellow, and i always said he was to fall in love with you. after the ball of course there wasn't a doubt about it. mind you send us cake, dear; and by-and-by we'll come and see you at the old place, and be better friends than ever we were." chapter xv. conclusion. early in november mr. tappitt officially announced his intention of abdicating, and the necessary forms and deeds and parchment obligations were drawn out, signed and sealed, for the giving up of the brewery to luke rowan. mr. honyman's clerk revelled in thinly-covered folio sheets to the great comfort and profit of his master; while mr. sharpit went about baslehurst declaring that tappitt was an egregious ass, and hinting that rowan was little better than a clever swindler. what he said, however, had but little effect on baslehurst. it had become generally understood that rowan would spend money in the town, employing labour and struggling to go ahead, and baslehurst knew that such a man was desirable as a citizen. the parchments were prepared, and the signatures were written with the necessary amount of witnessing, and tappitt and rowan once more met each other on friendly terms. tappitt had endeavoured to avoid this, pleading, both to honyman and to his wife, that his personal dislike to the young man was as great as ever; but they had not permitted him thus to indulge his wrath. mr. honyman pointed out to mrs. tappitt that such ill-humour might be very detrimental to their future interests, and tappitt had been made to give way. we may as well declare at once that the days of tappitt's domestic dominion were over, as is generally the case with a man who retires from work and allows himself to be placed, as a piece of venerable furniture, in the chimney corner. hitherto he, and he only, had known what funds could be made available out of the brewery for household purposes; and mrs. tappitt had been subject, at every turn of her life, to provoking intimations of reduced profits: but now there was the clear thousand a year, and she could demand her rights in accordance with that sum. tappitt, too, could never again stray away from home with mysterious hints that matters connected with malt and hops must be discussed at places in which beer was consumed. he had no longer left to him any excuse for deviating from the regular course of his life even by a hair's breadth; and before two years were over he had learned to regard it almost as a favour to be allowed to take a walk with one of his own girls. no man should abdicate,--unless, indeed, he does so for his soul's advantage. as to happiness in this life it is hardly compatible with that diminished respect which ever attends the relinquishing of labour. otium cum dignitate is a dream. there is no such position at any rate for the man who has once worked. he may have the ease or he may have the dignity; but he can hardly combine the two. this truth the unfortunate tappitt learned before he had been three months settled in the torquay villa. he was called upon to meet rowan on friendly terms, and he obeyed. the friendship was not very cordial, but such as it was it served its purpose. the meeting took place in the dining-room of the brewery, and mrs. tappitt was present on the occasion. the lady received her visitor with some little affectation of grandeur, while t., standing with his hands in his pockets on his own rug, looked like a whipped hound. the right hand he was soon forced to bring forth, as rowan demanded it that he might shake it. "i am very glad that this affair has been settled between us amicably," said luke, while he still held the hand of the abdicating brewer. "yes; well, i suppose it's for the best," said tappitt, bringing out his words uncomfortably and with hesitation. "take care and mind what you're about, or i suppose i shall have to come back again." "there'll be no fear of that, i think," said rowan. "i hope not," said mrs. tappitt, with a tone that showed that she was much better able to master the occasion than her husband. "i hope not; but this is a great undertaking for so young a man, and i trust you feel your responsibility. it would be disagreeable to us, of course, to have to return to the brewery after having settled ourselves pleasantly at torquay; but we shall have to do so if things go wrong with you." "don't be frightened, mrs. tappitt; you shall never have to come back here." "i hope not; but it is always well to be on one's guard. i am sure you must be aware that mr. tappitt has behaved to you very generously; and if you have the high principle for which we are willing to give you credit, and which you ought to possess for the management of such an undertaking as the brewery, you will be careful that me and my daughters shan't be put to inconvenience by any delay in paying up the income regularly." "don't be afraid about that, mrs. tappitt." "into the bank on quarter day, if you please, mr. rowan. short accounts make long friends. and as mr. t. won't want to be troubled with letters and such-like, you can send me a line to montpellier villa, torquay, just to say that it's done." "oh, i'll see to that," said tappitt. "my dear, as mr. rowan is so young for the business there'll be nothing like getting him to write a letter himself, saying that the money is paid. it'll keep him up to the mark like, and i'm sure i shan't mind the trouble." "don't you be alarmed about the money, mrs. tappitt," said rowan, laughing; "and in order that you may know how the old shop is going on, i'll always send you at christmas sixteen gallons of the best stuff we're brewing." "that will be a very proper little attention, mr. rowan, and we shall be happy to drink success to the establishment. here's some cake and wine on the table, and perhaps you'll do us the favour to take a glass,--so as to bury any past unkindness. t., my love, will you pour out the wine?" it was twelve o'clock in the day, and the port wine, which had been standing for the last week in its decanter, was sipped by luke rowan without any great relish. but it also served its purpose,--and the burial service over past unkindness was performed with as much heartiness as the nature of the entertainment admitted. it was not as yet full four months since rowan had filled rachel's glass with champagne in that same room. then he had made himself quite at home in the house as a member of mr. tappitt's family; but now he was going to be at home there as master of the establishment. as he put down the glass he could not help looking round the room, and suggesting to himself the changes he would make. as seen at present, the parlour of the brewery was certainly a dull room. it was very long since the wainscoting had been painted, longer since the curtains or carpets had been renewed. it was dark and dingy. but then so were the tappitts themselves. before rachel should be brought there he would make the place as bright as herself. they said to him no word about his marriage. as for tappitt he said few words about anything; and mrs. tappitt, with all her wish to be gracious, could not bring herself to mention rachel ray. even between her and her daughters there was no longer any utterance of rachel's name. she had once declared to augusta, with irrepressible energy, that the man was a greater fool than she had ever believed possible, but after that it had been felt that the calamity would be best endured in silence. when that interview in the dining-room was over, rowan saw no more of mrs. tappitt. business made it needful that he should be daily about the brewery, and there occasionally he met the poor departing man wandering among the vats and empty casks like a brewer's ghost. there was no word spoken between them as to business. the accounts, the keys, and implements were all handed over through worts; and rowan found himself in possession of the whole establishment with no more trouble than would have been necessary in settling himself in a new lodging. that promise which he had half made of sending bridecake to mrs. sturt before christmas was not kept, but it was broken only by a little. they were married early in january. in december mrs. rowan came back to baslehurst, and became the guest of her son, who was then keeping a bachelor's house at the brewery. this lady's first visit to the cottage after her return was an affair of great moment to rachel. everything now had gone well with her except that question of her mother-in-law. her lover had come back to her a better lover than ever; her mother petted her to her heart's content, speaking of luke as though she had never suspected him of lupine propensities; mr. comfort talked to her of her coming marriage as though she had acted with great sagacity through the whole affair, addressing her in a tone indicating much respect, and differing greatly from that in which he had been wont to catechise her when she was nothing more than mrs. ray's girl at bragg's end; and even dolly had sent in her adhesion, with more or less cordiality. but still she had feared mrs. rowan's enmity, and when luke told her that his mother was coming to baslehurst for the christmas,--so that she might also be present at the marriage,--rachel felt that there was still a cloud in her heavens. "i know your mother won't like me," she said to luke. "she made up her mind not to like me when she was here before." luke assured her that she did not understand his mother's character,--asserting that his mother would certainly like any woman that he might choose for his wife as soon as she should have been made to understand that his choice was irrevocable. but rachel remembered too well the report as to that former visit to the cottage which mrs. rowan had made together with mrs. tappitt; and when she heard that luke's mother was again in the parlour she went down from her bedroom with hesitating step and an uneasy heart. mrs. rowan was seated in the room with her mother and sister when she entered it, and therefore the first words of the interview had been already spoken. to mrs. ray the prospect of the visit had not been pleasant, for she also remembered how grand and distant the lady had been when she came to the cottage on that former occasion; but rachel observed, as she entered the room, that her mother's face did not wear that look of dismay which was usual to her when she was in any presence that was disagreeable to her. "my dear child!" said mrs. rowan rising from her seat, and opening her arms for an embrace. rachel underwent the embrace, and kissed the lady by whom she found herself to be thus enveloped. she kissed mrs. rowan, but she could not, for the life of her, think of any word to speak which would be fitting for the occasion. "my own dear child!" said mrs. rowan again; "for you know that you are to be my child now as well as your own mamma's." "it is very kind of you to say so," said mrs. ray. "very kind, indeed," said mrs. prime; "and i'm sure that you will find rachel dutiful as a daughter." rachel herself did not feel disposed to give any positive assurance on that point. she intended to be dutiful to her husband, and was inclined to think that obedience in that direction was quite enough for a married woman. "now that luke is going to settle himself for life," continued mrs. rowan, "it is so very desirable that he should be married at once. don't you think so, mrs. ray?" "indeed, yes, mrs. rowan. i always like to hear of young men getting married; that is when they've got anything to live upon. it makes them less harum-scarum like." "i don't think luke was ever what you call harum-scarum," said mrs. rowan. "mother didn't mean to say he was," said mrs. prime; "but marriage certainly does steady a young man, and generally makes him much more constant at divine service." "my luke always did go to church very regularly," said mrs. rowan. "i like to see young men in church," said mrs. ray. "as for the girls they go as a matter of course; but young men are allowed so much of their own way. when a man is a father of a family it becomes very different." hereupon rachel blushed, and then was kissed again by luke's mother; and was made the subject of certain very interesting prophecies, which embarrassed her considerably and which need not be repeated here. after that interview she was never again afraid of her mother-in-law. "you'll love mamma, when you know her," said mary rowan to rachel a day or two afterwards. "strangers and acquaintances generally think that she is a very tremendous personage, but she always does what she is asked by those who belong to her;--and as for luke, she's almost a slave to him." i won't say that rachel resolved that mrs. rowan should be a slave to her also, but she did resolve that she would not be a slave to mrs. rowan. she intended henceforward to serve one person and one person only. mrs. butler cornbury also called at the cottage; and her visit was very delightful to rachel,--not the less so perhaps because mrs. prime was away at a dorcas meeting. had she been at the cottage all those pleasant allusions to the transactions at the ball would hardly have been made. "don't tell me," said mrs. cornbury. "do you think i couldn't see how it was going to be with half an eye? i told walter that very night that he was a goose to suppose that you would go down to supper with him." "but, mrs. cornbury, i really intended it; only they had another dance, and i was obliged to stand up with mr. rowan because i was engaged to him." "i don't doubt you were engaged to him, my dear." "only for that dance, i mean." "only for that dance, of course. but now you are engaged to him for something else, and i tell you that i knew it was going to be so." all this was very pretty and very pleasant; and when mrs. cornbury, as she went away, made a special request that she might be invited to the wedding, rachel was supremely happy. "mamma," she said, "i do love that woman. i hardly know why, but i do love her so much." "it was always the same with patty comfort," said mrs. ray. "she had a way of making people fond of her. they say that she can do just what she likes with the old gentleman at the grange." it may be well that i should declare here that there was no scrutiny as to the return of butler cornbury to parliament,--to the great satisfaction both of old mr. cornbury and of old mr. comfort. they had been brought to promise that the needful funds for supporting the scrutiny should be forthcoming; but the promise had been made with heavy hearts, and the tidings of mr. hart's quiescence had been received very gratefully both at cornbury and at cawston. luke and rachel were married on new year's day at cawston church, and afterwards made a short marriage trip to penzance and the land's end. it was cold weather for pleasure-travelling; but snow and winds and rain affect young married people less, i think, than they do other folk. rachel when she returned could not bear to be told that it had been cold. there was no winter, she said, at penzance,--and so she continued to say ever afterwards. mrs. ray would not consent to abandon the cottage at bragg's end. she still remained its occupier in conjunction with mrs. prime, but she passed more than half her time at the brewery. mrs. prime is still mrs. prime; and will, i think, remain so, although mr. prong is occasionally seen to call at the cottage. it is, i think, now universally admitted by all devonshire and cornwall that luke rowan has succeeded in brewing good beer; with what results to himself i am not prepared to say. i do not, however, think it probable that he will succeed in his professed object of shutting up the apple orchards of the county. * * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious typographical errors have been corrected. volume i, chapter xii, paragraph 45. "she had pledged herself to give mr. prong an answer on friday, . . ." the astute reader will recall from chapter ix that mrs. prime asked mr. prong to call on saturday, while miss pucker was shopping, to learn her answer to his proposal. specific changes in wording of the text are listed below. volume i, chaper vii, paragraph 16. the word "walks" was changed to "walls" in the sentence: now the room was partially cleared, the non-dancers being pressed back into a border round the walls, and the music began. volume i, chapter xiv, paragraph 1. "excellence" was changed to "existence" in the sentence: in rachel's presence, and sweet smile, and winning caresses was the chief delight of her existence. volume ii, chapter iii, paragraph 2. the word "hopes" was changed to "hope" in the sentence: she told herself that such was her hope;. . . volume ii, chapter xi, paragraph 32. "dining-room" was changed to "drawing-room" in the sentence beginning: rowan did not see her till he met her in the drawing-room, just before dinner . . . volume ii, chapter xii, paragraph 1. "country-house" was changed to "counting-house" in the sentence: he was alone and thoughtful in his counting-house, or else subjected to the pressure of his wife's arguments in his private dwelling. volume ii, chapter xiii, paragraph 26. "wives" was changed to "wife" in the sentence: nevertheless she carried the tidings up into baslehurst, and as she repeated it to the grocer's daughters and the baker's wife she shook her head with as much apparent satisfaction as though she really believed that rachel oscillated between a ruined name and a broken heart. perlycross by the same author. _in one volume, crown 8vo., cloth extra, 6s each._ +lorna doone.+ +clara vaughan.+ +christowell.+ +alice lorraine.+ +cradock nowell.+ +cripps the carrier.+ +mary anerley.+ +erema; or, my father's sin.+ +tommy upmore.+ +springhaven.+ +kit and kitty.+ _the above works may also be had in a popular form, cloth, 2s. 6d., boards 2s. +lorna doone.+ _edition de luxe._ crown 4to., about 530 pp., with very numerous full-page and other illustrations, cloth extra, gilt edges, 31s. 6d. and 21s.; very handsomely bound in vellum, 35s. also crown 8vo., with illustrations, presentation edition, 7s. 6d. +springhaven: a tale of the great war.+ with sixty-four illustrations by alfred parsons and f. barnard. square demy 8vo., cloth extra, gilt edges, 7s. 6d. london: sampson low, marston & company, limited, st. dunstan's house, fetter lane, fleet street, e.c. perlycross _a tale of the western hills_ by r. d. blackmore author of "lorna doone," "springhaven," etc. _thirteenth thousand_ london sampson low, marston, & company _limited_ st. dunstan's house fetter lane, fleet street, e.c. 1894. [_all rights reserved._] london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited, stamford street and charing cross. contents. chapter page i.--the lap of peace 1 ii.--fairy faith 6 iii.--the lych-gate 12 iv.--nicie 19 v.--a fair bargain 28 vi.--doctors three 37 vii.--r. i. p. 48 viii.--the potato-field 57 ix.--the narrow path 66 x.--in charge 73 xi.--at the charge 80 xii.--a fool's errand 87 xiii.--the law of the land 101 xiv.--reasoning without reason 109 xv.--friends and foes 118 xvi.--little billy 128 xvii.--camelias 139 xviii.--concussion 149 xix.--percussion 161 xx.--discussion 172 xxi.--blackmarsh 184 xxii.--fireship and galleon 197 xxiii.--a magic letter 211 xxiv.--a wager 225 xxv.--a sermon in stone 241 xxvi.--the old mill 252 xxvii.--panic 263 xxviii.--vagabonds 277 xxix.--two puzzles 291 xxx.--frankly speaking 300 xxxi.--a great prize 311 xxxii.--pleadings 321 xxxiii.--the schoolmaster abroad 331 xxxiv.--loyalty 341 xxxv.--a wrestling bout 352 xxxvi.--a fighting bout 363 xxxvii.--gentle as a lamb 374 xxxviii.--an inland run 384 xxxix.--needful returns 394 xl.--home and foreign 406 xli.--the pride of life 416 xlii.--his last bivouac 426 xliii.--two fine lessons 435 xliv.--and one still finer 445 perlycross. chapter i. the lap of peace. in the year 1835, the rev. philip penniloe was curate-in-charge of perlycross, a village in a valley of the blackdown range. it was true that the rector, the rev. john chevithorne, m.a., came twice every year to attend to his tithes; but otherwise he never thought of interfering, and would rather keep his distance from spiritual things. mr. penniloe had been his college-tutor, and still was his guide upon any points of duty less cardinal than discipline of dogs and horses. the title of "curate-in-charge" as yet was not invented generally; but far more curates held that position than hold it in these stricter times. and the shifting of curates from parish to parish was not so frequent as it is now; theological views having less range and rage, and curates less divinity. moreover it cost much more to move. but the curate of perlycross was not of a lax or careless nature. he would do what his conscience required, at the cost of his last penny; and he thought and acted as if this world were only the way to a better one. in this respect he differed widely from all the people of his parish, as well as from most of his clerical brethren. and it is no little thing to say of him, that he was beloved in spite of his piety. especially was he loved and valued by a man who had known him from early days, and was now the squire, and chief landowner, in the parish of perlycross. sir thomas waldron, of walderscourt, had battled as bravely with the sword of steel, as the churchman had with the spiritual weapon, receiving damages more substantial than the latter can inflict. although by no means invalided, perhaps he had been pleased at first to fall into the easy lap of peace. after eight years of constant hardship, frequent wounds, and famishing, he had struck his last blow at waterloo, and then settled down in the english home, with its comforting cares, and mild delights. now, in his fiftieth year, he seemed more likely to stand on the battlements of life than many a lad of twenty. straight and tall, robust and ruddy, clear of skin, and sound of foot, he was even cited by the doctors of the time, as a proof of the benefit that flows from bleeding freely. few men living had shed more blood (from their own veins at any rate) for the good of their native land, and none had made less fuss about it; so that his country, with any sense of gratitude, must now put substance into him. yet he was by no means over fat; simply in good case, and form. in a word, you might search the whole county, and find no finer specimen of a man, and a gentleman too, than colonel sir thomas waldron. all this mr. penniloe knew well; and having been a small boy, when the colonel was a big one, at the best school in the west of england, he owed him many a good turn for the times when the body rules the roost, and the mind is a little chick, that can't say--"cockadoodle." in those fine days, education was a truly rational process; creating a void in the juvenile system by hunger, and filling it up with thumps. scientific research has now satisfied itself that the mind and the body are the selfsame thing; but this was not understood as yet, and the one ministered to the other. for example, the big tom waldron supplied the little phil penniloe with dumps and penny-puddings, and with fists ever ready for his defence; while the quicker mind sat upon the broad arch of chest sprawling along the old oak bench, and construed the lessons for it, or supplied the sad hexameter. when such a pair meet again in later life, sweet memories arise, and fine goodwill. this veteran friendship even now was enduring a test too severe, in general, for even the most sterling affection. but a conscientious man must strive, when bound by holy orders, to make every member of his parish discharge his duty to the best advantage. and if there be a duty which our beloved church--even in her snoring period--has endeavoured to impress, the candid layman must confess that it is the duty of alms-giving. here mr. penniloe was strong--far in advance of the times he lived in, though still behind those we have the privilege to pay for. for as yet it was the faith of the general parishioner, that he had a strong parochial right to come to church for nothing; and if he chose to exercise it, thereby added largely to the welfare of the parson, and earned a handsome reference. and as yet he could scarcely reconcile it with his abstract views of religion, to find a plate poked into his waistcoat pocket, not for increase, but depletion thereof. acknowledging the soundness of these views, we may well infer that perlycross was a parish in which a well-ordered parson could do anything reasonable. more than one substantial farmer was good enough to be pleased at first, and try to make his wife take it so, at these opportunities of grace. what that expression meant was more than he could for the life of him make out; but he always connected it with something black, and people who stretched out their hands under cocoa-nuts bigger than their heads, while "come over and help us," issued from their mouths. if a shilling was any good to them, bless their woolly heads, it only cost a quarter of a pound of wool! happy farmer, able still to find a shilling in his sunday small-clothes, and think of the guineas in a nest beneath the thatch! for wheat was golden still in england, and the good ox owned his silver side. the fair outlook over hill and valley, rustling field and quiet meadow, was not yet a forlorn view, a sight that is cut short in sigh, a prospect narrowing into a lane that plods downhill to workhouse. for as yet it was no mockery to cast the fat grain among the clods, or trickle it into the glistening drill, to clear the sleek blade from the noisome weed, to watch the soft waves of silky tassels dimple and darken to the breeze of june, and then the lush heads with their own weight bowing to the stillness of the august sun, thrilling the eyes with innumerable throng, glowing with impenetrable depth of gold. alas, that this beauty should be of the past, and ground into gritty foreign flour! but in the current year of grace, these good sons of our native land had no dream of the treason, which should sell our homes and landscapes to the sneering foreigner. their trouble, though heavy, was not of british madness, but inflicted from without; and therefore could be met and cured by men of strong purpose and generous act. that grand old church of perlycross (standing forth in gray power of life, as against the black ruins of the abbey) had suddenly been found wanting--wanting foundation, and broad buttress, solid wall, and sound-timbered roof, and even deeper hold on earth for the high soar of the tower. this tower was famous among its friends, not only for substance, and height, and proportion, and piercings, and sweet content of bells; but also for its bold uplifting of the green against the blue. to-wit, for a time much longer than any human memory, a sturdy yew-tree had been standing on the topmost stringing-course, in a sheltering niche of the southern face, with its head over-topping the battlements, and scraping the scroll of the south-east vane. backed as it was by solid stone, no storm had succeeded in tugging its tough roots out of the meshes of mortar; and there it stood and meant to stand, a puzzle to gardeners, a pleasure to jackdaws, and the pride of all perlycrucians. even mr. penniloe, that great improver, could not get a penny towards his grand designs, until he had signed a document with both churchwardens, that happen what might, not a hair of the head of the sacred yew-tree should perish. many a penny would be wanted now, and who was to provide them? the parish, though large and comprising some of the best land in east devon, had few resources of commerce, and not many of manufacture. the bright perle running from east to west clove it in twain; and the northern part, which was by far the larger, belonged to the waldrons; while the southern (including the church and greater part of village) was of divers owners, the chiefest being the dean and chapter of exeter. it is needless to say that this sacred body never came nigh the place, and felt no obligation towards it, at the manhood of this century. "what is to be done?" cried the only man who could enter into the grief of it, when richard horner of pumpington, architect, land-agent, and surveyor, appeared before the clergyman and churchwardens, with the report required by them. "one of two things," answered mr. horner, a man of authority and brevity; "either let it crumble, or make up your minds to spend a thousand pounds upon it." "we should be prepared to spend that sum, if we had only got it;" mr. penniloe said, with that gentle smile which made his people fond of him. "we han't got a thousand, nor a hundred nayther you talk a bit too big, dick. you always did have a big mouth, you know." the architect looked at his cousin, farmer john (the senior churchwarden of perlycross, and chief tenant of the capitular estates), and if his own mouth was large, so was that of his kinsman, as he addressed him thus. "john horner, we know well enough, what you be. it wouldn't make much of a hole in you, to put down your hundred pounds--to begin with." "well," said his colleague, frank farrant, while the elder was in labour of amazement; "if john will put down his hundred pounds, you may trust me to find fifty." "and fifty to you is a good bit more than a thousand to him, i reckon. book it, mr. penniloe, before they run back; and me for another five and twenty." "i never said it; i never said a word of it"--farmer john began to gasp, while cousin and colleague were patting him on the back, crying, "don't go back from your word, john." "now, did i say it, parson penniloe?" he appealed, as soon as they would let him speak; "come now, i'll go by what you say of it." "no, mr. horner; i wish you had. you never said anything of the kind." "parson, you are a gentleman. i do like a man as tells the truth. but as for them fellows, i'll just show them what's what. whether i said it, or no--i'll do it." mr. penniloe smiled, but not with pleasure only. simple and charitable as he was, he could scarcely believe that the glory of god was the motive power in the mind of farmer john. chapter ii. fairy faith. at the beginning of july, work was proceeding steadily, though not quite so merrily perhaps, as some of the workmen might have wished; because mr. penniloe had forbidden the presence of beer-cans in consecrated ground. a large firm of builders at exeter (messrs. peveril, gibbs & co.) had taken the contract according to mr. horner's specifications; and had sent a strong staff of workmen down, under an active junior partner, mr. robson adney. there are very few noises that cannot find some ear to which they are congenial; and the clink of the mason's trowel is a delight to many good people. but that pleasant sound is replaced, too often, by one of sadder harmony--the chink of coin that says adieu, with all the regret behind it. perlycross had started well on this, its greatest enterprise; every man was astonished at his neighbour's generosity, and with still better reason at his own. mr. penniloe's spirit rose above the solid necessity of repairs, and aspired to richer embellishment. that hideous gallery at the western end, which spoiled the tower entrance and obscured a fine window, should go into the fire at last; the noble arch of the chancel (which had been shored with timber braces) should be restored and reopened, and the blocked-up windows should again display their lovely carving. in the handsomest manner, sir thomas waldron had sent him a cheque for five hundred pounds; which after all was only just, because the vaults of the waldron race lay at the bottom of half the lapse. the dean and chapter of exeter had contributed a hundred pounds; and the rector another hundred; and the curate's own father--an ancient clergyman in the north of devon, with a tidy living and a plump estate--had gone as far as twenty pounds, for the honour of the family. with this money in hand, and much more in hope, all present designs might well be compassed. but alas, a new temptation rose, very charming, and very costly. the curate had long suspected that his favourite church had been endowed (like its smaller sister at perlycombe) with a fair rood-screen; perhaps a fine one, worthy of the days, when men could carve. and now, when the heavy wooden gallery of queen anne's time had been removed, it happened that sergeant jakes, the schoolmaster, who had seen a great deal of old work in spain, was minded to enquire into the bearings of the great bressemer at the back. he put his foot into a hole beneath it, where solid brickwork was supposed to be; but down went his foot into a lot of crumbling stuff, and being no more than a one-armed man, mr. jakes had a narrow escape of his neck. luckily he clung with his one hand to a crossbeam still in position, and being of a very wiry frame--as all the school-children knew too well--was enabled to support himself, until a ladder was clapped to. even then it was no easy thing to extricate his foot, wedged between two trefoils of sharply cut stone; and for more than a week it was beyond his power to bring any fugitive boy to justice. the parson was sent for at once, and discovered the finest stone-screen in the diocese, removed from its place by a barbarous age, and plastered up in the great western wall. there was little of that hot contention then, which rages now over every stock and stone appertaining to the church. as the beauty of design, and the skill of execution, grew more and more manifest to his delighted eyes, mr. penniloe was troubled with no misgivings as to "graven images." he might do what he liked with this grand piece of work, if the money were forthcoming. and the parish suspected no popery in it, when after much council with all concerned, and holding the needful faculty, he proposed to set up this magnificent screen as a reredos beneath the great chancel window, and behind the stone communion-table, generally called the altar now. yet brave as he was and of ardent faith, some little dismay was natural, when the builders assured him that this could not be done, with all needful repairs and proper finish, for less than three hundred and fifty pounds, and they would not even bind themselves to that; for the original was of the best beere stone, difficult to match, and hard to work. mr. penniloe went to the quarries, and found that this was no exaggeration; and having some faith in mankind--as all who have much in their maker must have--he empowered the firm to undertake the task, while he cast about zealously for the cash. with filial confidence he made sure that his reverend father must rejoice in another opportunity for glorifying god; and to that effect he addressed him. but when the postman wound his horn at the bottom of the village, and the parson hurried down from the churchyard to meet him, at the expense of eightpence he received the following dry epistle. "son philip,--we are much surprised and pained by your extraordinary letter. you speak very largely of 'duty to god,' which ought to be done, without talking of it; while you think lightly of your duty to your parents, the commandment that carries the blessing. if you had not abandoned your fellowship, by marrying and having a family, it might have been more in your power to think of church-windows, and stone-carving. we did not expect to be treated like this, after our very handsome gift, of not more than three months agone. look for no more money; but for that which a good son values more, and earns by keeping within his income--the love of his affectionate parents, "isaac, and joan penniloe." "ah! ah! well, well, i dare say i was wrong. but i thought that he could afford it;" said the curate in his simple way: "'tis a sad day for me altogether. but i will not be cast down, for the lord knoweth best." for on this very day, a year ago, he had lost the happiness of his life, and the one love of his manhood. his fair wife (a loyal and tender helpmate, the mother of his three children, and the skilful steward of his small means) had been found lying dead at the foot of the "horseshoe pitch," beneath hagdon hill. while her husband was obliged to remain in the village, waiting for a funeral, she had set forth, with none but her younger boy michael, to visit an old woman on the outskirts of the parish, very far advanced in years, but still a very backward christian. the old woman was living at the present moment, but could throw no light upon her visitor's sad fate, and indeed denied that she had seen her on that day. and the poor child who must have beheld what happened, though hitherto a very quick and clever little fellow, could never be brought to say a word about it. having scarcely recovered from a sharp attack of measles, he had lost his wits through terror, and ran all the way home at the top of his speed, shouting "rabbits! rabbits! rabbits!" from the child's sad condition, and a strict search of the "horseshoe," it appeared that he had leaped after his poor mother, but had been saved from death by a ledge of brambles and furze which had broken his fall. even now, though all trace of his bruises was gone, and his blue eyes were as bright as ever, the tender young brain was so dazed and daunted, by the fall, and the fright, and agony, that the children of the village changed his nickname from "merry michael," to "mazed mikey." mr. penniloe had been fighting bravely against the sad memories of this day. to a deeply religious mind like his, despondency was of the nature of doubt, and sorrow long indulged grew into sin. but now a cloud of darkness fell around him; the waves of the flood went over his soul, his heart was afflicted, and in sore trouble; and there was none to deliver him. all men have their times of depression; but few feel such agonies of dejection, as the firm believer and lover of his faith, when harrowing doubts assail him. the rector of perlycross, mr. chevithorne, though by no means a man of vast piety, had a short way of dealing with such attacks, which he always found successful. to his certain knowledge, all debility of faith sprang directly from "lowness of the system;" and his remedy against all such complaints was a glass of hot brandy and water. but his curate's religion was a less robust, because a far more active power; and his keener mind was not content to repel all such sallies, as temptations of the devil. sensitive, diffident, and soft-hearted, he was apt to feel too acutely any wound to his affections; and of all the world now left to him, the dearest one was his mother. or at any rate, he thought so for the present; though a certain little tender claim was creeping closer and closer into the inmost cell of love. "can mother have forgotten what day it would be, when i should receive these cruel words?" he said to himself, as he went sadly up the hill towards his white-washed dwelling-place, having no heart left for the finest of stone-carvings. "if she did, it was not like her; and if she remembered, it seems still worse. surely he would not have dared to sign her name, without her knowledge. but whenever he thinks of that fellowship--well, perhaps it was wrong on my part to attempt so much. it is high time to look more closely into ways and means." that was the proper thing to do beyond a doubt, and he hastened inside to do it. but when he sat in his lonely bookroom, with the evening shadows of the dark ilex slowly creeping over him, his mind went back into the past, and a mighty sadness conquered him. instead of the list of subscriptions for the church he had drawn from the long portfolio (which his wife had given him on the last wedding-day they should ever keep together) a copy of a sad despondent hymn, which he had written in the newness of his grief. as he read the forgotten lines, once more their deep gloom encompassed him; even the twinkle of hope, in which they ended, seemed a mockery. "will it ever be so, or is it all a dream, inspired by our longings, and our self-conceit? whatever is pleasant, or good, or precious, is snatched from our grasp; and we call it a trial, and live on, in the belief that we are punished for our good, and shall be rewarded tenfold. if so, it can be for those alone who are able to believe always; who can dismiss every shadow of doubt, and live with their maker face to face. oh that i could do so. but i cannot; my shallow mind is vexed by every breeze. when i was a young man, i felt pity, and even contempt for gowler's unfaith--a man of far superior powers. he gave up his fellowship, like a conscientious man; while i preach to others, and am myself a castaway. oh, ruth, ruth, if you could only see me!" this man of holy life, and of pure devotion to his sacred office, bent his head low in the agony of the moment, and clasped his hands over his whitening hair. how far he was out of his proper mind was shown by his sitting in the sacred chair,[1] the old "dropping-chair" of the parish, which had been sent back that morning. of this, and of all around, he took no heed; for the tide of his life was at the lowest ebb, and his feeble heart was fluttering, like a weed in shallow water. but his comfort was not far to seek. after sundry soft taps, and a shuffle of the handle, the door was opened quietly, and a little girl came dancing in, bringing a gleam of summer sunshine in a cloud of golden hair. the gloom of the cold room fled, as if it had no business near her, and a thrush outside (who knew her well) broke forth into a gratitude of song. for this was little faith penniloe, seven years old last tuesday, the prettiest and the liveliest soul in all the parish of perlycross; and faith being too substantial perhaps, everybody called her "fay," or "fairy." nothing ever troubled her, except the letter _r_, and even that only when it wanted to come first. "father, fathery, how much colder is the tea to get?" she cried; "i call it very yude of you, to do what you like, because you happen to be older." as the little girl ran, with her arms stretched forth, and a smile on her lips that was surety for a kiss--a sudden amazement stopped her. the father of her love and trust and worship, was not even looking at her; his face was cold and turned away; his arms were not spread for a jump and a scream. he might as well have no child at all, or none to whom he was all in all. for a moment her simple heart was daunted, her dimpled hands fell on her pinafore, and the sparkle of her blue eyes became a gleam of tears. then she gathered up her courage, which had never known repulse, and came and stood between her father's knees, and looked up at him very tenderly, as if she had grieved him, and yearned to be forgiven. "child, you have taught me the secret of faith," he cried, with a sudden light shed on him; "i will go as a little one to my father, without a word, and look up at him." then, as he lifted her into his lap, and she threw her arms around his neck, he felt that he was not alone in the world, and the warmth of his heart returned to him. footnote: [1] in country parishes an easy-chair, for the use of the sick and elderly, was provided from the communion offerings, and lent to those most in need of it. when not so required, it was kept under cover, and regarded with some reverence, from its origin and use. chapter iii. the lych-gate. the old church, standing on a bluff above the river, is well placed for looking up and down the fertile valley. flashes of the water on its westward course may be caught from this point of vantage, amidst the tranquillity of ancient trees and sunny breadths of pasture. for there the land has smoothed itself into a smiling plain, casting off the wrinkles of hills and gullies, and the frown of shaggy brows of heather. the rigour of the long flinty range is past, and a flower can stand without a bush to back it, and the wind has ceased from shuddering. but the perle has not come to these pleasures yet, as it flows on the north of the churchyard, and some hundred feet beneath it. the broad shallow channel is strewn with flint, and the little stream cannot fill it, except in times of heavy flood; for the main of its water has been diverted to work the woollen factory, and rejoins the natural course at the bridge two or three hundred yards below. on the further side, the land rises to the barren height of beacon hill, which shelters sir thomas waldron's house, and is by its conical form distinct from other extremities of the black-down chain. for the southern barrier of the valley (which is about three miles wide at its mouth) is formed by the long dark chine of hagdon hill, which ends abruptly in a steep descent; and seeing that all this part of the vale, and the hills which shape it, are comprised in the parish of perlycross, it will become clear that a single parson, if he attempts to go through all his work, must have a very fine pair of legs, and a sound constitution to quicken them. mr. penniloe, now well advanced in the fifth decade, was of very spare habit and active frame, remarkable also for his springy gait, except at those periods of dark depression, with which he was afflicted now and then. but the leading fault of his character was inattention to his victuals, not from any want of common sense, or crude delight in fasting, but rather through self-neglect, and the loss of the one who used to attend to him. to see to that bodily welfare, about which he cared so little, there was no one left, except a careful active and devoted servant, thyatira muggridge. thyatira had been in his employment ever since his marriage, and was now the cook, housekeeper, and general manager at the rectory. but though in the thirty-fifth year of her age, and as steady as a pyramid, she felt herself still too young to urge sound dietary advice upon her master, as she longed to do. the women of the parish blamed her sadly, as they watched his want of fattening; but she could only sigh, and try to tempt him with her simple skill, and zeal. on the morrow of that sad anniversary which had caused him such distress, the curate was blest with his usual vigour of faith and courage and philanthropy. an affectionate letter from his mother, enclosing a bank-order for ten pounds, had proved that she was no willing partner in the father's harshness. the day was very bright, his three pupils had left him for their summer holidays, and there happened to be no urgent call for any parochial visits. there was nothing to stop him from a good turn to-day among trowel and chisel and callipers; he would see that every man was at his work, and that every stroke of work was truthful. having slurred his early dinner with his usual zest, he was hastening down the passage for his hat and stick, when thyatira muggridge came upon him from the pantry, with a jug of toast-and-water in her hand. "do'e give me just a minute, sir," she whispered, with a glance at the door of the dining-room where the children had been left; and he followed her into the narrow back-parlour, the head-quarters of his absent pupils. mr. penniloe thought very highly of his housekeeper's judgment and discretion, and the more so perhaps because she had been converted, by a stroke of his own readiness, from the doctrines of the "antipã¦edo-baptists"--as they used to call themselves--to those of the church of england. her father, moreover, was one of the chief tenants on the north devon property of mr. penniloe the elder; and simplicity, shrewdness, and honesty were established in that family. so her master was patient with her, though his hat and stick were urgent. "would you please to mind, sir,"--began thyatira, with her thick red arms moving over her apron, like rolling-pins upon pie-crust--"if little master mike was to sleep with me a bit, till his brother master harry cometh back from school?" "i dare say you have some good reason for asking; but what is it, mrs. muggeridge?" the housekeeper was a spinster, but had received brevet-rank from the village. "only that he is so lonesome, sir, in that end hattick, by his little self. you know how he hath been, ever since his great scare; and now some brutes of boys in the village have been telling him a lot of stuff about spring-heel jack. they say he is coming into this part now, with his bloody heart and dark lantern. and the poor little lamb hath a window that looks right away over the churchyard. last night he were sobbing so in his sleep, enough to break his little heart. the sound came all across the lumber-room, till i went and fetched him into my bed, and then he were as happy as an angel." "poor little man! i should have thought of it, since he became so nervous. but i have always tried to make my children feel that the lord is ever near them." "he compasseth the righteous round about," mrs. muggeridge replied with a curtsey, as a pious woman quoting holy writ; "but for all that, you can't call him company, sir; and that's what these little one's lacks of. master harry is as brave as a lion, because he is so much older. but hoping no offence, his own dear mother would never have left that little soul all by himself." "you are right, and i was wrong;" replied the master, concealing the pain her words had caused. "take him to your room; it is very kind of you. but where will you put susanna?" "that will be easy enough, sir. i will make up a bed in the lumber-room, if you have no objection. less time for her at the looking-glass, i reckon." mr. penniloe smiled gravely--for that grievance was a classic--and had once more possessed himself of his hat and stick, when the earnest housekeeper detained him once again. "if you please, sir, you don't believe, do you now, in all that they says about that spring-heeled jack? it scarcely seemeth reasonable to a christian mind. and yet when i questioned mr. jakes about it, he was not for denying that there might be such a thing--and him the very bravest man in all this parish!" "mrs. muggeridge, it is nonsense. mr. jakes knows better. he must have been trying to terrify you. a man who has been through the peninsular campaign! i hope i may remember to reprove him." "oh no, i would beg you, sir, not to do that. it was only said--as one might express it, promiscuous, and in a manner of speaking. i would never have mentioned it, if i had thought----" knowing that her face was very red, her master refrained from looking at it, and went his way at last, after promising to let the gallant jakes escape. it was not much more than a hundred yards, along the chief street of the village, from the rectory to the southern and chief entrance of the churchyard; opposite to which, at a corner of the road and partly in front of the ruined abbey, stood an old-fashioned inn, the _ivy-bush_. this, though a very well conducted house, and quiet enough (except at fair-time), was not in the parson's opinion a pleasing induction to the lych-gate; but there it had stood for generations, and the landlord, walter haddon, held sound church-views, for his wife had been a daughter of channing the clerk, and his premises belonged to the dean and chapter. mr. penniloe glanced at the yellow porch, with his usual regret but no ill-will, when a flash of bright colour caught his eye. in the outer corner he described a long scarlet fishing-rod propped against the wall, with the collar and three flies fluttering. all was so bright and spick and span, that a trout's admiration would be quite safe; and the clergyman (having been a skilful angler, till his strict views of duty deprived him of that joy) indulged in a smile of sagacity, as he opened his double eye-glass, and scrutinised this fine object. "examining my flies, are you, reverend? well, i hope you are satisfied with them." the gentleman who spoke in this short way came out of the porch, with a pipe in his hand and a large fishing-creel swinging under his left arm. "i beg your pardon, dr. gronow, for the liberty i am taking. yes, they are very fine flies indeed. i hope you have had good sport with them." "pretty fair, sir; pretty fair"--the owner answered cheerfully--"one must not expect much in this weather. but i have had at least three rises." "it is much to your credit, so far as i can judge, under the circumstances. and you have not had time to know our water yet. you will find it pretty fishing, when you get accustomed to it." the angler, a tall thin man of sixty, with a keen grave face and wiry gray hair, regarded the parson steadfastly. this was but the second time they had met, although dr. gronow had been for some while an important parishioner of perlycross, having bought a fair estate at priestwell, a hamlet little more than a mile from the village. people, who pretended to know all about him, said that he had retired suddenly, for some unknown reason, from long and large medical practice at bath. there he had been, as they declared, the first authority in all cases of difficulty and danger, but not at all a favourite in the world of fashion, because of his rough and contemptuous manners, and sad want of sympathy with petty ailments. some pious old lady of rank had called him, in a passionate moment, "the godless gronow;" and whether he deserved the description or not, it had cleaved to him like a sand-leech. but the doctor only smiled, and went his way; the good will of the poor was sweeter to him than the good word of the wealthy. "let me say a word to you, mr. penniloe," he began, as the curate was turning away; "i have had it in my mind for some short time. i believe you are much attached to sir thomas waldron." "he is one of my oldest and most valued friends. i have the highest possible regard for him." "he is a valuable man in the parish, i suppose--comes to church regularly--sets a good example?" "if all my parishioners were like him, it would be a comfort to me, and--and a benefit to them." "well said--according to your point of view. i like a straightforward man, sir. but i want you to be a little crooked now. you have an old friend, harrison gowler." "yes,"--mr. penniloe replied with some surprise, "i was very fond of gowler at oxford, and admired him very greatly. but i have not seen him for some years." "he is now the first man in london in his special line. could you get him to visit you for a day or two, and see sir thomas waldron, without letting him know why?" "you astonish me, dr. gronow. there is nothing amiss with sir thomas, except a little trouble now and then, caused by an ancient wound, i believe." "ah, so you think; and so perhaps does he. but i suppose you can keep a thing to yourself. if i tell you something, will you give me your word that it shall go no further?" the two gentlemen were standing in the shadow of the lych-gate, as a shelter from the july sun, while the clergyman gazed with much alarm at the other, and gave the required promise. dr. gronow looked round, and then said in a low voice-"sir thomas is a strong and temperate man, and has great powers of endurance. i hope most heartily that i may be wrong. but i am convinced that within three months, he will be lying upon this stone; while you with your surplice on are standing in that porch, waiting for the bearers to advance." "good god!" cried the parson, with tears rushing to his eyes; then he lifted his hat, and bowed reverently. "may he forgive me for using his holy name. but the shock is too terrible to think of. it would certainly break poor nicie's heart. what right have you to speak of such a dreadful thing?" "is it such a dreadful thing to go to heaven? that of course you guarantee for your good friends. but the point is--how to put off that catastrophe of bliss." "flippancy is not the way to meet it, dr. gronow. we have every right to try to keep a valuable life, and a life dear to all that have the sense to feel its value. even a scornful man--such as you appear to be, unable to perceive the childish littleness of scorn--must admire valour, sense of duty, and simplicity; though they may not be his own leading qualities. and once more i ask you to explain what you have said." "you know jemmy fox pretty well, i think?" dr. gronow took a seat upon the coffin-stone, and spoke as if he liked the parson's vigour--"jemmy is a very clever fellow in his way, though of course he has no experience yet. we old stagers are always glad to help a young member of our profession, who has a proper love for it, and is modest, and hard-working. but not until he asks us, you must clearly understand. you see we are not so meddlesome as you reverends are. well, from the account young fox gives me, there can, i fear, be little doubt about the nature of the case. it is not at all a common one; and so far as we know yet, there is but one remedy--a very difficult operation." mr. penniloe was liable to a kind of nervous quivering, when anything happened to excite him, and some of his very best sermons had been spoiled by this visitation. "i am troubled more than i can tell you,--i am grieved beyond description,"--he began with an utterance which trembled more and more; "and you think that gowler is the only man, to--to----" "to know the proper course, and to afford him the last chance. gowler is not a surgeon, as i need not tell you. and at present such a case could be dealt with best in paris, although we have young men rising now, who will make it otherwise before very long. sir thomas will listen to nothing, i fear, from a young practitioner like fox. he has been so knocked about himself, and so close to death's door more than once, that he looks upon this as a fuss about nothing. but i know better, mr. penniloe." "you are too likely to be right. fox has told me of several cases of your wonderful penetration. that young man thinks so much of you. oh, dr. gronow, i implore you as a man--whatever your own opinions are--say nothing to unsettle that young fellow's mind. you know not the misery you may cause, and you cannot produce any happiness. i speak--i speak with the strongest feelings. you will think that i should not have spoken at all--and i dare say it is unusual. but you will forgive me, when you remember it is my duty as a clergyman." "surely you are responsible for me as well"--replied the doctor with a kinder tone; "but perhaps you regard me as beyond all cure. well, i will promise what you ask, good sir. your sheep, or your foxes, shall not stray through me. will you do what i suggest about gowler?" "i will try to get him down. but from all that i hear, he is one of the busiest men in london. and i dislike procuring his opinion on the sly. excuse me--i know how well you meant it. but perhaps, through lady waldron, he may be brought down in the regular course, and have the whole case laid before him." "that would be the best thing, if it could be managed. good-bye! i go a-fishing, as your prototypes expressed it." chapter iv. nicie. in the bright summer sunshine the old church looked like a ship that had been shattered by the waves, and was hoisted in a dry dock for repairs. to an ignorant eye it appeared to be in peril of foundering and plunging into the depths below, so frequent and large were the rifts and chasms yawning in the ancient frame-work. especially was there one long gap in the footings of the south chancel wall, where three broad arches were being turned, and a solid buttress rising, to make good the weakness of the waldron vault. sacks of lime, and piles of sand, coils of cord and blocks of stone, scaffold-poles and timber-baulks, wheel-barrows grovelling upside-down, shovels and hods and planks and ladders, hats upon tombstones, and jackets on graves, sacred niches garnished with tobacco-pipes, and pious memories enlivened by "jim crow"--so cheerful was the british workman, before he was educated. "parson coming," was whispered round, while pewter pots jumped under slabs, and jugs had coats thrown over them, for mr. penniloe would have none of their drinking in the churchyard, and was loth to believe that they could do it, with all the sad examples beneath them. but now his mind was filled with deeper troubles; and even the purpose of his visit had faded from his memory. "just in time, sir. i was waiting for you"--said mr. robson adney, standing in front of the shored-up screen, on the southern side of the tower,--"if it bears the strain of this new plinth, the rest is a matter of detail. your idea of the brace was capital, and the dovetail will never show at all. now, charlie, steady there--not too heavy. five minutes will show whether we are men or muffs. but don't stand quite so close, sir, i think we have got it all right; but if there should happen to be a bit of cross-grain stone--bear to the left, you lubber there! beg your pardon, sir--but i never said--'damn.'" "i hope not, i hope not, mr. adney. you remember where you are, too well for that. though i trust that you would say it nowhere. ah, it is a little on the warp, i fear." "no, sir, no. go to the end, and look along. it is only the bevel that makes it look so. could hardly be better if the lord himself had made it. trust peveril, gibbs, & co. for knowing their work. holloa! not so hard--ease her, ease her! stand clear for your lives, men! down she comes." they were none too quick, for the great stone screen, after bulging and sagging and shaking like a cobweb throughout its massive tracery, parted in the middle and fell mightily. "any one hurt? then you haven't got what you ought"--shouted adney, with his foot upon a pinnacle--"old peter made a saint of? get a roller, and fetch him out. none the worse, old chap, are you now? take him to the _ivy-bush_, and get a drop of brandy." sudden as the crash had been, no life was lost, no limb broken, and scarcely a bruise received, except by an elderly workman, and he was little the worse, being safely enshrined in the niche where some good saint had stood. being set upon his feet, he rubbed his elbows, and then swore a little; therefore naturally enough he was known as "st. peter," for the residue of his life among us. but no sooner did mr. adney see that no one was hurt seriously than he began to swear anything but a little, instead of thanking providence. "a pretty job--a fine job, by the holy poker!" he kept on exclaiming, as he danced among the ruins; "why, they'll laugh at us all over devonshire. and that's not the worst of it. by the lord, i wish it was. three or four hundred pounds out of our pockets. a nice set of ---fellows you are, aren't you? i wish i might go this very moment----" "is this all your gratitude, robson adney, for the goodness of the lord to you?" mr. penniloe had been outside the crash, as he happened to be watching from one end the adjustment of the piece inserted. "what are a few bits of broken stone, compared with the life of a human being--cut off perhaps with an oath upon his lips, close to the very house of god? in truth, this is a merciful deliverance. down upon your knees, my friends, and follow me in a few simple words of acknowledgment to the giver of all good. truly he hath been gracious to us." "don't want much more of that sort of grace. _coup de grace_ i call it"--muttered mr. adney. nevertheless he knelt down, with the dust upon his forehead; and the workmen did the like; for here was another month's good wages. mr. penniloe always spoke well and readily, when his heart was urgent; and now as he knelt between two lowly graves, the men were wondering at him. "never thought a' could have dooed it, without his gown!" "why, a' put up his two hands, as if 'twor money in his pockets!" "blest if i don't send for he, when my time cometh!" "faix, sor, but the almighty must be proud of you to spake for him!" thus they received it; and the senior churchwarden coming in to see the rights of the matter, told every one (when he recovered his wits) that he had never felt so proud of the parish minister before. even the parson felt warmly in his heart that he had gone up in their opinions; which made him more diffident in his own. "don't 'e be cast down, sir," said one fine fellow, whom the heavy architrave had missed by about an inch, saving a young widow and seven little orphans. "we will put it all to rights, in next to no time. you do put up with it, uncommon fine. though the lord may have laboured to tempt 'e, like job. but i han't heard a single curse come out of your lips--not but what it might, without my knowing. but here coom'th a young man in bright clothes with news for 'e." mr. penniloe turned, and behold it was bob cornish, one of his best sunday-school boys last year, patient and humble in a suit of corduroy; but now gay and lordly in the livery of the waldrons, buff with blue edgings, and buttons of bright gold. his father sold rushlights at the bottom of the village, but his mother spent her time in thinking. "from sir thomas?" asked the curate, as the lad with some attempt at a soldier's salute produced a note, folded like a cocked hat, and not easy to undo. "no, sir, from my lady"--answered robert, falling back. mr. penniloe was happy enough to believe that all things are ordered and guided for us by supreme goodness and wisdom. but nature insisted that his hands should tremble at anything of gravity to any one he loved; and now after dr. gronow's warning, his double eyeglass rattled in its tortoiseshell frame, as he turned it upon the following words. "dear sir,--i am in great uncertainty to trouble you with this, and beg you to accept apologies. but my husband is in pain of the most violent again, and none the less of misery that he conceals it from me. in this country i have no one now from whom to seek good counsel, and the young dr. fox is too juvenile to trust in. my husband has so much value for your wise opinion. i therefore take the liberty of imploring you to come, but with discretion not to speak the cause to sir thomas waldron, for he will not permit conversation about it. sincerely yours, "isabel waldron." mr. penniloe read these words again, and then closed his eyeglass with a heavy sigh. trusted and beloved friend as he was of the veteran sir thomas, he had never been regarded with much favour by the lady of the house. by birth and by blood on the father's side, this lady was a spaniard; and although she spoke english fluently--much better indeed than she wrote it--the country and people were not to her liking, and she cared not to make herself popular. hence her fine qualities, and generous nature, were misprised and undervalued, until less and less was seen of them. without deserving it, she thus obtained the repute of a haughty cold-hearted person, without affection, sympathy, or loving-kindness. even mr. penniloe, the most charitable of men, was inclined to hold this opinion of her. therefore he was all the more alarmed by this letter of the stately lady. leaving mr. adney to do his best, he set off at once for walderscourt, by way of the plank-bridge over the perle, at no great distance above the church; and then across the meadows and the sloping cornland, with the round beacon-hill in front of him. this path, saving nearly half a mile of twisting lanes, would lead him to the house almost as soon as the messenger's horse would be there. to any one acquainted with the parson it would prove how much his mind was disturbed that none of the fair sights around him were heeded. the tall wheat reared upon its jointed stalk, with the buff pollen shed, and the triple awns sheltering the infancy of grain, the delicate bells of sky-blue flax quivering on lanced foliage, the glistening cones of teasels pliant yet as tasselled silk, and the burly foxglove in the hedgerow turning back its spotted cuffs--at none of these did he care to glance, nor linger for a moment at the treddled stile, from which the broad valley he had left was shown, studded with brown farm and white cottage, and looped with glittering water. neither did he throw his stick into his left hand, and stretch forth the right--as his custom was in the lonely walks of a saturday--to invigorate a hit he would deliver the next day, at divine service in the schoolroom. "what is to become of them? what can be done to help it? why should such a loving child have such a frightful trial? how shall we let him know his danger, without risk of doubling it? how long will it take, to get gowler down, and can he do any good, if he comes?"--these and other such questions drove from his mind both sermon and scenery, as he hastened to the home of the waldrons. walderscourt was not so grand as to look uncomfortable, not yet on the other hand so lowly as to seem insignificant. but a large old-fashioned house, built of stone, with depth and variety of light and shade, sobered and toned by the lapse of time, yet cheerful on the whole, as is a well-spent life. for by reason of the trees, and the wavering of the air--flowing gently from hill to valley--the sun seemed to linger in various visits, rather than to plant himself for one long stare. the pleasure-grounds, moreover, and the lawns were large, gifted with surprising little ups and downs, and blest with pretty corners where a man might sit and think, and perhaps espy an old-fashioned flower unseen since he was five years old. some of the many philosophers who understand our ways, and can account for everything, declare that we of the human race become of such and such a vein, and turn, and tone of character, according to the flow, and bend, and tinge of early circumstance. if there be any truth in this, it will help to account for a few of the many delightful features and loveable traits in the character of nicie waldron. that young lady, the only daughter of the veteran colonel, had obtained her present christian name by her own merits, as asserted by herself. unlike her mother she had taken kindly to this english air and soil, as behoves a native; and her childish lips finding _inez_ hard had softened it into _nicie_. that name appeared so apt to all who had the pleasure of seeing her toddle, that it quite superseded the grander form, with all except her mother. "_nicie_ indeed!" lady waldron used to say, until she found it useless--"i will feel much obliged to you, if you shall call my daughter inez by her proper name, sir." but her ladyship could no more subdue the universal usage, than master the english _wills_ and _shalls_. and though she was now a full-grown maiden, lively, tall, and self-possessed, nicie had not lost as yet the gentle and confiding manner, with the playful smile, and pleasant glance, which had earned, by offering them, good-will and tender interest. pity moreover had some share in her general popularity, inasmuch as her mother was known to be sometimes harsh, and nearly always cold and distant to her. women, who should know best, declared that this was the result of jealousy, because sir thomas made such an idol of his loving daughter. on the other hand the spanish lady had her idol also--her only son, despatched of late with his regiment towards india; his father always called him _tom_, and his mother _rodrigo_. mr. penniloe had a very soft place in his heart for this young lady; but now, for the first time in his life, he was vexed to see her white chip hat, and pink summer-frock between the trees. she was sitting on a bench, with a book upon her lap, while the sunlight, broken by the gentle play of leafage, wavered and flickered in her rich brown hair. corkscrew ringlets were the fashion of the time; but nicie would have none of them, with the bashful knowledge of the rose, that nature had done enough for her. and here came her father to take her part, with his usual decision; daring even to pronounce, in presence of the noblest fashion, that his pet should do what he chose, and nothing else. at this the pet smiled very sweetly, the words being put into his lips by hers, and dutifully obeyed her own behest; sweeping back the flowing curves into a graceful coronet, in the manner of a laconian maid. now the sly penniloe made endeavour to pass her with a friendly smile and bow; but her little pug _pixie_ would not hear of such a slight. this was a thorough busybody, not always quite right in his mind, according to some good authorities, though not easily outwitted. having scarcely attained much obesity yet, in spite of never-flagging efforts, he could run at a good pace, though not so very far; and sometimes, at sight of any highly valued friend, he would chase himself at full gallop round a giddy circle, with his reasoning powers lost in rapture. even now he indulged in this expression of good-will, for he dearly loved mr. penniloe; and then he ran up, with such antics of delight, that the rudest of mankind could not well have passed unheeding. and behind him came his fair young mistress, smiling pleasantly at his tricks, although her gentle eyes were glistening with a shower scarcely blown away. "uncle penniloe," she began, having thus entitled him in early days, and doing so still at coaxing times; "you will not think me a sly girl, will you? but i found out that mother had sent for you; and as nothing would make her tell me why, i made up my mind to come and ask you myself, if i could only catch you here. i was sure you could never refuse me." "nice assurance indeed, and nice manners, to try to steal a march upon your mother!" the parson did his utmost to look stern; but his eyes meeting hers failed to carry it out. "oh, but you know better, you could never fancy that! and your trying to turn it off like that, only frightens me ten times more. i am sure it is something about my father. you had better tell me all. i must know all. i am too old now, to be treated like a child. who can have half the right i have, to know all about my darling dad? is he very ill? is his precious life in danger? don't look at me like that. i know more than you imagine. is he going to die? i will never believe it. god could never do such a cruel wicked thing." "my dear, what would your dear father say, to hear you talk like that? a man so humble, and brave, and pious----" "as humble and brave as you please, uncle penniloe. but i don't want him to be pious for a long time yet. he swore a little yesterday,--that is one comfort,--when he had no idea i was near him. and he would not have done that, if there had been any--oh, don't go away so! i won't let you go, until you have answered my question. why were you sent for in such haste?" "how can i tell you, my dear child, until i have had time to ask about it? you know there is to be the cricket-match on tuesday, the north against the south side of the valley, and even the sides are not quite settled yet; because mr. jakes will not play against his colonel, though quite ready to play against his parson." "will you give me your word, uncle penniloe, that you really believe you were sent for about that?" the clergyman saw that there was no escape, and as he looked into her beseeching eyes, it was all that he could do to refrain his own from tears. "i will not cry--or at least not if i can help it," she whispered, as he led her to the seat, and sat by her. "my darling nicie," he began in a low voice, and as tenderly as if he were her father; "it has pleased the lord to visit us with a very sad trial; but we may hope that it will yet pass away. your dear father is seriously ill; and the worst of it is that, with his wonderful courage and spirit, he makes light of it, and will not be persuaded. he could scarcely be induced to say a word to dr. fox, although he is so fond of him; and nobody knows what the malady is, except that it is painful and wearing. my object to-day is to do my very utmost to get your dear father to listen to us, and see a medical man of very large experience and very great ability. and much as it has grieved me to tell you this, perhaps it is better upon the whole; for now you will do all you can, to help us." "sometimes father will listen to me," miss waldron answered between her sobs; "when he won't--when he won't let anybody else--because i never argue with him. but i thought dr. fox was exceedingly clever." "so he is, my dear; but he is so young, and this is a case of great perplexity. i have reason to believe that he wishes just as we do. so now with god's help let us all do our best." she tried to look cheerful; but when he was gone, a cold terror fell upon her. little _pixie_ tugged at her frock unheeded, and made himself a whirligig in chase of his own tail. chapter v. a fair bargain. the parson had a little shake in his system; and his faith in higher providence was weaker in his friend's case than in his own, which is contrary perhaps to the general rule. as he passed through the large gloomy hall, his hat was quivering in his hand, like a leaf that has caught the syringe; and when he stood face to face with lady waldron, he would have given up a small subscription, to be as calm as she was. but her self-possession was the style of pride and habit, rather than the gift of nature. no one could look into her very handsome face, or watch her dark eyes as she spoke, without perceiving that her nature was strong, and warm, and generous. pride of birth taught her to control her temper; but education had been insufficient to complete the mastery. and so she remained in a foreign country, vehement, prejudiced, and indifferent to things too large for her to understand, jealous, exacting, and quick to take offence; but at the same time a lover of justice, truthful, free-handed, and loyal to friends, kind to those in trouble, and devoted to her husband. her father had been of spanish, and her mother of irish birth, and her early memories were of tumult, war, distress, and anarchy. all english clergymen were to her as heretics and usurpers; and being intensely patriotic, she disliked the english nation for its services to her country. mr. penniloe had felt himself kept throughout at a very well measured distance; but like a large-hearted, and humble man, had concerned himself little about such trifles; though his wife had been very indignant. and he met the lady now, as he had always done, with a pleasant look, and a gentle smile. but she was a little annoyed at her own confession of his influence. "it is good of you to come so soon," she said, "and to break your very nice engagements. but i have been so anxious, so consumed with great anxiety. and everything grows worse and worse. what can i do? there is none to help me. the only one i could trust entirely, my dear brother, is far away." "there are many who would do their best to help you," the curate answered with a faltering voice, for her strange humility surprised him. "you know without any words of mine----" "is it that you really love sir thomas, or only that you find him useful? pardon me; i put not the question rudely. but all are so selfish in this england." "i hope not. i think not," he answered very gently, having learned to allow for the petulance of grief. "your dear husband is not of that nature, lady waldron; and he does not suppose that his friends are so." "no. it is true he makes the best of everybody. even of that young dr. fox, who is ill-treating him. that is the very thing i come to speak of. if he had a good physician--but he is so resolute." "but you will persuade him. it is a thing he owes to you. and in one little way i can help you perhaps a little. he fancies, i dare say, that to call in a man of larger experience would be unkind to fox, and might even seem a sort of slur upon him. but i think i can get fox himself to propose it, and even to insist upon it for his own sake. i believe that he has been thinking of it." "what is he, that his opinions should be consulted? he cannot see. but i see things that agitate me--oh darker, darker--i cannot discover any consolation anywhere. and my husband will not hear a word! it is so--this reason one day, and then some other, to excuse that he is not better; and his strong hands going, and his shoulders growing round, and his great knees beginning to quiver, and his face--so what you call cheerful, lively, jolly, turning to whiter than mine, and blue with cups, and cords, and channels in it--oh, i will not have my husband long; and where shall i be without him?" as she turned away her face, and waved her hand for the visitor to leave her, mr. penniloe discovered one more reason for doubting his own judgment. "i will go and see him. he is always glad to see me;" he said, as if talking to himself alone. "the hand of the lord is over us, and his mercy is on the righteous." the old soldier was not the man to stay indoors, or dwell upon his ailments. as long as he had leg to move, or foot at all to carry him, no easy-chair or study-lounge held any temptation for him. the open air, and the breezy fields, or sunny breadth of garden full of ever-changing incident, the hill-top, or the river-side, were his delight, while his steps were strong; and even now, whenever bodily pain relaxed. mr. penniloe found him in his kitchen-garden, walking slowly, as behoves a man of large frame and great stature, and leaning on a staff of twisted spanish oak, which had stood him in good stead, some five and twenty years ago. following every uncertain step, with her nose as close as if she had been a spur upon either boot, and yet escaping contact as a dog alone can do, was his favourite little black spaniel _jess_, as loving a creature as ever lived. "what makes you look at me in that way, jumps?" the colonel enquired, while shaking hands. "i hope you are not setting up for a doctor too. one is quite enough for the parish." "talking about doctors," replied the parson, who thought it no scorn when his old schoolmate revived the nickname of early days (conferred perhaps by some young observer, in recognition of his springy step)--"talking about doctors, i think it very likely that my old friend gowler--you have heard me speak of him--will pay me a little visit, perhaps next week." "gowler? was he at peter's, after my time? it scarcely sounds like a west country name. no, i remember now. it was at oxford you fell in with him." "yes. he got his fellowship two years after i got mine. the cleverest man in the college, and one of the best scholars i ever met with. i was nowhere with him, though i read so much harder." "come now, jumps--don't tell me that!" sir thomas exclaimed, looking down with admiration at the laureate of his boyhood; "why, you knew everything as pat as butter, when you were no more than a hop o' my thumb! i remember arguing with gus browne, that it must be because you were small enough to jump into the skulls of those old codgers, homer, and horace, and the rest of them. but how you must have grown since then, my friend! i suppose they gave you more to eat at oxford. but i don't believe in any man alive being a finer scholar than you are." "gowler was, i tell you, tom; and many, many others; as i soon discovered in the larger world. he had a much keener and deeper mind, far more enquiring and penetrating, more subtle and logical, and comprehensive, together with a smaller share perhaps of--of----" "humility--that's the word you mean; although you don't like to say it." "no, that is not what i mean exactly. what i mean is docility, ductility, sequacity--if there is any such word. the acceptance of what has been discovered, or at any rate acknowledged, by the highest human intellect. gowler would be content with nothing, because it had satisfied the highest human intellect. it must satisfy his own, or be rejected." "i am very sorry for him," said sir thomas waldron; "such a man must be drummed out of any useful regiment." "well, and he was drummed out of oxford; or at any rate would follow no drum there. he threw up his fellowship, rather than take orders, and for some years we heard nothing of him. but he was making his way in london, and winning reputation in minute anatomy. he became the first authority in what is called _histology_, a comparatively new branch of medical science----" "don't phil, i beg of you. you make me creep. i think of burke, and hare, and all those wretches. fellows who disturb a man's last rest! i have a deep respect for an honest wholesome surgeon; and wonderful things i have seen them do. but the best of them are gone. it was the war that made them; and, thank god, we have no occasion for such carvers now." "come and sit down, tom. you look--at least, i mean, i have been upon my legs many hours to-day, and there is nothing like the jump in them of thirty years ago. well, you are a kind man, the kindest of the kind, to allow your kitchen-gardeners such a comfortable bench." "you know what i think," replied sir thomas, as he made believe to walk with great steadiness and vigour, "that we don't behave half well enough to those who do all the work for us. and i am quite sure that we tories feel it, ay and try to better it, ten times as much as all those spouting radical reformers do. why, who is at the bottom of all these shocking riots, and rick-burnings? the man who puts iron, and boiling water, to rob a poor fellow of his bread and bacon. you'll see none of that on any land of mine. but if anything happens to me, who knows?" "my dear friend," mr. penniloe began, while the hand which he laid upon his friend's was shaking, "may i say a word to you, as an ancient chum? you know that i would not intrude, i am sure." "i am sure that you would not do anything which a gentleman would not do, phil." "it is simply this--we are most anxious about you. you are not in good health, and you will not confess it. this is not at all fair to those who love you. courage, and carelessness about oneself, are very fine things, but may be carried too far. in a case like yours they are sinful, tom. your life is of very great importance, and you have no right to neglect it. and can you not see that it is downright cruelty to your wife and children, if you allow yourself to get worse and worse, while their anxiety increases, and you do nothing, and won't listen to advice, and fling bottles of medicine into the bonfire? i saw one just now, as we came down the walk--as full as when fox put the cork in. is that even fair to a young practitioner?" "well, i never thought of that. that's a new light altogether. you can see well enough, it seems, when it is not wanted. but don't tell jemmy, about that bottle. mind, you are upon your honour. but oh, phil, if you only knew the taste of that stuff! i give you my word----" "you shall not laugh it off. you may say what you like, but you know in your heart that you are not acting kindly, or even fairly, by us. would you like your wife, or daughter, to feel seriously ill, and hide it as if it was no concern of yours? i put aside higher considerations, tom i speak to you simply as an old and true friend." it was not the power of his words, so much as the trembling of his voice, and the softness of his eyes, that vanquished the tough old soldier. "i don't want to make any fuss about it, phil," sir thomas answered quietly; "and i would rather have kept it to myself, a little longer. but the simple truth is, that i am dying." there was no sign of fear, or of sorrow, in his gaze; and he smiled very cheerfully while offering his hand, as if to be forgiven for the past concealment. mr. penniloe could not speak, but fell back on the bench, and feared to look at him. "my dear friend, i see that i was wrong to tell you," the sick man continued in a feebler tone; "but you must have found it out very shortly; and i know that jemmy fox is well aware of it. but not a word, of course, to my wife or daughter, until--until it can't be helped. poor things--what a blow it will be to them! the thought of that makes me rebel sometimes. but it is in your power to help me greatly, to help me, as no other man on earth can do. it has long been in my thoughts, but i scarcely dared to ask you. perhaps that was partly why i told you this. but you are too good and kind, to call me selfish." "whatever it is, i will do it for you readily, if god gives me power, and ordains it so." "never make rash promises. what was it you used to construe to me in the _delectus_? this is a long and a troublesome job, and will place you in a delicate position. it is no less a trouble than to undertake, for a time at least, the management of my affairs, and see to the interests of my nicie." "but surely your wife--surely lady waldron--so resolute, ready, and capable----" "yes, she is all that, and a great deal more--honourable, upright, warm, and loving. she is not at all valued as she should be here, because she cannot come to like our country, or our people. but that would be no obstacle; the obstacle is this--she has a twin-brother, a certain count de varcas, whom she loves ardently, and i will not speak against him; but he must have no chance of interfering here. my son tom--_rodrigo_ his mother calls him, after her beloved brother--is barely of age, as you know, and sent off with his regiment to india; a very fine fellow in many ways, but as for business--excuse me a moment, phil; i will finish, when this is over." with one broad hand upon the bench, he contrived to rise, and to steady himself upon his staff, and stood for a little while thus, with his head thrown back, and his forehead like a block of stone. no groan from the chest, or contortion of the face, was allowed to show his agony; though every drawn muscle, and wan hollow, told what he was enduring. and the blue scar of some ancient wound grew vivid upon his strong countenance, from the left cheek-bone to the corner of the mouth, with the pallid damp on either side. little _jess_ came and watched him, with wistful eyes, and a soft interrogative tremble of tail; while the clergyman rose to support him; but he would have no assistance. "thank god, it is over. i am all right now, for another three hours, i dare say. what a coward you must think me, phil! i have been through a good deal of pain, in my time. but this beats me, i must confess. the worst of it is, when it comes at night, to keep it from poor isabel. sit down again now, and let me go on with my story." "not now, tom. not just yet, i implore you," cried the parson, himself more overcome than the sufferer of all that anguish. "wait till you find yourself a little stronger." "no. that may never be. if you could only know the relief it will be to me. i have not a great mind. i cannot leave things to the lord, except as concerns my own old self. now that i have broken the matter to you, i must go through with it. i cannot die, until my mind is easy about poor nicie. her mother would be good to her, of course. but--well, tom is her idol; and there is that blessed count. tom is very simple, just as i was, at his age. i have many old friends; but all easy-going fellows, who would leave everything to their lawyers--none at all to trust, like you. and i know how fond you are of nicie." "to be sure i am. how could i help it? but remember that i am not at all a man of business." "what does that matter? you are very clear-headed, and prudent--at any rate for other people. and you will have webber, a careful and clever solicitor, to back you up. and mind, i am not asking you to supersede my wife, or take what should be her position. she is quite unacquainted with english ways, she does not think as an englishwoman would. she must have an englishman to act with her, in the trusts that will arise upon my death; and when we were married in spain, as you know, there was no chance of any marriage-settlement. in fact there was nothing to settle as yet, for i was not even heir to this property, until poor jack was killed at quatrebras. and as for herself, all the family affairs were at sixes and sevens, as you may suppose, during the french occupation. her father had been a very wealthy man and the head of an ancient race, which claimed descent from the old carthaginian barcas, of whom you know more than i do. but he had been too patriotic, and advanced immense sums to the state without security, and in other ways dipped his fine property, so that it would not recover for a generation. at any rate nothing came to her then, though she ought to have had a good sum afterwards. but whatever there may have been, her noble twin-brother took good care that none of it came this way. and i was glad to get her without a _peseta_; and what is more, i have never repented of it; for a nobler and more affectionate woman never trod the earth." as the sick man passed his hand before his eyes, in sad recollection of the bygone bliss, mr. penniloe thought of his own dear wife--a far sweeter woman in his mild opinion; and, if less noble, none the worse for that. "but the point of it is this, tom," the clergyman said firmly, for he began to feel already like a man of business, however sad and mournful the business must become; "does lady waldron consent to receive me, as--as co-trustee, or whatever it is called, if, if--which god forbid--it should ever prove to be necessary?" "my dear friend, i spoke to her about it yesterday, in such a way as not to cause anxiety or alarm: and she made no objection, but left everything to me. so you have only to agree; and all is settled." "in that case, tom," said mr. penniloe arising, and offering both hands to his friend, "i will not shirk my duty to a man i love so much. may the lord be with me, for i am not a man of business--or at least, i have not attained that reputation yet! but i will do my best, and your nicie's interests shall be as sacred to me, as my own child's. is there anything you would like to say about her?" "yes, phil, one thing most important. she is a very loving girl; and i trust that she will marry a good man, who will value her. i have fancied, more than once, that jemmy fox is very fond of her. he is a manly straightforward fellow, and of a very good old family, quite equal to ours, so far as that goes. he has not much of this world's goods at present; and her mother would naturally look higher. but when a man is in my condition, he takes truer views of life. if jemmy loves her, and she comes to love him, i believe that they would have a very happy life. he is very cheerful, and of the sweetest temper--the first of all things in married life--and he is as upright as yourself. in a few years he will be very well off. i could wish no better fortune for her--supposing that she gives her heart to him." "he is a great favourite of mine as well;" the curate replied, though surprised not a little. "but as i have agreed to all that you wish, tom, you must yield a little to my most earnest wish, and at the same time discharge a simple duty. i cannot help hoping that your fears--or i will not call them that, for you fear nothing--but your views of your own case are all wrong. you must promise to take the highest medical opinion. if i bring gowler over, with fox's full approval, will you allow him to examine you?" "you are too bad, phil. but you have caught me there. if you let me put you into the hands of lawyers, it is tit for tat that you should drive me into those of doctors." chapter vi. doctors three. public opinion at perlycross was stirred, as with a many-bladed egg-whisk, by the sudden arrival of dr. gowler. a man, who cared nothing about the crops, and never touched bacon, or clotted cream, nor even replied to the salutation of the largest farmer, but glided along with his eyes on the ground, and a broad hat whelmed down upon his hairless white face; yet seemed to know every lane and footpath, as if he had been born among them--no wonder that in that unsettled time, when frightful tales hung about the eaves of every cottage, and every leathern latch-thong was drawn inside at nightfall, very strange suspicions were in the air about him. even the friendship of the well-beloved parson, and the frank admiration of dr. fox, could not stem the current against him. the children of the village ran away at his shadow, and the mothers in the doorway turned their babies' faces from him. every one who loved sir thomas waldron, and that meant everybody in the parish, shuddered at hearing that this strange man had paid two visits at walderscourt, and had even remained there a great part of one night. and when it was known that the yearly cricket-match, between the north side of the perle and the south, had been quenched by this doctor's stern decree, the wrath of the younger men was rebuked by the sorrow of the elder. jakes the schoolmaster, that veteran sergeant (known as "high jarks," from the lofty flourish of his one remaining arm, and thus distinct from his younger brother, "low jarks," a good but not extraordinary butcher), firm as he was, and inured to fields of death, found himself unable to refuse his iron cheeks the drop, that he was better fitted to produce on others. now that brave descendant of mars, and minerva, feared one thing, and one alone, in all this wicked world; and that was holy wedlock. it was rumoured that something had befallen him in spain, or some other foreign outlands, of a nature to make a good christian doubt whether woman was meant as a helpmate for him, under the new covenant. the sergeant was not given to much talking, but rigid, and resolute, and self-contained; more apt to point, and be, the moral of his vast experience, than to adorn it with long tales. many people said that having heard so much of the roar of cannon and the roll of drums, he could never come to care again for any toast-and-butter; while others believed that he felt it his duty to maintain the stern silence, which he imposed in school. there was however one person in the parish, with whom he indulged in brief colloquy sometimes; and strange to say, that was a woman. mrs. muggridge, the curate's housekeeper, felt more indignation than she could express, if anybody whispered that she was fond of gossip. but according to her own account, she smiled at such a charge, coming as it only could from the lowest quarters, because she was bound for her master's sake, to have some acquaintance with her neighbours' doings; for they found it too easy to impose on him. and too often little fay would run, with the best part of his dinner to some widow, mourning deeply over an empty pot of beer. for that mighty police-force of charity, the district-visitors, were not established then. thyatira, though not perhaps unduly nervous--for the times were sadly out of joint--was lacking to some extent in that very quality, which the sergeant possessed in such remarkable degree. and ever since that shocking day, when her dear mistress had been brought home from the cliff, stone-dead, the housekeeper had realised the perils of this life, even more deeply than its daily blessings. susanna, the maid, was of a very timid nature, and when piously rebuked for her want of faith in providence, had a knack of justifying her distrust by a course of very creepy narratives. mrs. muggridge would sternly command her to leave off, and yet contrive to extract every horror, down to its dying whisper. moreover the rectory, a long and rambling house, was not a cheerful place to sit alone in after dark. although the high, and whitewashed, back abutted on the village street, there was no door there, and no window looking outwards in the basement; and the walls being very thick, you might almost as well be fifty miles from any company. worst of all, and even cruel on the ancient builder's part, the only access to the kitchen and the rooms adjoining it was through a narrow and dark passage, arched with rough flints set in mortar, which ran like a tunnel beneath the first-floor rooms, from one end of the building to the other. the front of the house was on a higher level, facing southwards upon a grass-plat and flower-garden, and as pretty as the back was ugly. even the stoutest heart in perlycross might flutter a little in the groping process, for the tunnel was pitch-dark at night, before emerging into the candlelight twinkling in the paved yard beside the kitchen-door. while the servants themselves would have thought it a crime, if the butcher, or baker, or anyone coming for them (except the postman) had kept the front way up the open gravel walk, and ventured to knock at the front door itself. there was no bell outside to call them, and the green-baize door at the end of the passage, leading to the kitchen stairs, deadened the sound of the knocker so much, that sometimes a visitor might thunder away for a quarter of an hour, with intervals for conscientious study of his own temper, unless little fay's quick ears were reached, and her pink little palms and chest began to struggle with the mighty knob. so it happened, one evening in the first week of august, when mr. penniloe was engaged in a distant part of the parish, somebody or other came and knocked--it was never known how many times or how long,--at the upper-folk door of the rectory. there was not any deafness about thyatira; and as for susanna, she could hear too much; neither was little fay to blame, although the rest were rather fond of leaving things to her. if the pupils had returned, it could not have happened so; for although they made quite enough noise of their own in the little back-parlour allotted to them, they never failed to hear any other person's noise, and to complain of it next morning, when they did not know their lessons. but the present case was, that the whole live force of the rectory, now on the premises, was established quite happily in the kitchen yard; with a high wall between it and the village street, and a higher wall topped with shrubs between it and the garden. master harry, now at home for his holidays (a tiger by day, but a lion at night, for protection of the household), was away with his father, and sleeping soundly through a bible-lecture. and so it came to pass that the tall dark man knocked, and knocked; and at last departed, muttering uncourteous expressions through his beard. even that might never have been known inside, without the good offices of mrs. channing, the wife of the baker, whose premises adjoined the rectory garden, and the drive from the front gate. "'twas nort but them gelany fowls," she explained, before she had her breakfast, because her husband was the son of old channing, the clerk, and sexton; "them gelany birds of ours, as drew my notice to it. they kept up such a screeching in the big linhay just at dusk, instead of sticking their heads inside their wings, that i thought they must be worriting about a dog, or cat. and so out of house i runs; but i couldn't see nort, till i heers a girt knocking at passon's front-door. thinks i--'what's up now?' for i knowed a' wurn't at home, but away to they bible-readings. so i claps the little barn-steps again your big wall, and takes the liberty of peeping over, just between the lalac bush and old holly. you must understand, mrs. muggridge, that the light wurn't very clear; but i could make out a big tall man a-standing, with a long furrin cloak, atwixt the pillars of your porch. "'passon's not at home,' says i; 'can us give any message?' "then a' turns round sudden like, and stands just like a pictur', with the postesses to either side of him, and his beard falling down the same as aaron's. but if a' said ort, 'twaz beyond my comprehension. "'did you please to be looking for the doctor, sir?' i said--'the doctor as is biding now with mr. penniloe? i did hear that he was 'gone to squire waldron's house.' for i thought that he was more the sort to belong to that old gowler. "but he only shook his head, and turned away; and presently, off he walks most majestic, like the image of a man the same as i have seen to exeter. i felt myself in that alarm, that go away i couldn't, until i heard your gate fall to behind him. then i thought to come and tell you, but i hadn't got the nerves to face your black passage, after what had come across me. for to my mind it must have been the evil one himself. may the lord save us from his roarings and devourings!" when mrs. muggridge heard this tale, she thought that it had better go no further, and she saw no occasion to repeat it to her master; because no message had been left, and he might imagine that she had not attended to her duty very well. for it had chanced, that at the very moment when somebody wanted to disturb them, the housekeeper was giving a most pleasant tea-party to the two little dears, master michael, and miss fay. and by accident, of course, sergeant jakes had just dropped in. no black passage could be anything but a joke to a man of his valour; and no rapping at the door could have passed unchallenged, if it reached such ears. but the hospitable thyatira offered such a distraction of good things, far beyond the largest larder-dreams of a dry-tongued lonely bachelor, that the coarser, and seldom desirable, gift of the ears lay in deep abeyance. for the sergeant had felt quite enough of hardship to know a good time, when he tasted it. "now, my precious little dears," thyatira had whispered with a sigh, when the veteran would be helped no more; "there is light enough still for a game of hop-scotch, down at the bottom of the yard. susanna will mark out the bed for you. you will find the chalk under the knife-board." away ran the children; and their merry voices rang sweetly to the dancing of their golden hair. "sergeant schoolmaster," continued the lady, for she knew that he liked this combination of honours, "how pleasant it is, when the shadows are falling, to see the little innocents delighting in their games? it seems to be no more than yesterday, when i was as full of play as any of them." "a good many yesterdays have passed since that," mr. jakes thought as he looked at her; but he was far too gallant and polite to say so. "in your case, ma'am, it is so," he replied: "yesterday, only yesterday! the last time i was here, i was saying to myself that you ladies have the command of time. you make it pass for us so quickly, while it is standing still with you!" "what a fine thing it is to have been abroad! you do learn such things from the gift of tongues. but it do seem a pity you should have to say them so much to yourself, mr. sergeant." "ma'am," replied the veteran, in some fear of becoming too complimentary; "i take it that some of us are meant to live apart, and to work for the good of others. but have you heard how the colonel is to-day? ah, he is a man indeed!" "there are doctors enough to kill him now. and they are going to do it, this very night." mrs. muggridge spoke rather sharply, for she was a little put out with her visitor. "what?" cried the man of sword and ferule. "to operate, ma'am, and i not there--i, who know all about operations!" "no, mr. sergeant; but to hold a council. and in this very house, i believe; the room is to be ready at ten o'clock. dr. fox, dr. gronow, and dr. gowler. it is more than i can understand. but not a word about it to any one. for sir thomas would be very angry. to frighten his people, and make such a fuss--they durst not propose it at his own house. and gronow has never been called in, as you know. but dr. jemmy made a favour of it, for he thinks very highly of that man; and the gentleman from london did not object. only he said that if it must be so, and everything was to be out of proper form, he would like my master to be present with them." "three doctors, and a parson to sit upon him! the lord have mercy on the colonel's soul! there is no hope left for his poor body. i will tell you, ma'am, what i saw once at turry vardoes--but no, it is not fit for you to hear. well, my heart is like a lump of lead. i would sooner have lost my other arm, than heard such a thing of the colonel. good night, ma'am; and thanking you for all your kindness, i'm no fit company for any one, no longer." he was gone in a moment. his many-angled form sank into the darkness of the flinty tunnel, as swiftly as ever a schoolboy vanished, when that form became too conspicuous. thyatira heaved a deep sigh, and sat down in the many-railed beechen chair at the head of her cruelly vacant table. she began to count the empty dishes, and with less than her usual charity mused upon the voracity of man. but her heart was kind, and the tear she wiped away was not wholly of selfish tincture. "the hand of the lord is upon us now. my master will lose the best friend he has got," she was thinking, as the darkness gathered; "faithful as he is, it will try him hard again; for satan has prevailed against us. and this will be a worse snare than any he has laid. to have in parsonage house a man, as chooseth not to come to prayers; or at any rate standeth up at mantel-piece, with his back turned on the kneelers; till my master told him, like the christian he is, that he would not desire him, as his guest, to go contrairy to his principles,--and pretty principles they must be, i reckon,--but would beg him to walk in the garden, rather than set such example to his household! alas the day that such a man came here, to the house of a holy minister! no blessing can ever attend his medicine. ah, the times are not as they was! no wonder that spring-heeled jack is allowed to carry on, when such a heathen is encouraged in the land. it would not go out of my grains, if he was spring-heeled jack himself!" much against her liking, and with a trembling hand, this excellent woman brought in the candles, and prepared the sitting-room, for the consultation of unholy science. but the first to arrive was a favourite of hers, and indeed of all the parish, a young man of very cheerful aspect, and of brisk and ready speech. no man had ever known jemmy fox despair of anything he undertook; and there were few things he would not undertake; only he must tackle them in his own way. a square-built, thickset, resolute young fellow, of no great stature, but good frame and fibre, and as nimble as a pea in a frying-pan. there was nothing very wonderful about his face; and at first sight a woman would have called him plain, for his nose was too short, and his chin too square, and his mouth too wide for elegance. but the more he was looked at, the better he was liked by any honest person; for he was never on the watch for fault in others, as haters of humbug are too apt to be. and yet without intending, or knowing it at all, this son of chiron had given deep offence to many of his brethren around perlycross, and it told upon him sadly afterwards. for he loved his profession, and looked upon it as the highest and noblest in the world, and had worked at it too thoroughly not to have learned how often it is mere profession. by choice he would have dropped all general practice, and become a surgeon only; but this was impossible except in some large place, and cities were not to his liking. as the only son of a wealthy banker he might have led an idle life, if he pleased; but that he could not bear, and resolved to keep himself; for the old man was often too exacting, and the younger had some little income of his own. perlycross suited him well, and he had taken a long and rambling house, which had formerly been a barn, about half a mile from the village. "seen anything of spring-heeled jack, the last night or two, mrs. muggridge?" he enquired too lightly, as he flung down his hat in similar style at a corner. "have you heard the last thing that has come to light about him?" "no, sir, no! but i hope it is no harm," replied the palpitating thyatira. "well, that depends upon how you take it. we have discovered for certain, that he is a medical man from a country parish, not such a very long way from here, who found his practice too small for the slaughter on the wholesale style he delights in. and so he turned his instruments into patent jumpers, tore the heart out of his last patient--he was obliged to choose a poor one, or it would have been too small--then he fitted a bude-light to his biggest dark lantern. and you know better than i do what he shows you at the window, exactly as the church-clock strikes twelve." "oh, dr. jemmy, how you do make one creep! then after all he is not, as everybody says, even a dissolute nobleman?" "no. that is where the disappointment lies. he set that story afoot no doubt, to comfort the relatives of the folk he kills. by the by, what a place this old house would be for him! he likes a broad window-sill, just like yours, and the weather is the very thing for him." "i shall nail up a green baize every night. oh, dr. jemmy, there is a knock at the door! would you mind seeing who it is--that's a dear?" dr. fox, with a pleasant smile, admitted dr. gronow, on his very first visit to the rectory. "others not come yet?" asked the elder gentleman, as the trembling housekeeper offered him a chair; "his reverence would hardly like a pipe here, i suppose. well, jemmy, what is your opinion of all this strange affair?" mrs. muggridge had hurried off, with a shiver and a prayer. "i am mum, before my betters," the young man replied. "the case is gone out of my hands altogether." "and a good thing for you. i am glad of it for your sake. but we must not anticipate gowler. i have no business here, except as what the lawyers call _amicus curiã¦_. by the by, i suppose you have never seen the smallest ground for suspicion of foul play?" "never. i should have come to you first, if i had. there could be no possible motive, to begin with; and everybody loves him like a father." "a man is too fatherly sometimes. one never can understand those foreign women. but you know the family, and i do not. excuse me for a horrible suggestion. but i have had some very dark experiences." "and so, no doubt, has gowler. the idea crossed his brain; but was scattered immediately, when he knew the facts. hush, here they come! let us think no more of that." mr. penniloe was tired, and in very low spirits; for he looked upon this meeting as the fatal crisis. after seeing to his visitors, and offering refreshment--which none of them accepted--he took a chair apart, being present as a listener only. thereupon dr. gowler in very few words gave his view of the case, premising only that he spoke with some doubt, and might well be mistaken, for the symptoms were perplexing, and the malady was one which had not as yet been studied at all exhaustively. his conclusion agreed in the main with that of his young and sagacious coadjutor, though he was enabled, by longer experience, to be perhaps a little more definite. he spoke very well, and with a diffidence which particularly impressed the others, on the part of a man whose judgment was of the very highest authority. dr. gronow immediately confirmed his view, so far as the details at second hand could warrant, and gave his own account of a similar case, where the injury was caused by the handle of a barrow, and continued latent for several years. the unanimous decision was that no hope remained; unless the poor patient would submit to a surgical operation of great difficulty and danger, in the then condition of medical science; and for which it was advisable to have recourse to paris. "i know him too well. he will never consent," mr. penniloe came forward, and sought from face to face for some gleam of encouragement; "surely there must be some other course, something at least to alleviate----" "there may be: but we do not know it yet, and i fear that we never shall do so. and for this very sufficient reason"--here dr. gowler took a glove from his pocket, and presented a most simple and convincing explanation of the mischief that had happened, and the consequence that must of necessity ensue, without surgical redress. even that he admitted was of very doubtful issue, in plain english--"either kill, or cure." the parson sighed heavily, and even dr. fox was too much affected to say a word; but the elder physicians seemed to think it right and natural, and a credit to their science, that they knew so much about it. gowler and gronow were becoming mighty friends--so far as two men of the world care to indulge--and the great london doctor accepted with pleasure the offer of a day's fly-fishing. "i have not thrown a fly, since i was quite a boy," he said. "and i never threw a fly, till i was an old man," said the other; and their host knew well which would have the better chance, though he felt a little vexed at their light arrangements. "it is not for the sake of the fishing, my dear fellow," dr. gowler assured him, when the other two were gone; "i was to have left you in the morning, as you know; and i have not had such a holiday for seven years. i positively needed it, and shall be twice the man. but i felt that i ought to stay one day longer, to give you one more chance of persuading poor sir thomas. see how handsomely he has behaved--i mean, according to country notions; though i often make more in one day, in town. he slipped this into my hand, sealed up; and i did not refuse it, for fear of a fuss. but you will return it, when i am in the coach, and explain, with my kind regards, that it is against my rule to take any fee, upon a visit to a friend. i came to renew our old friendship only, and from my great regard for you. we do not think alike, upon the greatest of all matters. perhaps that is better for your happiness than mine. but after all my knowledge of the world, i do believe that the best friends are those, who are like you." mr. penniloe took the cheque for fifty guineas, and placed it in his desk, without a word; for he knew his friend's character too well to argue. then he shook him very warmly by the hand, and said "good night." but as he sank back in his chair to reflect, and examine himself of the bygone day, he hoped that his ears had deceived him that night, in a matter which had shocked him sadly. unless they had erred, dr. gronow had said--"in a case of this kind, for the advance of knowledge, autopsy should be compulsory." and harrison gowler had replied--"exactly so; but in this benighted part, i suppose it is impossible." chapter vii. r. i. p. "oh, mr. sergeant, how you did alarm me!" cried a very pretty damsel one fine october evening, as she almost fell upon the breast of "high jarks," from some narrow stone steps at the corner of a lane. she was coming by the nearest way to the upper village, from the side-entrance to walderscourt, a picturesque way but a rough one. for the lane was overhung, and even overwhelmed, with every kind of hindrance to the proper course of trade. out of the sides, and especially at corners, where the right of way should have been most sacred, jutted forth obstacles most inconsiderate, or even of set purpose, malicious. if a great stool of fern could be treated as nothing, even with its jagged saws quivering, or a flexible ash could be shoved aside lightly, with the cowardly knowledge that it had no thorns; yet in ambush with their spears couched, would be the files of furze, the barbed brigade of holly, or the stiff picket of blackthorn. and any man, engaged with these deliveries of the moment, might thank his stars (when visible through the tangle overhead) if by any chance he missed a blinding thump in both his eyes. alas, it would have been indeed a blessing, as well as a just correction, for the well-seasoned master of the youth of perlycross, if a benevolent switch from the hedgerow had taken him sharply in the eyes, that had so long descried nothing but motes in more tender orbs. as the young maid drew back from the warlike arm, which had been quite obliged to encircle her, one flash of her eyes entered those of mr. jakes; and he never saw again as he had seen before. but his usual composure was not gone yet. a true schoolmaster is well assured, whatever the circumstance may be, that he is in the right, and all others in the wrong. "i beg you will offer no apologies, miss," he began with a very gracious smile, as he rubbed up the nap of his old velvet coat where a wicked boy had tallow-candled it: "i take it that you are a stranger here, and not quite familiar with our kind of road. the roads about here have a manner of showing that they know not in what direction they are going?" "but, mr. sergeant, don't you know me? not so very long ago, i ran up this very lane, over the plank-bridge, and up to this heling, because of the temper you were in. it was my brother watty you wanted to catch: but you flourished your cane so, that the girls ran too. but you would not have beaten poor me, mr. sergeant?" she skipped back a step or two, as if still afraid, and curtsied to show her pretty figure, and managed to let her bright hair fall down over the blush of her soft round cheeks. then she lifted her eyes with the sweetest appeal; for the fair tamar haddon was a born coquette. "why, tamar, my dear, can it possibly be you? i could never have supposed that you would come to this. you were always the prettiest child among the girls. but, as you know, i had nothing to do with them. my business has always been with the boys." "and quite right, mr. sergeant--they are so much better, so much quicker to learn, as well as better-looking, and more interesting!" "that depends upon who it may be," said mr. jakes judicially; "some girls are much better at round-hand, as well as arithmetic. but why have i lost sight of you all these years? and why have you grown such a--well, such a size?" "oh, you _are_ rude! i am not a size at all. i thought that you always learned politeness in the wars. i am only seventeen round the waist--but you shan't see. no, no, stick you to the boys, mr. sergeant. i must be off. i didn't come out for pleasure. good evening, sir; good evening to you!" "don't be in such a hurry, miss haddon. don't you know when i used to give you sugar-plums out of this horn box? and if i may say it without offence, you are much too pretty to be in this dark place, without somebody to take care of you." "ah, now you are more like the army again. there is nothing like a warrior, in my opinion. oh, what a plague these brambles are! would you mind just holding my hat for a moment? i mustn't go into the village, such a fright, or everybody will stare at me. my hair is such a trouble, i have half a mind sometimes to cut off every snip of it. no, no, you can't help me; men are much too clumsy." mr. jakes was lost in deep admiration, and tamar haddon knew it well, and turned away to smile, as she sat upon a bank of moss, drawing her long tresses through the supple play of fingers and the rosy curve of palms; while her cherry lips were pouting and her brown eyes sparkling, in and out the golden shower from her saucy forehead. the schoolmaster held her little hat, and watched every movement of her hands and eyes, and wondered; for the gaiety of girlhood, and the blushes and the glances were as the opening of a new world to him. "i know what you are thinking now, it's no good to deny it," she cried as she jumped up, and snatched her hat away; "you are saying to yourself--'what a poor vain creature! servants' hats are not allowed in well-conducted households.' but you must understand that i am not a common servant. i am a private lady's-maid to her ladyship, the countess; and she has none of your old-fashioned english ways about her. she likes to see me look--well, perhaps you would not call it 'pretty,' for that depends upon the wearer, and i have no pretension to it--but tidy, and decent, and tolerably nice----" "wonderfully nice, and as lovely as a rose." "oh, mr. sergeant, you who must know so much better! but i have no time for such compliments, and they would turn my little head, from such a learned man as you are. how can i think of myself for a moment, when things are so dreadful? poor sir thomas--you know how ill he is; he is longing for something, and i am sent to fetch it on the sly, so that dr. fox should have no idea, but her ladyship says that it can do no harm, now." "what, the poor colonel waiting, miss, and i have kept you all this time? i was just on my way to enquire for him, when--when i happened to meet you. i can scarcely believe in any doctor conquering him." "they are though--they are doing it. he is very low to-day. they seem to have brought him down to a flat knock-under, just as you do with the schoolboys. i can't hardly think of it, without crying." the fair tamar dropped her eyes, and hung her head a little, and then looked softly at the veteran, to plead for his warmest sympathy. "there, i declare to you, i have cried so much that i can't cry no more," she continued with a sigh; "but it is a calf's sweetbread that i be bound to get; and where from, i'd like to know, unless it is to mr. robert's." a pang shot through the heart of mr. jakes, and if his cane had been at hand he would have grasped it. for mr. robert was his own brother, the only butcher in the village, a man of festive nature (as a butcher ought to be), of no habitual dignity--and therefore known as "low jarks"--a favourite with the fair sex, and worst of all, some twenty years the junior of "high jarks." "what, young bobby!" cried the sergeant, striking out, "there is nothing that he knows worth speaking of. and what is more to the purpose, he never will know nothing. i mean to say 'anything.' sometimes i go back from all my instructions all over the world, to the way--to the way you talk, in this part of the world." "but, mr. sergeant, that is only natural; considering that you belong to this part of the world. now, you do--don't you? however learned you may be." "well, i will not deny that it comes up sometimes. a man of my years--i mean, a young man by age, and yet one who has partaken in great motions, feels himself so very much above butchers' shops, and the like of them. and all the women--or as they call themselves now--all the ladies of the neighbourhood, have now been so well educated, that they think a great deal of the difference." "to be sure," said tamar haddon, "i can quite see that. but how could they get their meat, without the butchers' shops? some people are too learned, mr. sergeant." "i know it, miss. but i am very particular, not to let any one say it of me. i could quote latin, if i chose: but who would put a spill to my pipe afterwards? one must never indulge in all one knows." "well, it does seem a pity, after spending years about it. but here we are, come to the river-side at last. you mustn't think of coming across the plank with me. it would never do to have you drownded; and you know what betty cork is. why, all the boys to perlycross would be making mouths to-morrow? and i shall go home along the turnpike-road." the schoolmaster saw the discretion of this. charmed as he was with this gay young maid, he must never forget what was thought of him. for she was the daughter of walter haddon, the landlord of the _ivy-bush_, a highly respectable place, and therefore jealous of the parish reputation. moreover the handrail of the footbridge was now on the side of his empty sleeve; and the plank being very light and tremulous, he feared to recross it without stepping backward, which was better done without spectators. so he stayed where he was, while she tripped across, without even touching the handrail; and the dark gleam of the limpid perle, in the twilight of gray branches, fluttered with her passing shadow. just as she turned on the opposite bank, where cart-ruts ridged the water's brink, and was kissing her hand to the ancient soldier, with a gay "good evening!"--the deep boom of a big bell rang, and quivered throughout the valley. cattle in the meadows ceased from browsing, and looked up as if they were called, birds made wing for the distant wood, and sere leaves in the stillness rustled, as the solemn thrill trembled in the darkening air. "for god's sake, count," the old soldier cried, raising the hat from his grizzled head, and mounting a hillock clear of bushes; "it is the big bell tolling!" but the frolicsome maiden had disappeared, and he was left to count alone. at intervals of a minute, while the fall of night grew heavier, the burden of the passing-bell was laid on mortal ears and hearts. "time is over for one more," was graven on the front of it, and was borne along the valley; while the echo of the hills brought home the lesson of the reverse- "soon shall thy own life be o'er." keeping throbbing count, the listener spread the fingers of his one hand upon his threadbare waistcoat; and they trembled more and more, as the number grew towards the fatal forty-nine. when the forty-ninth stroke ceased to ring, and the last pulsation died away, he stood as if his own life depended on the number fifty. but the knell was finished; the years it told of were but forty-nine--gone by, like the minutes between the strokes. "old channing perhaps is looking at the tower-clock. hark! in a moment, he will strike another stroke." but old channing knew his arithmetic too well. "now god forgive me for a sinful man--or worse than a man, an ungrateful beast!" cried the sergeant, falling upon his knees, with sorrow embittered by the shameful thought, that while his old chief was at the latest gasp, himself had been flirting merrily with a handmaid of the house, and sniggering like a raw recruit. he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and the lesson of the bell fell on him. it had fallen at the same time upon ears more heedful, and less needful of it. mr. penniloe, on his homeward road, received the mournful message, and met the groom who had ridden so hard to save the angelical hour. and truly, if there be any value in the ancient saying- "happy is the soul that hath a speedy toll," the flight of sir thomas waldron's spirit was in the right direction. the clergyman turned from his homeward path, and hastened to the house of mourning. he scarcely expected that any one as yet would care to come down, or speak to him; but the least he could do was to offer his help. in the hush of the dusk, he was shown through the hall, and into a little sitting-room favoured by the ladies. believing that he was quite alone, for no one moved, and the light was nearly spent, he took a seat by the curtained window, and sank into a train of sombre thoughts. but presently a lapping sound aroused him, and going to the sofa, there he found his favourite nicie overcome with sorrow, her head drooping back, like a wind-tossed flower; while _pixie_, with a piteous gaze, was nestling to her side, and offering every now and then the silent comfort of his tongue. "what is it, my dear?" the parson asked, as if he did not know too well. but who knows what to say sometimes? then, shocked at himself, he said--"don't, my dear." but she went on sobbing, as if he had not spoken; and he thought of his little fay, when she lost her mother. he was too kind to try any consolations, or press the sense of duty yet; but he put on his glasses, and took little _pixie_, and began to stroke his wrinkled brow. "this dear little thing is crying too," he whispered; and certainly there were tears, his own or another's, on the velvet nose. then nicie rose slowly, and put back her hair, and tried to look bravely at both of them. "if mother could only cry," she said; "but she has not moved once, and she will not come away. there is one thing she ought to do, but she cannot; and i am afraid that i should never do it right. oh, will you do it, uncle penniloe? it would be an excuse to get her out of the room; and then we might make her lie down, and be better. my father is gone; and will mother go too?" speaking as steadily as she could, but breaking down every now and then, she told him, that there was a certain old ring, of no great value, but very curious, which her father had said many years ago he would like to have buried with him. he seemed to have forgotten it, throughout his long illness; but his wife had remembered it suddenly, and had told them where to find it. it was found by a trusty servant now; and she was present, while mr. penniloe placed it on the icy finger, and dropped a tear on the forehead of his friend, holy now in the last repose. on his homeward path that night, the curate saw through the gloom of lonely sorrow many a storm impending. who was there now to hold the parish in the bonds of amity, to reconcile the farmers' feuds, to help the struggling tradesman, to bury the aged cripple, to do any of those countless deeds of good-will and humanity, which are less than the discount of the interest of the debt, due from the wealthy to the poor? and who would cheer him now with bold decision, and kind deference, in all those difficulties which beset the country clergyman, who hates to strain his duty, yet is fearful of relaxing it? such difficulties must arise; and though there certainly was in those days, a great deal more fair give-and-take than can be now expected, there was less of settled rule and guidance for a peaceful parson. moreover, he felt the important charge which he had undertaken, as co-trustee of large estates, as well as a nervous dread of being involved in heavy outlay, with no rich friend to back him now, concerning the repairs, and in some measure the rebuilding, of the large and noble parish church. but all these personal troubles vanished, in the memories of true friendship, and in holy confidence, when he performed that last sad duty in the dismantled church, and then in the eastern nook of the long graveyard. he had dreaded this trial not a little, but knew what his dear friend would have wished; and the needful strength was given him. it has been said, and is true too often (through our present usages) that one funeral makes many. a strong east wind of unwonted bitterness at this time of year--it was now the last day of october--whistled through the crowd of mourners, fluttered scarf, and crape, and veil, and set old channing's last tooth raging, and tossed the minister's whitening locks, and the leaves of the office for the dead. so cold was the air, that people of real pity and good feeling, if they had no friends in the village, hied to the _ivy-bush_, when all was over, and called for hot brandy and water. but among them was not mr. jakes, though he needed a stimulus as much as any. he lingered in the churchyard, till the banking up was done, and every one else had quitted it. when all alone, he scooped a hole at the head of the grave, and filled it with a bunch of white chrysanthemums, imbedded firmly to defy the wind. then he returned to the sombre school-room, at the west end of the churchyard, and with one window looking into it. there, although he had flint and tinder, he did not even light a dip, but sat for hours in his chair of office, with his head laid on the old oak desk. rough, and sad, and tumbled memories passed before his gray-thatched eyes, and stirred the recesses of his rugged heart. suddenly a shadow fell across his desk. he rose from his dream of the past, and turning saw the half-moon quivering aslant, through the diamond panes of the lattice. for a minute he listened, but there was nothing to be heard, except a long low melancholy wail. then he buttoned his coat, his best sunday black, and was ashamed to find the empty cuff wet, as the bib of an infant, but with the tears of motherless old age. after his manner--when no boys were nigh--he condemned himself for an ancient fool, and was about to strike a light, when the sad low sound fell again upon his ears. determined to know what the meaning of it was, he groped for his hat, and stout oak staff, and entered the churchyard by the little iron gate, the private way from the school premises. the silence was as deep as the stillness of the dead; but, by the light of the westering moon, he made his way among the white tombstones, and the rubbish of the builders, to the eastern corner where sir thomas waldron lay. his old chief's grave was fair and smooth, and the crisp earth glistened in the moonlight, for the wind had fallen, and a frost was setting in; but a small black figure lay on the crown, close to the bunch of flowers. a low growl met him; and then a dismal wail of anguish, beyond any power of words or tears, trembled along the wan alleys of the dead, and lingered in the shadowy recesses of the church. "good little _jess_, thou art truer than mankind," said the sergeant, and marched away to his lonely bed. chapter viii. the potato-field. live who may, and die who must, the work of the world shall be carried on. of all these works, the one that can never be long in arrears is eating; and of all british victuals, next to bread, the potato claims perhaps the foremost place. where the soil is light towards hagdon hill, on the property of the dean and chapter, potatoes, meet for any dignitary of the church, could be dug by the ton, in those days. in these democratic and epidemic times, it is hard to find a good potato; and the reason is too near to seek. the finer the quality of fruit or root, the fiercer are they that fall on it; and the nemesis of excellence already was impending. but the fatal blow had not fallen yet; the ripe leaves strewed the earth with vivid gold, instead of reeking weltering smut; and the berries were sound, for boys and girls to pelt one another across the field; while at the lift of the glistening fork across the crumbling ridges, up sprang a cluster of rosy globes, clean as a codlin, and chubby as a cherub. farmer john horner, the senior churchwarden, and the largest ratepayer on the south side of the perle, would never have got on as he did, without some knowledge of the weather. the bitter east wind of the previous night, and the keen frost of the morning, had made up his mind that it was high time to lift his best field of potatoes. he had two large butts to receive the filled sacks--assorted into ware and chats--and every working man on the farm, as well as his wife and children, had been ordered to stick at this job, and clear this four-acre field before nightfall. the field was a good step from the village, as well as from farmer horner's house; and the lower end (where the gate was) abutted on the susscot lane, leading from the ford to perlycross. it was now all-hallows day, accounted generally the farewell of autumn, and arrival of the winter. birds, and beasts, that know their time without recourse to calendar, had made the best use of that knowledge, and followed suit of wisdom. some from the hills were seeking downwards, not to abide in earnest yet, but to see for themselves what men had done for their comfort when the pinch should come; some of more tender kind were gone with a whistle at the storms they left behind; and others had taken their winter apparel, and meant to hold fast to the homes they understood. farmer john, who was getting rather short of breath from the fatness of his bacon, stirred about steadfastly among the rows, exhorting, ordering, now and then upbraiding, when a digger stuck his fork into the finest of the clump. he had put his hunting gaiters on, because the ground would clog as soon as the rime began to melt; and the fog, which still lingered in the hollows of the slopes, made him pull his triple chin out of his comforter to cough, as often as he opened his big mouth to scold. for he was not (like farmers of the present day) too thankful for anything that can be called a crop, to utter a cross word over it. old mr. channing, the clerk, came in by the gate from the lane, when the sun was getting high. not that he meant to do much work--for anything but graves, his digging time was past, and it suited him better to make breeches--but simply that he liked to know how things were going on, and thought it not impossible that if he praised the 'taturs, churchwarden might say--"bob, you shall taste them; we'll drop you a bushel, when the butt comes by your door." so he took up a root or two here and there, and "hefted it," (that is to say, poised it carefully to judge the weight, as one does a letter for the post) and then stroked the sleek skin lovingly, and put it down gingerly for fear of any bruise. farmer john watched him, with a dry little grin; for he knew what the old gentleman was up to. "never see'd such 'taturs in all my life," mr. channing declared with a sigh of admiration. "talk of varmers! there be nobody fit to hold a can'le to our measter john. i reckon them would fry even better than they biled; and that's where to judge of a 'tatur, i contends." "holloa, mr. clerk! how be you then, this fine morning?" the farmer shouted out, as if no muttering would do for him, while he straddled over a two-foot ridge, with the rime thawing down his gaiters. "glad to see 'e here, old veller. what difference do 'e reckon now, betwixt a man and a 'tatur?" farmer john was famous for his riddles. he made them all himself, in conversation with his wife--for he had not married early--and there was no man in the parish yet with brains enough to solve them. and if any one attempted it, the farmer always snubbed him. "there now, ye be too deep for me!" mr. channing made a hole in the ground with his stick, as if mr. horner was at the bottom of it. "it requireth a good deal more than us have got, to get underneath your meaning, sir." "no, bob, no! it be very zimple, and zuitable too for your trade. a 'tatur cometh out of ground, when a' be ripe; but a man the zame way goeth underground. and a good thing for him, if he 'bideth there, according to what hath been done in these here parts, or a little way up country. no call for thee to laugh, bob, at thy time of life, when behooveth thee to think over it. but i'll give thee an order for a pair of corduroys, and thou shalt have a few 'taturs, when the butt comes by. us, as belongs to the church, is bound to keep her agoing, when the hogs won't miss it! but there, lord now, i want a score of nose-rings? have 'e see'd anything of joe crang, this morning? we never heer'd nort of his anvil all the time! reckon joe had a drop too much at the _bush_, last night." "why, here a' coom'th!" exclaimed the clerk. "look, a' be claimbin' of an open gate! whatever can possess the man? a' couldn't look more mazed and weist, if a hunderd ghostesses was after him?" joseph crang, the blacksmith at susscot ford, where the susscot brook passed on its way to the perle, was by nature of a merry turn, and showed it in his face. but he had no red now, nor even any black about him, and the resolute aspect, with which he shod a horse, or swung a big hammer, was changed into a quivering ghastly stare; his lips were of an ashy blue, like a ring of tobacco smoke; and as for his body, and legs, and clothes, they seemed to have nothing to do with one another. "what aileth the man?" cried mr. channing, standing across, as he had the right to do, after bestraddling so many burials; "master joe crang, i call upon thee to collect thy wits, and out with it." "joe, thy biggest customer hath a right to know thy meaning." farmer john had been expecting to have to run away; but was put in courage by the clerk, and brought up his heels in a line with the old man's. "coompany, coompany is all i axes for," the blacksmith gasped weakly, as if talking to himself--"coompany of living volk, as rightly is alive." "us be all alive, old chap. but how can us tell as you be?" the clerk was a seasoned man of fourscore years, and knew all the tricks of mortality. "i wish i wadn't. a'most i wish i wadn't, after all i zee'd last night. but veel of me, veel of me, measter channin', if you plaise to veel of me." "tull 'e what," the churchwarden interposed; "gie 'un a drink of zider, bob. if a' be joe crang, a' won't say no to thiccy. there be my own little zup over by the hedge, joe." without any scruple the blacksmith afforded this proof of vitality. the cider was of the finest strain--"three stang three," as they called it--and joe looked almost like himself, as he put down the little wooden keg, with a deep sigh of comfort. "maketh one veel like a man again," he exclaimed, as he flapped himself on the chest. "master hornder, i owe 'e a good turn for this. lord only knoweth where i maight a' been, after a' visited me zo last night. it was a visit of the wicked one, by kitums." master crang hitched up his trousers, and seemed ready to be off again. but the churchwarden gripped him by the collar. "nay, man. shan't have it thy own way. after what us have doed for thy throat, us have a call upon thy breath. strange ways with strangers; open breast with bellyful." the honest blacksmith stood in doubt, and some of his terror crept back again. "bain't for me to zettle. be a job for passon penniloe. swore upon my knees i did. here be the mark on my small-clothes. passon is the only man can set my soul to liberty." "what odds to us about thy soul? 'tis thy tongue we want, lad?" the senior churchwarden cried impatiently. "thou shalt never see a groat of mine again, unless thou speakest." "passon hath a chill in's bones, and the doctor hath been called to him," mr. channing added, with a look of upper wisdom. "clerk and churchwarden, in council assembled, hath all the godliness of a rubric." the blacksmith was moved, and began to scratch his head. "if a' could only see it so?" he muttered--"howsomever, horder they women vessels out o' zight. a woman hath no need to hear, if her can zee--according as the wise man sayeth. and come where us can see the sun a shinin'; for my words will make 'e shiver, if ye both was tombstones. i feel myself a busting to be rid of them." master crang's tale--with his speech fetched up to the manner of the east of england, and his flinty words broken into our road-metal--may fairly be taken for spoken as follows:-"no longer agone than last night, i tell you, i went to bed, pretty much as usual, with nothing to dwell upon in my mind; without it was poor squire's funeral, because i had been attending of it. i stayed pretty nearly to the last of that, and saw the ground going in again; and then i just looked in at the _bush_, because my heart was downsome. all the company was lonesome, and the room was like a barn after a bad cold harvest, with a musty nose to it. there was nobody with spirit to stand glasses round, and nobody with heart to call for them. the squire was that friendly-minded, that all of us were thinking--'the lord always taketh the best of us. i may be the one to be called for next.' then an old man in the corner, who could scarcely hold his pipe, began in a low voice about burials, and doctors, and the way they strip the graves up the country; and the others fell in about their experience; and with only two candles and no snuffers but the tongs, any one might take us for a company of sextons. "the night was cruel cold, when i come out, and everything looking weist and unkid, and the big bear was right across the jags of church-tower; and with nothing inside to keep me up to the mark, and no neighbour making company, the sound of my own heels was forced upon my ears, as you might say, by reason of the gloomy road, and a spark of flint sometimes coming up like steel-filings, when i ran to keep heat, for i had not so much as a stick with me. and when i got home i roused up the forge-fire, so as to make sure where i was, and comfort my knuckles; and then i brashed it down, with coals at present figure, for the morning. "as it happened, my wife had been a little put out, about something or other in the morning; you know how the women-folk get into ways, and come out of them again, without no cause. but when she gets into that frame of mind, she never saith much, to justify it, as evil-tempered women do, but keeps herself quiet, and looks away bigly, and leaves me to do things for myself; until such time as she comes round again. so i took a drink of water from the shoot, instead of warming up the teapot, and got into bed like a lamb, without a word; leaving her to begin again, by such time as she should find repentance. and before i went to sleep, there was no sound to be heard in the house, or in the shop below; without it was a rat or two, and the children snoring in the inner room, and the baby breathing very peaceful in the cradle to the other side of the bed, that was strapped on, to come at for nursing of her. "well, i can't say how long it may have been, because i sleep rather heartily, before i was roused up by a thundering noise going through the house, like the roaring of a bull. sally had caught up the baby, and was hugging and talking, as if they would rob her of it; and when i asked what all this hubbub was, 'you had better go and see,' was all she said. something told me it was no right thing; and my heart began beating as loud as a flail, when i crept through the dark to the window in the thatch; for the place was as black almost as the bottom of my dipping-trough, and i undid the window, and called out, 'who is there?' with as much strength as ever i was master of, just then. "'come down, or we'll roast you alive,' says a great gruff voice that i never heard the like of; and there i saw a red-hot clinker in my own tongs, a sputtering within an inch of my own smithy thatch. "'for god's sake, hold hard!' says i, a thinking of the little ones. 'in less than two minutes i'll be with you.' i couldn't spare time to strike a light, and my hands were too shaky for to do it. i huddled on my working clothes anyhow, going by the feel of them; and then i groped my way downstairs, and felt along the wall to the backway into workshop, and there was a little light throwing a kind of shadow from the fire being bellowsed up; but not enough to see things advisedly. the door had been kicked open, and the bar bulged in; and there in the dark stood a terrible great fellow, bigger than dascombe, the wrestler, by a foot; so far as i could make out by the stars, and the glimmer from the water. over his face he had a brown thing fixed, like the front of a fiddle with holes cut through it, and something i could not make out was strapped under one of his arms like a holster. "'just you look here, man, and look at nothing else, or it will be worse for you. bring your hammer and pincers, while i show a light.' "'let me light a lantern, sir,' i said, as well as i could speak for shivering; 'if it is a shoeing job, i must see what i am about.' "'do what i say, blacksmith; or i'll squash you under your anvil.' "he could have done it as soon as looked; and i can't tell you how i put my apron on, and rose the step out of shop after him. he had got a little case of light in one hand, such as i never saw before, all black when he chose, but as light as the sun whenever he chose to flash it, and he flashed it suddenly into my eyes, so that i jumped back, like a pig before the knife. but he caught me by the arm, where you see this big blue mark, and handed me across the road like that. "'blast the horse! put his rotten foot right,' he says. and sure enough there was a fine nag before me, quaking and shaking with pain and fright, and dancing his near fore-foot in the air, like a christian disciple with a bad fit of the gout. "that made me feel a bit like myself again; for there never was no harm in a horse, and you always know what you are speaking to. i took his poor foot gently, as if i had kid gloves on, and he put his frothy lips into my whiskers, as if he had found a friend at last. "the big man threw the light upon the poor thing's foot, and it was oozing with blood and black stuff like tar. 'what a d----d fuss he makes about nothing!' says the man, or the brute i should call him, that stood behind me. but i answered him quite spirity, for the poor thing was trying to lick my hand with thankfulness, 'you'd make a d----der, if it was your foot,' i said; 'he hath got a bit of iron driven right up through his frog. have him out of shafts. he isn't fit to go no further.' for i saw that he had a light spring-cart behind him, with a tarpaulin tucked in along the rails. "'do him where he stands, or i'll knock your brains out;' said the fellow pushing in, so as to keep me from the cart. 'jem, stand by his head. so, steady, steady!' "as i stooped to feel my pincers, i caught just a glimpse under the nag's ribs of a man on his off-side, with black clothes on, a short square man, so far as i could tell: but he never spoke a word, and seemed ever so much more afraid to show himself than the big fellow was, though he was shy enough. then i got a good grip on the splinter of the shoe, which felt to me more like steel than iron, and pulled it out steadily and smoothly as i could, and a little flow of blood came after it. then the naggie put his foot down, very tenderly at first, the same as you put down an over-filled pint. "'gee-wugg's the word now,' says the big man to the other; and sorry i am to my dying bones that i stopped them from doing it. but i felt somehow too curious, through the thicket of my fright, and wise folks say that the lord hath anger with men that sleep too heartily. "'bide a bit,' i told him, 'till i kill the inflammation, or he won't go a quarter of a mile before he drops;' and before he could stop me, i ran back, and blew up a merry little blaze in the shop, as if to make a search for something, and then out i came again with a bottle in my hand, and the light going flickering across the road. the big man stood across, as if to hide the cart; but the man behind the horse skitted back into a bush, very nimble and clever, but not quite smart enough. "the pretty nag--for he was a pretty one and kind, and now i could swear to him anywhere--was twitching his bad foot up and down, as if to ask how it was getting on; and i got it in my hand, and he gave it like a lamb, while i poured in a little of the stuff i always keep ready for their troubles, when they have them so. for the moment i was bold, in the sense of knowing something, and called out to the man i was so mortal frit of--'master, just lend a hand for a second, will you; stand at his head in case it stingeth him a bit.' horse was tossing of his head a little, and the chap came round me, and took him by the nose, the same as he had squeezed me by the arm. "'i must have one hind-foot up, or he will bolt,' says i; though the lord knows that was nonsense; and i slipped along the shaft, and put my hand inside the wheel, and twitched up the tarpaulin that was tucked below the rail. at the risk of my life it was; and i knew that much, although i was out of the big man's sight. and what think you i saw, in the flickering of the light? a flicker it was, like the lick of a tongue; but it's bound to abide as long as i do. as sure as i am a living sinner, what i saw was a dead man's shroud. soft, and delicate, and white it was, like the fine linen that dives wore, and frilled with rare lace, like a wealthy baby's christening; no poor man, even in the world to come, could afford himself such a winding-sheet. tamsin tamlin's work it was; the very same that we saw in her window, and you know what that was bought for. what there was inside of it was left for me to guess. "i had just time to tuck the tarpaulin back, when the big man comes at me with his light turned on. 'what the ---are you doing with that wheel?' says he, and he caught me by the scruff of the neck, and swung me across the road with one hand, and into my shop, like a sack with the corn shot out of it. 'down on your knees!' he said, with no call to say it, for my legs were gone from under me, and i sprawled against my own dipping-trough, and looked up to be brained with my own big hammer. 'no need for that,' he saith, for he saw me glancing at it; 'my fist would be enough for a slip such as you. but you be a little too peart, master smith. what right have you to call a pair of honest men sheep-stealers?' "i was so astonished that i could not answer, for the thought of that had never come nigh me. but i may have said--_shish_--_shish!_ to soothe the nag; and if i did, it saved my life, i reckon. "'now swear, as you hoped to be saved,' says he, 'that never a word shall pass your lips about this here little job to-night.' i swore it by matthew, mark, luke, and john; but i knew that i never could stick to it. 'you break it,' says he, 'and i'll burn you in your bed, and every soul that belongs to you. here's your dibs, blacksmith! i always pay handsome.' he flung me a crown of king george and the dragon, and before i could get up again, the cart was gone away. "now, i give you my word, farmer hornder, and the very same to you clerk channing, it was no use of me to go to bed again, and there never was a nightcap would stay on my head without double-webbing girths to it. by the mercy of the lord, i found a thimbleful of gin, and then i roused up light enough to try to make it cheerful; and down comes sally, like a faithful wife, to find out whatever i was up to. you may trust me for telling her a cock-and-bull affair; for 'twas no woman's business, and it might have killed the baby." chapter ix. the narrow path. "now, master joe crang," the churchwarden said firmly, but not quite as sternly as he meant to put it, because he met the blacksmith's eyes coming out of head; "how are we to know that you have not told us what you call a cock-and-bull affair? like enough you had a very fearsome dream, after listening to a lot about those resurrection-men, and running home at night with the liquor in your head." "go and see my door ahanging on the hinges, master, and the mark of the big man's feet in the pilm, and the track of wheels under the hedge, and the blood from the poor nag's frog, and the splinter of shoe i pulled out with the pincers. but mercy upon me, i be mazed almost! i forgot i put the iron in my pocket. here it is?" there it was sure enough, with dried blood on the jag of it, and the dint from a stone which had driven it, like a knife through an oyster-shell, into the quick. such is the nature of human faith, that the men, handling this, were convinced of every word. they looked at each other silently, and shook their heads with one accord, and gave the shivering blacksmith another draught of cider. "joe, i beg your pardon for doubting of your word," farmer john answered, as his own terror grew; "you have been through a most awesome night. but tell us a thing or two you have left out. what way do you reckon the cart came from, and what was the colour, and was there any name on it, and by the sound, which way did it drive off?" "ay, ay, he hath hit it," the clerk chimed in; "the finest head-piece in all the county belongeth to the hat of our master john horner." "i'll tell 'e every blessed thing i knows, but one," joe crang was growing braver, after handing horrors on; "can't say which way the cart come from, because i was sound in my bed just then. but her hadn't been through the ford, by the look of wheels, and so it seems her must have come from perlycrass direction. the colour was dark; i should say, a reddish brown, so far as the light supported me. there was no name to see; but i was on her near side, and the name would be t'other side of course, if there wur one. her drove off the way her was standing, i believe; at least according to the sound of it; and i should have heard the splash, if they had driven through the ford. any other questions, master?" "there may be some more, joe, when i come to think. but i don't see clearly how you could have been on the near side of horse, to the other side of lane, in case they were coming from our village way." "you'm right enough there, sir, if so be they hadn't turned. i could see by the marks that they went by my shop, and then turned the poor horse, who was glad enough to stop; and then bided under hedge, in a sort of dark cornder. might a' come down the lane a' purpose like, seeking of me to do the job. seemeth as if they had heard of my shop, but not ezactually where it waz." "when you come to think of it, might be so." farmer john was pretty safe in his conclusions, because they never hurried him. "and if that was the meaning, we should all have reason to be very joyful, joe. you cannot see it yet; nor even master channing. but to my mind it proveth that the chaps in this queer job--mind, i don't say but what they may have been respectable, and driving about because they could afford it--but to my mind it showeth they were none of our own parish. nor next parish either, so far as reason goes. every child in perlycross, with legs to go on, knows afore his alphabet, where susscot forge be." "a' knoweth it too well, afore he gets his breeches. three quarters of a mile makes no odds to they childer, when they take it in their heads to come playing with the sparks. and then their mothers after 'em, and all the blame on me!" "it is the way of human nature, when it is too young. master clerk, a word with you, before we go too far. sit down upon this sack, joe, and try to eat a bit, while the wiser heads be considering." the churchwarden took the ancient clerk aside, and the blacksmith beginning to be in better heart, renewed his faith in human nature upon bread and bacon. before he was sure that he had finished, the elder twain came back to him, fortified by each other's sense of right, and high position in the parish. but channing was to put the questions now, because they were unpleasant, and he was poor. "according to my opinion, master crang, you have told us everything wonderful clear, as clear as if we had been there to see it, considering of the time of night. but still there is one thing you've kept behind, causally perhaps, and without any harm. but churchwarden horner saith, and everybody knows the value of his opinion, that the law is such, that every subject of the king, whatever his own opinion may be, hath to give it the upper course, and do no more harm than grumble." "big or little, old or young, male or female, no distinction, baronet or blacksmith;" said farmer john, impressively. "and therefore, joe, in bounden duty we must put the question, and you must answer. who was the man according to your judgment, that kept so close behind the horse, and jumped away so suddenlike, when the light of your fire shone into the lane? you said that the big man called him 'jem,' and you as good as told us that you certified his identity." "i don't understand 'e, master channing. i never was no hand at big words." the blacksmith began to edge away, till the farmer took the old man's staff, and hooked him by the elbow. "no lies, crang! you know me pretty well. i am not the man to stand nonsense. out of this potato-field you don't budge, till you've told us who the short man was." "a' worn't short, sir; a' worn't short at all--taller than i be, i reckon; but nort to what the other were. do 'e let go of me, farmer hornder. how could i see the man, through the nag?" "that's your own business, crang. see him you did. horse or no horse, you saw the man; and you knew him, and you were astonished. who was he, if you please, master joseph crang?" "i can't tell 'e, sir, if i was to drop down dead this minute. and if i said ort to make 'e vancy that i knowed the gentleman, i must a' been mazed as a drummeldrone." "oh, a gentleman, was it? a queer place for a gentleman! no wonder you cockle yourself to keep it dark. a five-pound note to be made out of that, joe; if the officers of justice was agreeable." "master hornder, you'm a rich man, and i be but a poor one. i wouldn't like to say that you behaved below yourself, by means of what i thought; without knowing more than vancy." "joe, you are right, and i was wrong;" the farmer was a just man, whenever he caught sight of it; "i was going to terrify of 'e, according to the orders of the evil-thinkers, that can't believe good, because it bain't inside theirselves. but i put it to you now, joe, as a bit of dooty; and it must tell up for you, in t'other way as well. for the sake of all good christians, and the peace of this here parish, you be held to bail by your own conscience, the lord having placed you in that position, to tell us the full names of this man, gentleman or ploughboy, gipsy or home-liver." the blacksmith was watching mr. horner's eyes, and saw not a shadow of relenting. then he turned to the old man, for appeal. but the clerk, with the wisdom of fourscore years, said,--"truth goes the furthest. who would go to jail for you, joe?" "mind that you wouldn't give me no peace; and that i says it against my will, under fear of the king and religion"--master crang protested, with a twist, as if a clod-crusher went over him--"likewise that i look to you to bear me harmless, as a man who speaketh doubtful of the sight of his own eyes. but unless they was wrong, and misguided by the devil, who were abroad last night and no mistake, t'other man--in the flesh, or out of it, and a' might very well a' been out of it upon such occasion, and with that there thing behind him, and they say that the devil doth get into a bush, as my own grandmother zee'd he once--'twixt a rosemary tree, which goes far to prove it, being the very last a' would have chosen----" "none of that stuff," cried the churchwarden sternly; and the clerk said, "no beating about the bush, joe! as if us didn't know all the tricks of zatan!" "well then, i tell 'e--it waz doctor jemmy vox." they both stood, and stared at him, as if to ask whether his brain was out of order, or their own ears. but he met their gaze steadily, and grew more positive, on the strength of being doubted. "if ever i zee'd a living man, i tell 'e that man, t'other side of the nag, waz doctor jemmy vox, and no other man." the men of devon have earned their place (and to their own knowledge the foremost one) in the records of this country, by taking their time about what they do, and thinking of a thing before they say it. shallow folk, having none of this gift, are apt to denounce it as slowness of brain, and even to become impatient with the sage deliberators. both horner, and channing, had excellent reasons for thinking very highly of dr. fox. the churchwarden, because the doctor had saved the life of his pet child sally, under providence; and the clerk, inasmuch as he had the privilege of making the gentleman's trousers, for working and for rustic use. "now i tell 'e what it is," said farmer john, looking wrathful, because he saw nothing else to do, and channing shrank back from doing anything; "either thou art a born liar, joe; or the devil hath gotten hold of thee." "that's the very thing i been afeared of. but would un let me spake the truth, without contempt of persons?" "will 'e stand to it, joe, afore a justice of the peace?" the clerk thought it was high time to put in a word. "upon occasion, i mean, and if the law requireth." "there now! look at that! the right thing cometh, soon or late;" cried the persecuted blacksmith. "take me afore squire walders himself--no, no, can't be, considerin' i were at his funeral yesterday--well take me afore squire mockham, if be fitty; and ax of him to putt, i don't care what it be, stocks, or dead water, or shears atop of me; and i'll tell un the very zame words i telled to thee. can't hev no relief from gospel, if the passon's by the heels; shall have some relief by law, if the lord hath left it living. no man can't spake no vairer than that there be." this adjuration was of great effect. "to zeiser shalt thou go?" replied the senior churchwarden; "us have no right to take the matter out of zeiser's hands. i was dwelling in my mind of that all along, and so was you, clerk." mr. channing nodded, with his conscience coming forward; and after some directions at the upper end of field--where the men had been taking it easily, and the women putting heads together--the two authorities set off along the lane, with the witness between them, towards perlycross. but, as if they had not had enough of excitement to last them for a month of thoughts and words, no sooner did they turn the corner at the four-cross roads (where the rectory stands, with the school across the way), than they came full butt upon a wondrous crowd of people hurrying from the churchyard. "never heard the like of it!" "can't believe my eyes a'most." "whatever be us a'coming to?" "the lord in heaven have mercy on the dead!" "the blessed dead, as can't help theirselves!" these, and wilder cries, and shrieks, from weeping women along the cottage-fronts; while in the middle of the street came slowly men with hot faces, and stern eyes. foremost of all was sergeant jakes, with his head thrown back, and his gray locks waving, and his visage as hard as when he scaled the ramparts, and leaped into the smoke and swordflash. behind him was a man upon a foaming horse, and the strength of the village fiercely silent. "where be all agoing to? what's up now? can't any of 'e spake a word of sense?" cried farmer john, as the crowd stopped short, and formed a ring around him. "high jarks, tell un." "us was going to your house." "hold your tongue, will 'e, and let high jarks speak." the sergeant took discipline, and told his tale in a few strong words, which made the farmer's hair stand up. "let me see the proof," was all he said; for his brain was going round, being still unseasoned to any whirl fiercer than rotation of farm-crops. all the others fell behind him, with that sense of order which still swayed the impulse of an english crowd; for he was now the foremost layman in the parish, and everybody knew that the parson was laid up. the gloom of some black deed fell upon them; and they passed along the street like a funeral. "clap the big gate to, and shoot the iron bar across. no tramping inside more than hath been a'ready." master horner gave this order, and it was obeyed, even by those who excluded themselves. at the west end, round the tower, was a group of "foreign" workmen--as the artisans from exeter were called--but under orders from mr. adney they held back, and left the parish matter to the natives thereof. "now come along with me, the men i call for;" commanded the churchwarden, with his hand upon the bars, as he rose to the authority conferred upon him; "and they be sergeant jakes, clerk channing, bob that hath ridden from walderscourt, and constable tapscott, if so be he hath arrived." "i be here, sure enough, and my staff along o' me--hath the pictur' of his majesty upon him. make way, wull 'e, for the officer of the king?" then these men, all in a cold sweat more or less--except sergeant jakes, who was in a hot one--backing up one another, took the narrow path which branched to the right from the churchyard cross, to the corner where brave colonel waldron had been laid. chapter x. in charge. "my young friend, i must get up," mr. penniloe exclaimed, if so feeble a sound could be called an exclamation. "it is useless to talk about my pulse, and look so wise. here have i been perhaps three days. i am not quite certain, but it must be that. and who is there to see to the parish, or even the service of the church, while i lie like this? it was most kind of you--i have sense enough to feel it--to hurry from your long ride, without a bit to eat--mrs. muggridge said as much, and you could not deny it. but up i must get; and more than that, i must get out. it will soon be dark again, by the shadows on the blind, and i am sure that there is something gone amiss, i know not what. but my duty is to know it, and to see what i can do. now go, and have some dinner, while i just put on my clothes." "nothing of that sort, sir, will you do to-day. you are weaker than a cat--as that stupid saying goes. that idiot jackson has bled you to a skeleton, put a seton in your neck, and starved you. and he has plied you with drastics, by day and by night. why, the moment i heard of that perliton booby getting you in his clutches--but thank god i was in time! it is almost enough to make one believe in special providences." "hush, jemmy, hush? you cannot want to vex me now." "neither now, nor ever, sir; as you are well aware. so you must do likewise, and not vex me. i have trouble enough of my own, without rebellion by my patients." "i forgot that, jemmy. it was not kind of me. but i am not quite clear in my head just now. i fear i am neglecting some great duty. but just for the moment, i am not sure what it is. in a minute or two, i shall remember what it is." "no, you won't, my good friend, not for twenty hours yet;" the young doctor whispered to himself. "you have had a narrow shave, and another day of jackson would have sent you to the world you think too much of. there never was a man who dwelt in shadows--or in glory, as you take it--with his whole great heart, as you do. well, i wish there were more of them, and that i could just be one." the peace that had settled on the parson's face was such as no lineaments of man can win, without the large labours of a pure life past, and the surety of recompense full in view. fox kept his eye on him, and found his pulse improve, as hovering slumber deepened into tranquil sleep. "rare stuff that!" he said, referring not to faith, but to a little phial-bottle he had placed upon the drawers; "he shan't go to glory yet, however fit he may be. it is high time,--i take it, for me to have a little peck." the young man was right. he had ridden thirty miles from his father's house that afternoon, and hearing at the "old barn," as he called his present home, of poor mr. penniloe's serious illness, had mounted his weary mare again, and spurred her back to the rectory. of the story with which all the parish was ringing he had not heard a word as yet, being called away by his anxious mother, on the very night after the squire was buried. but one thing had puzzled him, as he passed and repassed the quiet streets of perlycross--the people looked at him, as if he were a stranger, and whispered to one another as he trotted by. could they have known what had happened to his father? with the brown tops still upon his sturdy legs, and spurs thickly clotted with somerset mud (crustier even than that of devon) fox left the bedroom with the door ajar, and found little fay in a beehive chair, kneeling with her palms put together on the back, and striving hard to pray, but disabled by deep sobs. her lovely little cheeks and thick bright curls were dabbled into one another by the flood of tears; as a moss-rose, after a thundershower, has its petals tangled in the broidery of its sheath. "will he die, because i am so wicked? will he die, because i cannot see the face of god?" she was whispering, with streaming eyes intent upon the sky-light, as if she were looking for a healthy father there. "no, my little darling, he will not die at all. not for many years, i mean, when fay is a great tall woman." the child turned round with a flash of sudden joy, and leaped into his arms, and flung her hair upon his shoulders, and kissed him, vehemently, "with a one, two, three! if you want any more, you must kiss me." like a true tiny queen of the nursery. many little girls were very fond of dr. fox; although their pretty loves might end in a sombre potion. "now shall i tell you what to do, my dear?" said the truly starving doctor, with the smell of fine chops coming up the stairs, sweeter than even riper lips; "you want to help your dear daddy, don't you?" little fay nodded, for her heart was full again, and the heel-tap of a sob would have been behind her words. "then go in very quietly, and sit upon that chair, and don't make any noise, even with your hair. keep the door as it is, or a little wider; and never take your eyes from your dear father's face. if he keeps on sleeping, you stay quiet as a mouse; if he opens his eyes, slip out softly, and tell me. now you understand all that, but you must not say a word." the child was gazing at him, with her whole soul in her eyes, and her red lips working up and down across her teeth; as if her father's life hung upon her self-control. dr. fox was hard put to it to look the proper gravity. as if he would have put this little thing in charge, if there had been any real charge in it! "grand is the faith of childhood. what a pity it gets rubbed out so soon!" he said to himself, as he went down the stairs, and the child crept into her father's room, as if the whole world hung upon her pretty little head. mrs. muggridge had lighted two new candles, of a size considered gigantic then--for eight of them weighed a pound almost--and not only that, but also of materials scarcely yet accepted as orthodox. for "composites" was their name, and their nature was neither sound tallow, nor steadfast wax. grocer wood had sent them upon trial gratis; but he was a dissenter, though a godly man; and the housekeeper, being a convert to the church, was not at all sure that they would not blow up. therefore she lit them first for dr. fox, as a hardy young man, with some knowledge of mixtures. "he is going on famously, as well as can be, muggridge;" the doctor replied to her anxious glance. "he will not wake till twelve, or one o'clock, to-morrow; and then i shall be here, if possible. the great point then will be to feed him well. beef-tea, and arrow-root, every two hours, with a little port wine in the arrow-root. no port wine in the house? then i will send some, that came from my father's own cellar. steal all his clothes, and keep a female in the room. the parson is a modest man, and that will keep him down. but here comes my mutton chop. well done, susanna! what a cook! what skill and science, at the early age of ten!" this was one of dr. jemmy's little jokes; for he knew that susanna was at least seventeen, and had not a vestige of cookery. but a doctor, like a sexton, must be jolly, and leave the gravity to the middleman--the parson. but instead of cutting in with her usual protest, and claim to the triumph, whatever it might be, mrs. muggridge to his surprise held back, and considered his countenance, from the neighbourhood of the door. she had always been ready with her tit-for-tat, or lifting of her hand in soft remonstrance at his youthful levity. but now the good woman, from behind the candles, seemed to want snuffing, as they began to do. "anything gone wrong in perlycross, since i went away, mrs. muggridge? i don't mean the great loss the parish has sustained, or this bad attack of mr. penniloe's. that will be over, in a few days' time, now his proper adviser is come back again. by the way, if you let jackson come in at this front door--no, it mustn't lie with you, i will write a little note, polite but firm, as the papers say; it shall go to his house by my boy jack, to save professional amenities: but if he comes before he gets it, meet him at the door with another, which i will leave with you. but what makes you look so glum at me, my good woman? out with it, if i have hurt your feelings. you may be sure that i never meant to do so." "oh sir, is it possible that you don't know what has happened?" thyatira came forward, with her apron to her eyes. she was very kind-hearted, and liked this young man; but she knew how young men may be carried away, especially when puffed up with worldly wisdom. "i have not the least idea what you mean, mrs. muggridge." fox spoke rather sternly, for his nature was strong, and combative enough upon occasion, though his temper was sweet and playful; and he knew that many lies had been spread abroad about him, chiefly by members of his own profession. "my ears are pretty sharp, as suits my name, and i heard you muttering once or twice--'he can't have done it. i won't believe it of him.' now if you please, what is it i am charged with doing?" "oh sir, you frighten me when you look like that. i could never have believed that you had such eyes." "never mind my eyes. look here, my good woman. would you like to have wicked lies told about you? i have been away for three days, called suddenly from home, before daylight on saturday morning. my father was seized with a sudden attack, for the first time in his life. he is getting old; and i suppose a son's duty was to go. very well, i leave him on tuesday morning, because i have urgent cases here; and he has his own excellent doctor. i pass up the village, and everybody looks as if i had cut his throat. i go home, concluding that i must be mazed--as you people call it--from want of food and sleep. but when i get home, my own man, and boy, and old betty, all rush out, and stare at me. 'are you mad?' i call out, and instead of answering, they tell me the parson is dying, and at the mercy of jervis jackson. i know what that means, and without quitting saddle come back here and rout the evil one. then what happens? why, my very first mouthful is poisoned by the black looks of a thoroughly good woman. tell me what it is, or by george and the dragon, i'll ride home, and drag it out of my own people." "can you prove you were away, sir? can you show when you left home?" thyatira began to draw nearer, and forgot to keep a full-sized chair 'twixt the doctor and herself. "to be sure, i can prove that i have been at foxden, by at least a score of witnesses, if needful." "thank the lord in heaven, that he hath not quite forgotten us! susanna, have another plate hot, but be sure you don't meddle with the grid-iron. bad enough for perlycross it must be anyhow; a disgrace the old parish can never get over--but ever so much better than if you, our own doctor----" "good-bye, mrs. muggridge! you'll see me to-morrow." "oh no, sir, no. i will tell you now just. how could i begin, when i thought you had done it? at least i never thought that, i am sure. but how was i to contradict it? and the rudest thing ever done outside of london! the poor squire's grave hath been robbed by somebody, and all perlycross is mad about it." "what!" cried jemmy fox. "do you mean sir thomas waldron? it cannot be. no one would dare to do such a thing." "but some one hath, sir, sure enough. mr. jakes it was, sir, as first found it out, and a more truthfuller man never lived in any parish. my master doth not know a word of it yet. thank the lord almost for this chill upon his lungs; for the blow might have killed him, if he had been there, with such a disorderly thing on his back. we must hide it from him, as long as ever we can. to tell the truth, i was frightened to let you go up to him, with every one so positive about the one who did it. but you wouldn't take no denial, and i am very glad you wouldn't. but do have t'other chop, sir; it's a better one than this was. oh, i beg your pardon. i forgot to draw the blind down." the truth was that she had been afraid till now to sever herself from the outer world, and had kept susanna on the kitchen stairs; but now she felt as certain of the young man's innocence, as she had been of his guilt before. "nothing more, thank you," said fox, sitting back, and clenching his hand upon the long bread-knife; "and so all the parish, and even you, were only too delighted to believe that i, who have worked among you nearly three years now, chiefly for the good of the poor and helpless, and never taken sixpence when it was hard to spare--that i would rob the grave of a man, whom i revered and loved, as if he were my father. this is what you call christianity, is it? and no one can be saved except such christians as yourselves! the only christian in the parish is your parson. excuse me--i have no right to be angry with--with a woman, for any want of charity. come tell me this precious tale, and i'll forgive you. no doubt the evidence is very strong against me." thyatira was not pleased with this way of taking it. she thought that the charity was on her side, for accepting the doctor's own tale so frankly. so she fell back upon her main buttress. "if you please, dr. fox," she said with some precision; "as women be lacking in charity, therefore the foremost of all godly graces, you might think it fairer to see sergeant jakes, a military man and upright. and being the first as he was to discover, i reckon he hath the first right to speak out. susanna seeth light in the schoolroom still though all the boys be gone, and books into the cupboards. ah, he is the true branch for discipline. do 'e good to look in at the window after dusk, and the candles as straight as if the french was coming. 'i am the vine,' saith the lord, 'and ye'--but you know what it is, dr. jemmy, though seldom to be found, whether church it be, or chapel. only if you make a point of seeing the man that knoweth more than all of us put together, the new pupil, master peckover, is a very obliging young gentleman, and one as finds it hard upon him to keep still." "oh, he is come, is he? i have heard some tales of him. it struck me there was more noise than usual in the pupils' room. let me think a moment, if you please. yes, i had better see sergeant jakes. he may be a queer old codger, but he will stick to what he sees and says. tell those noisy fellows, that they must keep quiet. they want high jarks among them with his biggest vine, as you seem to call his cane." chapter xi. at the charge. strenuous vitality, strong pulse, thick skin, tough bone, and steadfast brain, all elements of force and fortitude, were united in this dr. fox; and being thus endowed, and with ready money too, he felt more of anger than of fear, when a quarrel was thrust upon him. while he waited alone for the schoolmaster, he struck mr. penniloe's best dining-table with a heavy fist that made the dishes ring, and the new-fashioned candles throw spots of grease upon the coarse white diaper. then he laughed at himself, and put a calm face on, as he heard the strong steps in the passage. "sit here, mr. jakes," he said, pointing to a chair, as the sergeant offered him a stiff salute. "mrs. muggridge, you had better leave the room. this is not a nice matter for ladies. now sergeant, what is all this rotten stuff about me?" "not about you, sir, i hope with all my heart." mr. jakes met the young man's flashing eyes, with a gaze that replied--"you don't scare me," and drew his chair close enough to study every feature. if the young man was full of wrath, so was the old man--implacable wrath, at the outrage to his colonel. "well, tell your pack of lies"--fox was driven beyond himself, by the other's suspicious scrutiny--"oh, i beg your pardon, you believe them true, of course. but out with your stuff, like a man, sir!" "it is your place to prove it a pack of lies;" said the old man, with his shaggy eyebrows rigid as a line of british bayonets; "and if you can't, by the god who made me, i'll run my old sword through your heart." "rather hard upon me. not got it here, i hope. half an hour for repentance, while you fetch it out of some cheese-toasting rack. a nice man to teach the youth of perlycross! what a fool you are, jakes! but that you can't help. even a fool though may try to be fair. during your long time in the wars, were you ever accused wrongfully, my friend?" "yes, sir, a score of times. and i like your spirit. if you did what they say of you, you would be a cur. every evil name you call me makes me think the better of you." "i will call you no more; for i want no favour. all i want is truth about this cursed outrage. am i to wait all night for it? now just tell your tale, as if your were sitting at the _ivy-bush_. you have been in command of men, no doubt--just command yourself." "that i will," said the veteran with an upward glance--"not like the _ivy-bush_, but as before the lord. sir, i will command myself, as you recommend; and perhaps you would be none the worse, for taking your own medicine." "jakes, you are right. it is enough to turn me savage. but you shall not hear me speak again, until you have finished." "it was just like this, sir," began the sergeant, looking round for a glass, by force of habit, and then ashamed of himself for such a thought just now; "everybody in this parish knows how much i thought of colonel waldron; for a better and a braver man never trod this earth. even parson penniloe will have to stand behind him, when the last muster cometh; because he hath not served his country. but i never was satisfied with any of you doctors. you may be very well in your way, mr. fox, for toothing, or measles, or any young complaint; but where is your experience in times of peace? and as for that hang-dog looking chap from london--well, i won't say what i thought of him; for i always keep my own opinions to myself. but i knew it was all over with our poor colonel, the moment i clapped eyes on that fellow. why, i went myself at once, and begged the colonel to have him drummed out of the parish to the rogue's tattoo. but the good colonel only laughed, and shook my hand--the last time it was, sir, the very last time. "you were at the funeral, and there never was a truer one. i was proud to my heart, though it felt like lead, to see three old officers come from miles away, brave men as ever led a storming column, with tears in their eyes, and not a thought of their own ends. there was no firing-party as should have been, being nothing but peace going on nowadays, and only country bumpkins about here. but i see you are impatient; because you know all that. "as soon as all were gone away, and the ground put tidy, i brought a few of my own white flowers, as they do in spanish land, and put them in very carefully with a bit of moss below them, and fastened them so as not to blow away, although there was a strong east wind up. later on at night, i came again by the little wicket from the schoolroom, just to see that all was right; for my mind was uneasy somehow. "the moon was going low, and it was getting very cold, and not a soul about, that i could see. the flowers showed bright, at the head of the mound; and close by was a little guardian--the colonel's pet dog, that could never bear to leave him--she was lying there all in the cold by herself, sobbing every now and then, or as it were bewailing, with her chin along the ground, as if her heart was broken. it struck me so sad, that i could look at her no more. "in the morning i slept past the usual time, being up so late, and out of spirits. but i saw the white frost on the ground, and i had a few boys to correct before school began, and then lessons to see to till twelve o'clock; and it must have been turned the half hour, when i went to churchyard again, to see how my flowers had stood the frost. i had brought a bit of victuals in my pocket, for the dog; but little _jess_ was gone; and i could not blame her, considering how easily a man forgets his dog; and yet i was vexed with her, for being so like us; for the poor things have no religion, such as we make smooth with. my flowers were there; but not exactly as i thought i had put them; and the bank appeared to me to be made up sharper. "well, mr. fox, i am not one of them that notice little things upon the earth so much, (as if there was never any sky above them,) and make more fuss about a blade of grass, than the nature of men and good metal. i thought that old channing had been at work again, not satisfied with his understrapper's job. then i drew forth my flowers; and they looked almost, as if they had been tossed about the yard--crumpled almost anyhow, as well as scorched with frost. "at this, i was angry, when i thought how kind the poor colonel had been to that old stick of a clerk, and even let him muck up their liveries; and so i set off for the old man's cottage, to have a word or two with him, about it. but he was not at home; and little polly, his grand-daughter, was sure that he had not been near the church that day, but was gone to help dig farmer john's potatoes. "then back i went again, in a terrible quandary, remembering the wicked doings up the country, and the things that had come across my fancy in the night. "the first thing i saw, when i came back by south-gate, was a young man, red in the face, and out of breath, jumping, in and out, over graves and tombstones, from the west end, where the contractor's work is. 'what are you doing, bob?' said i, rebuking of him pretty strongly; for i saw that it was one of my old boys, now become a trusty sort of groom at walderscourt. "'sergeant, what have you been doing here?' says he 'our little _jess_ has just come home, with one leg cut in two.' "all my blood seemed to stand still, and i should have dropped, if i hadn't laid hold of that very tombstone, which the parson can't endure. the whole of it flashed upon me, in a moment; and a fool i must have been not to see it all before. but wicked as our men were, and wicked i myself was--as i will not deny it, in the rough-and-tumble times--such a blackguard dastard crime was out of my conception. considering who the colonel was; considering what he was, sir!" the sergeant turned away his face, and desired to snuff the candles. no snuffers were there, for this new invention was warranted not to want them. so he fumbled with his empty sleeve; but it would not come up to order; and then he turned back, as if brought to bay, and reckless of public opinion; with his best new handkerchief in his hand--a piece of cotton goods imprinted with the union-jack in colours. "my friend, you are a noble fellow," said fox, with his own wrongs out of date, in the movement of large feeling. "would to god, that i had any one as true to me, as you are!" "it is not that," resumed the sergeant, trying to look stern again. "it is the cursed cruelty, that makes me hate mankind, sir. that a man should kill a poor dumb thing, because it loved its master--there, there, the almighty will smite the brute; for all helpless things belong to him. "well, sir, i hardly know what happened next, or what i said to bob cornish. but he went round the wall, to fetch his horse; and the news must have spread, like wildfire. a young man, who had helped to make up the grave, was going to his dinner through the churchyard; and seeing us there, he came and looked, and turned like a ghost, and followed us. presently we were in the street, with half the village after us, going to the chief churchwarden's house; for we knew how ill the parson was. at the cross-roads, we met farmer john, and old clerk channing along of him, looking doiled as bad as we were, and between them the blacksmith from susscot ford; and a terrible tale we had from them. "farmer john, as the head of the parish now, took the lead; and well he did it. we went back by the big iron gate, and there we kept the outsiders back; and mr. adney was as good with his, who were working near the tower. i was ordered to the eastern end, where the stone stile leads into perlycombe lane, by which the villains must have got in; with no house there in view of it, but only the tumble-down abbey. somebody was sent for my old sword, that i knocked away from the french officer, and now hangeth over the commandments; and i swore that i would slash off any hand, that was laid on the edge of the riser; while adney brought a pile of scaffold-cords, and enclosed all the likelihood of footprints. "by this time the other churchwarden was come, and they all put their heads together, and asked what my opinion was; and i said--'make no bones of it.' but they had done a wiser thing than that, with an eye to the law, and the penalties. they had sent bob cornish on the fast young horse, the colonel thought so much of, to fetch the nearest justice of the peace, from his house this side of perliton. squire mockham came, as strong as he could ride, with his mind made up about it; and four digging men were set to work at once. squire mockham was as sharp about it, as if he had just had the lid taken off of him, by death of superior officer; and i, who had seen him on the bench knock under, to half a wink from the colonel's eye, was vexed with the dignity he took over, by reason of being survivor. "clerk channing will tell you more about the condition of things underground, for i never made them my study; though i have helped to bury a many brave men, in the rough, both french and english. my business it was to keep people away; and while i was putting a stern face on, and looking fit to kill any of the bumpkins, the lord knows i could never have touched them, for my blood was as cold as snow-water. and when they sang up--'no colonel here!' just as if it made no difference--i dropped the french sword, and my flesh clave to my bones, the same as it did to king david. and ever since that, i have been fit for bedlam; and the boys may stand and make mouths at me." "i can understand that," said dr. fox, with his medical instincts moving--generously, as they always do with a man worthy of that high calling--"jakes, you are in a depressed condition; and this exertion has made it worse. what you want is a course of carminatives. i will send you a bottle this very night. no more excitement for you at present. lay aside all thought of this sad matter." "as if i could, sir; as if i could!" "no, i am a fool for suggesting that. but think of it, as little as you can. above all things, go in for more physical exertion. cane half-a-dozen boys, before breakfast." "there's a dozen and a half, sir, that have been neglected sadly." "that will be a noble tonic. making mouths at sergeant jakes! you look better already, at the thought of doing duty, and restoring discipline." "talk about duty, sir! where was i? oh, if i had only gone out again; if i had only gone out again, instead of turning into my bed, like a sluggard! i shall never forgive myself for that." "you would just have been killed; as poor _jess_ was. such scoundrels think nothing of adding murder to a crime still worse. but before you go home--which is the best thing you can do, and have a dish of hot kidneys from your brother's shop--one thing i must ask; and you must answer. what lunatic has dared to say, that i had anything to do with this?" "the whole parish is lunatic; if it comes to that, sir." "and all the world, sometimes. but who began it? jakes, you are a just man; or you could not be so loyal. is it fair, to keep me in the dark, about the black things they are saying of me?" "sir, it is not. and i will tell you all i know; whatever enemies i may make. when a thing flares about, you can seldom lay your hand on the man, or the woman, who fired the train. it was crang, the shoeing smith at susscot ford, who first brought your name into it." "crang is an honest, and a simple-minded man. he would never speak against me, of his own will. he has been most grateful for what i did, when his little girl had scarlet fever. how could he have started this cursed tale?" "from the evidence of his own eyes, sir; according at least to his use of them." "tell me what he saw, or thought he saw. he is not the man to tell a lie. whatever he said, he believed in." fox spoke without any anger now; for this could be no scheme of his enemies. "you are wonderful fair, sir;" said sergeant jakes. "you deserve to have all above board; and you shall have it." tired as he was, and beginning to feel poorly at the threat of medicine, the old soldier told the blacksmith's tale, with as few variations as can contrive to keep themselves out of a repetition. fox began to see that the case was not by any means so easy, as he first supposed. here was evidence direct against him, from an impartial witness; a tale coherent, and confirmed by facts independent of it, a motive easily assigned; and the public eager to accept it, after recent horrors. but he was young, and warm of faith in friendship, candour, and good-will; or (if the worst should come to the worst) in absolute pure justice. "it will not take long to put this to rights," he said, when the sergeant had finished his account. "no one can really have believed it, except that blockhead of a blacksmith. he was in a blue funk all the time, and no need to be ashamed of it. there are two people i must see to-night--mr. mockham, and that joe crang himself. i shall borrow a horse from walter haddon; my young mare has had enough of it. i shall see how the parson looks before i go. now go to bed, sergeant, as i told you. to-morrow you will find all the wiseacres saying, what fools they have made of one another." but the veteran shook his head, and said, "if a cat has nine lives, sir; a lie has ninety-nine." chapter xii. a fool's errand. mr. john mockham was a short stout man, about five or six and forty years of age, ruddy, kind-hearted, and jocular. he thought very highly of jemmy fox, both as a man and a doctor; moreover he had been a guest at foxden, several times, and had met with the greatest hospitality. but for all that, he doubted not a little, in his heart--though his tongue was not allowed to know it--concerning the young doctor's innocence of this most atrocious outrage. he bore in mind how the good and gentle mother had bemoaned (while jemmy was in turn-down collars) the very sad perversity of his mind, towards anything bony and splintery. nothing could keep him from cutting up, even when his thumb was done round with oozing rag, anything jointed or cellular; and the smell of the bones he collected was dreadful, even in the drawer where his frilled shirts were laid. the time was not come yet, and happily shall never--in spite of all morbid suisection--when a man shall anatomise his own mind, and trace every film of its histology. squire mockham would have laughed any one to scorn, who had dared to suggest, that in the process of his brain, there was any connexion of the frills in jemmy's drawer with the blacksmith's description of what he had seen; and yet without his knowledge, it may even have been so. but whatever his opinion on the subject was, he did not refuse to see this young friend; although he was entertaining guests, and the evening was now far advanced. fox was shown into the library, by a very pale footman, who glanced at the visitor, as if he feared instant dissection, and evidently longed to lock him in. "is it come to this already?" thought poor fox. "excuse me for not asking you to join us in there," mr. mockham began rather stiffly, as he pointed to the dining-room; "but i thought you might wish to see me privately." "i care not how it is. i have come to you, as a magistrate, and--and--" "an old friend of the family," was what he meant to say, but substituted--"as a gentleman, and a sensible and clear-sighted one, to receive my deposition on oath, concerning the wicked lies spread abroad about me." "of what use will it be? the proper course is for you to wait, till the other side move in the matter; and then prove your innocence, if possible; and then proceed against them." "that is to say, i am to lie, for six months, perhaps twelve months, under this horrible imputation, and be grateful for escaping at last from it! i see that even you are half inclined to think me guilty." "all this to a magistrate is quite improper. it happens that i have resolved not to act, to take no share in any proceedings that may follow; on account of my acquaintance with your family. but that you could not know, until i told you. i am truly sorry for you; but you must even bear it." "you say that so calmly, because you think i deserve it. now as you are not going to act in the matter, and have referred to your friendship with my family, i will tell you a little thing in confidence, which will prove to you at once that i am innocent--that i never could by any possibility have done it." before mr. mockham could draw back, the visitor had whispered a few words in his ear, which entirely changed the whole expression of his face. "well, i am surprised! i had no idea of it. how could that fool crang have made such a mistake? but i saw from first how absurd it was, to listen to such fellows. i refused to give a warrant. i said that no connexion could be shown, between the two occurrences. how strange that i should have hit the mark so well! but i seem to have that luck generally. well, i am pleased, for your dear mother's sake, as well as your own, master jemmy. there may be a lot of trouble; but you must keep your heart up, and the winning card is yours. after all, what a thing it is to be a doctor!" "not so very fine, unless your nature drives you into it. and everybody thinks you make the worst of him, to exalt your blessed self. so they came for a warrant against me, did they? is it lawful to ask who they were?" "to be sure it is, my boy. everybody has a right to that piece of information. tapscott was the man that came to swear--strong reason for believing, etc., with two or three witnesses, all from your parish; crang among the others, hauled in by the neck, and each foremost in his own opinion. but crang wanted to be last, for he kept on shouting, that if he had to swear against doctor jemmy, the lord would know that he never meant it. this of course made it all the worse for your case; and every one was grieved, yet gratified. you are too young to know the noise, which the newspapers begin to call 'public opinion,'--worth about as much as a blue-bottle's buzz, and as eager to pitch upon nastiness. i refused a warrant--as my duty was. even if the blacksmith's tale was true--and there was no doubt that he believed it--what legal connexion could they show betwixt that, and the matter at the churchyard? in a case of urgency, and risk of disappearance of the suspected person, i might have felt bound to grant it. but i knew that you would stand it out; and unless they could show any others implicated, their application was premature." "then, unless you had ventured to stem the i tide, i suppose that i should have been arrested, when i came back to-day from my father's sick-bed. a pretty state of law, in this free country!" "the law is not to blame. it must act promptly, in cases of strong suspicion. probably they will apply to-morrow, to some younger magistrate. but your father is ill? how long have you been with him? they made a great deal out of your disappearance." "my father has had a paralytic stroke. i trust that he will get over it; and i have left him in excellent hands. but to hear of this would kill him. his mind is much weakened, of course; and he loves me. i had no idea that he cared much for me. i thought he only cared for my sister." "excuse me for a moment. i must go to my guests;" mr. mockham perceived that the young man was overcome for the moment, and would rather be alone. "i will make it all right with them, and be back directly." fox was an active, and resolute young fellow, with great powers of endurance, as behoved a man of medicine. honest indignation, and strong sense of injustice, had stirred up his energy for some hours; but since last thursday night he had slept very little, and the whole waking time had been worry and exertion. so that now when he was left alone, and had no foe to fire at, bodily weariness began to tell upon him, and he fell back in an easy chair into a peaceful slumber. when the guests had all departed, and the magistrate came back, he stopped short for a moment, with a broad smile on his face, and felt proud of his own discretion, in refusing to launch any criminal process against this trustful visitor. for the culprit of the outcry looked so placid, gentle, good-natured, and forgiving--with the natural expression restored by deep oblivion--that a woman would have longed to kiss his forehead, if she had known of his terrible mishap. "i have brought you a little drop of cordial, master jemmy. i am sure you must want something good, to keep you up." mr. mockham put a spirit-stand and glass upon the table, as fox arose, and shook himself. "that is very kind of you. but i never take spirits, though i prescribe them sometimes for old folk when much depressed. but a glass of your old port wine, sir, would help me very much--if i am not giving you a lot of trouble." "you shall have a glass, almost as good as your father has given me. there it is! how sorry i am to hear about his illness! but i will do what he would have wished. i will talk to you as a friend, and one who knows the world better than you can. first, however, you must forgive me, for my vile suspicions. they were founded partly on your good mother's account of your early doings. and i have known certain instances of the zeal of your profession, how in the name of science and the benefits to humanity--but i won't go on about that just now. the question is, how shall we clear you to the world? the fact that i doubted you, is enough to show what others are likely to conclude. unluckily the story has had three days' start, and has fallen upon fruitful ground. your brother doctors about here are doing their best to clench the nail"--mr. mockham, like almost everybody else, was apt to mix metaphors in talking--"by making lame excuses for you, instead of attempting to deny it." "such fellows as jervis jackson, i suppose. several of them hate me, because i am not a humbug. perhaps they will get up a testimonial to me, for fear there should be any doubt of my guilt." "that is the very thing they talk of doing. how well you understand them, my young friend! now, what have you to show, against this general conclusion? for of course you cannot mention what you confessed to me." "i can just do this--i can prove an alibi. you forget that i can show where i have been, and prove the receipt of the letter, which compelled me to leave home. surely that will convince everybody, who has a fair mind. and for the rest, what do i care?" "i don't see exactly what to say to that." mr. mockham was beginning to feel tired also, after going through all his best stories to his guests. "but what says cicero, or some other fellow that old dr. richards used to drive into my skin? 'to neglect what everyone thinks of oneself, is the proof not only of an arrogant, but even of a dissolute man.' you are neither of these. you must contend with it, and confound your foes; or else run away. and upon the whole, as you don't belong here, but up the country--as we call it--and your father wants your attention, the wisest thing you can do is, to bolt." "would you do that, if it were your own case?" fox had not much knowledge of squire mockham, except as a visitor at his father's house; and whether he should respect, or despise him, depended upon the answer. "i would see them all d----d first;" the magistrate replied, looking as if he would be glad to do it; "but that is because i am a devonshire man. you are over the border; and not to be blamed." "well, there are some things one cannot get over," dr. jemmy answered, with a pleasant smile; "and the worst of them all is, to be born outside of devon. if i had been of true devonshire birth, i believe you would never have held me guilty." "others may take that view; but i do not;" said the magistrate very magnanimously. "it would have been better for you, no doubt. but we are not narrow-minded. and your mother was a devonshire woman, connected with our oldest families. no, no, the question is now of evidence; and the law does not recognise the difference. the point is--to prove that you were really away." "outside the holy county, where this outrage was committed? foxden is thirty miles from perlycross, even by the shortest cuts, and nearer thirty-five, to all who are particular about good roads. i was at my father's bed-side, some minutes before ten o'clock, on saturday morning." "that is not enough to show. we all know in common sense, that the ride would have taken at least four hours. probably more, over those bad roads, in the darkness of a november morning. the simplest thing will be for you to tell me the whole of your movements, on the night of this affair." "that i will, as nearly as i can remember; though i had no reason then, for keeping any special record. to begin with--i was at the funeral of course, and saw you there, but did not cross over to speak to you. then i walked home to the old barn where i live, which stands as you know at the foot of hagdon hill. it was nearly dark then, perhaps half-past five; and i felt out of spirits, and sadly cut up, for i was very fond of sir thomas. i sat thinking of him for an hour or so; and then i changed my clothes for riding togs, and had a morsel of cold beef and a pipe, and went to look for the boy that brings my letters; for old walker, the postman, never comes near the barn. there was no sign of the boy, so i saddled _old rock_--for my man was 'keeping funeral' still, as they express it--and i rode to north-end, the furthest corner of the parish, to see to a little girl, who has had a dangerous attack of croup. then i crossed maiden down by the gravel-pits, to see an old stager at old bait, who abuses me every time, and expects a shilling. then homewards through priestwell, and knocked at gronow's door, having a general permission to come in at night. but he was not at home, or did not want to be disturbed; so i lost very little time by that. it must have been now at least nine o'clock, with the moon in the south-west, and getting very cold; but i had managed to leave my watch on the drawers, when i pulled my mourning clothes off. "from priestwell, i came back to perlycross, and was going straight home to see about my letters--for i knew that my father had been slightly out of sorts, when i saw a man waiting at the cross-roads for me, to say that i was wanted at the whetstone-pits; for a man had tumbled down a hole, and broken both his legs. without asking the name, i put spurs to _old rock_, and set off at a spanking pace for the whetstone-pits, expecting to find the foreman there, to show me where it was. it is a long roundabout way from our village, at least, for any one on horseback, though not more than three miles perhaps in a straight line, because you have to go all round the butt of hagdon hill, which no one would think of riding over in the dark. i should say it must be five miles at least, from our cross-roads." "every yard of that distance," says the magistrate, who was following the doctor's tale intently, and making notes in his pocket-book; "five miles at least, and road out of repair. your parish ought to be indicted." "very well. _old rock_ was getting rather tired. a better horse never looked through a bridle; but he can't be less than sixteen years of age. my father had him eight years, and i have had him three; and even for a man with both legs broken, i could not drive a willing horse to death. however, we let no grass grow beneath our feet; and dark as the lanes were, and wonderfully rough, even for this favoured county, i got to the pit at the corner of the hill, as soon as a man could get there, without breaking his neck." "in that case he never would get there at all." "perhaps not. or at least, not in working condition. well, you know what a queer sort of place it is. i had been there before, about a year ago. but then it was daylight; and that makes all the difference. i am not so very fidgetty where i go, when i know that a man is in agony; but how to get along there in the dark, with the white grit up to my horse's knees, and black pines barring out the moonshine, was--i don't mind confessing it--a thing beyond me. and the strangest thing of all was, that nobody came near me. i had the whole place to myself; so far as i could see--and i did not want it. "i sat on _old rock_; and i had to sit close; for the old beauty's spirit was up, in spite of all his weariness. his hunting days came to his memory perhaps; and you should have seen how he jumped about. at the risk of his dear old bones of course; but a horse is much pluckier than we are. what got into his old head, who shall say? but i failed to see the fun of it, as he did. there was all the white stuff, that comes out of the pits, like a great cascade of diamonds, glittering in the level moonlight, with broad bars of black thrown across it by the pines, all trembling, and sparkling, and seeming to move. "those things tell upon a man somehow, and he seems to have no right to disturb them. but i felt that i was not brought here for nothing, and began to get vexed at seeing nobody. so i set up a shout, with a hand to my mouth, and then a shrill whistle between my nails. the echo came back, very punctually; but nothing else, except a little gliding of the shale, and shivering of black branches. then i jumped off my horse, and made him fast to a tree, and scrambled along the rough bottom of the hill. "there are eight pits on the south side, and seven upon the north, besides the three big ones at the west end of the hill, which are pretty well worked out, according to report. their mouths are pretty nearly at a level, about a hundred and fifty feet below the chine of hill. but the tumbledown--i forget what the proper name is--the excavated waste, that comes down, like a great beard, to the foot where the pine-trees stop it--" "_brekkles_ is their name for it;" interrupted mr. mockham; "_brekkles_, or _brokkles_--i am not sure which. you know they are a colony of cornishmen." "yes, and a strange outlandish lot, having nothing to do with the people around, whenever they can help it. it is useless for any man to seek work there. they push him down the brekkles--if that is what they call them. however, they did not push me down, although i made my way up to the top, when i had shouted in vain along the bottom. i could not get up the stuff itself; i knew better than to make the trial. but i circumvented them at the further end; and there i found a sort of terrace, where a cart could get along from one pit-mouth to another. and from mouth to mouth, i passed along this rough and stony gallery, under the furzy crest of hill, without discovering a sign of life, while the low moon across the broad western plains seemed to look up, rather than down at me. into every black pit-mouth, broad or narrow, bratticed with timber or arched with flint, i sent a loud shout, but the only reply was like the dead murmuring of a shell. and yet all the time, i felt somehow, as if i were watched by invisible eyes, as a man upon a cliff is observed from the sea. "this increased my anger, which was rising at the thought that some one had made a great fool of me; and forgetting all the ludicrous side of the thing--as a man out of temper is apt to do--i mounted the most conspicuous pile at the end of the hill, and threw up my arms, and shouted to the moon, 'is this the way to treat a doctor?' "the distant echoes answered--'doctor! doctor!' as if they were conferring a degree upon me; and that made me laugh, and grow rational again, and resolved to have one more try, instead of giving in. so i climbed upon a ridge, where i could see along the chine, through patches of white among the blackness of the furze; and in the distance there seemed to be a low fire smouldering. for a moment i doubted about going on, for i have heard that these people are uncommonly fierce, with any one they take for a spy upon them; and here i was entirely at their mercy. but whenever i have done a cowardly thing, i have always been miserable afterwards; and so i went cautiously forward towards the fire, with a sharp look-out, and my hunting-crop ready. suddenly a man rose in front of me, almost as if he jumped out of the ground, a wild-looking fellow, stretching out both arms. i thought i was in for a nasty sort of fight, and he seemed a very ugly customer. but he only stepped back, and made some enquiry, so far as i could gather from his tone, for his words were beyond my intelligence. "then i told him who i was, and what had brought me there; and he touched his rough hat, and seemed astonished. he had not the least difficulty in making out my meaning; but i could not return the compliment. 'naw hoort along o' yussen'--was his nearest approach to english; which i took to mean--'no accident among us;' and i saw by his gestures that he meant this. in spite of some acquaintance with the mendip miners, and pretty fair mastery of their brogue, this whetstoner went beyond my linguistic powers, and i was naturally put out with him. especially when in reply to my conclusion that i had been made a fool of, he answered 'yaw, yaw,' as if the thing was done with the greatest ease, and must be familiar to me. but, in his rough style, he was particularly civil, as if he valued our profession, and was sorry that any one should play with it. he seemed to have nothing whatever to conceal; and so far as i could interpret, he was anxious to entertain me as his guest, supposing that time permitted it. but i showed him where my horse was, and he led me to him by a better way, and helped me with him, and declined the good shilling which i offered him. this made me consider him a superior sort of fellow; though to refuse a shilling shows neglected education. "when i got back to the ancient barn--as i call my place, because it is in reality nothing else--it was two o'clock in the morning, and all my authorities were locked in slumber. george was on a truss of hay up in the tallat, making more noise than perle-weir in a flood, although with less melody in it; and old betty was under her 'mark, luke, and john'--as they called the four-poster, when one is gone. so i let them 'bide, as you would say; gave _old rock_ a mash myself, because he was coughing; and went in pretty well tired, i can assure you, to get a bit of bread and cheese, and then embrace the downy. "but there on my table was a letter from my mother; which i ought to have received before i started; but the funeral had even thrown the post out, it appears. i don't believe that my boy was at all to blame. but you know what walker the postman is, when anything of interest is moving. he simply stands still, to see the end of it; sounding his horn every now and again, to show his right to look over other folk's heads. every one respects him, because he walks so far. thirty miles a day, by his own account; but it must be eighteen, even when he gets no beer." "a worthy old soul!" said the magistrate. "and he had a lot of troubles, last winter. nobody likes to complain, on that account. he is welcome to get his peck of nuts upon the road, and to sell them next day at pumpington, to eke out his miserable wages. but this is an age of progress; and a strict line must be drawn some where. the post is important sometimes, as you know; though we pay so many eightpences, for nothing. why, my friends were saying, only this very evening, that walker must submit henceforth to a rule to keep him out of the coppices. when he once gets there, all his sense of time is gone. and people are now so impatient." "but the nutting-time is over, and he has not that excuse. he must have been four hours late on friday, and no doubt he was as happy as ever. but to me it would have made all the difference; for i should have started that evening for foxden. my mother's letter begged me to come at once; for she feared that my father would never speak again. there had been some little trifles between us; as i don't mind telling you, who are acquainted with the family. no doubt i was to blame; and you may suppose, how much i was cut up by this sad news. it was folly to start in that tangle of cross-lanes, with the moon gone down, and my horse worn out. i threw myself down upon my bed, and sobbed, as i thought of all the best parts of the governor. "what a fool a man is, when a big blow falls upon him. for two or three hours, i must have lain like that, as if all the world were in league against me, and nothing to be done but feel helpless, and rebel. i knew that there was no horse near the place, to be hired for the ride to foxden, even if the owner could be fetched out of his bed. and all the time, i was forgetting the young mare that i had bought about a month ago--a sweet little thing, but not thoroughly broken, and i did not mean to use her much, until the spring. she was loose in a straw-run at the top of my home-meadow, with a nice bit of aftermath still pretty fresh, and a feed of corn at night, which i generally took to her myself. now she came to the gate, and whinnied for me, because she had been forgotten; and hearing the sound i went downstairs, and lit a lantern to go to the corn-bin. but she had better have gone without her supper, for i said to myself--why not try her? it was a long way for a young thing just off grass; but if only she would take me to the great london road, i might hire on, if she became distressed. "of course i went gently and carefully at first, for i found her a little raw and bridle-shy; but she carried me beautifully, when the daylight came, and would have gone like a bird, if i had let her. she will make a rare trotter, in my opinion, and i only gave fifteen pounds for her. i would not look at fifty now, after the style she brought me back--a mouth like a french kid-glove, and the kindest of the kind." "you deserve a good horse, because you treat them well, jemmy. but what about your good father?" "well, sir, thank god, he is in no danger now; but he must be kept very quiet. if he were to hear of this lying tale, it might be fatal to him. and even my mother must not know it. your exeter paper never goes that way; but the bristol ones might copy it. my only sister, christie, is a wonderful girl, very firm, and quick, and sensible. some say that she has got more sense than i have; though i don't quite see it. i shall write to her to-morrow, just to put her upon guard, with a line for dr. freeborn too--my father's old friend and director, who knows exactly how to treat him. what a rage they will be in, when they hear of this! but they will keep it as close as a limpet. now what do you advise me to do, about myself?" "you must look it in the face, like a man, of course; though it is enough to sour you for life almost, after all your good works among the poor." "no fear of that, sir. it is the way of the world. 'fair before fierce' is my family motto; and i shall try to act up to it. though i daresay my temper will give out sometimes, especially with brother pill-box." "you take it much better than i should, i fear;" mr. mockham spoke the truth in this; "you know that i will do my utmost for you; and if you keep your head, you will tide over this, and be the idol of all who have abused you--i mean, who have abused you honestly. you seem to have solid stuff inside you, as is natural to your father's son. but it will take a lot out of your life; and it seems very hard upon a fine young fellow. especially after what you have told me. things will be very black there; as you must see." "certainly they will. but i am not a boy. i know a noble nature, when i come across it. and if ever there was--but i won't go on with that. if she believes in me, i am content, whatever the low world may say. i have never been romantic." "i am not at all sure of that, my boy. but i felt that sort of wildness, before i was married. now let me put one or two questions to you; just to get up your case, as if i was your counsel. did any of your people at the old barn see you, after your return from the whetstone pits?" "not one, to my knowledge. my household is small, in that ramshackle place. old betty upstairs, and george over the stables, and the boy who goes home to his mother at night. i have only those three in the domestic line, except upon great occasions. old betty was snoring in her bed, george doing the like upon a truss of hay, and the boy of course off the premises. they must have found in the morning that i had been there, but without knowing when, or how long i stayed." "that is most unlucky. did you pass near the church? did you meet any people who would know you, anywhere between midnight and morning?" "neither man, woman, nor child did i see, from the time i left the whetstone hill, until i passed perlycombe next morning. it was either too late, or too early, for our very quiet folk to be stirring." "bad again. very bad. you cannot show your whereabouts, during any part of the critical time. i suppose you would know the man on the whetstone hill; but that was too early to help you much. the man at the cross-roads--would you know him?" "not to be certain. he kept in the shadow, and spoke as if he were short of breath. and the message was so urgent, that i never stopped to examine him." "very little comfort anywhere. is it usual for dr. gronow to be from home at night?" mr. mockham put this question abruptly, and pronounced the doctor's name, as if he did not love him. "not very usual. but i have known it happen. he is wild about fishing, though he cannot fish a bit; and he sometimes goes late to his night-lines." "he would scarcely have night-lines laid in november, however big a poacher he may be. betwixt you and me, jemmy, in the very strictest confidence, i believe he is at the bottom of all this." "i will answer for it, that he is not. in the first place, he is a gentleman, though rough in his manners, and very odd. and again he had no motive--none whatever. he has given up his practice, and cares more for walton and cotton, than for all the hunterian museum. and he knew, as well as i do, the nature of the case. no, sir, you must not suspect him for a moment." "well, then it must be that man--i forget his name--who was staying with mr. penniloe. a very sarcastic, unpleasant fellow, as several people said who spoke to him. he would take good care to leave no trace. he looked as crafty as old nick himself. it will never be found out, if that man did it. no, no, jemmy, don't attempt to argue. it must be one of you three. it is neither you, nor gronow; then it must be that harrison gowler." chapter xiii. the law of the land. one comfort there was among all this trouble, and terror, and perplexity--little _jess_ was not dead, as reported; nor even inclined to die, just at present. it was true that she had been horribly slashed with a spade, or shovel, or whatever it might have been; and had made her way home on three legs by slow stages, and perhaps with many a fainting fit. but when she had brought her evil tidings, and thrown down her staunch little frame to die, at the spot where she was wont to meet her master, it happened that mr. sharland crossed the garden from the stables. this was a veterinary surgeon, full of skill, and large of heart, awake to the many pangs he caused in systems finer than the human, and pitiful to the drooping head, and the legs worn out in man's service. in a moment he had gathered up the story of poor _jess_, and he said, "if any dog deserves to be saved, it is this faithful little dear." then he pulled off his coat, and tucked up his sleeves, and pronounced with a little pomposity--for a good man should make his impression-"deep cut across the humerus. compound fracture of the ulna. will never do much with that limb again. but if the little thing is only half as sagacious as she is faithful, and pyretic action does not supervene, we shall save her life; and it is worth saving." _jess_ licked his hand, as if she understood it all, and resigned herself to human wisdom. and now she had a sweet bed in a basket, airy and buoyant, yet proof against cold draughts; and there she was delighted to receive old friends, with a soft look of gratitude in large black eyes, and a pretty little quiver of the tail too wise to wag, for fear of arousing their anxiety. _pixie_, the pug, had many qualms of jealousy, as well as some pangs of deep interest--for what dog, however healthy, could feel certain in his heart that he might not be reduced to the same condition? and he was apt to get a human kick, when he pressed his kind enquiries. but upon the loftier level of anthropic interests, less of harmony prevailed, and more of hot contention. the widowed lady of the house had felt her loss intensely; and with the deeper pain, because her generous nature told her of many a time when she had played a part a little over the duty of a loyal wife. her strong will, and rather imperious style, and widely different view-point, had sometimes caused slight disagreements between the spanish lady and the english squire; and now she could not claim the pleasure of having waived herself to please him. but she had the sorrow of recalling how often she had won the victory, and pushed it to the utmost, and how seldom she had owned herself in the wrong, even when she had perceived it. a kinder and a nobler husband no woman was ever blessed with; and having lost him, how could she help disparaging every other man, as a tribute to his memory? even with her daughter inez, she was frequently provoked, when she saw the tears of filial love, or heard the unconsidered sigh. "what is her loss, compared with mine?" "but for this child, he would have loved me more." "shallow young creature, like a tinkling zither--she will start a new tune, in a week or two." such were her thoughts; but she kept them to herself, and was angry with herself for forming them. so it may be supposed, what her fury was, or rather her boundless and everlasting rage, when she heard of the miscreant villainy, which could not long be concealed from her. her favourite maid, tamar haddon, was the one who first let fall an unwary word; and that young woman received a shock, which ought to have disciplined her tongue for life. with a gaze, and a gesture, there was no withstanding, her mistress tore out of her everything she knew, and then with a power of self-control which few men could have equalled, she ordered the terrified damsel away, and sat down alone, to think miserably. how long she stayed thus, was unknown to any; for tamar made off with all speed to her room, and was seized with a fit of hysterics. but the lady's only movement was to press one hand upon her labouring heart. by and by she rose, and unlocked the door of her little oratory--a place not very often favoured with her presence. there she took down a crucifix of ivory--not the indian, but the african, which hardens and whitens with the lapse of years, though green at first, as truth is--and she set it upon a velvet shelf, and looked at it without much reverence. in the stormy times, when spain was writhing under the heel of an infidel, her daughters lost their religious grounding, and gained fierce patriotism. "my country is my god," was a copy set in schools. at first she looked with scorn and pity at such meek abandonment. what had her will and heart to do with mild submission, drooping head, and brow of wan benignity? but the sculptor had told more than that. he had filled the sufferer's face with love, and thrilled the gaze of death with sweet celestial compassion. so well had the human hand conveyed the tender heart of heaven. the sting of mortal injuries began to grow less venomous. the rancorous glare was compelled to soften, and suffused with quivering tears. she had come to have a curse attested, and a black vow sanctified; but earthly wrong and human wrath were quelled before the ruth of heaven, and conquest of the tortured one. she fell upon her knees, and laid her hands upon the spike-torn feet; and her face became that of a stricken woman, devoted to sorrow, but not to hate. how long this higher influence would last is quite another point, especially with a woman. but it proved at least that she was not altogether narrow, and hard, and arrogant. then she went to her bed, and wept for hours; and perhaps her reason was saved thereby. at any rate her household, which had been in wretched panic, was saved from the fearful outburst, and the timid cast-up of their wages. on the following morning, she was calm, at least to all outward semblance, and said not a word to any one of the shock she had suffered yesterday. but as soon as business-time allowed, she sent for mr. webber, the most active member of the steady firm, in which her husband had placed confidence. he was good enough to come at once, although, as he told his nervous wife, he would have preferred an interview with the lioness, who had just escaped from a travelling menagerie. but like all other terrors, when confronted, this proved tolerably docile; and upon his return he described this foreign lady's majestic beauty, and angelic fortitude, in warmer terms than his wife thought needful over his own mahogany. after recounting all he knew, and being heard with patience, he had taken instructions which he thought sagacious and to the purpose, for they were chiefly of his own suggestion. now this mr. webber was a shrewd, as well as a very upright man, but of rather hasty temperament, and in many of his conclusions led astray, without the least suspicion of it, by prejudices and private feelings. one of his favourite proverbs was--"a straw will show how the wind blows;" and the guiding straw for him was prone to float on the breath of his own favour. although he knew little of dr. fox, he was partly prepared to think ill of him, according to the following inclination. waldron webber, the lawyer's eldest son, and godson of the brave sir thomas, had shown no capacity for the law, and little for anything else, except a good thumb for the gallipots. good friends said--"what a doctor he will make!" and his excellent mother perceived the genius, and felt how low it would be to lament that such gifts were seldom lucrative, till half the life is over. so the second son took to the ruler, and the elder to the pestle, instruments of equal honour, but of different value. and waldron, although his kind father had bought him a snug little practice at perlycombe, was nibbling at the bottom of the bag at home, while his brother cast in at the top of it. why was this? simply because young fox, the heir of a wealthy family, had taken it into his wicked head to drop down from the clouds at perlycross. it was true that he had bought a practice there; but his predecessor had been a decent fellow, observing the rules of the profession. if a man could not pay for it, let him not be ill; or at any rate go to the workhouse, and be done for in the lump. but this interloper was addicted to giving tick unlimited, or even remission of all charges, and a cure--when nature would not be denied--without the patient paying for it, if he had no money. one thing was certain--this could not last long. but meanwhile a doctor of common sense was compelled to appeal to his parents. "all cannot be right," mr. webber senior had observed with emphasis, when he heard the same tale from his son's bosom friend, jervis jackson of perliton; "there are certain rules, my dear, essential to the existence of all sound professions; and one of the most fundamental is, to encourage nobody who cannot pay. this fox must be a sadly radical young man, though his family is most respectable. mischief will come of it, in my firm opinion." the mischief was come, and in a darker form than the soundest lawyer could anticipate. mr. webber lamented it; and his wife (who had seen jemmy waltzing at a taunton ball with one of her pretty daughters, and been edified with castles in the air) lifted up her hands, and refused to listen to it; until she thought of her dear son. "if it is the will of god," she said, "we must accept it, theodore." but this resignation is not enough for an attorney with a criminal case in hand. lady waldron had urged despatch; and he knew that she was not to be trifled with. he had taken the blacksmith's deposition, which began as if his head were on the anvil, as well as farmer john's, and channing's, and that of mr. jakes the schoolmaster. and now it was come to monday night; and nothing had been heard of fox. but it was not so easy to know what to do. there was no police-force as yet to be invoked with certainty of some energy, and the bow-street-runners, as they were called--possibly because they never ran--had been of no service in such cases, even when induced to take them up. recourse must be had to the ancient gear of magistrate and constable; for to move any higher authorities would require time and travel. strong suspicion there might be, but no strong chain of evidence; for no connexion could be established (whatever might be the inference) between the occurrence at susscot and the sacrilege at perlycross. moreover, our ancient laws are generally rough, and brisk, and able-bodied to stick out bravely for the purse, but leave the person to defend itself. if it cannot do this after death, let it settle the question with its maker; for it cannot contribute to the realm, and belongs to the resurrection. this larger view of the matter will explain to the live content how it came to pass that the legislature (while providing, for the healthy use of anatomy, the thousands of criminal bodies despatched for the good of their choicer brethren) failed to perceive any duty towards those who departed this life in the fear of god, after paying their rates and taxes, for the term prescribed by heavenly statute. in a word, when the wicked began to fall short--through clemency human or divine--no man of the highest respectability could make sure of what he left behind. only, by the ancient common law, to dig him up again, without a faculty, was indictable as a misdemeanour. mr. webber was familiar with all these truths, and obliged to be careful of their import. if the theft of a sheep could be brought home to fox, the proceeding would have been more simple, and the penalties far heavier. but, for his enemies, the social outrage was the thing to look at. as it stood, there was small chance yet of saddling the culprit with legal guilt; nevertheless if the tide of general opinion set against him, even the noblest medical science must fail to make head against it. and the first step was to give some public form to the heinous accusation, without risk of enormous damages. hence the application to mr. mockham, under the name of tapscott, as before related, and justly refused by that magistrate. mr. webber of course did not appear, nor allow his name to be quoted, knowing how small the prospect was of the issue of a warrant. but his end was gained, for all who were present--including the magistrate himself--left the place with dark and strong suspicion against the absent doctor. the question was certain now to be taken up by county journals; whereupon the accused might well be trusted to do something foolish, even if nothing more were learned from the stealthy watch kept on him. there was much to justify this view; for fox did many foolish things, and even committed blunders, such as none but the sagest of the sage could avoid in his position. he was young, and hot of blood, and raging at the sweet readiness of his friends--as such dastards dared to call themselves--to accept the wicked charge against him, on such worthless evidence. now was the time for any generous nature to assert itself; for any one with a grain of faith, or even of common charity, to look him in the face, and grasp his hand, and exclaim with honest anger--"not a word of those cursed lies do i believe. you are an honest fellow, jemmy, whatever skulks and sneaks may say; and if any one says it in my presence, down he goes like a dabchick." did any one do this, of all who had been so much obliged to him, or even of those who without that had praised him in his prosperous days, and been proud of his acquaintance? it made his young heart cold with bitterness, and his kind eyes flash with scorn, when even young fellows of healthy nature, jovial manners, and careless spirit, spied something of deepest interest across the road, as he came by; or favoured him with a distant nod, and a passing--"how doo, doctor?" perhaps with an emphasis on the title, suggestive of dissection. it was enough to sour any man of even bright intelligence, and fair discrimination; for large indeed is the heart of him, and heavenly his nature, who does not judge of his brethren, by their behaviour to this brother. yet there were some few, who did behave to this poor brother, as if they had heard of the name of christ, or deserved, in a way, to do so. these were the very poor, who feel some gratitude for kindness; because it comes not as a right, but a piece of rare luck to them. "'tis nort to i, what the lad hath dooed, and i'll never belave a' dooed it. if it worn't for he, our little johnny would be in churchyard, instead of 's cot." so spake one or two; and if the reasoning was unsound, why then, so much the worse for reason. but a fine young farmer, of the name of gilham (a man who worked hard for his widowed mother, at the north west end of the parish) came forward like a brave englishman, and left no doubt about his opinion. this young man was no clod-hopper; but had been at a latin school, founded by a great high-priest of the muses in the woollen line, and worthy of the _infula_. gilham had shown some aptness there, and power in the resurrection of languages, called dead by those who would have no life without them. his farm was known as the "white post," because it began with a grand old proof of the wisdom of our ancestors. upon the mighty turnpike road from london even to devonport, no trumpery stick of foreign fir, but a massive column of british oak had been erected in solid times, for the benefit of wayfarers. if a couple of them had been hanged there, as tradition calmly said of them, it was only because they stopped the others, and owed them this enlightenment. frank gilham knew little of doctor fox, and had never swallowed physic; which may have had something to do perhaps with his genial view of the subject. "a man is a man," he said to his mother, as if she were an expert in the matter; "and fox rides as straight as any man i ever saw, when his horse has not done too much parish-work. what should i do, if people went against me like this, and wouldn't even stand up to their own lies? that old john horner is a pompous ass; and crang loses his head with a young horse, by daylight. where would his wits be, pulled out of bed at night, with a resurrection-man standing over him? i am thoroughly ashamed of the parish, mother; and though some of our land is under lady waldron, i shall go and see fox, and stick up for him." so he did; and though he was a younger man than jemmy, and made no pretence of even offering advice, his love of fair play, and fine healthy courage, were more than a houseful of silver and gold, or a legion of soldiers direct from heaven. chapter xiv. reasoning without reason. one of the most unlucky things, that could befall an unlucky man, in the hour of tribulation, had befallen that slandered fox; to wit the helpless condition of the leading spirit, and most active head, in the troubled parish of perlycross. mr. penniloe was mending slowly; but his illness had been serious, and the violent chill in a low state of health had threatened to cause inflammation of the lungs. to that it would have led, there can be little doubt, but for the opportune return of fox, and the speedy expulsion of jackson. now the difficulty was to keep the curate quiet; and his great anxiety to get to work prolonged the disability, even as a broken arm in splinters is not likely to do without them, while the owner works a pump. the doctor caught his patient, on the friday morning, groping his way through the long dark tunnel which underran the rectory, and just emerging, with crafty triumph, into the drive by his own main gate. thyatira was gone to jakes the butcher, after locking the front door and carrying off the key. the parson looked miserably thin and wan, but proud of this successful sortie. he was dressed as if for action in his sunday clothes, though tottering on his black-varnished stick; while his tortoise-shell eyeglass upon its watered ribbon dangled across his shrunken chest. but suddenly all his scheme collapsed. "ah, ah, ah!" he began with his usual exclamation, while his delicate face fell sadly, and his proud simper waned into a nervous smile; "fine morning, fox; i hope you are quite well--pleasant morning for a walk." "it may be pleasant," returned the doctor, trying to look most awful; "but like many other pleasant things it is wrong. will you do me the honour to take my arm?" fox hooked the baffled parson by the elbow, and gently led him towards his own front door, guilty-looking, sadly smiling, striving vainly to walk as if he were fit to contest a hurdle-race. but the cup of his shame was not full yet. "oh sir, oh!" exclaimed mrs. muggridge, rushing in from the street with a dish of lamb's fry reposing among its parsley. "i never would have believed it, sir, if an angel was to speak the words. to think that he have come to this!" "she refers to my moral condition, i fear;" mr. penniloe held his head down, while the key he had thought to elude was used to restore him to safer durance. "well perhaps i was wrong; but i only meant to go a very short way, i assure you; only as far as the spot where my dear old friend is sleeping." "what a blessing as we caught you, sir!" cried the impulsive muggridge; while her master looked up in sharp wonder, and the doctor frowned at her clumsiness. "not to the repairs, sir? oh come, come, come!" jemmy cut in rapidly, with this attractive subject. "no, not even to the repairs, or i might even say--the arrest of ruin. without the generosity of my dear friend, we never should have achieved so much for the glory of--i will not speak proudly--for the doing up of our old church. those who should have been foremost--but no doubt they had good reason for buttoning up their pockets. comparatively, i mean, comparatively; for they really did give something. possibly, all that they could afford." "or all they thought they couldn't help. it was very hard upon them, sir. but you are getting into a rebellious humour. sit down by the fire, and allow me to examine you." "i will carry my rebellion further," said the invalid, after sitting down. "i know how kind you have been to me, kinder by far than i ever could deserve. and i believe it was the goodness of the lord that delivered me from jackson. he meant well; but he can not be positive whether the lungs should be higher up, or deeper down than the liver. i have been examined, and examiner as well, at oxford, and in some public schools; but the question has never arisen; and i felt myself unable to throw any light on it. still it struck me that he ought to know, as a properly qualified medical man." "no, sir, no. that is quite a trifle. that should never have lessened your confidence in him." dr. fox spoke so gravely, that mr. penniloe was angry with his own inside. "well, after all, the mind and soul are the parts that we should study. i see that i have wronged poor jackson, and i will apologise. but what i have to say to you is this--even if i am not to take a walk, i must be allowed some communication with people of the parish. i have no idea what is going on. i am isolated as if i had the plague, or the cholera of three years ago. let me see channing, or jakes, or mr. horner, or even robson adney." "in a day or two, sir. you are getting stronger fast; and we must not throw you back. you must have a little patience. not a service has been missed; and you can do no good." "that may be true," said the parson with a sigh. "unhappily they always tell me that; but it does not absolve me. all my duties are neglected now. three pupils, and not a lesson have i heard them. how can that new boy get on without me? a very odd youth, from all that i am told. he will require much attention. no, no, it will never do, fox. i know how kind everybody has been, in doing with only one sermon; and the lord has provided an uncommonly good man. but i feel as if there was something wrong. i am sure you are hiding something from me. i am not allowed to see anybody; and even fay looks odd sometimes, as if the others were puzzling her. and the pupils too must have heard of something bad; for poor little michael has been forbidden to talk to any of them. what is it? it would hurt me less to know, than to keep on wondering, and probably imagine it worse than it is. and good or bad for my bodily health, my first duty is not to myself, but to those entrusted to me." mr. penniloe had spoken with more excitement than he often showed when in his usual health, and the doctor had observed it with some alarm. but he had long foreseen that this must come; and it might come in a more abrupt and dangerous manner, when he was out of reach. so he made up his mind at once, and spoke without further hesitation. "yes, sir, a most disgraceful thing has happened in this parish; and it is better perhaps that you should know it, than be kept in the dark any longer. but you must not be angry with me, though i have given all the orders which puzzled you. it was not for my own sake, you may be sure; for god only knows how much i have longed for your advice in this miserable affair. and yet, before i tell you, you must promise to do nothing whatever about it, for at least three days. by that time you will be yourself again, if we can keep you quiet, and if you take this sad blow with your usual strength of mind--and piety." the parson began to tremble, and the blue lines on his delicate forehead shone, like little clues of silk. he fingered his open glasses, and began to raise them, until it struck him that he might seem rude, if he thus inspected fox throughout his narrative. a rude act was impossible to him; so he leaned back in his ancient chair, and simply said--"be quick, my friend, if you can thus oblige me." the young man watched him very narrowly, while he told his dreadful tale; and thyatira in the passage sobbed, and opened her smelling-bottle, for she had been making urgent signs and piteous appeals from the background to the doctor to postpone this trial. but her master only clasped his hands, and closed his quivering eyelids. without a word he heard the whole; though little starts, and twitching lips, and jerkings of his gaiter'd foot, made manifest that self-control was working at high pressure. "and who has done this inhuman thing?" asked mr. penniloe at last; after hoping that he need not speak, until he felt that he could speak. "such things have been done about bristol; but never in our county. and my dear friend, my best friend tom! we dare not limit the mercy of god; for what are we? ah, what are we? but speaking as a frail man should, if there is any crime on earth----" he threw his handkerchief over his head; for what can the holiest man pronounce? and there was nothing that moved him more to shame, than even to be called a "holy man." "the worst of it is," said dr. fox, with tears in his eyes, for he loved this man, although so unlike him in his ways of thought; "the worst of it is--or at least from a wretchedly selfish point of view, the worst--that all the neighbourhood has pitched upon the guilty person." "who is supposed to have done this horribly wicked thing? not gowler?" "no sir; but somebody nearer home. somebody well-known in the village." "tell me who it is, my dear fellow. i am sure there is no one here who would have done it." "everybody else is sure there is. and the name of the scoundrel is--james fox." "fox, it is not a time for jokes. if you knew how i feel, you would not joke." "i am not joking, sir," said fox, and his trembling voice confirmed his words. "the universal conclusion is, that i am the villain that did it." "my dear friend, my noble fellow!" the parson sprang up on his feeble legs, and took both of jemmy's strong thick hands in his quivering palms, and looked at him; "i am ashamed of my parish; and of myself, as a worthless labourer. and with this crushing lie upon you, you have been tending me, day and night, and shown not a sign of your bitter disdain!" "i knew that you would acquit me, sir. and what did i care for the rest of them? except one of course--well you know what i mean; and i must now give up all hope of that. now take a little of this strengthening stuff, and rest for a couple of hours." "i will take the stuff; but i will not rest, until you have told me, upon what grounds this foul accusation has been brought. that i should be in this helpless state, when i ought to go from house to house--truly the ways of providence are beyond our poor understanding." the young man told him in a few hot words, upon what a flimsy tale his foes had built this damning charge, and how lightly those who called themselves his friends had been ready to receive it. he had had a long interview with crang, and had shaken the simple blacksmith's faith in his own eyes; and that was all. owing to the sharp frost of the night, there was no possibility of following the track of the spring-cart up the road, though its course had first been eastward, and in the direction of the old barn. for the same reason, all attempts had failed in the immediate scene of the outrage; and the crisp white frost had settled on bruised herbage and heavy footmark. "there is nothing more to be done in that way;" the doctor finished with a bitter smile; "their luck was in the right scale, and mine in the wrong one, according to the usual rule. now what do you advise me to do, dear sir?" "i am never very quick, as some men are;" mr. penniloe replied, without even the reproof which he generally administered to those who spoke of "luck." "i am slow in perceiving the right course, when it is a question of human sagacity. but the lord will guide this for our good. allow me to think it over, and to make it a subject of earnest prayer." fox was well content with this, though his faith in prayer was limited. but he knew that the clergyman was not of those, who plead so well that the answer tallies with their inclinations. for such devoted labourers, when a nice preferment comes in view, lay it before the "throne of grace;" and the heavenly order always is--"go thou into the fatter vineyard." mr. penniloe had not found it thus, when a college living was offered to him as a former fellow, at a time when he and his wife could scarce succeed in making both ends meet. the benefice being in a part of wales where the native tongue alone prevailed, his ministry could be blest to none but the occupants of the rectory. therefore he did not pray for guidance, but for grace to himself and wife--especially the latter--to resist this temptation without a murmur. therein he succeeded, to the huge delight of the gentleman next upon the roll, and equally ignorant of welsh, whose only prayer upon the occasion was--"thank the lord, oh my soul!" in the afternoon, when fox returned according to arrangement, he found his much respected patient looking pale and sad, but tranquil. he had prayed as only those who are in practice can accomplish it; and his countenance showed that mind and heart, as well as soul, were fortified. his counsel to fox was to withstand, and not to be daunted by the most insidious stratagem of the evil one--whose existence was more personal in those days than it now appears, and therefore met more gallantly--to pay no heed to furtive looks, sly whispers, cold avoidance, or even spiteful insults, but to carry himself as usual, and show an example to the world of a gentleman and a christian. fox smiled in his sleeve, for his fist was sore with knocking down three low cads that day; but he knew that the advice was sound, and agreed with that of squire mockham, only it was more pacific, and grounded on larger principles. "and now, my dear young friend," the parson continued very earnestly; "there are two things i have yet to speak of, if you will not think me intrusive. you ought to have some one in the old barn to comfort and to cheer you. the evenings are very long and dark, and now i suppose you will have to spend the greater part of them at home. even without such trouble as yours, a lonely man is apt to become depressed and sometimes bitter. i have heard you speak of your sister, i think--your only sister, i believe--and if your father could spare her----" "my father is much stronger, sir. but i could not think of bringing christie here. why, it would be wretched for her. and if anybody insulted her----" "who could insult her, in your own house? she would stay at home mostly in that very quiet place, and have her own amusements. she would come across no one, but old betty and yourself. it would feel lonely at first, no doubt; but a loving sister would not mind that. you would take care not to vex her by speaking of any of the slights you suffered, or even referring to the subject at all, whenever it could be avoided. if it were only for one week, till you get used to this sad state of things, what a difference it would make to you! especially if she is of a lively nature. what is her character--at all like yours?" "not a bit. she has ten times the pluck that i have. i should like to hear any one dare to say a word against me, before christie. but it is not to be thought of, my dear sir. a pretty coward i should be to bring a girl here to protect me!" "what is her name? christine, i suppose. a very good name indeed; and i dare say she deserves it." the curate looked at fox, to have his inference confirmed; and the young man burst into a hearty laugh--his first for a most unaccustomed length of time. "forgive me, sir. i couldn't help it. i was struck with the contrast between your idea of a christian, and christie's. though if any one called her anything else, he would have a specimen of zeal. for she is of the militant christian order, girt with the sword of the spirit. a great deal of st. peter, but not an atom of st. john. thoroughly religious, according to her lights; and always in a flame of generosity. her contempt for any littleness is something splendid; except when it is found in any one she loves. she is always endeavouring to 'see herself from the outside,' as she expresses it; and yet she is inside all the time. without any motive that a man can see, she flares up sometimes like a rocket, and then she lies rolling in self-abasement. she is as full as she can be of reasoning; and yet there is not a bit of reason in her. yet somehow or other, everybody is wonderfully fond of christie." "what a valuable addition to this parish! and the very one to keep you up, in this mysterious trial. she would come at once, of course; if she is as you describe her." "come, sir? she would fly--or at least post with four horses. what a sensation in perlycross! but she is not the one to live in a cupboard, and keep silence. she would get up in your pulpit, sir, and flash away at your churchwardens. no, i could not think of bringing her into this turmoil. if i did, it would serve me right enough, never to get out of it." "very well. we shall see," mr. penniloe said quietly, having made up his mind, after fox's description, to write for this doughty champion, whatever offence might come of it. "now one other matter, and a delicate one. have you seen lady waldron, since this terrible occurrence?" "no; i have feared to go near the house. it must be so awful for them. it is horrible enough for me, god knows. but i am ashamed to think of my own trouble, in comparison with theirs. i shall never have the courage to go near them." "it would be a frightful visit; and yet i think that you should go there. but it is most difficult to say. in all the dark puzzles and trials of this world, few men have been placed, i should say, in such a strange dilemma. if you go, you may shock them beyond expression. if you don't go, you must confirm their worst ideas. but there is one who holds you guiltless." "i am afraid that you only mean--the lord," jemmy fox said, with his eyes cast down. "it is out of my luck to hope for more. he is very good, of course--but then he never comes and does it. i wish that you meant some one nearer." "my dear young friend, my dear young friend! who can be nearer to us?" the parson thought of his own dark times, and spoke with reproach, but not rebuke. "i ought to have meant the lord, no doubt. but in plain truth, i didn't. i meant a mere mortal, like yourself. oh, how we all come down to ground! i should have referred to providence. what a sad relapse from duty!" "relapse more, sir. relapse more!" cried the young man, insisting on the human vein. "you have gone so far, that you must speak out, as--as a messenger of good tidings." "really, jemmy, you do mix things up"--the parson's eyes twinkled at this turn upon him--"in a very extraordinary manner. you know what i mean, without any words of mine." "but how can you tell, sir? oh, how can you tell? if i could only be sure of that, what should i care for anything?" "young man, you are sure," said mr. penniloe, placing his hand upon jemmy's shoulder. "or if you are not, you are not worthy to have faith in anything. next to the word of god, i place my confidence in a woman's heart." fox said not another word. his heart was as full as the older man's. one with the faithful memory, and the other with the hopeful faith of love. but he kept out of sight, and made a stir, with a box of powders, and some bottles. when he got home, in a better state of mind than he had been able to afford for a long time, out rushed somebody, and pulled him off his horse, and took the whole command of him with kisses. "i will never forgive you, never, never!" cried a voice of clear music, out of proper pitch with tears. "to think that you have never told me, jemmy, of all the wicked things they are doing to you!" "why, christie, what on earth has brought you here? look out! you are going all to tatters with my spurs! was there ever such a headlong girl? what's up now?" "it won't do, jemmy. your poor mind is all abroad. i saw the whole thing in the _exeter gazette_. you deserve to be called--even worse than they have called you, for behaving so to me." chapter xv. friends and foes. in for a penny, in for a pound. throw the helve after the hatchet. as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. he that hath the name may as well enjoy the game.--these and other reckless maxims of our worthy grandsires (which they may have exemplified in their own lives, but took care for their own comfort to chastise out of their children) were cited by miss christie fox, with very bright ferocity, for her poor brother's guidance. it was on the morning after her arrival, when she had heard everything there was to hear, and had taken the mastery of old barn, as if it were her pony-carriage. fox stood and looked at her in this queer old dwelling-place, which had once been the tithe-barn of the parish, but proving too far from the chief growth of corn had been converted by the dean and chapter into a rough and rambling, but commodious and roomy house; for the tithes of perlycross were fat, worthy of a good roof and stout walls. she sat by the window in the full light of the sun,--for she never thought much about her complexion, and no sun could disparage it--a lovely girl, with a sweet expression, though manifest knowledge of her own mind. her face was not set off by much variety of light and shade, like that of inez waldron, dark lashes, or rich damask tint, or contrasts of repose and warmth; but pure straightforward english beauty (such as lasts a lifetime) left but little to be desired--except the good luck to please it. "there was not too much of her," as her father said--indeed he never could have enough--and she often felt it a grievance that she could not impress the majesty of her sentiments, through lack of size; but all that there was of her was good stuff; and there very well may be, as a tall admirer of hers remarked, "a great deal of love in five feet two." however this specimen of that stature had not discovered that fact yet, as regards any other than her own kin; and now with the sun from over hagdon hill throwing wintry light into her spring-bright eyes, she was making herself quite at home, as an english girl always tries to do, with her own belongings about her, while she was railing at this strange neighbourhood. not that she meant even half of what she said, but her spirit was up, and being always high it required no great leap to get far above the clouds. and her brother kept saying--"now you don't mean that," in a tone that made her do her very best to mean it. as for avoiding the subject, and the rest of the cautious policy suggested by the peaceful parson, the young lady met that wise proposal with a puff of breath, and nothing more. in gestures, and what on a plainer place would have been called "grimaces," she was so strong, that those who had not that short-cut of nature to the meaning of the moment, were inclined to scoff and mimic; which they could not do at all, because it was not in them. jemmy being some years older, and her only brother, felt himself responsible for the worst part of her character. he was conscious, when he thought about it, that he had spoiled her thoroughly, from the date of her first crawl on the floor, until her path in life was settled. and upon the whole, the result was not so bad as to crush him with much self-reproach. "all i want is, just to have the names of your chief enemies." this valiant sister, as she spoke, spread forth an ivory _deltis_, as that arrangement then was called, a baby-fan with leaves of no more substance than a wafer. "have no fear, jemmy, i will not kill them, unless my temper rises. you are so abominally forgiving, that i daresay you don't know their names." "not i," said the doctor, beginning to fill his after-breakfast pipe, for now he had no round to make among his patients of the paying class; "chris, they are all alike; they have no ill-will at all against me, unless it is jackson, and young webber, and half a dozen other muffs perhaps, with a grudge because i have saved poor fellows they were killing. i have never interfered in any rich man's case; so they have no right to be so savage." "they are dummies," answered christie, just waving her hand, and then stopping it, as if they were not worth the trouble. "i don't mean them. they could never lead opinion. i mean people of intelligence, or at any rate of influence." "well really i don't know any of that sort, who have gone against me openly. such people generally wait to hear both sides, unless their duty drags them into it. both the churchwardens are against me, i believe. but that must be chiefly, because they saw with their own wise eyes what had been done. you know, or perhaps you don't, but i do, what an effect is produced on the average mind by the sight of anything. reason seems to fly, and the judgment is lost. but horner is a very decent fellow, and i have been of some service to his family. farrant is a man of great honesty and sense; but carried away perhaps for the moment. i hear that he is coming round to my side." "then i won't put down either of them. but come, there must be some one at the head of it." "upon my word, i don't think there is. or if there is, he keeps quite in the background. it seems to be rather a general conclusion, than any conspiracy against me. that makes it so much harder to contend with. one proof of what i say is, that there has been no further application for a warrant, since mr. mockham's refusal. if there were any bitter enemy, he would never have been content with that." "i am not so sure of that," replied sage christie, longing for a foe more definite; "i am not of course a lawyer, though papa was a magistrate before i was born, and ever since; and that gives me a great deal of insight. and i have come to the conclusion that there is some one, besides those poor little pill-grinders--you see what comes of taking to the pill-box, jemmy--some one of a hateful nature, and low cunning, who is working in the dark against you. the mischief has been done, and they know that; and they don't want to give you any chance of putting your own case clearly, and confounding them. you see that reel of silk now, don't you?" "i see about fifty. what a child you are! are you going to decorate a doll's house?" "i never lose my temper with you, dear jemmy, because you are so stupid. but if you can't see the force of it, i can. that reel of silk is an honest reel, a reel you know how to deal with. the end is tucked into a nick at the side, and you set to at once and thread your needle. but the one next to it is a rogue--same colour, same size, same everything, except that the maker has hidden the end, to hide his own short measure, so that you may hunt for it for half an hour. even a man can see that, can't he? very well, apply that to this frightful affair. if your enemies would only come forward, they would give you a chance to clear yourself. you would get hold of the end and unwind it, just as i bite off this knot. there! what can be easier than that, i'd like to know?" "you are very clever, christie, but you don't see the real difficulty. who would believe my denial on oath, any more than they would without it? i can offer no witness except myself. the man at the pits would avail me nothing, even if i could get hold of him. there was plenty of time after i left him, for me to have been in the thick of it. i can prove no _alibi_. i have only my word, to show that i was in this house while the miscreants were at work. it is the blackest piece of luck, that poor george was so tipsy, and old betty was so buried in slumber. it is no good to deceive ourselves, my dear. i shall never be cleared of this foul charge, till the fellows who did the thing are found out." this was what jemmy had felt all along; and no one knew better than himself, how nearly impossible it is to bring such criminals to justice. but his sister was not to be discouraged. "oh, as for that, i shall just do this. i have money of my own, or at least i shall have plenty of it, when i come of age next year. i'll find out the cleverest lawyer about here, a man who is able to enter into rogues, and i'll make him advertise a great reward, and promise him the same for himself, if he succeeds. that is the only way to make them look sharp. a thousand pounds will be sure to tempt the poor dirty villains who must have been employed; and a thousand pounds will tempt a good lawyer to sell his own wife and family. free pardon to every one, except the instigator. i wonder that you never even thought of that." "i did think of it long ago. it is the first thing that occurs to an englishman, in any case of wrong-doing. but it would be useless here. i heard much of these cases when i was a student. they are far more frequent than the outer world supposes. but i won't talk about it. it would only make you nervous. it is not a thing for girls to dwell upon." "i know that very well. i don't want to dwell upon it. only tell me, why even a large reward would not be of any service." "because there is only a very small gang; and a traitor would never live to get his money. rewards have been tried, but vainly, except in one case, and then the end was dreadful. for the most part, the villains manage so well that no one ever dreams of what has happened. in the present case, though a most daring one, the villainy would scarcely have been discovered, except for the poor little faithful dog. if she had been killed and thrown into the river, perhaps nothing would ever have been heard of it." "oh, jemmy, what a dreadful thing to say! but surely you forget the blacksmith?" "not at all. his story would have come to nothing, without this to give it special meaning. even as it is, no connexion has been proved, though of course there is a strong presumption, between the affair at susscot, and the crime at perlycross. there was nothing to show where the cart came from. those fellows travel miles with them, these long nights. there is an old chapelyard at monkswell, more than a mile from any house, and i firmly believe--but i will not talk about it." "then you know who did this! oh, jemmy, jemmy, is it some horrible secret of your trade?" christie leaped up, and away from her brother. "i know nothing, except that it happened. i have not the least idea who the scoundrel is. now no more of this--or you won't sleep to-night." "i am not a coward--for a girl at least. but this is a dark and lonely house. i shall have my bed put against the partition of your room, before ever i go into it this night. then you can hear me knock, if i get frightened." miss fox sat down, and leaned her head upon her hands for a moment, as in deep meditation upon the wrongs of humanity; and then she announced the result of her thoughts. "one thing is certain. even you cannot deny it. if the government of this country allows such frightful things to be done, it is bound to provide every woman in the land with a husband to protect her, or at any rate to keep her courage up. if i had seen that cart at susscot, i should have died with terror." "not you. but i must make one rule, i see; and you know there are times when i will be obeyed. you have come here, my dear child, with the greatest kindness, and no small courage as well, just to keep up my spirits, and console me in this trouble. i would never have let you come, if i had known it; and now i will not have your health endangered. back you go, this very day, sad as i shall be without you, unless you promise me two things. one is that you will avoid these subjects, although you may talk of my position. and the other is, that you will not stir from this house, except in my company; and when you are with me, you will be totally unconscious of anything anybody says, or looks,--uncivil, unpleasant, or even uncordial. you understand now, that i am in earnest." fox struck his solid legs into a stiff position, and crested up his whiskers with his finger-tips; which action makes a very fine impression on a young man's younger sister. "very well, i agree to all of that;" said christie, a little too airily for one who is impressed with an engagement. "but one thing i must have, before we begin the new code. here are my tablets. as you won't tell the names of your enemies, jemmy, i must have the names of your friends to set down. it won't require many lines, i fear, you gentle jemmy." "won't it? why all the good people about here are on my side, every one of them. first, and best of them all, philip penniloe. and then, mr. mockham the magistrate, and then sergeant jakes, the schoolmaster. and after him, thyatira muggridge, a person of considerable influence, because she takes hot meat, or pudding, in a basin, to half the old women in the village, whenever her master can afford it, and can't get through all of it. that is how they put it, in their grateful way. but it strengthens their tongues against his enemies, and they seem to know them--though he doesn't. well, then there is farrant, the junior churchwarden, coming round fast to my side. and baker, the cooper, who made me a tub for salting my last pig; and channing--not the clerk, he is neutral still, but will rally to my side when i pay him twelve shillings, as i shall do to-morrow, for a pair of corduroys--but channing the baker, a notable man, with a wife who knows everything about it, because she saw a dark man over the wall last summer, and he would not give his name. she has caused a reaction already, and is confident of being right, because she got upon a pair of steps. oh you must not imagine that i am forlorn. and then there is frank gilham, last not least, a fine young fellow, and a thorough englishman." "i like that description. i hate foreigners--as a rule i mean of course," said christie fox, with a look of large candour, that proved what a woman of the world she was; "there may be good individuals among them, when they have come to know what home-life means; but take them altogether, they are really very queer. but surely we ought to know a little more, as to what it was mrs. baker channing saw; and over the churchyard wall, you say." "waste of time, christie. why it was back in august, when harrison gowler was staying here. and it was not the churchyard wall at all, but the wall of the rectory garden, that she peeped over in the dark. it can have had nothing to do with it." "i am not so sure of that. things come out so oddly. you remember when my poor _flo_ was poisoned, how i found it out at last. i never left off. i wouldn't leave off. prying, listening, tip-toeing, even spying, without any sense of shame. and i found it out at last--at last; and didn't i have my revenge? oh, i would have hanged that woman, if the law had been worth a farthing, and stuck her all over with needles and pins." "you spiteful, and meanly vindictive little creature! but you never found it out by yourself, after all. it came out quite by accident." "well, and so will this. you take my word. i dare say i am stupid, but i always prove right. yet we are bound to use the means of grace, as they tell us in every blessed sermon. oh come, i may go and see your pet parson. i'll be bound, i shall not care for him, an atom of an atom. i hate those perfect people; they are such a slur upon one. i like a good minister, who rides to hounds in pink, and apologises to the ladies, every time he swears. but, come, brother jemmy, are there no more friends? i have put down all you mentioned, and the list looks very short. there must be a few more, for the sake of christianity." "to be sure, there is one more, and a frightfully zealous one--certain to do more harm than good. a mere boy, though he flies into a fury at the word. mr. penniloe's new pupil--preparing for the church, by tearing all across the country. he breaks down all the hedges, and he drives the sheep-dogs mad. he is mad as a march-hare himself, by all accounts; but everybody likes him. his name is horatio peckover, but everybody calls him 'hopper,' by _syncope_, as we used to say at school. one of his fellow-pupils, young pike, who is a very steady-going young fellow, and a fine rising fisherman, told me that hopper is double-jointed; and they believe it devoutly. they tied him on a chair at his own request, the other day, in order that he might learn his lessons. but that only made him worse than ever; for he capered round the room, chair and all, until mr. penniloe sent to ask who was churning butter." "what a blessing that boy must be in a sick house! but what has made him take up our case, jemmy?" "the demand of his nature for violent motion. every day of his life, except sunday, he scours the country for miles around. on foot, mind--not on horseback, which one could understand. moreover, he is hot in my favour, because he comes from somewhere near wincaunton, and is a red hot 'zon ov' zummerzet,' and contemptuous of devon. but it is not for me to enquire into motives. i shall want every single friend i can scrape together, if what i heard, this morning is anything like true. you asked me last night, what lady waldron thought." "to be sure, i did. it seemed most important. but now," continued christie, as she watched her brother's face, "there are reasons why i should scarcely attach so much weight to her opinion." "the chief reason being that you see it is against me. well, truly, you are a brave reasoner, my dear. but i fear that it is so. i am told that my name must never again be heard in the house, where once i was so welcome." "oh, i am rather glad of that. that will go a long way in our favour. i cannot tell how many times i have heard not from one, but from all who have met her, that she is a most unpleasant haughty person, even for a foreigner. it must lie very heavy on the poor woman's conscience, that everybody says she helped, by her nasty nature to shorten her poor husband's days. possibly now--well, that throws a new light. what has happened may very well have been done at the order of some of his relatives, who knowing her character suspect foul play. and of course she would like to hear no more about it. you know all those foreigners, how pat they are with poison." "what a grand thing it is to have a sister!" fox exclaimed, looking with astonishment at christie, who was quite excited with her new idea. "better almost to have a sister than--than--i mean than any one else. i almost feared to tell you my last piece of news, because i thought that it must upset you so. and behold, it has greatly encouraged you! but remember, on no account must you drop a hint, even to our best friends, of your last brilliant idea. what frightful things flow into the sweetest little head!" "well, i don't see at all, why i should try to conceal it. i think it is a case for very grave suspicions. and if she spreads shameful reports about you, i'll soon let her know that two can play at that." "nonsense, my dear child. there is evidence against me. none, nor even a shadow of suspicion, against her. she loved sir thomas devotedly; and i always thought that jealousy was the cause of her coldness to his english friends. but to come to common sense again--what i heard to-day settles my doubts as to what i should do. penniloe thought that i should call at walderscourt; though he saw what a difficult thing it was to do, and rather referred it to my own decision. i shrank from it, more than i can describe. in fact, i could not bring myself to go; not for my own sake but for theirs. but this behaviour on her part puts a new aspect upon it. i feel myself bound, as an innocent man, to face her; however unpleasant it may be. it will only be the worse, for putting off. i shall go, this afternoon." "i love to bring anything to a point. you are quite right;" replied christie, with her bright colour rising, at the prospect of a brush; "jemmy dear, let me come with you." "not quite, you gallant chris! no such luck for me. not that i want you to back me up. but still it would have been a comfort. but you know it is out of the question, for a stranger to call, at such a time. "well, i fear it is. though i shouldn't mind that. but it would look very odd for you. never mind; i won't be far away. you can leave me outside, and i will wait for you, somewhere in the shrubbery, if there is one. not that i would dream of keeping out of sight. only that they might be afraid to see me." "they might reasonably fear it, if you looked as you do now. ferocity does not improve the quality of your smile, dear. what will mother say, when you go home? and somebody else perhaps? now, you need not blush. i have a very high opinion of him." "jemmy, i won't have it. not another word! get it out of your silly mind for ever. men never understand such things. there's no romance in me, as goodness knows. but you'll never catch me marrying a man with none of it in him." "you are too young to think of such things yet. though sometimes even younger girls--but come along, let us have a breath of fresh air, after all this melancholy talk. that footpath will take us up to hagdon in ten minutes. you are eager to try our old-barn style of victualling, and it suits the system better than your long late dinners. we dine at two o'clock. come and get an appetite." a short sharp climb, and with their lungs expanded, they stood upon the breezy hill, and looked back at the valley. before them rolled the sweep of upland, black in some places with bights of fired furze; but streaked with long alleys of tender green, where the flames had not fed, or the rains had wept them off. the soft western air, though the winter had held speech with it, kept enough of good will yet, to be a pleasant change for those who found their fellow-creatures easterly. and more than that, the solemn distance, and expanse of trackless grey, hovering with slow wings of sleepy vapour touched with sunshine, if there was no comfort in them, yet spread some enlargement. these things breathed a softer breath, as nature must (though it be unfelt) on young imaginations fluttering, like a wisp of brambled wool, in the bridle-paths, and stray sheep-walks of human trouble. chapter xvi. little billy. when he has refreshed his memory with the map of england, let any man point out upon it, if he can deliberately, any two parishes he knows well, which he can also certify to be exactly like each other, in the character of their inhabitants. do they ever take alike a startling piece of news, about their most important people? do they weigh in the same balance the discourses of the parson, the merits of those in authority, or the endeavours of the rich to help them? if a stranger rides along the street, he is pretty sure to be stared at; but not with quite the same expression, as in the last village he came through. each place has its own style, and tone, vein of sentiment, and lines of attitude, deepened perhaps by the lore and store of many generations. for instance, perlycombe, perlycross, and perliton, are but as three pearls on one string, all in a line, and contiguous. the string is the stream; which arising at the eastern extremity of perlycombe parish, passes through the village, then westward through perlycross, and westward still through the much larger village of perliton. at perlycombe it is a noisy little brook, at perlycross a genial trout-stream--anon of glassy wanderings, anon of flickered hurry--; while perliton, by the time it gets there, entitles it "the river perle," and keeps two boats upon it, which are not always more aground than landsmen should desire. now any one would fancy, that these three adjoining parishes would, in all their ways and manners, be as like each other as three peas vertebrated in one pod. but the fancy would prove that he was only fit for fiction, not for the clearer heights of history such as this. for these three parishes are quite as distinct, one from another, as all three taken together admit that they are, and deserve to be, from the rest of england. all three are simple, all old-fashioned, highly respectable, and wonderfully quiet--except when lashed up by some outrage--slightly contemptuous of one another, and decidedly so of the world outside the valley. from it they differ widely, and from one another visibly, in their facial expression, and figure, and walk; perceptibly also, in tone of feeling, habits of thought (when they think at all), voices, pet words, and proclivities of slouch. so that in these liberal times of free disintegration, each of them has nature's right to be a separate nation. and in proof of this, they beat their bounds, and often break each other's heads, upon saint clement's day. "what an extraordinary sound i hear!" said christie to her brother, as they turned to quit the hill. "just listen a moment. i can't make it out. it sounds like a frightful lot of people in the distance." "well, i declare, i had forgotten all about it! how very stupid i am getting now!" cried jemmy. "why this is st. clement's day, and no mistake!" "who is he? i never heard of him. and, what right has he got to make such a dreadful noise? he couldn't do it all by himself, jemmy, even if he was on a gridiron." "but he has got half of perlycross to help him. come here, chris. here is a nice dry hollow, away from the damp and the mist; and the noise below follows the curve of it." fox led his sister into a little scarp of flint, with brows of grey heather, and russet fern, quivering to the swell of funneled uproar. "don't be afraid," he said, "it is only our own parish. there ought to be three of them; but this is only ours." "well, if your parish can make all that noise, what would all three of them do together? why ten packs of hounds couldn't equal it!" "you have hit the very point; you have a knack of doing that;" answered jemmy, as he landed her upon a grey ledge. "we don't let the other two in, any more. the business had always been triennial. but the fighting grew more and more serious, till the stock of sticking-plaster could not stand it. then a man of peaceful genius suggested that each parish should keep its own st. clement's day, at intervals of three years as before; but in succession, instead of all three at once; so that no two could meet upon the frontier in force. a sad falling off in the spirit of the thing, and threatening to be better for the lawyers, than for us. perlycombe had their time last year; and now perlycross has to redress it. our eastern boundary is down in that hollow; and perlycombe stole forty feet from us last year. we are naturally making a little stir about it." "if that is a little stir, what would be a big one? but i want to see them; and the fogginess of the trees in that direction stops me. i should say there must be at least five hundred people there. i can't stop up here, like a dummy." "very well. if you love a row so much. but there are no five hundred there, because it is more than thirty miles round this parish, and the beaters start in two companies from perle-weir, one lot to the north and the other to the south, and they go round till they meet each other; somewhere at the back of beaconhill. one churchwarden with each party, and the overseers divided, and the constables, and so on. the parson should be in the thickest of the fray; but i strictly forbade mr. penniloe, and told him to send jakes as his deputy. still i should not be surprised, if he turns up. he is hot upon the rights of his parish. come round this way; there is no fear of missing them, any more than a pack of hounds in full cry." christie was quite up for it. she loved a bit of skirmish, and thought it might fetch her brother's spirits up again. so they turned the steep declivity, and after many scratches, crept along a tangled path, leading down to a wooded gully. here they found themselves, rather short of breath, but in a position to command fair view of the crowd, full of action in the dingle and the bramble-land. how it could matter to any sane humanity, whether the parish-bound ran even half a league, on this side or on that of such a desert wild, only those who dwell on human nature can explain. however so it was; and even mr. penniloe had flouted the doctors, and was here, clad in full academicals according to the ancient rule, flourishing his black-varnished stick, and full of unfeigned wrath at some gross crime. "thou shalt not move thy neighbour's land-mark"--he was shouting, instead of swallowing pills; and as many of his flock as heard his text, smote right and left in accordance with it. "what on earth is it all about?" asked christie, peeping through a holly bush, and flushing with excitement. "all about that stone down in the hollow, where the water spurts so. don't be afraid. they can't see us." the girl looked again, and wondered. some fifty yards before them was a sparkling little watercourse, elbowing its way in hurried zig-zag down the steep; but where it landed in the fern-bed with a toss of tresses, some ungodly power of men had heaved across its silver foot a hugeous boulder of the hill, rugged, bulky, beetle-browed--the "shameless stone" of homer. and with such effect, that the rushing water, like a scared horse, leaped aside, and swerving far at the wrongful impulse, cut a felonious cantel out of the sacred parish of perlycross! even this was not enough. to add insult to injury, some heartless wag had chiselled, on the lichened slab of boulder, a human profile in broad grin, out of whose wicked mouth came a scroll, inscribed in deep letters--"p. combe parish." the perlycrucians stood before this incredible sight, dumb-foundered. thus far they had footed it in a light and merry mood, laughing, chaffing, blowing horns, and rattling bladders, thumping trees and gates and cowsheds, bumping schoolboys against big posts, and daubing every corner of contention, from kettles of tar or sheep-wash, with a big p. +. but now as this outrage burst upon them, through a tall sheaf of yellow flags, their indignation knew no bounds, parochial or human. as soon as they could believe their eyes, they lifted their hands, and closed their lips; while the boys, who were present in great force--for jakes could not help the holiday--put their fingers in their mouths, and winked at one another. five or six otter-hounds, from the kennels of a sporting yeoman, had joined the procession with much goodwill; but now they recognised the check, and sat upon their haunches, and set up a yell with one accord, in the dismay of human silence. not an oath was uttered, nor a ribald laugh; but presently all eyes were turned upon the pale mr. penniloe, who stood at the side of mr. farrant, the junior churchwarden, who had brought him in his four-wheeled chaise, as far as wheels might venture. few were more pained by this crime than the parson; he nodded under his college cap, and said-"my friends, abate this nuisance." but this was easier said than done, as they very soon discovered. some called for crowbars, and some for gunpowder, and some for a team of horses; but nothing of the sort was near at hand. then sergeant jakes, as an old campaigner, came to the rescue, and borrowing a hatchet (of which there were plenty among them), cut down a sapling oak, hard and tough and gnarled from want of nourishment; therewith at the obnoxious rock they rushed, butting, ramming, tugging, levering, with the big pole below, and a lot of smaller staves above, and men of every size and shape trampling, and kicking out, and exhorting one another. but the boulder had been fanged into its socket so exactly, probably more by luck than skill, that there it stuck, like a gigantic molar, and perlycross laboured in vain at it. "what muffs! as if they could do it, like that! penniloe ought to know better; why the pressure is all the wrong way. but of course he is an oxford man. chris, you stay here, till i come back. cambridge v. oxford, any day, when it comes to a question of engineering." speaking too lightly, he leaped in like manner into the yellow-rib'd breast of the steep; while christie communed with herself, like this. "oh, what a pity he left st. john's! he must have been senior-wrangler, if he had stayed on, instead of those horrible hospitals. and people would have thought so much more of him. but perhaps he would not have looked so bright; and he does more good in this line. though nobody seems to thank him much. it would be ever so much better for him, and he would be valued more, if he did ever so much less good. but i like the look of mr. penniloe." the man who should have been senior-wrangler--as every man ever yet sent to cambridge should have been, if justice had been done him--went in a style of the purest mathematics along the conic sections of the very noble hagdon. the people in the gully shouted to him, for a single slip would have brought him down upon their hats; but he kept his breath for the benefit of his legs, and his nerves were as sound as an oyster's, before its pearly tears begin. christie watched him without fear; she had known the construction of his legs, from the days of balusters and rocking-horses. "give me up a good pole--not too heavy--you see how i have got to throw my weight; but a bit of good stuff with an elbow to it." thus spake jemmy, and the others did their best. he stuck his heel and footside into a soft place he had found, and let the ledge of harder stuff overlap his boot-vamps, then he took the springy spar of ash which some one had handed up to him, for he stood about twelve feet above them, and getting good purchase against a scrag of flint, brought the convexity of his pole to bear on the topmost jag of boulder. "slew away as high as you can reach," he cried; "but don't touch it anywhere near the bottom." as they all put their weights to it, the rock began to sway, and with a heavy groan lurched sideways. "stand clear!" cried jemmy, as the whole bunk swang, with the pillar of water helping it, and then settled grandly back into the other niche, with the volume of the fall leaping generously into the parish of perlycombe. "hurrah!" shouted everybody young enough to shout; while the elder men leant upon their staves, and thanked the lord. not less than forty feet was recovered, and another forty added from the substance of big rogues. "'tis the finest thing done ever since i were a boy," said the oldest man present, as he wiped his dripping face. "measter vox, come down, and shake hands round. us will never believe any harm of thee no more." this reasoning was rather of the heart than head; but it held good all round, as it generally does. and now as the sound of the water went away into its proper course, with the joy of the just pursuing it, miss fox, who had watched all proceedings from the ridge, could hear how the current of public opinion was diverted and rushing in her brother's favour. so she pinned up a torn skirt, and smoothed out another, and putting back her bright hair, tripped down the wooded slope, and stood with a charming blush before them. the labourers touched their hats, and the farmers lifted theirs, and every one tried to look his best; for perlycross being a poetical parish is always very wide awake to beauty. "my sister!" explained dr. fox with just pride. "my sister, mr. penniloe! my sister, mr. farrant! sergeant jakes, my sister! miss christie fox will be glad to know you all." "and i am sure that everybody will be glad to know miss fox," said the parson, coming forward with his soft sweet smile. "at any time she would be welcome; but now she is come at the time of all times. behold what your brother has done, miss fox! that stream is the parish boundary." "he maketh the river to run in dry places;" cried channing the clerk, who had been pulling at his keg, "and lo, he hath taken away the reproach of his people, israel!" "mr. channing! fie, mr. channing!" began the representative of the upper desk, and then suddenly checked himself, lest he should put the old man to shame, before the children of the parish. "by the by," said mr. farrant, coming in to fill the pause; "dr. fox is the likeliest person to tell us what this curious implement is. it looks like a surgical instrument of some sort. we found it, doctor, in this same watercourse, about a furlong further down, where the blackmarsh lane goes through it. we were putting our parish-mark on the old tree that overhangs a deep hole, when this young gent who is uncommon spry--i wish you luck of him, i'm sure, mr. penniloe--there he spies it, and in he goes, like an otter, and out with it, before he could get wet, almost." "not likely i was going to leave it there," young peckover interrupted; "i thought it was a clot of eels, or a pair of gloves, or something. though of course a glove would float, when you come to think of it. perhaps the young lady knows--she looks so clever." "hopper, no cheek!" dr. fox spoke sharply, for the youth was staring at his sister. "mr. farrant, i can't tell you what it is; for i never saw a surgical instrument like it. i should say it was more like a blacksmith's, or perhaps a turner's tool; though not at all a common one, in either business. is crang here, or one of his apprentices?" "no, sir. joe is at home to-day--got a heavy job," answered someone in the crowd; "and the two prentices be gone with t'other lot of us." "i'll tell you what i'll do;" volunteered the hopper, who was fuming at the slowness of parochial demarcation, for he would have been at the back of beacon hill by this time; "i'll go straight with it to susscot, and be back again before these old codgers have done a brace of meadows. it is frightful cold work to stand about like this. i found it, and i'll find out what it is too." the tool was handed to him, and he set off, like a chamois, in a straight line westward; while two or three farmers, who had suffered already from his steeplechase tracks, would have sent a brief word after him, but for the parson's presence. fox, who was amused with this specimen of his county, ran part way up the hill to watch his course, and then beckoned to his sister, to return to the old barn by the footpath along the foot of hagdon. they had scarcely finished dinner, which they had to take in haste, by reason of the shortness of the days, and their intended visit to walderscourt, when joe crang the blacksmith appeared in the yard, pulling his hat off, and putting it on again, and wiping his face with a tongs-swab. fox saw that the man was in a state of much excitement, and made him come in, while miss christie went upstairs, to prepare for their drive to walderscourt. "what's the matter, crang? take a chair there. you needn't be nervous," said the doctor kindly; "i have no grudge against you for saying what you believe. it has done me a world of harm, no doubt; but it's no fault of yours. it's only my bad luck, that some fellow very like me, and also a jemmy, should have been in that black job that night. but i wish you had just shown a little more pluck, as i told you the other day. if you had just gone round the horse and looked; or even sung out--'is that you, doctor?' why you might have saved me from--from knowing so much about my friends." "oh sir, 'twaz an awesome night! but what i be come for to say, sir, is just this. i absolve 'e, sir; i absolve 'e, measter vox. if that be the right word,--and a' cometh from the baible, i absolve 'e, measter vox." "absolve me from what, crang? i have done nothing. you mean, i suppose, that you acquit me?" "well now, you would never believe--but that's the very word of discoorse that have been sticking in my throat all the way from the ford. you never done it, sir,--not you. you never done it, sir! you may put me on my oath." "but you have been very much upon your oath, ever since it happened, that i was the man, and no other man, that did the whole of it, joseph crang. and the ale you have had on the strength of it!" "the ale, sir, is neither here nor there"--the blacksmith looked hurt by this imputation--"it cometh to-day, and it goeth to-morrow, the same as the flowers of the field. but the truth is the thing as abideth, measter jemmy. not but what the ale might come, upon the other view of it. likewise, likewise--if the lord in heaven ordereth it, the same as the quails from the sky, sir." "the miracle would be if it failed to come, wherever you are, joseph. but what has converted you from glasses against me, to glasses in my favour?" "nothing more than this, sir. seemeth to a loose mind neither here nor there. but to them that knoweth it, beyond when human mind began, perhaps afore the flood waz, there's nought that speaks like little billy." "why this," exclaimed fox, as he unrolled the last new leathern apron of the firm of crang and wife, "this is the thing they found to-day in beating the bounds of the parish. nobody could make out what it was. what can it have to do with me, or the sad affair at perlycross?" "little billy, sir," replied the blacksmith, dandling the tool with honest love, as he promptly recovered it from fox, "have been in our family from father to son, since time runneth not to the contrary. half her can do is unbeknown to me, not having the brains as used to be. ah, we was clever people then, afore the times of the new covenant. it runneth in our race that there was a joe crang did the crafty work for the tabernacle as was set up in the wilderness. and it might a' been him as made little billy." "very hard indeed to prove. harder still to disprove. but giving you the benefit of the doubt, master crang, how have you used this magic tool yourself?" "that's where the very pint of the whole thing lies; that's what shows them up so ungrateful, sir. not a soul in the parish to remember what little billy hath been to them! mind, i don't say as i understand this tool, though i does a'most anything with her. but for them not to know! for them to send to ax the name of 'un, when there bain't one in ten of 'em as hathn't roared over 'un, when her was screwed to a big back tooth." "the ungrateful villains! it is really too bad. so after all, it proves to be what mr. farrant thought it was--a genuine surgical instrument. but go on, crang; will you never tell me how this amounts to any proof, either of my guilt or innocence?" "why according of this here, sir, and no way out of it. little billy were took off my shelf, where her always bideth from father to son, by the big man as come along of the lame horse and the cart, that night. when i was a kneeling down, i zeed 'un put his hand to it, though i dussn't say a word for the life of me. and he slipped 'un into his pocket, same as he would a penny dolly." "come now, that does seem more important," said the doctor cogitating. "but what could the fellow have wanted it for?" "can't tell 'e, sir," replied the blacksmith. "for some of his unchristian work, maybe. or he might have thought it would came in handy, if aught should go amiss with the poor nag again. many's the shoe i've punched off with little billy." "a billy of all trades it seems to be. but how does the recovery of this tool show that you made a mistake about me, crang?" "by reason of the place where her was cast away. you can't get from old barn to blackmarsh lane with wheels, sir, any way, can you? you know how that is, doctor jemmy." "certainly i do. but that proves nothing to my mind at all conclusive." "to my mind it do prove everything conclusive. and here be the sign and seal of it. as long as i spoke again' you, dr. vox, i was forced to go without my little billy. not a day's work hath prospered all that time, and two bad shillings from chaps as rode away. but now i be took to the right side again, here comes my little billy, and an order for three harries!" "but it was the little billy that has made you change sides. it came before, and not in consequence of that." "and glad i be to see 'un, sir, and glad to find you clear of it. tell 'e what i'll do, doctor jemmy. you draw a table up as big as ten commandments, and three horse shoes on the top for luck, in the name of the lord, and king william the fourth, and we'll have it on church-door by next sunday, with my mark on it, and both 'prentices. you put it up, sir, like nebuchadnezzar; beginning--'i, joseph crang, do hereby confess, confirm, and convince all honest folk of this here parish----'" "no, no; nothing of that, joe. i am quite satisfied. let people come round, or not; just as they like. i am having a holiday, and i find it very pleasant." "meaning to say, as it have spoiled your trade? never would i forgive a man as did the like to me. but i see you be going for a trip somewhere, sir, with a pretty lady. only you mind one thing. joe crang will shoe your horses, as long as you bide in perlycrass, for the wholesale price of the iron, doctor jemmy; time, and labour, and nails thrown in, free gratis and for nothing." chapter xvii. camelias. while at the old barn, and rectory also, matters were thus improving, there was no lifting of the clouds, but even deeper gloom at walderscourt. the house, that had been so gay and happy, warm and hospitable, brisk with pleasant indoor amusement; or eager to sally forth upon some lively sport, whenever the weather looked tempting; the house that had been the home of many joyful dogs--true optimists, and therefore the best friends of man--and had daily looked out of its windows, and admired (with noddings of pretty heads, and glances of bright eyes) the manner a good horse has of saying--"by your leave, i want to see a little bit of the world. two days looking at my own breath, and your nasty whitewash! it would grieve me very much to pitch you off. but remember you have seventy years, and i about seventeen, for seeing god's light, and the glories of the earth." none of these high-mettled things happened now. if a horse had an airing, it was with a cloth on, and heels of no perception sticking under him, like nippers; instead of the kind and intelligent approach of a foot that felt every step, and went with it--though thankful for being above the mud--or better still, that stroking of his goodness with the grain, which every gentlemanly horse throws up his head to answer, when a lady of right feeling floats upon the breeze to please him. neither was there any dog about. volumes of description close with a bang, the moment such a thing is said. any lawn, where dogs have played, and any gravel-walk,--whereon they have sauntered, with keener observation than even shakespeare can have felt, or rushed with headlong interest into the life-history of some visitor--lawn, and walk, and even flower-beds (touchy at times about sepulture of bones) wear a desolate aspect, and look as if they are longing to cry, too late--"oh bark again, as thou wast wont to bark!" the premises may not have felt it thus; or if they did, were too mute to tell it. but an air of desolation broods over its own breath; and silence is a ghost that grows bigger at each stalk. there were no leaves left, to make a little hush by dropping, as a dead man does from the human tree; for the nip of early frost had sent them down, on the night of their master's funeral, to a grave more peaceful and secure than his. neither had men worked over hard, to improve the state of things around them. with true philosophy, they had accepted the sere and yellow leaf; because nobody came to make them sweep it up. the less a man labours, the longer will he last, according to general theory; and these men though plentiful, desired to last long. so that a visitor of thoughtful vein might form a fair table of the course of "earth-currents," during the last three weeks, from the state of the big lawn at walderscourt; where sir thomas used to lean upon his stick, and say--"that man is working almost too hard. he looks as if he ought to have a glass of beer." but the gentleman, now coming up the drive, was not in the proper frame of mind for groundling observation. not that he failed to look about him, as if to expand or improve his mind; but the only result upon his nervous system was to make it work harder upon his own affairs. he was visited with a depressing sense of something hanging over him--of something that must direct, and shape, the whole course of his future life; and whether it might be for good or evil, he was hurrying to go through with it. "i don't care; i don't care," he kept saying to himself; but that self was well aware that he did care very much; as much as for all the rest of the world put together. "i've a great mind to toss up about it," he said, as he felt a lucky sixpence in his pocket; but his sense of the fitness of things prevailed; so he put on a fine turn of speed, and rang the bell. the old house looked so different, and everything around so changed, that our friend fox had a weak impression, and perhaps a strong hope, that the bell would prove to be out of its duty, and refuse to wag. but alas, far otherwise; the bell replied with a clang that made him jump, and seek reassurance in the flavour of his black kid glove. he had plenty of time to dwell fully upon that, and even write a report upon the subject, ere ever door showed any loyalty to bell; and even then, there was stiffness about it. for one of the stiffest of mankind stood there, instead of the genial john, or bob--mr. binstock himself, a tall man of three score, major of the cellar, and commander of the household. he, in a new suit of black, and bearing a gold chain on his portly front, looked down upon the vainly upstanding jemmy, as if in need of an introduction. but dr. fox was not the man to cave in thus. the door was a large one, with broad aperture; and this allowed the visitor to march in, as if he had failed to see the great binstock. taking his stand upon a leopard's skin, in the centre of the entrance hall, he gazed around calmly, as if he were the stranger contemplated by the serving-man. "you will have the goodness to take this card up. no thank you, my man, i will stay where i am." the butler's face deepened from the tint of a radish to that of the richest beet-root; but he feared to reply, and took the card without a word. "my turn will come very soon," was in his eyes. acquainted as he was with the domestic signs and seasons, fox had not a shadow of a doubt about his fate, so far as the lady of the house could pronounce it. but for all that he saw no reason to submit to rudeness; and all his tremors vanished now at this man's servile arrogance. how many a time had that fat palm borne the impress of a five-shilling piece, slipped into it by the sympathetic jemmy! and now, to think that this humbug did not know him, and looked at him as a young man aiming at the maids, but come to the wrong door! if anything is wormwood to an englishman,--that a low, supercilious, ungrateful lacquey--well, here he comes again! now for it. binstock descended the old oak staircase, in a very majestic manner, with the light from a long quarled window playing soft hop-scotch, upon his large countenance. the young doctor, as in absent mood, felt interest in the history, value, and probable future, of the beings on the panels,--stags, otters, foxes, martens, polecats, white hares, badgers, and other noble members of west county suffrage; some entire, and too fat to live, some represented by a very little bit. binstock descended, in deep silence still. he felt that the crown had passed away. no other five-shilling piece would ever flutter--as a tip on the sly should have the wings to do--from the gentleman of phials, to the man of bottles. the salver in his hand was three times as large as the one upon which he had received the card; but the little card was on it, very truly in the centre, squaring the circle of a coat of many arms. the butler came down, and brought his heels together; then made a low bow, and without a word, conveyed to the owner of that piece of pasteboard, how frankly and cordially it lay at his disposal. fox had been expecting at least some message, some shade, however cold it might be, of courtesy and acknowledgment. but this was a queer sort of reception. and binstock did not even grin. the turn of his lips suggested only, that others might do so--not he, at such a trifle. fox should have taken all, with equal silence. the foxes were quite as old a race as any waldrons; foxden was a bigger place than walderscourt; and stouter men than binstock were in service there. but the young man was in love; and he forgot those spiteful things. "no message, binstock?" he asked with timid glance, while he fumbled very clumsily with his nails (now bitten short, during many sad hours of dark brooding) to get his poor card out of graven heraldry--"not a word of any sort, from--from anybody?" "had there been a message, sir, i should have delivered it." "i beg your pardon, binstock. to be sure--of course, you would. very well. good afternoon. there is nothing more to say. i will put this in my pocket, for--for a last remembrance." he put the rejected card in his waistcoat-pocket, and glanced round, as if to say "good bye," to the old haunt of many a pleasant hour. then binstock, that grave and majestic butler, surprised him by giving a most unmajestic wink. whether he was touched with reminiscence of his youth--for he had been a faithful man, in love, as well as wine--or whether sweeter memory of crown-pieces moved him; from sympathy, or gratitude, or both combined, beyond any question, binstock winked. fox felt very thankful, and received a lasting lesson, that he had not given utterance to the small contempt within him. "there was a little pipe, sir," said the butler, glancing round, and speaking in a low voice rather fast, "that our poor sir thomas gived to you, from the spanish, now called the provincial war. john hutchings made the observation, that he had heard you pronounce opinion that it was very valuable; and never would you part with it, high or low. and john says that to his certain knowledge now, it is lying in our camelia house." "oh never mind about it now. it is kind of you to think of it. perhaps you will put it by for me." "moreover john was a-saying, sir," continued mr. binstock, with a still more solemn wink, "that you ought almost to have a look at our poor little dog, that all the parish is so full of, including our miss nicie, sir. vets may be all very well in their way; but a human doctor more immortal. and that makes the young lady so particular no doubt, to keep her in the camelia house, because of being cool and warm, sir." "oh to be sure! that poor dear little _jess_! what a fine heart you have, binstock! i suppose i may go out that way?" "the same to you, sir;" said binstock, as he proved the truth of the proverb--"a fine heart is a vein of gold." "the shortest way out, sir, john always says, when her ladyship's nerves have locked her up. and the quietest way, with no one about, unless it should happen to be miss nicie, certainly is through the west quarry door." the butler closed the front door with a bang, as if he had thrust the intruder forth; while jemmy, with his heart in his mouth, hurried down the west corridor to the greenhouse. colonel waldron, while in portugal, five and twenty years ago, had been greatly impressed with the glorious sight of noble camelia-trees in full bloom, a sight perhaps unequalled in the world of flowers. he had vowed that if ever he returned alive, and could afford the outlay, camelias he would have in england; not so magnificent of course, but worthy to remind him of parque da pena. he had studied the likings of the race, and built a house on purpose for them; and here they were in this dark month, beginning to offer bright suggestion of the spring. fine trees of twenty years' sturdy growth, flourishing in the prime flush of health, with the dark leaves glancing like bulls'-eyed glass, and the younger ones gleaming like gauffered satin. and these but a cushion, and a contrast, for the stately luxuriance of blossom; some in the perfect rosette already, of clean-cut, snow-white ivory; some just presenting the pure deep chalice; others in the green bud, tipped with snow, or soft maiden blush, or lips of coral. for the trees were planted in a border of good sod, cut from healthy pasture; instead of being crammed and jammed in pots, with the roots like a ganglion, or burr-knot wen. hence the fibres spread, and sucked up strength, and poured the lush juices into elastic cells, ready to flow into grace of form and colour, and offer fair delight, and pride, to the eyes and heart of watchful men. but fox was not a watchful man at all of any of the charming feats of vegetation now. flowers were all very well in their way; but they were not in his way just at present, or--worse again--some of them were, and stopped him from clear view of something worth all the flowers, all the fruit, and all the fortunes of the wide wide world. for lo, not far away, betwixt a pink tree and a white one, sat miss inez waldron, in a square-backed garden chair. at her feet was a cushioned basket, with an invalid dog asleep in it; while a sound dog, of pug race, was nudging in between, fain to push it out of sight, if his body had been big enough. jealousy lurked in every wrinkle of his face, and governed every quiver of his half-cocked tail. the girl looked very pale and sad, and could not even raise a smile, at all the sharp manoeuvres and small-minded whines of _pixie_. heartily as she loved the dogs, their sorrows, views, and interests now were not the first she had to dwell on. with the colour gone from her cheeks, and her large deep-gray eyes dulled with weeping, her face was not so lovely as in gayer times, but even yet more lovable and tender. following _pixie's_ rush, without much expectation in her gaze--for she thought it was her mother coming--her eyes met those of the young man, parted by such a dark cloud from her. for an instant her pale cheeks flushed, and then the colour vanished from them, and she trembled so that she could not rise. her head fell back on the rail of the chair; while trees, and flowers, and lines of glass began to quiver, and lose their shape, and fade away from her languid eyes. "you are faint--she has fainted!" cried fox in dismay, as he caught up the handkerchief she had dropped, and plunged it into a watering pot, then wrung and laid it gently on her smooth white forehead. then he took both her hands in his, and chafed them, kneeling at her side in a state of agitation, unlikely to add to his medical repute. and from time to time, he whispered words, of more than sympathy or comfort, words that had never passed between them yet. for a while she knew not what he said, until as she slowly revived, one word attracted her vague attention. "happy!" she said, only conscious yet of speaking to some kind person; "no, i must never think of such a thing again." the sadness of her own voice told upon her, reacting on the sad heart from which it came. she looked, as if for somebody to comfort her; perhaps the dear father who had always loved to do it. he was not to be found--oh, piteous grief! if he could come, would he ever leave her thus? then the whole of her misery broke upon her. she knew too well where she was, and what. turn away the face there is none to kiss, and toss back the curls there is nobody to stroke. from a woman, she fell back into a petted child, spoiled by sweet love, and now despoiled by bitter fate. she could look at nothing more. why did consciousness come back? the only thing for her was to sob, and weep--tears that rolled more big and heavy, because they must ever roll in vain. fox had never been in such a state of mind before. hundreds of times he had been driven to the end of his wits, and the bottom of his heart, to know what to do with wailing women, stricken down at last by inexorable death, from the hope that laughs at doctors. but the difference was this--he was the doctor then; and now he was the lover. the lover, without acknowledged right to love; but the shadow of death, and worse than that, betwixt him and the right to love. while he was feebly holding on, knowing that he could not leave her thus--for there was a large tank near her--yet feeling that no man--save husband, or father--should be admitted to this deep distress, he heard the light steps of a woman in the corridor, and he muttered--"thank god! there is some kind person coming." but his joy was premature. the branches of a fine camelia-tree were swept aside like cobwebs, and there stood lady waldron, drawing the heavy black folds around her, and bearing him down with her cold dark eyes. her gaze of contemptuous loathing passed from him--as if he were not worth it--to the helpless embodiment of anguish in the chair; and even then there was no pity. inez turned and faced her, and the meeting of their eyes was not of the gentle sweetness due betwixt a mother and her daughter. without another glance at fox, lady waldron swept by, as if he were not present; and standing before her daughter, spoke a few spanish words very slowly, pronouncing every syllable. then with a smile far worse to see than any frown, she turned away, and her stately figure disappeared in the shadows of the corridor. the maiden watched her without a word, and the sense of wrong renewed her strength. her eyes met the light, as if they had never known a tear, and she threw up her head, and swept her long hair back. for her proud spirit rose through the storm of her trouble, as a young palm stands forth from the cloud it has defied. she cast a glance at fox, and to her great relief saw nothing in his face but anxiety about herself. but she must have his ignorance confirmed. "what trouble i have given you!" she said, with her usual clear soft tones, and gentle look. "i am quite ashamed of myself, for having so very little strength of mind. i cannot thank you as i ought to do. my mother would have done it, i--i suppose at least, if she had been at all like herself. but she has not been well, not at all as she used to be, ever since--i need not tell you what. we are doing our best to bear things; but we find it very, very hard. as the spanish proverb is--but i beg your pardon, you don't know spanish?" "i am nothing of a linguist. i am no exception to the general rule of englishmen, that their own tongue is enough for them." "please to tell me plainly. my memory seems confused. but i think you have shown some knowledge of it. and i think, i have heard my father say that you could read don quixote very fairly from his copy." "no; but just a little, very badly, and with the help of a dictionary, and my own recollection of latin." "then you know what my mother said just now? i hope not. oh i should grieve so!" "well, miss waldron, if you insist upon the truth, i cannot deny that i understood her." nicie's eyes flashed as he spoke: then she rose, and went to him hastily; for he was going, and had taken up his hat to leave her, inasmuch as she now could take care of herself. "put down your hat," she said in her own pretty style of issuing orders, in the days of yore; "now give me both your hands, as you held mine just now, and look at me honestly, and without reserve." "all that i am doing," answered jemmy fox, happy to have her so, and throwing the dawn of a smile into the depth of her dear eyes. "miss waldron, i am doing it." "then go on like this--'miss waldron,' or you may even for once say, 'nicie--i have never been base enough, for a moment, to imagine that you had any doubt of me.' say all that from the bottom of your heart." "nicie, i say from the bottom of my heart, that i knew you were too noble to have any doubt of me, in that way." "i should hope so;" she said, as she dropped her eyes, for fear of showing all that was in them. "you have done me justice, and it will be done to you. i was only afraid, though i knew better, that you might--for men are not like us----" "no, they are not. and more shame for them. oh nicie, what do i care now, if the whole world goes against me?" she gave him one steadfast look, as if that recklessness had no shock for her, and in fact had been duly expected. then knowing by the eyes what had been nursing in her heart for months, she smiled the smile that is deeper almost in the human kind than tears, and happily more lasting. the young man proved himself worthy of her, by cherishing it, without a word. "i may never see you again," said nicie, coming back to proper form, though they both knew that was humbug; "never again, or not for years. it will be impossible for you now to come--to come, as you used to do. but remember, if it is any comfort to you, and i think it will be a little, that no one is more miserable about this wicked, wicked charge, than the one who has more right than any--yes much more than she has"--and she waved her hand after her mother's steps. "yes. or at any rate quite as much. darling, darling nicie dear. don't get excited again, for my sake." "i am not excited. and i don't mean to be. but you are welcome to tell everybody, everybody, jemmy, exactly what i think of you. and my dear father thought the same." "you are an angel, and nothing less. something considerably more, i think," said jemmy, confining himself to moderation. "hush!" she replied, though not in anger; for ladies like that comparison. and then, as he could not better it, he whispered, "god bless you, dear, as you have blessed me!" before she could answer, he was gone. chapter xviii. concussion. all the time these things were going on, the patient christie had been waiting, or rather driving to and fro, on the outskirts of the private grounds. these were large, and well adorned with trees of ancient growth, and clumps of shrubs, and ferny dingles. southward stretched the rich perle valley, green with meadows beloved by cows, who expressed their fine emotions in the noblest cream; on the north-east side was the beacon hill, sheltering from the bitter winds, and forming a goodly landmark; while to the north and west extended heathery downs with sweet short grass, knolls of scotch fir here and there, and gorse for ever blooming. across these downs, and well above the valley-margin ran one of the two great western roads, broad and smooth as a ball-room floor, and ringing some forty times a day, with the neigh, and the tramp, and the harness-rattle of four steeds tossing their heads up, and the musical blast of long brass horn, or merry notes of key-bugle. christie fox in her own opinion was an exceedingly fine whip. tandem-driving was then much in vogue; and truly to be a good tandem-whip was one of the loftiest aspirations of the rational being who could afford it. christie was scarcely up to that mark yet, although she had been known to "tool a team," when her father had the gout, and there was some one at her side. so it may be supposed, with what sweet contempt her sparkling eyes regarded churchwarden tarrant's rattle-trap, and his old cob punch anteceding it. "now don't you go capering about, miss chris;" her brother had said when he left her. "i should have brought george, or at any rate the boy. these lanes are so narrow, and the ditches such a depth." "well, jemmy, it shows how little you have been at home! why i can drive sparkler, and wild-oats, and hurricane. to think of my coming to grief with this old screw!" "you are a wonder, no doubt. but at any rate, be careful. he is a quiet old buffer, but he has got a temper of his own. why he upset the reverend, last summer." "he won't spill me, i can tell him that. the reverend is a muff--he should have let him say his prayers." for a long time the young lady proved that she was right. _punch_ went up and down, and even on the common, as grave as a judge, and as steady as a church. "poor old chap!" said christie to him; "why you haven't got the pluck to call your soul your own." _punch_ only replied with a whisk of his tail, as if to say--"well, i can call this my own," and pursued his reflections, with a pensive head. but suddenly the scene changed. a five-barred gate was flung mightily open, half across the lane, with a fierce creak of iron, and a shivering of wood; and out poured a motley crowd of all sorts and sizes, rattling tea-kettles, and beating frying-pans, blowing old cow's horns, and flourishing a blown dozen of bob jake's bladders, with nuts inside them. _punch_ was coming past, in a moody state of mind, down upon his luck in some degree, and wondering what the world was made for, if a piece of iron in a horse's mouth was allowed to deny him the almighty's gift of grass. however he resigned himself about all that. but when this tremendous uproar broke upon him--for it happened to be the northern party of the parish, beating bounds towards the back of beacon hill, and eager to win a bet about where they met the other lot--and when a gate was flung almost into his shaky knees, which had begun for some time to "come over," up rose the spirit of his hunting days, for he had loved the hounds, when he was young. there was no room to rise the gate; or perhaps he would have tried it, for the mettle of springier times sprang up, and he had never heard a louder noise, in the most exciting burst. surely his duty was at least to jump a hedge. he forgot altogether that he stood between two shafts, and that a young lady was entrusted to his care. swerving to the off-side, he saw a comely gap, prepared no doubt by providence, for the benefit of a horse not quite so young as he used to be. and without hesitation he went at it, meaning no harm, and taking even less heed of the big ditch on this side of it. both shafts snapped, though of fine lance-wood, the four-wheeler became two vehicles, each with a pair of wheels to it, and over the back flew christie, like a sail blown out of the bolt-ropes. luckily she wore large bell-sleeves, as every girl with self-respect was then compelled to do; and these, like parachutes expanding, broke the full speed of her headlong flight. even so it must have fared very badly with her--for her hat being stringless had flown far away--had she been allowed to strike the earth; but quicker than thought a very active figure sprang round the head of the gate, and received the impact of her head upon a broad staunch breast. the blow was severe, and would have knocked the owner down, had he not been an english yeoman. upon a double-breasted waistcoat, made of otter skin, soft and elastic, he received the full brunt of the young lady's head, as the goal-keeper stops a football. throwing forward his arms, he was just in time to catch more of her, as it descended; and thus was this lovely maiden saved from permanent disfigurement, if not from death. but for the time, she knew nothing of this. frank gilham held her very firmly in his arms, and wondered, as well he might do, at her good fortune and his own. others came crowding round the gate, but none had the least idea who she was, and gilham would not permit one of them to touch her, though many would gladly have shared his load. throughout all history, it has been the nature of the british yeoman to bear his own burden, be it good or be it evil. "her be crule doiled," "a' vear her neck be bracken," "look e' zee what purty hair her hath!" "vetch a drap watter," "carr' un up to big 'ouze," "her be scrunched like a trummot"--in this way they went on, all gaping and staring, eager to help, but not sure of the way. "lift the gate from its hinges, and lay it down here;" said gilham, for she still remained senseless; "run to yon rick--they've been hay-binding there; bring a couple of trusses, and spread them on the gate." in two minutes christie was lying on the gate--for devonshire men can be quick when they like--bedded and pillowed among sweet hay, with frank gilham's coat spread across her pretty dress, and his hand supporting her fair head, and easing the jerks as they bore her up the road. but before they had gone more than ten or twenty yards towards walderscourt, whom should they come upon but dr. jemmy fox, looking very joyful, until he met them? "my sister! my own dear chris!" he exclaimed; and they fell away, while he examined her. "concussion. only slight, i hope. thank god!" he said, with his eyes full of tears; "keep her head like that, i will take this end; now, who the other? but not to the court--anywhere but that. never mind why. i can't stop to explain. what is the nearest house, this other way?" "mother's is not more than half a mile away, and good level road," answered gilham. "she'd be well-treated there. you may trust us for that." "you are a brick. take the other end, frank. some fellow with good legs run in front, and tell mrs. gilham what her son has said. no crowding round there; we want all the air. one or two of you run and catch mr. farrant's horse before he tumbles through that harrow. the rest of you go on with your beating work." for _punch_ was careering across a ploughed field, like a wrecker with his plunder at his heels. by the time they arrived at white post farm, mrs. gilham was ready to receive them, a kind old lady as ever lived, sensible, quiet, and ready-witted. a bed on the ground-floor was ready, and poor christie, who still lay as if in a heavy sleep, was carried in very gently; and placed as well as might be upon it. sometimes she was breathing with long gasps, and at other times showing no life at all, and her eyes were closed as in a soft deep sleep. "the pretty dear! the poor young thing!" cried mrs. gilham, and a real cry it was. "i shall not leave her till she comes to herself--that is if you will let me stop," said her brother, who was much more anxious than he cared to let them see. "but if you could send a note to my old barn, george would come over, with a little chest i want." "in twenty minutes, i will be there," answered gilham, "and back in another fifteen with it, if it will come on horseback." he had saddled a horse, and was off in two minutes, while fox called after him down the lane, to see on his road through priestwell whether dr. gronow was at home, and beg him to come up if possible. gronow came at once, when called; for if anything is remarkable among the professors of the healing art (beyond their inability to heal) it is the good-will with which they always try their best, and the largeness of their ministrations to each other's families. parsons appeal to one another for a leg-up very freely; but both reading-desk and pulpit feel that the strange foot is not up to much, unless it has its footing paid. but dr. gronow (besides the kindness of his kind profession, always at the service of its members) had an especial regard for fox, as a young man much of his own type, one who dared to think for himself, and being thoroughly well-grounded, often felt impatient at the vast uncertainty above. whatever faith a young man may feel in his own powers of perception, it is a happy moment, when a veteran confirms him. "she will be all right," said the man of long practice, after careful examination; "only she must have her time, which you know as well as i do. never mind if she lies like this, for twelve or even for twenty-four hours; though i do not think that it will last so long. she ought to have a face she knows and loves, to meet her own, when her consciousness returns. then you know how to treat her. _verbum sat._ but i want to have a long talk with you, when this anxiety is over. why have you kept so long out of my way? come down to my house, when your sister can spare you." fox would have found it hard to say, or at any rate to tell gronow, what were his reasons for avoiding priestwell, while the present black cloud hung over him. in fact to himself his own motives had not been very clear or well considered; but pride was perhaps the foremost. if gronow intended to take his part, the first thing to do was to call at old barn, and let everybody know it. and the young man failed to recollect, that the elder might have good reasons of his own, for keeping his distance just at first. nothing but kind consideration had prevented gronow from calling upon fox straightway, for he knew what significance people would attach to such a visit. suspicion had fallen upon him as well; and many of the baser sort declared, that old and young doctor had arranged that piece of work between them. liberal as he was, and kind, whenever a case of real want or trouble was brought before him, the retired physician was not beloved yet by his neighbours, and he knew it, and was well content to have it so. "a queer old chap"--was the usual summary of his character in the parish; and the charitable added, "no call to blame him; a little bit touched in the upper storey." to the vast relief of her brother, and the delight of her kind hostess, christie fox that very night contrived to come to herself, almost as suddenly as she had left it. "what is all this about?" she asked, opening her clear eyes strongly. "why, jemmy, you have got no hat on! and where is mine? oh dear! oh dear! thirty shillings, without the trimming." "there it is, dear, as large as life, and not a speck upon it. now drink this cup of tea; and then i'll finish what i was saying." "no, you always talk so fast, and you never let me say a word. i might just as well have no tongue at all." the young lady spoke in such fine ignorance of the self she had come back to, that there could be no doubt of her being all there. and presently the "cup of tea" had such a tranquillising power that she fell into a sweet deep sleep, and did not awake until the sun was as high as he meant to go at that time of the year. at first she had a slow dull headache, and felt stiff all over. but mrs. gilham appearing with a napkin'd tray, thin toast and butter, a couple of pullet's eggs just laid, and one or two other brisk challenges at the hands of her youngest daughter, nature arose with an open mouth to have the last word about it, and christie made a famous breakfast. very soon dr. gronow looked in again, and smiled in his dry way at her, for he was not a man of many words. she gave her round wrist to be felt, and the slim pink tongue to be glanced at, and the bright little head to be certified cool and sound under the curls; and passing this examination with high honours, she thought him a "very nice old man;" though his face was not at first sight perhaps of the sweet and benevolent order. then the old doctor took the young doctor aside--for jemmy had not been out of hail all night--and said, "she will do. i congratulate you. no serious lesion, no feverish symptoms--just a bump on her head from a mother-of-pearl button. but she has been severely shaken. i would not move her for a day or two." "may she get up?" asked jemmy in that spirit of pure submission, with which a doctor resigns his own family to the care of another, who knows perhaps less than he himself does. but the plan is wise for the most part, inasmuch as love is apt to cloud the clearest eyes. "to be sure she may. it will do her good. but not to walk about yet. these people are the kindest of the kind. you may safely leave all that to the ladies. meanwhile you are better out of the way. come down for an hour or two, and share my early dinner. you want looking to yourself. you have not had a bit for some twenty-four hours." it was little more than ten minutes' walk to gronow's house at priestwell, and fox accepted the invitation gladly. neither in the course of their walk, nor during their meal, did his entertainer refer to the mysterious subject, which was always in the mind of one, and often in that of the other. but gronow enlarged upon his favourite topic--the keen sagacity, and almost too accurate judgment possessed by trout, and the very great difficulty he experienced in catching them, unless the stream was muddy. "but you can't fish at this time of year," observed fox; "at least so people say. i know nothing about it. hunting and shooting are more to my taste." "you can fish every day in the year," replied gronow; "at any rate in this river. there is nothing against it, but prejudice. the little ones are as bright as a new shilling now, and the old ones as a guinea." "but surely they should be allowed time to breed." "that is their business, and none of mine. if they choose to neglect what they should be doing, and come to my hook, why i pull them out--that is to say, if they don't slip off." "but your hook has no right to be there just then." "is it for a fish to dictate to me, how i should employ my time? i bought this property for the fishing. the interest of my money runs all the year round, and so must what i spent it on." fox saw that he would only irritate this concise logician, by further contention on behalf of the fish; and he was quite disarmed, when the candid doctor added-"i don't mean to say, that such a fellow as young pike, penniloe's senior pupil, should be allowed to fish all the year round; for he never goes out without catching something. but my case is different; the winter owes me all the blank days i had in the summer; and as they were nine out of every ten, i shall not have caught up the record, by the time the may-fly comes back again." "then you can't do much harm now," thought fox; "and the trout will soon have their revenge, my friend--a fine attack of rheumatism, well in season." "and now," said dr. gronow, when dinner was over, and "red and white wine," as they were always called then, had been placed upon the table, not upon a cloth, but on the dark red sheen; "now you can smoke if you like. i don't, just at present. let us talk of all this botheration. what an idiot world it is! you are young, and will have to wag your tail to it. i go along, with my tail straight; like a dog who does not care to fight, but is ready, if it comes to that." "i know pretty well how you look at things. and it is the best way, for those who can afford it. of course, i am bound to pretend not to care; and i keep up pretty well, perhaps. but for all that, it is not very jolly. if my sister had not turned up, i am not sure how i should have got on at all. though penniloe was very good, and so were several others, especially mockham. i must have a pipe, if you don't mind. it makes me feel so grateful." "that is something in its favour, and shows how young you still remain. i would cultivate the pipe more than i do; if so it would bring back my youth; not for the youth--blind puppyhood--but for thinking better of my race, and of myself as one of them." "it is not for me to reason with you," fox answered humbly, as he blew a gentle cloud; "you are far above me, in every way. i am stupid enough; but i always know, when i come across a stronger mind." "not a stronger, but a harder one. we will not go into that question now. reams have been written about it, and they leave us none the wiser. the present point is--how are you to get out of this very nasty scrape?" "i don't care to get out. i will face it out. when a man knows his own innocence----" "that is all very fine; but it won't work. your prospects do not depend, i know, at all upon your profession. but for the sake of all your friends, your sweet high-spirited sister, your good mother, and all your family, you must not rest upon that manly view. your innocence may be a coat of mail to yourself. but it will not shelter them." "i have thought of all that. i am not so selfish. but who can prove a negative?" "the man who can prove the positive. you will never be quit, until you show who was the real perpetrator. a big word to use; for, after all, the horror at such things is rather childish. the law regards it so, and in its strong perception of mortal rights, has made it a felony to steal the shroud, to steal the body an indictable offence, to be punished with fine, or (if a poor man did it) with imprisonment." "is that the law? i could scarcely have believed it. and they talk of the absurdities of our profession!" "yes, that is the law. and perhaps you see now, why your enemies have not gone further. they see that it damns you ten times more, to lie under the imputation, than it would to be brought to trial, and be acquitted, as you must be. you have not to thank them for any mercy, only for knowing their own game." "it is enough to make one a misanthrope for life," said fox, looking really fierce once more. "i hoped that they had found their mistake about me, and were sorry for accusing an innocent man." "alas for the credulity of youth! no jemmy, the philistines are upon thee. you have to reckon with a wily lot, and an implacable woman behind them. they will take every advantage of the rank cowardice of the clodhopper, and the terror of all those pitch-plaster tales. you know how these things have increased, ever since that idiotic act of two or three years back. that a murderer should be prevented even from affording some posthumous expiation! and yet people call it a religious age--to rob a poor wretch of his last hope of heaven!" "your idea is a grim one;" answered fox with a smile; "i never saw it in that light before. but now tell me one thing--and it is a main point. you know that you can trust me with your opinion. i confess that i am at my wits' ends. the thing must have been done, to solve some doubt. there is no one about here who would dare the risk, even if there were any one zealous enough; and so far as i know, short of exeter, there are none but hum-drums, and jog-trots." "you have expressed your opinion already a little too freely to that effect, master jemmy." "perhaps i have. but i never meant it to go round. it was young and silly of me. but what i want to ask you is this--do you think it possible that, you know who----" "harrison gowler?" said dr. gronow calmly. "it is possible, but most improbable. gowler knew what it was, even better than you did, or i from your account of it. introsusception is not so very rare, even without a strain, or the tendency to it from an ancient wound. putting aside all the risk and expense--and i know that friend gowler sticks close to his money--and dropping all the feelings of a gentleman--what sufficient motive could gowler have? an enthusiastic tiro might have longed to verify, etc., but not a man of his experience. he knew it all, as well as if he had seen it. no, you may at once dismiss that idea, if you ever formed it." "i never did form it. it was suggested; and all that you have said occurred to me. well, i know not what to think. the mystery is hopeless. all we can be certain of is, that the thing was done." "even of that i am not quite so certain. i am never sure of anything, unless i see it. i have come across such instances of things established beyond doubt--and yet they never occurred at all. and you know what a set of fools these fat-chopped yokels are, when scared. why they actually believe in spring-heeled jack, lord somebody, and the ten thousand guinea bet! and they quake in their beds, if the windows rattle. look at that idiot of a blacksmith, swearing that he saw you with the horse! a horse? a night-mare, or a mare's nest, i should say. why it would not surprise me a bit, if it proved that the worthy baronet is reposing in his grave, as calmly as his brave and warlike spirit could desire. if not, it is no fault of our profession, but the result of some dark history, to which as yet we have no clue." dr. gronow had a manner of saying things, in itself so distinct and impressive, and seconded so ably by a lowering of his eyebrows, and wrinkling of his large steep forehead, that when he finished up with his mouth set close, and keen eyes fixed intently, it was hard to believe that he could be wrong--supposing at least that he meant to be right. "well, sir," said the young man, strongly feeling this effect; "you have often surprised me by the things you have said. and strange as they seemed, they have generally proved correct in the end. but as to your first suggestion, it is impossible, i fear, to think of it; after what at least a dozen people saw, without hurry, and in broad daylight. the other matter may be as you say. if so, it only makes it worse for me. what hope can i have of ever getting at the bottom of it?" "time, my dear fellow, time will show. and the suspicion against you will be weakening every day, if you meet it with calm disdain. you already have the blacksmith's recantation--a blow in the teeth for your enemies. i am not exactly like your good parson, who exhorts you devoutly to trust in the lord. 'the lord helps those who help themselves,' is my view of that question. though i begin to think highly of penniloe. he was inclined to be rude about the flies i use, once or twice last summer. but i shall look over that, as he has been so ill. i shall call and enquire for him to-morrow." "but what am i to do, to help myself? it is so easy to say, 'take it easily.' what is the first step for me to take? i could offer rewards, and all that sort of thing. i could send for experienced men from london. i have written to a friend of mine there already, but have had no answer. i could put myself in a clever lawyer's hands. i could do a lot of things, no doubt, and spread the matter far and wide. but the first result would be to kill my dear father. i told you in what a condition he lies." "yes. you are terribly 'handicapped' as the racing people call it. penniloe's illness was much against you. so was your own absence. so were several other things. but the worst of all is your father's sad state. and the better he gets, the worse the danger. but for all that, i can give you one comfort. i have never yet known things combine against a man, persistently and relentlessly, if he went straight ahead at them. they jangle among themselves, by and by, even as his enemies are sure to do; and instead of being hunted down, he slips out between them. one thing i can undertake perhaps. but i won't talk of it until i know more, and have consulted penniloe. what, have you never had a glass of wine? well, that is too bad of me! these are the times, when even a young man wants it, and an old one should sympathise with him thus. oh, you want to get back to the fair miss christie? very well, take her half a dozen of my pears. these people about here don't know what a pear is, according to my interpretation of the word." chapter xix. percussion. this was not the right time of year for spring of hope, and bounding growth; the first bloom-bud of the young heart growing milky, and yet defiant; and the leaf-bud pricking up, hard and reckless, because it can never have a family. not the right time yet for whispered openings, and shy blush of petals, still uncertain of the air, and creeping back into each other's clasp lest they should be tempted to come out too soon. neither was there in the air itself that coy, delusive, tricksome way, which it cannot help itself for having, somewhere about the month of april, when the sun is apt to challenge and then shirks the brunt. in a word (though no man can prove a negative, as jemmy fox had well remarked) it was the very time when no young man, acquainted with the calendar of his church, should dream of falling into love, even though he had a waistcoat of otterskin, and fourteen pearl-buttons upon it. in spite of all that, it was the positive which prevailed in this case. frank gilham had received such a blow upon his heart, that the season and the weather were nothing to it. the fall of the leaf, and retirement of the sap--though the saps now tell us that it never does retire--had less than no effect upon his circulation. he went in vainly for a good day's ploughing, for he could hold as well as drive; but there was his waistcoat, and his heart inside it; and even when he hung the one upon an oak-tree, the other kept going on, upon its private business; and "whoa! stand still, hossy!" had no effect upon it. he sneaked into the house, as if he had no right there--though his mother had only a life-interest--and he made a serious matter of the shortness of his nails, and felt a conscientious longing, when he saw his whiskers, to kick the barber at pumpington, who had shorn them with a pair of tailor's scissors, so abominably on the last market-day. but last market-day, this young man's heart had been inditing of pigs and peas, whereof he had made a tidy penny, because he was a sharp fellow then. "how is she now?" he asked his young sister rose, when he came down at last, discontented with himself, though appearing unusually smart to her. "well, thank you, frank, mother is not quite the thing to-night. she did not get quite her proper rest, you know, on account of the strange young lady. and she never took her hore-hound lozenges. she thinks too much of others, and too little of herself----" "as if i did not know all that! will you never tell me anything i want to know? but i suppose the young lady won't keep her up to-night?" "she? oh she is all right enough. you should just see her eat. my goodness! talk of farmhouse appetites!" "rose, who are you to understand such things? you have seen so very little of the world; and you judge it entirely by yourself. i suppose the door is not open?" "oh yes. anybody can look in, if that's what you want to do. she has been sitting up ever so long, with mother's dressing-gown and sunday shawl on. such a guy you never see in all your life!" "a pity you can't be a guy then. why rose, if you only had a hundredth part----" "yes, i dare say. but i don't want, don't you see? i am quite contented as i am; and better judges than you will ever be--why that coloured hair is quite out of fashion now. everybody goes in for this sort of tint, and a leaden comb to make it darker. corkscrews are all the rage, and they can't be too black. why minnie farrant told me, last sunday, that she read on the best authority----" "her bible, or her prayer-book?" "don't be so absurd. the very best authority, that queen adelaide herself told his majesty as much, and he said he was a tar, and the best pitch wasn't black. that was to please her, you know. wasn't it clever of him? oh frank, why don't you fall in love with minnie farrant--your own godfather's favourite child, and they say she'll have four thousand pounds?" "minnie farrant! why, i'd rather have a broomstick. though she is all very well in her way, of course." "she is the prettiest girl in this parish, by long chalks, except of course nicie waldron. and i suppose you wouldn't quite stick up to her." "stick up indeed! is that the way you learn to express yourself at a finishing school? but do look sharp with the frying-pan, if your corkscrews are not too precious. i don't want minnie farrant, nor even miss waldron--i want my little bit of supper, and you know it well enough. i am sorry for the ninny that ever falls in love with you." "so am i. because i won't have him. but what fun it will be! i shall starve him out. all you men think about is eating; and i shall say----" "rose again, as usual! her long tongue running away with her." mrs. gilham looked very serious, for every day she found stronger proof that girls were not as they used to be. "you have had your tea, child, and you want nothing more. i am sure you should be the very last to talk as if eating were a sin. go and help mary with your dear brother's supper. he has been hard at work all day." "sticks to his work, wants no diverting- a model young man in the farming line! never goes hunting, dancing, flirting, doesn't know the flavour of a glass of wine." away danced rosie to the tune of her own song, with her light figure frisking from side to side of the long stone passage. "ah me! i fear we shall have trouble yet with that very thoughtless girl. she can only see the light side of everything. it is high time for her now; why before i was seventeen--but frank, you don't look like yourself to-night!" the old lady went up to him, and pushed aside his hair, as crisp and curly as a double hyacinth. "i am almost sure, there is something on your mind. your dear father had exactly that expression upon his face, at periods of his married life. but then it was always the times when he had rheumatics in his left shoulder blade; and i used to iron them out with brown paper, the darkest brown that you can get, and a sprinkle of vinegar underneath, as hot as ever you can bear it; in fact, until it begins to singe, and then----" "well, nobody will ever do that to me, thank god!" frank spoke in a very reckless tone, and strictly avoided his mother's eyes. "i will, my son, if i live long enough. old mrs. horner used to say--not the present mrs. john, you know, but her husband's mother----" "excuse me, dear mother, but i thought i heard a call. shall i go, and knock at the young lady's door?" "frank, how can you ask such a question? not that she is not in very pretty order, and fit for any one to look at her; with my dressing-gown on, as good as new, and the big picture-bible on one side of her, and 'the fashionable lady's vade mecum' on the other." "how queer she must look in your dressing-gown, mother! quite an old frump, i suppose?" "i am very much obliged to you, my son. but as it happens, miss christie fox does not look at all like an old frump; though your poor mother would of course, and must expect it--though not perhaps quite to be told of it. on the contrary, miss fox looks very bright and blooming, with her eyes like the sky itself, and her lovely hair flowing all down her shoulders." "i had better go and see whether she has knocked for something. i need not go in of course. in fact i should not think of it, only just to pop my head inside the door, and then----" "no, you won't pop it, sir, in any place of the kind. remember that it is a bedroom; and you are a gentleman--or ought to be." "oh, come, mother! that's a little too hard on me. i never meant anything, except to save you trouble, by just asking--well, i didn't think you would speak to me in that way." "well my boy, perhaps i spoke too hastily. words turn so different, outside the lips! but i should not like a visitor of ours to think she had fallen among savages. but here comes your supper at last; and small thanks to rosie. why at her time of life, i should have been too proud to serve my only brother, hand and foot. but i must just run back, and get my young lady tucked up. high time for her to be in bed again. her brother has sent her box full of things, and so we shall be able to get her out a bit to-morrow, if the weather permits, and dr. gronow." dr. gronow permitted, and so did the weather. can any man remember when he was stopped from making a fool of himself by the weather, or encouraged in any wisdom by it? how many a youth under vast umbrella, warranted to shelter two, if their shoulders came nice and close together, with the storm beating on them, and suggesting--but such umbrellas are not made now, fine canopies of whalebone--who would buy them? who thinks of more than his own top-hat? unless he sees a chance of a gold-band round it. and that, to tell the truth, has been very charming always. but here was frank gilham, without any thought of that. he knew that jemmy fox was a fine young fellow, perhaps a little bit above him in the social scale, and likely to be a wealthy man, some day. but of sweet christie he knew nothing, except that he wanted to know a great deal. therefore he found that the young mare was puffing, and wanted wet bandages, and a day in stable--excess of synovial oil is a serious study. while on the other hand old _tommy_, as hard and as dry as a brick-bat, was not altogether free from signs of rheumatism, and had scraped up his litter, in a manner that meant something. he put it to his mother, whether they should plough to-day. it might be all right, and the horses were hers. if she thought wise to venture it---"it is no use trying to persuade me, frank," mrs. gilham answered; "i won't risk it. your dear father lost a good horse once, although i advised him to the contrary. under providence, our first duty is to the faithful and long-suffering creatures, provided by him for the benefit of mankind. you may try to persuade me, as much as you like. but you don't seem to have got your ploughing trousers on!" "that is not a question of ten minutes. when i looked out of window, the first thing this morning----" "yes to be sure. you were considering the weather. your dear father did the same; though always wrong about it. but it is useless to argue with me, frank. i must have my own way, sometimes." "very well. very well, then i won't go. i have got a lot of little things to see to here. why the rack in the kitchen would soon be rack and ruin." "frank, you do say the very cleverest things. and i feel in myself that it never comes from me. thank god that i have such a dutiful son, though his mind is so superior." the young man exerted his superior mind upon a very solid breakfast, topped up with honey, gushing limpid from the comb, sweeter than the softest beeswing of the meed of love. then he sauntered in the mow-yard with his ginger terrier jack; whom no wedded love could equal, in aptitude to smell a rat. but hay was sweet, and clover sweeter, and the rich deep ricks of wheat--golden piles on silver straddles--showed the glossy stalk, and savoured of the glowing grain within. a man might thrust his arm into the yellow thicket here and there, and fetch the chined and plump ear out, and taste the concrete milkiness. "rose told me that i should just see her eat," frank gilham meditated; "what a greedy thing to say! was it because eggs are now so scarce, and rose wanted all of them for herself? but if she likes good things, i could have this rick of brown wheat threshed to-morrow. the bread is ten times as sweet and toothsome--oh by the by, what teeth she has, like wind-flower buds among roses. two or three times, her lips just showed them, while she was lying upon that hay. but what are her teeth to compare with her lips? and did anybody ever see such cheeks, even with the pink flown out of them? there's nothing that you could find a flaw in; forehead, hair, and eyes, and nose--though i can't pretend quite that i have seen her eyes yet--merely a sort of a flash in the air, while she was flying over the backrail of the trap. only there is no denying that they must be like heaven itself, full of angels. mother says the sky, but that sounds so common. so far as that goes, everybody is allowed to look at the sky; but who would care ever to see it again, after a glimpse--jack, what are you about there? got into a gin? well, serves you right for mooning." "frank! frank! frank!" a loud call rang among the ricks. "got away smoking again, i'll be bound. i never can understand how it is, he doesn't set every blessed rick on fire." "not smoking at all, as it happens. but how frightfully shrill your voice is, rosie!" "what a swell we are, to be sure, to-day! and getting quite nervous. wants cotton wool in his ears, poor dear! but the precious young lady is just coming out. and mother says you should be somewhere handy, in case of her being taken faint. about as likely to faint as i am, i should say. now mind your p's and q's, in spite of all your greek and latin. you may make your bow, about ten miles off; but not to speak, until spoken to. that's right, flourish your hair up. but you needn't run twenty miles an hour." on the gravel walk bordered by hollyhocks--now a row of gaunt sceptres without any crowns--the kind mrs. gilham was leading her guest, who did not require to be led at all, but was too well-bred to reject the friendly hand. christie was looking a little delicate, and not quite up to the mark of her usual high spirits; but the man must have been very hard to please, who could find much fault on that score. "oh what a beautiful view you have!" she exclaimed, as the sun broke through the mist, spreading perle valley with a veil of purest pearl. "i had no idea it was such a lovely place. and the house, and the garden, and the glen that slopes away. why that must be perlycross tower in the distance, and that tall white house the rectory. why, there's the bridge with seven lofty arches, and the light shining through them! more light than water, i should say. what on earth induced them to put such a mighty bridge across such a petty river? i dare say they knew best--but just look at the meadows, almost as green as they would be in may! no wonder you get such lovely butter. and the trees down the valley, just in the right places to make the most of themselves, and their neighbourhood. why half of them have got their leaves on still, here nearly at the end of november--and such leaves too, gold, red, and amber, straw-colour, cinnamon, and russet!" "and if you come up to that bench, my dear," replied mrs. gilham, as proud as punch, at the praises of her native vale, "that bench at the top of our little orchard--my poor dear husband had such taste, he could find the proper place for everything--gravel-walk all the way, and nothing but a little spring to cross; why, there you can hear the key-bugle of the _defiance_! punctual every day at half-past ten. we always set our kitchen clock by it. the guard, as soon as he sees our middle chimney, strikes up as loud as ever he can blow, 'oh the roast-beef of old england,' or 'to glory we steer,' for the horses to be ready. so some people say; but i happen to know, that it is done entirely to please us. because we sent cider out every day, when that hot week was, last summer." "what a grateful man! oh i must go and hear him. i do think there's nothing like gratitude. by the by, i am not acting up to that. i have never even seen your son, to thank him." "oh miss fox, it is not fair to him, for any young lady to try to do that. he has no opinion of anything he does; and the last time he saved a young lady's life, he ran away, because--because it wouldn't do to stay. you see, she had been at the very point of drowning, and the people on the bank declared that she came up three times. my son frank never pulled his coat off--he would have despised himself, if he had stopped to do it--he jumped in, they said it was forty feet high, but there is no bank on the river (except the cliff the church stands on) much over five and twenty. however, in he went, and saved her; and everybody said that she was worth â£10,000, but carried away by the current. and from that day to this, we heard nothing more about it; and my son, who has a very beautiful complexion, blushes--oh he blushes so, if he only hears of it!" "oh, he is too good, mrs. gilham! it is a very great mistake, with the world becoming all so selfish. but i am not the young lady that went with the current. i go against the current, whenever i find any. and your son has had the courage to do the same, in the question of my dear brother. i say what i mean, you must understand, mrs. gilham. i am not at all fond of shilly-shally." "neither is my son, miss fox. only he thinks so very little of himself. why there he is! hard at work as usual. don't say a syllable of thanks, my dear; if he comes up to pull his hat off. he can stand a cannon-ball; but not to be made much of." "won't i though say 'thank you' to him? i am bound to consider myself, and not only his peculiar tendencies. mr. frank gilham, do please to come here, if--i mean supposing you can spare just half-a-minute." frank had a fair supply of hard, as well as soft, in his composition. he was five and twenty years old, or close upon it, and able to get a dog out of a trap, in the deepest of his own condition. he quitted his spade--which he had found, by the by, left out all night, though the same is high treason--as if he could scarcely get away from it, and could see nothing so fine as a fat spit of sod. and he kept his eyes full upon christie's, as if he had seen her before, but was wondering where. this was the proper thing to do. though he knew himself to be in no small fright, throughout all this bravery. but there is no monopoly of humbug; though we all do our utmost to establish one. "miss fox, i believe you have seen my son before." the old lady took to the spirit of the moment, with the quickness, in which ladies always take the front. "and my son frank has had the honour of seeing you." "and feeling me too--pretty sharp against his chest"--christie thought within herself, but she only said--"yes; and it was a happy thing for me." "not at all, miss fox--a mere casual accident, as the people about here express it. i explained to you, that frank cannot help himself. be kind enough not to speak of it." "that won't do," replied christie, looking stedfast. "it may do for him, but not for me. allow me one moment, mrs. gilham." without more ado, she ran up to frank gilham, who was turning away again towards his work, and gave him both hands, and looked full at him, with the glitter of tears in her deep blue eyes. "my senses have not quite forsaken me," she said: "and i know whom i have to thank for that: and in all probability for my life as well. it is useless to talk about thanking you, because it is impossible to do it. and even before that i was deeply in your debt, for the very noble way in which you took my brother's part, when everybody else was against him. it was so brave and generous of you." it was more than she could do, with all her spirit, to prevent two large and liberal tears from obeying the laws of nature; in fact they were not far from obtaining the downright encouragement of a sob, when she thought of her poor brother. "well, you are a sweet simple dear!" exclaimed the fine old lady, following suit in the feminine line, and feeling for her pocket-handkerchief. "frankie should be proud to his dying day, of doing any trifle for such a precious dear. why don't you say so, frankie, my son?" "simply because my mother has said it so much better for me." he turned away his eyes, in fear of looking thus at christie, lest they should tell her there was no one else in the world henceforth for them to see. "here comes the _defiance_! hurrah, hurrah!" shouted rose, rushing in, for once just at the right moment. "i can hear the horses' hoofs springing up the rise. if you want to know anything about roast beef, you must put on a spurt up the periwinkle walk. here goes number one. slow coaches come behind." "i am not a slow coach. at least i never used to be," cried christie, setting off in chase. "miss fox, miss fox, don't attempt to cross the brook, without my son's hand," mrs. gilham called after them; for she could not live the pace. "oh rose is wrong as usual--it's 'to glory we steer,' this time." the obliging guard gave it three times over, as if he had this team also in full view; then he gave the "roast beef," as the substance of the glory; and really it was finer than a locomotive screech. presently rose heard the cackle of a pullet which had laid, and off she ran to make sure of the result, because there was an old cock sadly addicted to the part that is least golden in the policy of saturn. so the three who remained sat upon the bench and talked, with the cider apples piled in pink and yellow cones before them, and the mossy branches sparkling (like a weeping smile) above, and the sun glancing shyly, under eaves and along hedgerows, like the man denied the privilege of looking at the horse. by this light however frank gilham contrived to get many a peep round his mother's bonnet--which being of the latest fashion was bigger than a well-kept hedgerow--at a very lovely object on the other side thereof, which had no fear as yet of being stolen. miss fox had fully made up her mind, that (happen what might) she would not say a single word, to sadden her good hostess with the trouble her brother had fallen into, or the difficulties now surrounding him. but ladies are allowed to unmake their minds, especially if it enlarges them; and finding in the recesses of that long bonnet a most sympathetic pair of ears, all the softer for being "rather hard of hearing," and enriched with wise echoes of threescore years, she also discovered how wrong and unkind it would be, to withhold any heart-matter from them. "and one of the most dreadful things of all," christie concluded with a long-drawn sigh, "is that my dear father, who has only this son jemmy, is now in such a very sad state of health, that if he heard of this it would most likely take him from us. or if he got over it, one thing is certain, he would never even look at my brother again. not that he would believe such a wicked thing of him; but because he would declare that he brought it on himself, by going (against his father's wishes) into this medical business. my father detests it; i scarcely know why, but have heard that he has good reason. we must keep this from him, whatever it costs us; even if it keeps poor jemmy under this cloud for months to come. luckily father cannot read now very well, and his doctor has ordered him not to read at all; and mother never looks at a newspaper: and the place being five and thirty miles away, and in another county, there is no great risk, unless some spiteful friend should rush in, to condole with him. that is what i dread to hear of sometimes; though good dr. freeborn, who attends him, will prevent any chance of it, if possible. but you see, mrs. gilham, how it cripples us. we cannot move boldly and freely, as we ought, and make the thing the topic of the county; as we should by an action of libel for instance, or any strong mode of vindication. i assure you, sometimes i am ready to go wild, and fly out, and do anything. and then i recollect poor father." "it is a cruel cruel thing, my dear. i never heard of anything resembling it before. that's the very thing that frank says. from the very first he saw what a shameful thing it was to speak so of dr. fox. i believe he has knocked down a big man or two; though i am sure i should be the last to encourage him in that." "come, mother, come! miss fox, you must not listen to a quarter of what mother says about me. i dare say, you have found that out, long ago." "if so, it is only natural, and you deserve it;" this hibernian verdict was delivered with a smile too bright to be eclipsed by a score of hedgerow bonnets; "but there is one thing i should like to ask mr. frank gilham, with his mother's leave; and it is this--how was it that you mr. frank, almost alone of all the parish of perlycross, and without knowing much of my brother at the time, were so certain of his innocence?" "because i had looked in his face;" replied frank, looking likewise into the sister's face, with a gaze of equal certainty. "that is very noble," christie said, with a little toss meaning something. "but most people want more to go upon than that." chapter xx. discussion. now mrs. fox, doctor jemmy's mother, was an enthusiastic woman. she was twenty years younger than her husband, and felt herself fifty years his senior (when genuine wisdom was needed) and yet in enterprise fifty years junior. the velocity of her brain had been too much for the roots of her hair, as she herself maintained, and her best friends could not deny it. except that the top of her head was snow-white, and she utterly scorned to disguise it, she looked little older than her daughter christie, in some ways; though happily tougher. she was not too fat, and she was not too thin; which is more than most people can tell themselves, at the age of eight and forty. into this ancient county race, which had strengthened its roots by banking, she had brought a fine vein of devonian blood, very clearing for their complexions. she had shown some disdain for mercantile views; until she began to know better, when her father, and others of her landed lineage slipped down the hilltop into bankruptcy, without any free-trade, or even tenants' superior rights, to excuse them. then she perceived that mercantile views are the only ones left to ensure a quiet man a fair prospect from his own front windows. she encouraged her husband to cherish the bank, which at one time she had derided; and she quite agreed with him, that no advances could save her own relations in their march downhill. the elder james fox, who like his father had refused a title--for although they were not quakers now, they held to their old simplicity--mr. james fox of foxden was a fine sample of the unmixed englishman. he had never owed a penny of his large fortune to any unworthy trick of trade, or even to lucky gambling in stocks, or bitter mortgages. many people called him stubborn, and they were welcome to take that view of it. in business that opinion served him well, and saved a lot of useless trouble. but he himself knew well, and his wife knew even better, that though he would never budge an inch, for claim, or threat, or lawsuit, there was no man who gave a longer ell, when drawn out by mercy, or even gentle equity. but in the full vigour of his faculties, mental if not bodily--and the latter had not yet failed him much--that mysterious blow descended, which no human science can avert, relieve, or even to its own content explain. one moment he was robust and active, quick with the pulse of busy life, strong with the powers of insight, foresight, discrimination, promptitude--another moment, and all was gone. only a numb lump remained, livid, pallid, deaf and dumb, sightless, breathless (beyond a wheezy snore) incapable even of a dream or moan. and knowing all these things, men are proud! his strong heart, and firm brain, bore him through; or rather they gradually shored him up; a fabric still upon the sands of time, but waiting only for the next tidal wave. now the greatest physician, or metaphysician, that ever came into the world, can tell us no more than an embryo could, what the relics of the mind will be in such a case, or how far in keeping with its former self. thoroughly pious men have turned blasphemers; very hard swearers have taken to sweet hymns; tempers have been changed from diabolical to angelic; but the change more often has been the other way. happily for himself, and all about him, this fine old man was weakened only, and not perverted from his former healthful self. his memory was deranged, in veins and fibres, like an ostrich-plume draggled in a gale of wind and rain; but he knew his old friends, and the favoured of his heart, and before and above all, his faithful wife. he had fallen from his pride, with the lapse of other powers; and to those who had known him in his stronger days, his present gentleness was touching, and his gratitude for trifles affecting; but notwithstanding that, he was sometimes more obstinate than ever. "i wonder why chris stays away so long;" he said as he sat one fine day upon the terrace, for he was ordered to stay out of doors as much as possible, and his wife as usual sat beside him. "she is gone to nurse jemmy through a very heavy cold, as i understood you to say, my dear. but my memory is not always quite clear now. but it must be some days since i heard that; and i miss little chrissy with her cheerful face. you are enough of course, my dear mary, and i very seldom think much of anybody else. still i long sometimes to see my little chrissy." "to be sure; and so do i. the house seems very sad without her;" replied mrs. fox, as if it could be merry now. "we won't give her more than another day or two. but we must remember, dear, how differently poor jemmy is placed from what we are in this comfortable house. only one old rough devonshire servant; and everybody knows what they are--a woman who would warm his bed, as likely as not, with a frying-pan, and make his tea out of the rain water boiler." "he has no one to thank for it but himself." after this delivery, the father of the family shut his mouth, which he still could do as well as ever, though one of his arms hung helpless. "and i did hear that there was some disturbance there, something i think about the clergyman, who is a great friend of jemmy's;" mrs. fox spoke this in all good faith, for dr. freeborn had put this turn upon a story, which had found its way into the house; "and you know what our chris is, when she thinks any one attacks the church--you may trust her for flying to the rescue. at any rate so far as money goes." "and money goes a long way, in matters eccles--you know what i mean--i can't pronounce those long words now. christie is too generous with her good aunt's money. the trustees let her have it much too freely. i should not be much surprised if they get a hundred pounds out of chris, at--let me see, what is the place called--something like a brooch or trinket. ah there, it's gone again!" "you must not talk so much, my dear; and above all you must not try your memory. it is wonderfully good, i am sure, thank god! i only wish mine was half as good." now mrs. fox was quite aware that she had an exceedingly fine memory. "well, never mind;" resumed the invalid, after roving among all the jewels he could think of. "but i should be very glad before i die, to see chrissy married to sir henry haggerstone, a man of the highest character, as well as a very fine estate. has he said anything to you about it lately?" "no, father;" mrs. fox always called him "father," when a family council was toward; "how could he while you--i mean why should he be in such a hurry? christie is a girl who would only turn against him, if he were to worry her. she is a very odd child; she is not like her mother. a little spice of somebody else, i think, who has always contrived to have his own way. and she hates the idea of being a stepmother; though there are only two little girls after all, and chrissy's son would be the heir of course. she says it is so frightfully unromantic, to marry a wealthy widower. but talk of the--i am sure i beg his pardon--but here comes sir henry himself, with dr. freeborn. you had better see the doctor first, my dear, while i take a turn with sir henry." this gentleman was, as mr. fox had pronounced, of the very highest character, wealthy moreover, and of pleasant aspect, and temper mild and equable. neither was his age yet gone fatally amiss; though a few years off would have improved it, as concerning christie; for he was not more than thirty-three, or thirty-four, and scarcely looked that, for he led a healthful life. but his great fault was, that he had no great fault; nothing extreme in any way about him, not even contempt for "extreme people." he had been at oxford, and had learned, by reading for a first class in classics (which he got) that virtue is a "habit of fore-choice, being in the mean that concerns ourselves, defined by reason, and according as the man of perception would define it." sir henry was a man of very clear perception, and his nature was well-fitted to come into definitions. he never did much thinking of his own; for deeper minds had saved him all that trouble, and he was quite content to accept the results. there was nobody who could lead him much, and no one who could not lead him a little, when he saw a clear path to go along. this was not altogether the man to enchant romantic maidenhood. christie cared for him about as much as she would for a habit, that was in a mean. not that he was in any way a prig, or laid down the law to any one. he had not kept up his classics, for he had no real love for them; and in those days, a man might get a first at oxford, who could scarcely scan a latin hexameter, if he were exceptionally strong in "science"--then meaning philosophy, before the age of "stinks." to none of these subjects did christie pay heed--she did not care for the man; and that was all about it. "you are quite right, mrs. fox. i think exactly as you do;" this gentleman was replying to the lady of the house, as they walked upon the gentle slope towards the flower-garden; "there are no real whigs, in the present headlong days. men, like your husband, and myself, who have fancied ourselves in the happy mean, are either swept aside, or carried down the deluge. for the moment there seems to be a slight reaction; but it will not last. the rush will only be more headlong. and in private life it is just the same. individual rights are to be no more respected. everything belongs to everybody. i will tell you a little thing that happened to myself, just as a specimen of the spirit of the age. a year or two ago, i bought some old manorial rights, in a thinly peopled part of devonshire; in fact at the western end of the great blackdown range, a barren, furzy, flinty sort of place. by the by, not many miles away from the place where your son has gone to live--perlycross. i only bought the manor to oblige a friend, who wanted a little ready money, and to go there now and then perhaps for a little rough shooting, for the country is beautiful, and the air very fine. well, the manorial rights included some quarries, or pits, or excavations of some sort, where those rough scythe-stones are dug, such as you see lying on that lawn. the land itself was actually part of the manor, from a time beyond memory or record; but it seems as if strangers had been allowed to settle on the hillside, and work these ancient quarries, and sell the produce on their own account, only paying a small royalty to the manor, every martinmas, or about that time; not so much for the value of the money, (though it would perhaps be considerable under a proper computation) but as an acknowledgment of the ownership of the manor. but i fear i am tiring you." "not at all, sir henry; i like any story of that sort. our laws are so very very queer." "sometimes they are. well, my friend had not deceived me. he said that this whetstone money was very hard to get, and was so trifling that he had let it go sometimes, when the people objected to paying it, as they did after any bad season. last martinmas, the matter slipped my memory, through domestic trouble. but this year, as the day approached, i sent orders to a man, (a rough sort of game-keeper, who lives near there, and looks after the shooting and gravel and peat,) to give notice at the pits that i meant to have my money. a very close corporation they seem to have established, and have made their encroachments uncommonly secure, being quite distinct in race, and character, dialect, and even dress, i believe, from the settled people round them. now what message do you think they sent me?" "something very insolent, i have no doubt." mrs. fox did not call herself even a whig, but a downright determined tory. "this was it--my man got the schoolmaster to put it into writing, and i happen to have it in my pocket. 'not a penny will we pay this year. but if you like to come yourself, and take a turn at the flemmer'--something they use for getting out the stone--'we won't charge you anything for your footing.'" "your footing on your own land! well, that is very fine. what do you mean to do, sir henry?" "grin, and bear it, i suppose, mrs. fox. you know what the tendency of the time is, even in the law-courts. and of course, all the press would be down upon me, as a monster of oppression, if i ventured to assert my rights. and though i am out of the house ever since the 'broom of reform' (as the papers call it) swept my two little seats away, i might like to stand again some day; and what a whetstone this would be for my adversaries! and i hear that these people are not a bad lot, rough, and uncivilized, and wonderfully jealous over the 'rights' they have robbed me of; but among themselves faithful, and honest, and quiet, and sober, which is the strangest thing of all in england. as for their message, why they speak out plainly, and look upon their offer as a great concession to me. and we in this more enlightened part must allow for the manners of that neighbourhood. in fact this is such a perfect trifle, after what they have been doing at perlycross. if i were a magistrate about there----" "at perlycross! what do you mean? some little matter about the clergyman? i want to know all about that, sir henry. it seems so strange, that christie never mentioned it." sir henry perceived that he had "put his foot in it." dr. freeborn had warned him that the "sacrilege in devon"--as the somerset papers had begun to call it--must be kept most carefully from the knowledge of his patient, and from that of the lady also; for there was no saying how she might take it. and now mrs. fox could not fail to find out everything. he was ready to bite off his tongue, as ladies put it. "oh, ah--i was thinking of something--which had better not be referred to perhaps. not quite fit to be discussed, when one has the honour of being with ladies. but about those very extraordinary people. i have heard some things that are highly interesting, things that i am certain you would like to hear----" "not half so much as i want to hear the story about the parish, where my son lives, and my daughter is staying, and will not come back--for some reason which we cannot make out. i must insist, sir henry, upon hearing all that you know. i am not a young woman, and know the world pretty well by this time. you will not offend me, by anything you say; but you will, by anything you hide." sir henry haggerstone looked about, and saw that he was in for it. the elderly lady--as some might call her--looked at him, with that pretty doubt, which ladies so thoroughly understand how to show, and intend to be understood without expression. the gentleman glanced at her; he had no moustache to stroke--for only cavalry officers, and cads of the most pretentious upturn, as yet wore ginger hackles--a relief still to come in a downier age. "my dear mrs. fox, there is nothing improper, from a lady's point of view, i mean, in the very sad occurrence at perlycross. it is a question for the local authorities. and not one for me to meddle with." "then why did you speak of it? either tell me all; or say that you won't, and leave me to find out." the lady had the gentleman, the tory had the temporizer, on the nail. "we are nothing in your hands;" he murmured, and with perfect truth; for when the question comes to the pulling out of truth, what chance has a man against a clever woman, ten times as quick as he is, and piercing every glance? "i am truly sorry that it has come to this;" mrs. fox did not sympathise with his regret, but nodded, as if to say--"no cure now for that; for my part, i am rather glad." "it was simply through terror of distressing you, that all your best friends have combined, as i may say, at least have thought it wiser----" "then they made a great mistake. and i am not at all thankful to any of them. let me sit down here. and now for all this frightful wonder! is jemmy dead? let me have the worst at once." this was a sudden relief to sir henry, enabling him to offer immediate comfort, and to whisper--"how could you imagine such a thing?" "no my dear madam," he continued, having now the upper hand, and hers beneath it, "i have the pleasure of assuring you that your noble son is in the very best of health, and improving by his admirable knowledge of medicine the health of all around him. it is acknowledged that he has advanced the highest interests of the profession." "that he was sure to do, sir henry. and he has a copy of my dear grandmother's recipe for the pounded cherry-stone elixir." "with all the resources of modern science added, and his own trained insight in their application. but the worst of it is, that these leading intellects, as you must have experienced long ago, can never escape a sad amount of narrow professional jealousy. your son must have fallen among those heavy-witted devonshire doctors, like a thunderbolt--or worse, a phenomenon come to heal their patients _gratis_." "that would drive them to do anything--to poison him, if they had the courage. for every one knows how they run up their bills." having brought the lady thus to the practical vein, sir henry (as gently as possible, and as it were by the quarter drachm) administered the sombre draught he was now bound to exhibit. jemmy's dear mother took it with a closeness of attention, and critical appreciation, seldom found in the physical recipients in such cases. but to the administrator's great surprise, her indignation was by no means vivid, in the direction anticipated. "i am heartily glad that i know this at last. i ought to have been told of it long ago;" said mrs. fox, looking resolutely at sir henry haggerstone. "a very great mistake, and want of judgment on the part of dr. freeborn. what a frightful risk to run--supposing my husband had been told suddenly of this!" "all has been done for the best, my dear madam. the great anxiety was to keep it from him." "and who was the proper one, to see to that? i should have thought, his wife and constant nurse. was it thought impossible that i should show discretion? clever men always make one great mistake. they believe that no woman can command her tongue. if they had their own only half as well controlled, there would not be a tenth part of the mischief in the world." "you are quite right there. that is a very great truth, and exceedingly well expressed;" replied sir henry, not that he was impressed with it so deeply, but that he wanted to appease the lady. "however, as regards dr. freeborn's ideas, i really know very little; no doubt he thought it was for your own good too, not to be burdened at such a time with another great anxiety." "he has taken too much upon himself. it would have been no great anxiety to me. my son is quite capable of fighting his own battles. and the same orders issued to my son and daughter! at last i can understand poor christie's letters--why she has been so brief, for fear of losing all self-control, like her mother. stupid, stupid, clever men! why there is infinitely less chance now of mr. fox ever knowing it. you may tell our sapient doctor that. perhaps i shall astonish him a little. i'll prove to him that i can control my tongue, by never mentioning the subject to him." "excuse me, mrs. fox, if i make one or two remarks. may i speak without reserve, as an old friend of the family, and one who has had a great deal to do with criminal--at least i mean to say with public proceedings in this county?" "to be sure, sir henry. i shall be much obliged by any suggestions you may make." "in the first place then, it is quite impossible to leave your son under this imputation. i can quite understand how he has been impeded in taking any steps for his own vindication, by his sense of duty towards his father and yourself. in that respect, his behaviour has been most admirable. he has absolutely done nothing; not even protested publicly, and challenged any evidence against him, but been quite content to lie at the mercy of any wicked slanderers. and for this there can be no reason but one--that public proceedings would increase the stir, and make it certain that the whole must come to his father's knowledge." "to be sure, sir henry. there can be no other reason." the old friend of the family was surprised at the tone in which mrs. fox uttered this opinion. "of course not. and so it is all the more incumbent upon his family to clear him. let me tell you what i should do, if i were his father, in sound health, and able to attend to business. of course i am too young to speak so"--he had suddenly remembered christie--"but that you understand; and you also admit that i am not likely to offer advice, unless asked for." "i beg you particularly to give it. you are a magistrate of large, if not long, experience. and i know that you are our true friend." "that you may rely upon, mrs. fox. and you know how much i admire your son; for enthusiasm is a rare gift now, and becoming rarer every year, in these days of liberal sentiment. if the case were my own, i should just do this. i should make application at once to the court of king's bench, to have the matter sifted. it is no use shilly-shallying with any county authorities. a special commission has been granted in cases less important. but without pressing for that, it is possible to get the whole question investigated by skilled officers from head-quarters. those who bring the charge should have done it, and probably would have done it, if they had faith in their own case. but they are playing a deeper game; according at least to my view of the matter. they have laid themselves open to no action. your son lies helpless, and must 'live it down;' as people say glibly, who have never had to do it. is this a thing you mean to allow?" "you need scarcely ask me that, sir henry. but remember that i know nothing of the particulars, which have been kept so--so amiably from my knowledge." "yes. but i know them all--at least so far as they can be gathered from the devonshire journals, and these are very careful what they say. in spite of all the enemies who want to keep it going, the whole thing may be brought to a point at once, by applying for a warrant in the court of king's bench, with the proper information sworn. they would grant it at once. your son would appear, and be released of course on bail; for the case is only one of misdemeanour. then the proper officers would be sent down, and the real criminals detected." "a warrant against my jemmy! oh, sir henry, you can never mean that." "simply as a matter of form, mrs. fox. ask your solicitors. they are the proper people. and they should have been consulted long ago, and would have been, but for this terrible disadvantage. i only suggest the quickest way to bring the matter to an issue. otherwise the doubt will hang over your son, with his friends and his conscience to support him. and what are these among so many?" this was not altogether a counsel of perfection, or even of a very lofty view; but unhappily we have to contend with a world neither perfect nor very lofty. there was no other hole to be found in the plan, or even to be picked by the ingenuity of a lady. but who that is worthy of that name cannot slip round the corner gracefully, whatever is presented? "i thank you so deeply, sir henry, for your very kind interest in this strange matter," said mrs. fox, looking all gratitude, with a smile that shone through tears; "and for your perfectly invaluable advice. you see everything so distinctly, and your experience is so precious. to think of my poor boy in such a position! oh dear, oh dear! i really have not the courage to discuss it any more. but a kind heart like yours will make every allowance for the feelings of a mother." thus was sir henry neatly driven from the hall of council to the carpeted chamber of comfort. but he knew as well as if the lady had put it into so many words, that she meant to accept none of his advice. her reason, however, for so resolving was far beyond his perception, simple as it was and natural. mrs. fox had known little of the young doctor's doings, since he had settled at perlycross, having never even paid him a visit there, for her husband was sore upon that subject. so that she was not acquainted with the depth of jemmy's regard for sir thomas, and had never dreamed of his love for inez; whereas she was strongly and bitterly impressed with his lifelong ardour for medical research. the mother felt no indignant yearning for prompt and skilled inquiry; because she suspected, in the bottom of her heart, that it would prove her son the criminal. chapter xxi. blackmarsh. a long way back among the blackdown hills, and in nobody knows what parish, the land breaks off into a barren stretch, uncouth, dark, and desolate. being neither hill nor valley, slope nor plain, morass nor woodland, it has no lesson for the wanderer, except that the sooner he gets out of it the better. for there is nothing to gratify him if he be an artist, nothing to interest him if his tastes are antiquarian, nothing to arouse his ardour, even though he were that happy and most ardent creature, a naturalist free from rheumatism. and as for any honest fellow mainly concerned with bread and butter, his head will at once go round with fear and with looking over his shoulders. for it is a lonesome and gruesome place, where the weather makes no difference; where nature has not put her hand, on this part or on that, to leave a mark or show a preference, but slurred the whole with one black frown of desolate monotony. that being so, the few and simple dwellers on the moorland around, or in the lowland homesteads, might well be trusted to keep their distance from this dreary solitude. there were tales enough of hapless travellers last seen going in this direction, and never in any other; as well as of spectral forms, low groans, and nightly processions through the air. not more than a hundred years ago, there had been a wicked baronet, profane, rapacious, arrogant, blackhearted, foul, and impious. a blessed curate prayed him not to hunt on holy friday. he gave the blessed curate taste of whip-thong from his saddle; then blew seven blasts of his horn, to proclaim that he would hunt seven days in every week, put spurs to his black horse, and away. the fox, disturbed on holy friday, made for this "forbidden land;" which no fox had ever done before. for his life he plunged into it, feeling for the moment that nothing could be worse than to be torn in pieces. the hounds stopped, as if they were turned to stone in the fury of their onslaught. the huntsman had been left far behind, having wife and family. but the wicked baronet cracked his whip, blew three blasts on his horn, leaned forward on his horse and gave him the rowel. the hounds in a frenzy threw up their sterns, and all plunged headlong into it. and ever since that, they may be seen (an hour after sun-down, on every sunday of the season, and any holy friday) in full cry scouring through the air, with the wicked baronet after them, lashing his black horse, and blowing his horn, but with no fox in front to excuse them. these facts have made the forbidden land, or the blackmarsh, as some call it, even less desirable than its own complexion shows it. and it is so far from perlycross, that any man on foot is tired by the time he gets there, and feels that he has travelled far enough, and in common sense must go home again. but there was one perlycrucian now--by domicile, not nativity--of tireless feet, and reckless spirit, too young for family ties, and too impetuous for legends. by this time he was admitted to the freedom of every hedge and ditch in the parish, because he was too quick to be caught, and too young to be prosecuted. "horatio peckover" was his name, by usage cut short into "hopper"; a lad in advance of his period, and the precursor of all "paper-chases." like many of those who are great in this line, he was not equally strong in the sedentary uses of that article. mr. penniloe found him so far behind, when pen and ink had to be dealt with, that he put him under the fine roman hand of sergeant jakes, the schoolmaster. jakes was not too richly endowed by a grateful country, for years of heroism; neither was his stipend very gorgeous, for swinging cane in lieu of gun. sixpence an hour was his figure, for pen-drill of private pupils, and he gladly added hopper to the meagre awkward-squad. soon an alliance of the closest kind was formed; the veteran taking warm interest in the spirited sallies of youth, and the youth with eager thirst imbibing the fine old peninsular vintage of the brightest ruby, poured forth in the radiance of a yellow tallow candle. for the long school-room was cleared at night of coats, and hats, and green-baize bags, cracked slates, bead-slides, and spelling-books, and all the other accoutrements, and even toys of the youthful muse; and at seven o'clock horatio stepped across the road from the rectory, sat down at the master's high black desk, and shouldered arms for the copy-drill. the sergeant was famed for his flourishes, chiefly of his own invention, and had promised to impart that higher finish, when the fancy capitals were mastered. "what a whack of time it does take, sergeant!" cried hopper, as he dipped his pen, one friday night. "not half so bad as latin though, and there is something to look at afterwards. capitals almost captured now. ah, you have taken the capitals of many a country, sergeant. halloa! 'xerxes was conqueror at marathon,' to-night! sergeant, are you quite sure of that? i thought it was another fellow, with a longer name--milly, tilly, something." "no, master hopper; if it had been, we must have passed him long ago, among the big m's." "to be sure. what a muff i was, not to think of that! i beg your pardon, sergeant. there's scarcely anything you don't know." "i had that on the highest authority--right elbow more in to your side, sir, if you please--that xerxes copy was always set by commanding officer at turry vardoes--could not tell what to do with the men at night--so many ordered to play at nine-pins, and so many told off to learn roundhand. if it had not been for that, sir, i should never have been equal to my present situation." "then it must have been xerxes, sergeant. and after all, how can it matter, when it happened so long ago? a blot again? d--n it." "master hopper, i am very sorry, but it is my duty to reprimand you, for the use of profane language. never permitted, sir, in school-hours. would you do it, before mr. penniloe?" "i should rather hope not. wouldn't old pen stare? and then he'd be down upon me, like the very--capital d. sergeant, pray excuse me; i only thought of him, without any name. i suppose we may call him 'old nick' though, without having to go to him, for doing it. i never could see what the difference was. but, my eye, sergeant, i expected to see the old chap yesterday, cloven hoof, tail, eyes of fire, and everything!" "what do you mean, sir? where was he? not in perlycross, i hope." sergeant jakes glanced down the long dark room, and then at the pegs where his french sword was hanging. "no, not here. he daren't come so near the church. but in the place where he lives all day, according to the best authorities. you have heard of blackmarsh, haven't you? no marsh at all--that's the joke of it--but the queerest place i ever saw in all my life. criky jimminy, but it is a rum un!" "you don't mean to say you were there, sir!" the sergeant took his hand from hopper's shoulder, and went round to see whether he was joking. "to be sure i was, as large as life, and twice as natural! had a holiday, as you know, and got leave off from dinner. mother muggridge gave me grub enough to go to halifax. i had been meaning to go there ever so long, because everybody seems to funk it so. why there's nothing there to be afraid of: though it makes you look about a bit. and you aren't sorry to come out of it." "did you tell mr. penniloe, you had been there, master hopper?" "sergeant, do you see any green in my eye?" horatio dropped his pen, and enlarged the aperture of one eye, in a style very fashionable just then, but never very elegant. "no sir, i can't answer fairly that i do. and i don't believe there ever was much, even when you was a babby." "mum's the word, you see then--even to old muggridge, or she might be fool enough to let out. but i say, sergeant, i've got a little job for you to do. easy enough. i know you won't refuse me." "no sir, that i won't. anything whatever that lays in my power, master hopper." "well, it's only this--just to come with me to-morrow--half-holiday, you know, and i can get off, plum-duffs--always plum-duffs on a saturday, and you should just see pike pitching into them--and we'll give the afternoon to it, and examine blackmarsh pretty thoroughly." "blackmarsh, master hopper! the forbidden land--where sir robert upon his black horse, and forty hounds in full cry before him, may be seen and heard, sweeping through the air, like fiends!" "oh, that's all my eye, and betty martin! nobody believes that, i should hope. why sergeant, a man who knows all about xerxes, and has taken half the capitals in europe--oh, i say, sergeant, come, you are not afraid now, and a fellow of sixteen, like me, to go there all by myself, and stop--well, nearly half-an-hour!" "afraid! not i. no certainly not, after mountains, and forests, and caverns, and deserts. but the distance, master hopper, for a man of my age, and troubled with rheumatism in the knee-joint." "oh, that's all right! i have planned out all that. of course i don't expect you to go ten miles an hour. but baker channing's light cart goes, every other saturday, to crooked-post quarry, at the further end of hagdon, to fetch back furze enough to keep his oven going, from a stack he bought there last summer. to-morrow is his day; and you have no school, you know, after half-past ten or eleven. you ride with old tucker to the crooked-post, and come back with him, when he is loaded up. it shan't cost you a farthing. i have got a shilling left, and he shall have it. it is only two miles, or so, from crooked-post to this end of blackmarsh; and there you will find me waiting. come, you can't get out of that." "but what do you want me there for, sir? of course, i'd go anywhere you would venture, if i could see any good in it." "sergeant, i'll tell you what. you thought a great deal of sir thomas waldron, didn't you?" "more than of any man that ever lived, or ever will see the light of this wicked world." "and you didn't like what was done to him, did you?" "master hopper, i tell you what. i'd give ten years off my poor life, if i could find out who did it." "then i fancy i have found out something about it. not much, mind; but still something, and may come to more if we follow it up. and if you come to-morrow, i'll show you what it is. you know that my eyes are pretty sharp, and that i wasn't born yesterday. you know who it was that found 'little billy.' and you know who wants to get fox out of this scrape, because he is a somerset man, and all that, and doesn't deserve this trouble. and still more, because----" "well, master hopper, still more, because of what?" "i don't mind telling you something, sergeant--you have seen a lot of the world, you know. because jemmy fox has got a deuced pretty sister." "oh come, master hopper, at your time of life! and not even got into the flourishes!" "it doesn't matter, jakes. i may seem rather young to people who don't understand the question. but that is my own business, i should hope. well, i shall look out for you to-morrow. two o'clock at the latest." "but why shouldn't we tell dr. fox himself, and get him to come with us? that seems the simplest thing." "no. there are very good reasons against that. i have found this out; and i mean to stick to it. no one would have dreamed of it, except for me. and i won't have it spoiled, by every nincompoop poking his nose into it. only if we find anything more, and you agree with me about it, we will tell old pen, and go by his opinion." "very well, sir. it all belongs to you; as it did to me, when i was first after soult's arrival to discover the advance of the french outposts. you shall have the credit, though i didn't. anything more, sir? the candle is almost out." "sergeant, no more. unless you could manage--i mean, unless you should think it wise to bring your fine old sword with you. you say there is no such piece of steel----" "master hopper, there is no such piece, unless it was lord wellington's. they say he had one that he could lean on--not a dress-sword, not flummery, but a real workman--and although he was never a heavy man, a stone and a half less than i was then, it would make any figure of the multiplication-table that he chose to call for, under him. but i mustn't carry arms in these days, master hopper. i shall bring a bit of spanish oak, and trust in the lord." on the following day, the sun was shining pretty well for the decrepitude of the year. there had been no frost to speak of, since that first sharp touch about three weeks back. the air was mild, and a westerly breeze played with the half ripe pods of gorse, and the brown welting of the heather. hopper had brought a long wand of withy, from the bank of the last brook he had leaped, and he peeled it with his pocket-knife, and sat (which he seldom did when he could help it) on a tuft of rush, waiting for the sergeant. he stretched his long wiry legs, and counted the brass buttons on his yellow leathern gaiters, which came nearly to his fork, and were made fast by narrow straps to his brace-buttons. this young man--as he delighted to be called--had not many grievances, because he ran them off so fast; but the two he chiefly dwelt upon, in his few still moments, were the insufficiency of cash and calf. for the former he was chiefly indebted to himself, having never cultivated powers of retention; for the deficiency of calves, however, nature was to blame, although she might plead not unfairly that they were allowed no time to grow. he regarded them now with unmerited contempt, and slapped them in some indignation, with the supple willow wand. it might well be confessed that they were not very large, as is often the case with long-distance runners; but for all that they were as hard as nails, and endowed with knobs of muscle, tough and tense as coiled mainspring. in fact there was not a bit of flabby stuff about him; and his high clear colour, bright eyes, and ready aspect made him very pleasant to behold, though his nose was rather snubby, and his cheekbones high, and his mouth of too liberal aperture. "come along, sergeant, what a precious time you have taken!" hopper shouted, as the angular outline of the veteran appeared at last in a gap between two ridges. "why, we shall scarcely have two hours of good daylight left. and how do you know that tucker won't go home without you?" "he knows a bit better than that," replied jakes, smiling with dark significance. "master hopper, i've got three of tucker's boys in horseshoe. tucker is bound to be uncommon civil." now the "horseshoe" was a form in the school at perlycross especially adapted for corporal applications, snug as a cockpit, and affording no possibility of escape. and what was still better, the boys of that class were in the very prime of age for attracting, as well as appreciating, healthy and vigorous chastisement; all of them big enough to stand it, none of them big enough to kick, and for the most part newly trouser'd into tempting chubbiness. truly it might be said, that the parents of playful boys in the "horseshoe" had given hostages to education. "but bless my heart--what--what?" continued the ancient soldier, as he followed the rapid steps of hopper, "why, i don't like the look of this place at all. it looks so weist--as we say about here, so unwholesome, and strange, and ungodly, and--and so timoursome." "it is ever so much worse further on; and you can't tell where you are at all. but to make sure of our coming back, if--if there should be nothing to prevent us, i have got this white stick ready, and i am going to fix it on the top of that clump. there now, we shall be able to see that for miles." "but we are not going miles i hope, master hopper. i'm a little too stiff for such a walk as that. you don't know what it is to have a pain in your knee." "oh don't i? i come down on it often enough. but i don't know exactly how far we are going. there is nothing to measure distance by. come along, sergeant! we'll be just like two flies going into one of your big ink-pots." "don't let me lose sight of you, master hopper. i mean, don't you lose sight of me. you might want somebody to stand by you. it is the darkest bit of god's earth i ever did see. and yet nothing overhead to darken it. seems almost to make its own shadow. good lord! what was that came by me?" "oh, a bat, or an owl, or a big dor-beetle; or it might be a thunder-bolt--just the sort of place for them. but--what a bad place it is for finding things!" there could scarcely have been a worse one, at least upon dry and unforested land. there was no marsh whatever, so far as they had come, but a dry uneven shingly surface, black as if fire had passed over it. there was no trace however of fire, neither any substance sufficient to hold it, beyond the mere passage of a shallow flame. the blackness that covered the face of the earth, and seemed to stain the air itself, and heavily dim the daylight, was of something unknown upon the breezy hills, or in the clear draught of a valley. it reflected no light, and received no shadow, but lay like the strewing of some approach to quarters undesirable. probably from this (while unexamined by such men as we have now), the evil repute of the place had arisen, going down generations of mankind, while the stuff at the bottom renewed itself. this stuff appeared to be the growth of some lanky trailing weed, perhaps some kind of _persicaria_, but unusually dense and formless, resembling what may be seen sometimes, at the bottom of a dark watercourse, where the river slides without a wrinkle, and trees of thick foliage overhang it. and the same spread of life, that is more like death, may be seen where leagues of laver strew the foreshore of an atlantic coast, when the spring-tides are out, and the winds gone low. "by george, here we are at last. thought i should never have made it out, in the thick of this blessed cobobbery," shouted hopper, stopping short and beckoning; "now, sergeant, what do you say to that? queer thing, just here, isn't it?" the veteran's eyes, confused and weary with the long monotony, were dazzled by sudden contrast. hitherto the dreary surface, uniform and trackless, had offered only heavy plodding, jarred by the jerk of a hidden stone sometimes, but never elastic. all the boundary-beaters of the parish, or even a regiment of cavalry, might have passed throughout, and left no trace upon the padded cumber. but here a glaring stripe of silver sand broke through the blackness, intensely white by contrast, though not to be seen a few yards off, because sunk below the level. like a crack of the ground from earthquake, it ran across from right to left, and beyond it all was black again. the ancient soldier glanced around, to be sure that no surprise was meant; and then with his big stick tried the substance of the white material. with one long stride he could have reached the other side, but the caution of perilous days awoke. "oh there's nothing in that, and it is firm enough. but look here;" said his young companion, "this is what floors me altogether." he pointed to a place where two deep tracks, as of narrow wheels, crossed the white opening; and between them were three little pits about the size and depth of a gallon saucepan. the wheel-tracks swerved to the left, as if with a jerk to get out of the sandy hollow, and one of the three footprints was deeper and larger than the other two. "truly this is the doing of the arch-enemy of mankind himself." sergeant jakes spoke solemnly, and yet not very slowly; for he longed to make off with promptitude. "the doing, more likely, of those big thieves who couldn't let your colonel rest in his grave. do you mean to turn tail upon them, sergeant jakes?" "may the lord turn his back upon me, if i do!" the veteran's colour returned to his face, and all thoughts of flight departed. "i would go to the ends of the world, master hopper, after any living man; but not after satan." "the devil was in them. no doubt about that. but he made them do it for him. does old nick carry whipcord? you see how that was, don't you?" the youth leaped across, and brought back the lash of a whip which he had concealed there. "plain as a pikestaff, sergeant. when the wheels plunged into this soft stuff, the driver must have lashed like fury, to make him spring the cart out again. off came the old lash, and here it is. but wait a minute. i've got something more to show you, that spots the villains pretty plain." "well, sir," said jakes, regarding hopper with no small admiration, "you deserve your stripes for this. such a bright young gent shouldn't be thrown away in the church. i was just going to say--'how can we tell they did it?' though none but thundering rogues would come here. nothing can be clearer than that, i take it." "then you, and i, are thundering rogues. got you there, sergeant; by gum, i did! now come on a few steps further." they stepped out boldly, having far less fear of human than of superhuman agency; though better had they met apollyon perhaps, than the wild men they were tracing. within less than a furlong, they reached an opening where the smother of the black weeds fell away, and an open track was left once more. here the cart-wheels could be traced distinctly, and at one spot something far more convincing. in the middle of the track a patch of firm blue clay arose above the surface, for a distance of perhaps some fifty yards; and on it were frequent impressions of the hoofs of a large horse, moving slowly. and of these impressions one (repeated four or five times, very clearly) was that of the near fore-foot, distinctly showing a broken shoe, and the very slope and jag of the fracture. "what do you think of that now, sergeant?" asked hopper, as he danced in triumph, but took good care not to dance upon the clay. "they call me a hedger and ditcher, don't they? well, i think i am a tracker too." "master hopper, to my mind, you are an uncommonly remarkable young gent. the multiplication-table may not be strongly in your line, sir. but you can put two and two together, and no fear to jump on top of them." "oh, but the bad luck of it, sergeant! the good luck for them, and the shocking luck for me. i never came to old pen's shop, you see, till a day or two after that wicked job was over. and then it took me a fortnight, or more, to get up the lay of the country, and all that. and i was out of condition for three days, with a blessed example in the eton grammar. _percontatorem fugito_, that frightened me no end, and threw me off the hooks. but i fancy, i am on the right hook now." "that you are, sir, and no mistake. and a braver young man never came into a regiment, even in sir arthur's time. sir, you must pitch away copy-books. education is all very fine for those who can't do no better. but it spoils a young man, with higher gifts." "don't say a good word of me, till you know all," replied the candid hopper. "i thought that i was a pretty plucky fellow, because i was all by myself, you understand, and i knew that no fellow could catch me, in a run across the open. but i'll show you where i was stodged off; and it has been on my conscience ever since. just come to that place, where the ground breaks off." he led the way along a gentle slope, while the light began to fail behind them, until they stood upon the brink of a steep descent, with a sharp rise upon the other side. it was like the back-way to the bottom of a lime-kiln, but there was no lime for many leagues around. the track of cart-wheels was very manifest, and the bottom was dark with the approach of night. "my turn, master hopper, to go first now. no wife, or family, and nought to leave behind." with these words spoken in a whisper, the sergeant (who had felt much self-reproach, at the superior courage of a peaceful generation) began to go stiffly down the dark incline, waving his hand for the other to wait there. "in for a penny, in for a pound. i can kick like winkin', though i can't fight much." with these words, the gallant hopper followed, slowing his quick steps to the heavier march in front. when they came to the bottom, they found a level space, with room enough to turn a horse and cart. it was getting very dusky where they stood, with the grim sides gathering round them, and not a tree or bush to give any sign of life, but the fringe of the dominant black weed, like heavy brows, shagging the outlook. but on the left hand, where the steep fell back, was the mouth as of a cave scooped roughly. within it, all was black with gloom, and the low narrow entrance showed little hospitality. "i don't care a d--n," said sergeant jakes, forgetful of school discipline; "if there's any scoundrel there, i'll drag him out. if it's old colonel's bones--well i'm not afraid of them." there remained just light enough to show that the cart had been backed up to the entrance. "where you go, i go;" replied the dauntless hopper; and into it they plunged, with their hearts beating high, but their spirit on fire for anything. the sound of their steps, as they passed into the darkness, echoed the emptiness of the place. there was nothing to be felt, except rugged flinty sides, and the damp chill which gathered in their hair; and in the middle, a slab of broken stone, over which they stumbled into one another's arms. they had no means of striking a light; but as their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they assured themselves that there was nothing more to learn, unless it might be from some small object on the floor. there seemed to be no shelves, no sort of fixture, no recesses; only the bare and unoccupied cave. "i tell you what," said sergeant jakes, as they stood in the open air again; "this has been a smuggler's store in the war-time; a natural cave, improved no doubt. what we thought to find is gone further on, i fear. too late, master hopper, to do any more to-day, and perhaps too late to do any more at all. but we must come again with a light, if possible on monday." "well, one thing we have proved--that the villains, whoever they were, must have come from up the country; perhaps as far off as the mendip hills. but keep it to yourself, till we have settled what to do. not a word to tucker, or the news will be all over perlycross to-night. come back to the hoof-marks, and i'll take a copy. if we could only find the impressions of the men's feet too! you see after all, that joe crang spoke the truth. and it was the discovery of his 'little billy' that led me on in this direction." there was light enough still, when they came back to the clay-patch, to make a rough tracing of the broken shoe, on the paper in which the youth had brought his bread and bacon; and even that great steeple-chaser was glad to go home in company, and upon a truss of furze, with a flour-sack to shield him from the stubs and prickles. chapter xxii. fireship and galleon. meanwhile, the fair christie was recovering nerve so fast, and established in such bouncing health again, by the red-wheat bread of white post farm, that nothing less would satisfy her than to beard--if the metaphor applies to ladies--the lion in the den, the arch-accuser, in the very court of judgment. in a word, she would not rest until she stood face to face with lady waldron. she had thought of it often, and became quite eager in that determination, when her brother related to her what had passed, in his interview with miss waldron. truly it was an enterprise of great pith, for a fair young english girl, to confront the dark majestic foreign lady, stately, arrogant, imperious, and above all, embittered with a cruel wrong, fierce, malignant, rancorous. but for all that, christie was resolved to do it; though perfectly aware that the spanish lady would never be "at home" to her, if she could help it. for this reason, and this alone, as she positively assured herself, did miss fox make so long a stay with mrs. gilham, the while she was quite well enough to go back to old barn, and the path of duty led her to her brother's side. but let her once return to that side, and all hope would be lost of arranging an encounter with the slanderer; inasmuch as dr. jemmy would most sternly interdict it. her good hostess, all the while, was only too glad to keep her; and so was another important member of the quiet household; and even the flippant rosie was delighted to have such patterns. for miss fox had sent for a large supply of dresses, all the way to foxden, by the key-bugleman of the _defiance_; because it would save such a vast amount in carriage, while one was so near the great western road. "i can't understand it," protested doctor jemmy. "as if men ever could!" replied the young lady. however, the sweetest slice of sugar-cane must have empty pores too soon, and the last drop of honey drains out of the comb, and the silver voice of the flute expires, and the petals of the fairest rose must flag. all these ideas (which have been repeated, or repeated themselves, for some thousands of years) were present for the first time in all existence--according to his conviction--in the mind of an exalted, yet depressed, young farmer, one fine monday morning. miss fox had received her very last despatch, to the tune of "roast beef," that morning, and sad to say she had not cut the string, though her pretty fingers flirted with it. "my dear," said mrs. gilham, longing much to see within, inasmuch as she still had a tender heart for dainty tint, and true elegance of tone, "if you wish to save the string--fine whipcord every inch of it--frank has a picker in the six-bladed knife his godfather farrant gave him, that will undo any knot that was ever tied by samson." upon him, she meant perhaps; however the result is quite the same. "no, thank you," answered christie, with a melancholy glance; "it had better be put in my trunk, as it is. what induced them to send it, when i'm just going away?" "going away! next week, my dear, you may begin to think about it." "to-morrow, i must go. i am as well as ever. better a great deal, i ought to say. what did dr. gronow say on saturday? and i came down here; not to enjoy myself, but to keep up the spirits of my poor dear brother." "why his spirits are fine, miss fox. i only wish my poor dear frank had a quarter of them. last night i am sure--and a sunday too, when you and my son were gone to church----" "to the little church close by, you mean, with mrs. coombes and mary; because the sermon in the morning had felt so--so edifying." "yes to be sure. but when your brother came in, and was surprised not to find you with us, you know; his conversation--oh dear, oh dear, rather worldly-minded i must confess, bearing in mind what day it was--but he and rose they kept it up together, for the tip of her tongue is fit for anybody's ear-ring, as the ancient saying goes,--laughing, miss fox, and carrying on, till, although i was rather put out about it, and would have stopped any one but a visitor, i was absolutely compelled, i assure you, to pull out my pocket-handkerchief. oh, i don't think, there need be much fear about doctor jemmy's spirits!" "but don't you think, mrs. gilham, it is chiefly his pride that supports him? we do the same sort of thing sometimes. we go into the opposite extreme, and talk and laugh, as if we were in the highest spirits,--when we--when we don't want to let somebody know that we care what he thinks." "oh, you have learned that, have you, my dear?" the old lady looked at her, with some surprise. "well, well! happy will be the man that you do it for." christie felt that she was blushing, and yet could not help giving one sharp glance at her simple hostess. and it would have gone hard with frank gilham's chances, if the maiden had spied any special meaning in the eyes of his dear mother. but the elderly lady gazed benignant, reflecting softly upon the time when she had been put to those disguises of the early maidenhood; which are but the face, with its first bloom upon it. for the plain truth was, that she did not wish her son to fall in love, for some ten years yet, at the age that had suited his father. and as for miss fox, half a glimpse at her parcels would show her entire unfitness. "i shall never do it for any man," said christie, in scorn of her own suggestion; "if i am anything, i am straightforward. and if ever i care for any man, i shall give him my hand, and tell him so. not, of course, till i know that he is gone upon me. but now i want to do a crafty thing. and money can do almost anything--except in love, mrs. gilham. i would not do it without your knowledge; for that would be a very mean return for all your kindness to me. i have made up my mind to see lady waldron, and tell her just what i think of her." "my dear, lady waldron is nothing to me. the gilhams have held their own land, from the time of crossbows and battle-axes. besides our own, we rent about fifty acres of the outside of the waldron property. but if they can get more for it, let them do so. everybody loved poor sir thomas; and it was a pleasure to have to deal with him. but there is no such feeling about her ladyship; noble enough to look at, but best to deal with at a distance." "well, i mean to see her at close quarters. she has behaved shamefully to my brother. and who is she to frighten me? she is at the bottom of all these wicked, wretched falsehoods, that go about. and she would not even see him, to let him speak up for truth and justice. i call that mean, and low, and nasty. of course the subject is horrible to her; and perhaps,--well, perhaps i should have done the same. but for all that, i mean to see her; for i love fair play; and this is foul play." "what a spirit you have, my dear! i should never have thought it was in your gentle face. but you are in the right. and if i can help you--that is, if you are equal to it----" "i am more than equal to it, my dear friend. what is there to fear, with the truth against black falsehoods?" mrs. gilham turned her wedding-ring upon her "marriage-finger"--a thing she never failed to do, when her heart was busy with the bygone days. then she looked earnestly at her guest, and saw that the point to be considered was--not shall we attempt it, but how shall it be done? "your mind is entirely set upon it. and therefore we will do our best;" she promised. "but it cannot be managed in a moment. will you allow me to consult my son? it seems like attacking a house almost. but i suppose it is fair, in a case like this." "perfectly fair. indoors it must be, as there is no other chance. a thief must be caught inside a house, when he will not come out of it. and a person is no better than a thief, who locks her doors against justice." when frank was consulted, he was much against the scheme; but his opposition was met more briefly than his mother's had been. "done it shall be; and if you will not help, it shall be done without you"--was the attitude taken, not quite in words; but so that there was no mistaking it. then he changed sides suddenly, confuted his own reasoning, and entered into the plan quite warmly; especially when it was conceded that he might be near the house, if he thought proper, in case of anything too violent, or carried beyond what english ladies could be expected to endure. for as all agreed, there was hardly any saying what an arrogant foreigner might not attempt. "i am quite aware that it will cost a large amount of bribery," said christie, with a smile which proved her faith in her own powers in that line; "will ten pounds do it, mr. frank, should you suppose?" though far gone in that brilliant and gloomy, nadir and zenith, tropical and arctic, condition of the human mind, called love, frank gilham was of english nature; which, though torn up by the roots, ceases not to stick fast to the main chance. and so much the nobler on his part was this, because the money was not his, nor ever likely so to be. "i think that three pounds ought to do it, or even fifty shillings," he replied, with an estimate perhaps too low of the worth of the british domestic. "if we could choose a day when old binstock is off duty, it would save the biggest tip of all. and it would not matter what he thought afterwards, though doubtless he would be in a fury." "oh, i won't do it. i don't think i can do it. it does seem so nasty, and underhanded." coming now to the practical part, miss fox was suddenly struck with the objections. "my dear, i am very glad that you have come to see it in such a proper light;" cried mrs. gilham a little prematurely, while her son nodded very sagely, ready to say "amen" to either side, according to the final jump of the vacillating reasoner. "no, but i won't then. i won't see it so. when people behave most improperly to you, are you bound to stand upon propriety with them? just answer me that, if you can, mrs. gilham. my mind is quite settled by that consideration. i'll go in for it wholesale, binstock and all, if he means a five-pound note for every stripe in his waistcoat." "mr. binstock is much too grand to wear a striped waistcoat;" said frank with the gravity of one who understands his subject. "but he goes to see his parents every wednesday. and he will not be wronged in reality, for it will be worth all that to him, for the rise he will get by his absence." "binstock's parents! why he must be over sixty!" exclaimed frank's mother in amazement. she had greatly undervalued her son's knowledge. "they are both in the poorhouse at pumpington, the father eighty-five and the mother eighty-two. they married too early in life," said frank, "and each of their fifteen children leaves the duty of supporting them to the other fourteen. our binstock is the most filial of the whole, for he takes his parents two ounces of tobacco every wednesday." "the inhuman old miser!" cried miss fox. "he shall never have two pence out of me. that settles it. mr. frank, try for wednesday." "well, frank, you puzzle me altogether," said mrs. gilham with some annoyance. "to think of your knowing all those things, and never telling your own mother!" "i never talk of my neighbour's affairs, until they become my own business." frank pulled up his collars, and christie said to herself that his mind was very large. "but don't run away with the idea, mother, that i ever pry into such small matters. i know them by the merest accident. you know that the gamekeeper offers me a day or two when the woodcocks come in; and batts detests old binstock. but he is on the very best terms with charles, and bob, and tamar haddon. through them i can manage it perhaps for wednesday, if miss fox thinks fit to entrust me with the matter." it happened that lady waldron held an important council with mr. webber, on the following wednesday. she had long begun to feel the helplessness, and sad disadvantages of her position, as a foreigner who had never even tried to understand the country in which she lived, or to make friends of any of the people round her. and this left her so much the more at the mercy of that dawdling old solicitor. "oh that i could only find my dear brother!" was the constant cry of her sorrow, and her wrath. "i wonder that he does not rush to help me. he would have done so long ago, if he had only known of this." "no reply, no reply yet?" she asked, after listening, with patience that surprised herself, to the lawyer's long details of nothing, and excellent reasons for doing still less. "are you certain that you have had my demand, my challenge, my supplication to my only brother entered in all the spanish journals, the titles of which i supplied to you? and entered in places conspicuous?" "in every one of them, madam, with instructions that all replies should be sent to the office of the paper, and then direct to you. therefore you would receive them, and not our firm. shall we try in any other country?" "yes, oh yes! that is very good indeed. i was thinking of that only yesterday. my brother has much love for paris sometimes, whenever he is in good--in affluence, as your expression is. for i have not concealed from you, mr. webber, that although of the very first families of spain, the count is not always--through caprice of fortune, his resources are disposed to rise and fall. you should therefore try paris, and lyons, and marseilles. it is not in my power to present the names of the principal journals. but they can be discovered, even in this country." mr. webber was often hard put to it, by the lady's calm assumption that barbarism is the leading characteristic of an englishman. for theodore webber was no time-server; only bound by his duty to the firm, and his sense of loyal service to a client of lofty memory. and he knew that he could take the lead of any english lady, because of her knowledge of his character, and the way in which he pronounced it. but with this spanish lady, all his really solid manner, and true english style were thrown away. "even in this country, madam, we know the names of the less enlightened journals of the continent. they are hard to read because of the miserable paper they are printed on; but my younger son has the gift of languages, and nothing is too outlandish for him. that also shall be attended to. and now about this question that arises between yourself and mr. penniloe?" "i will not yield. i will sign nothing. everything shall be as my husband did intend. and who can declare what that was, a stranger, or his own wife, with the most convincing?" "yes, madam, that is true enough. but according to english law, we are bound by the words of the will; and unless those are doubtful, no evidence of intention is admissible, and even then----" "i will not be bound by a--by an adaptation of words that was never intended. what has a heretic minister to do with my family, and with walderscourt?" "but, madam, excuse me. sir thomas waldron asked you, and you consented, to the appointment of the rev. philip penniloe, as your co-executor, and co-trustee for your daughter, miss inez." "if i did, it was only to please my husband, because he was in pain so severe. it should have been my brother, or else my son. i have said to you before, that after all that has been done, i refuse to adhere to that interpretation." the solicitor fixed his eyes on her, not in anger, but in pure astonishment. he had deep grey eyes in a rugged setting, with large wrinkles under, and dark gabled brows above; and he had never met a lady yet--except his own wife--who was not overpowered by their solemn wisdom. lady waldron was not overpowered by them. in her ignorance of english usage, she regarded this gentleman of influence and trust, as no more than a higher form of binstock. "i shall have to throw it up," said mr. webber to himself; "but oh, what gorgeous picking, for that very low-principled bubb and cockshalt!" the eminent firm he thought of thus were always prepared to take anything he missed. "your ladyship is well aware," he said, being moved by that last reflection, "that we cannot have anything perfect in this world, but must take things as we find them. mr. penniloe is a most reasonable man, and acknowledges the value of my experience. he will not act in any way against your wishes, so far as may be in conformity with sound legal practice. that is the great point for us to consider, laying aside all early impressions--which are generally loose when examined--of--of continental codes, and so on. we need not anticipate any trouble from your co-executor, who as a clergyman is to us a layman, if proper confidence is reposed in us. already we are taking the regular steps to obtain probate of a very simple will, prepared very carefully in our office, and by exceedingly skilful hands. we act for mr. penniloe, as well as for your ladyship. all is proceeding very smoothly, and exactly as your dear husband would have wished." "then he would have wished to have his last rest dishonoured, and his daughter estranged from her own mother." "the young lady will probably come round, madam, as soon as you encourage her. your mind is the stronger of the two, in every way. with regard to that sad and shameful outrage, we are doing everything that can be done. we have very little doubt that if matters are left to our judgment, and discreet activity----" "activity, sir! and what have you done? how long is it--a month? i cannot reckon time, because day and night are the same thing to me. will you never detect that abominable crime? will you never destroy those black miscreants? will you never restore--oh, i cannot speak of it--and all the time you know who did it all! there is no word strong enough in your poor tongue, for such an outcast monster. yet he goes about, he attends to his business, they shake him by the hand, they smile at him; instead of spit, they smile at him! and this is called a christian land! my god, what made you make it?" "i implore your ladyship not to be excited. hitherto you have shown such self-command. day and night, we are on the watch, and something must speedily come of it. we have three modes of action, each one of them sure to be successful, with patience. but the point is this--to have no mistake about it, to catch him with evidence sufficient to convict him, and then to punish and disgrace him for ever." "but how much longer before you will begin? i am so tired, so weary, so worn out--can you not see how it is destroying me?" mr. webber looked at her, and could not deny that this was a very different lady waldron from the one who had scarcely deigned to bow to him, only a few months ago. the rich warm colour had left her cheeks, the large dark eyes were wan and sunken, weariness and dejection spread, where pride and strength of will had reigned. the lawyer replied in a bolder tone than he would have employed, last summer. "lady waldron, we can do no more. if we attempted any stronger measures, the only result would be to destroy our chance. if you think that any other firm, or any kind of agency, would conduct matters more to your satisfaction, and more effectually than we have done, we would only ask you to place it in their hands. i assure you, madam, that the business is not to our liking, or even to our benefit. for none but an old and most valued client, would we have undertaken it. if you think proper, we will withdraw, and hand over all information very gladly to our successors." "to whom can i go? who will come to my rescue in this wicked, impious, accursed land? if my brother were here, is it possible to doubt what he would do--how he would proceed? he would tear that young man, arm from arm, and leg from leg, and lay him in the market-place, and shoot any one who came to bury him. listen, mr. webber, i live only for one thing--to find my noble brother, and to see him do that." the lady stood up, with her eyebrows knitted, her dark eyes glowing, and her white hands thrown apart and quivering, evidently tearing an imaginary jemmy. "let us hope for the best, madam, hope for the best, and pray for the blessing of the almighty, upon our weak endeavours." this was anything but a kind view to take of the dispersion of poor jemmy; but the lawyer was terrified for the moment by the lady's vehemence. that she who had hitherto always shown such self-command and dignity--he began to fear that there was too much truth in her account of the effect upon her. suddenly, as if all her passion had been feigned--though none who had seen, or even heard her, could believe that possible--she returned to her tranquil, self-possessed, and even cold and distant style. the fire in her eyes, and the fury of her gestures sank and were gone, as if by magic; and the voice became soft and musical, as the sound of a bell across a summer sea. "you will pardon me," she said, as she fell back into the chair, from which in her passion she had risen; "but sometimes my trouble is more great than i can bear. ladies of this country are so delicate and gentle, they cannot have much hatred, because they have no love. and yet they can have insolence, very strong, and very wonderful. yesterday, or two days ago, i obtained good proof of that. the sister of that man is here--the man who has overwhelmed me thus--and she has written a letter to me, very quiet, very simple, very polite, requesting me to appoint an interview for her in my own house;"--this had been done on monday, at the suggestion of frank gilham, that fair means should be exhausted first--"but after writing thus, she has the insulting to put in under--something like this, i remember very well--'if you refuse to see me, i shall be compelled to come, without permission.' reflect upon that, mr. webber." "madam, it was not the proper thing to say. but ladies are, even when very young, a little--perhaps a little inclined to do, what they are inclined to." "i sent her letter back, without a word, by the insolent person who brought it. just in the same manner as her wicked brother's card. it is quite certain that she will never dare to enter into my presence." "you have made a mistake there, lady waldron. here i am, to thank you for your good manners; and to speak a few truths, which you cannot answer." christie fox walked up the room, with her eyes fixed steadfastly upon the other's, made a very graceful curtsey, and stood, without even a ribbon trembling. she was beautifully dressed, in dove-coloured silk, and looked like a dove, that has never been fluttered. all this lady waldron perceived at a glance; and knew that she had met her equal, in a brave young englishwoman. mr. webber, who longed to be far away, jumped about with some agility, and manoeuvred not to turn his back upon either of the ladies, while he fetched a chair for the visitor. but his trouble was lost, for the younger lady declined with a wave of her hand; while the elder said--"sir, i will thank you to ring the bell." "that also is vain," said miss fox, calmly. "i will not leave this room, lady waldron, until i have told you my opinion of your conduct. the only question is--do you wish to hear it, in the presence of this gentleman; or do you wish me to wait until he is gone?" to all appearances, the lawyer was by far the most nervous of the three; and he made off for the door, but received a sign to stop. "it is just as well, perhaps, that you should not be alone," christie began in a clear firm voice, with her bright eyes flashing, so that the dark spanish orbs were but as dead coals in comparison, "and that you should not be ashamed; because it proves at least that you are honest in your lunatic conclusions. i am not speaking rudely. the greatest kindness that any one can do you, is to believe that you are mad." so great was the force of her quiet conviction that lady waldron raised one hand, and laid it upon her throbbing temples. for weeks she had been sleepless, and low, and feverish, dwelling on her wrongs in solitude, and estranged from her own daughter. "hush, hush, my good young lady!" pleaded the old solicitor; but his client gazed heavily at her accuser, as if she could scarcely apprehend; and christie thought that she did not care. "you have done a most wicked thing;" miss fox continued in a lower tone, "as bad, in its way as the great wrong done to you. you have condemned an innocent man, ruined his life to the utmost of your power, and refused to let him even speak for himself. is that what you call justice?" "he was not innocent. he was the base miscreant. we have the proof of the man who saw him." lady waldron spoke slowly, in a strange dull tone, while her lips scarcely moved, and her hands fell on her lap. "there is no such proof. the man owns his mistake. my brother can prove that he was miles away. he was called to his father's sick bed, that very night. and before daylight he was far upon the road. he never returned till days afterwards. then he finds this black falsehood; and you for its author!" "is there any truth in this?" lady waldron turned slightly towards mr. webber, as if she were glad to remove her eyes from her visitor's contemptuous and overpowering gaze. "there may be some, madam. i believe it is true that the blacksmith has changed his opinion, and that dr. fox was called suddenly away." the old solicitor was beginning to feel uneasy about his own share in the matter. he had watched miss fox intently through his glasses; and long experience in lawcourts told him, that she thoroughly believed every word she uttered. he was glad that he had been so slow and careful; and resolved to be more so, if possible, henceforth. "and now if you are not convinced of the great wrong you have done," said christie coming nearer, and speaking with a soft thrill in her voice, for tears were not far distant; "what have you to say to this? my brother, long before your husband's death, even before the last illness, had given his heart to your daughter inez. her father more than suspected that, and was glad to think it likely. inez also knew it well. all this also i can prove, even to your satisfaction. is it possible, even if he were a villain, and my brother is a gentleman of as good a family as your own, lady waldron--ask yourself, would he offer this dastard outrage to the father of the girl he loved? if you can believe it, you are not a woman. and that would be better for all other women. oh, it is too cruel, too atrocious, too inhuman! and you are the one who has done it all. lay this to heart--and that you may think of it, i will leave you to yourself." brave as she was, she could not quite accomplish this. is it a provision of nature, that her highest production should be above the rules of inferior reason? when this fair young woman ceased to speak, and having discharged her mission should have walked away in silence--strange to say, she could do nothing of the kind. as if words had been her spring and motive power, no sooner were they exhausted than she herself broke down entirely. she fell away upon the rejected chair, covered her face with both hands, reckless of new kid gloves just come from paris, and burst into a storm of tears and sobs. "you have done it now," cried mr. webber; "i thought you would; but you wouldn't be stopped." he began to rush about helplessly, not on account of the poor girl's plight--for he had wife and daughter of his own, and knew that tears are never fatal, but often highly beneficial; "you have done it now; i thought you would." his prophetic powers seemed to console him. christie looked up through her dabbled gloves, and saw a sight that frightened her. lady waldron had been sitting at a large oak table covered with books and papers,--for the room was chiefly used for business, and not a lady's bower--and there she sat still; but with this change, that she had been living, and now was dead. dead to all perception of the life and stir around her, dead to all sense of right or wrong, of daylight or of darkness; but living still to the slow sad work that goes on in the body, when the mind is gone. her head lay back on the stout oak rail; her comely face showed no more life than granite has, or marble; and her widow's hood dropped off, and shed the coils of her long black hair around. "i can't make it out;" cried mr. webber, hurrying to the bell-rope, which he pulled to such purpose that the staple of the crank fell from the ceiling, and knocked him on the head. but christie, recovering at a glance, ran round the end of the table, and with all her strength supported the tottering figure. what she did afterwards, she never knew, except from the accounts of others; for she was too young to have presence of mind, when every one else was distracted. but from all that they said--and they were all against her--she must have shown readiness, and strength, and judgment, and taken mr. webber under her command. one thing she remembered, because it was so bitter, and so frightfully unjust; and if there was anything she valued--next to love and truth and honour, most of which are parts of it--christie valued simple justice, and impartiality. to wit--as mr. webber might have put it--when she ran out to find mr. gilham, who had been left there, only because he did not choose to go away, and she only went to find him that he might run for dr. gronow--there was her brother standing with him, and words less friendly than usual were, as it seemed to her, passing between them. "no time for this sort of thing now," she said, as well as her flurried condition would permit; and then she pulled her brother in, and sent frank, who was wonderfully calm and reasonable, to fetch that other doctor too. her brother was not in a nice frame of mind, according to her recollection; and there was no time to reason with him, if he chose to be so stupid. therefore she sent him where he was wanted; and of course no doctor could refuse to go, under such frightful circumstances. but as for herself, she felt as if it mattered very little what she did; and so she went and sat somewhere in the dark, without even a dog for company, and finished with many pathetic addenda the good cry that had been broken off. chapter xxiii. a magic letter. "oh here you are at last then, are you?" said somebody entering the room with a light, by the time the young lady had wept herself dry, and was beginning to feel hungry; "what made you come here? i thought you were gone. to me it is a surprising thing, that you have the assurance to stay in this house." "oh, jemmy, how can you be so cruel, when every bit of it was for you?" "for me indeed! i am very much obliged. for your own temper, i should say. old webber says that if she dies, there may be a verdict of manslaughter." "i don't care two pins, if there is; when all the world is so unjust to me. but how is she, jemmy? what has happened to her? what on earth is it all about?" "well, i think you ought to know that best. webber says he never heard any one like you, in all his experience of criminal courts." "much i care what he says--the old dodderer! you should have seen him hopping about the room, like a frog with the rheumatism. you should have seen him stare, when the bell-rope fell. when i said the poor thing's hands were cold, he ran and poked the fire with his spectacles. but can't you tell me how she is? surely i have a right to know, if i am to be manslaughtered." "well," replied dr. fox, with that heavy professional nod which he ridiculed in others; "she is in a very peculiar state. no one can tell what may come of it." "not a fit, jemmy? not like dear father's; not a mild form of--no, it seemed quite different." "it is a different thing altogether, though proceeding probably from the brain. an attack of what we call catalepsy. not at all a common thing, and quite out of my own experience, though i know of it from the books a little. gronow knew it, of course, at a glance. fortunately i had sense enough not to try any strong measures till he came. any other young fellow in this part of the world would have tried venesection instantly, and it might have killed her. my treatment happened to be quite right, from my acquaintance with principles. it is nothing less than a case of entirely suspended animation. how long it may last, none can foretell." "but you don't think it will kill her, jemmy? why my animation was suspended ever so long, the other day----" "that was quite a different thing--this proceeds from internal action, overpowering emotion in a very anã¦mic condition; yours was simply external concussion, operating on a rather highly charged----" "you are very polite. my own fault in fact. who gave me the horse to drive about? but surely if a disordered brain like mine contrives to get right again----" "christie, i wish to do you good. you have brought me into a frightful mess, because you are so headlong. but you meant it for the best, i know; and i must not be too hard upon you." "what else have you been for the last five minutes? oh, jemmy, jemmy, i am so sorry! give me a kiss, and i will forgive you." "you are a very quick, warmhearted girl; and such have never too much reason." the doctor kissed his sister, in a most magnanimous manner; and she believed implicitly (until the next time of argument) that she had done the injury, and her brother sweetly borne it. "now come, while it is hot," said he; "get your courage up, and come. never let a wound grow cold. between you two there must be no ill-will; and she is so noble." "oh, indeed! who is it then? it is so good, and so elevating to be brought into contact with those wonderfully lofty people." "it is exactly what you want. if you can only obtain her friendship, it will be the making of your character." "for goodness' sake, don't lose a moment. i feel myself already growing better, nobler, loftier." "there is nothing in you grave, and stable, none of the stronger elements;" said the doctor, as he led the way along an empty passage. "don't you be too sure of that;" his sister answered, in a tone which he remembered afterwards. lady waldron lay on a broad and solid sofa, well-prepared for her; and there was no sign left of life or movement in her helpless figure. she was not at all like "recumbent marble"--which is the ghost of death itself--neither was she stiff or straight; but simply still, and in such a condition, that however any part of her frame might be placed, so it would remain; submissive only to the laws of gravitation, and to no exercise of will, if will were yet surviving. the face was as pale as death, the eyes half open but without expression; the breathing scarcely perceptible, and the pulse like the flutter of eider down, or gossamer in a sheltered spot. there was nothing ghastly, repulsive, or even greatly distressing at first sight; for the fine, and almost perfect, face had recovered in placid abandonment the beauty impaired by grief and passion. and yet the dim uncertainty, the hovering between life and death, the touching frailty of human power over-tried and vanquished, might move the bitterest foe to tears, and waken the compassion planted in all human hearts by heaven. christie was no bitter foe, but a kind impulsive generous maiden, rushing at all hazards to defend the right, ready to bite the dust when in the wrong, if properly convinced of it. jemmy stepped back, and spread forth his hand more dramatically than was needed, as much as to say--"see what you have done! never forget this, while you live. i leave you to self-abasement." the sensitive and impetuous girl required no such admonishment. she fell on her knees, and took one cold hand, while her face turned as pale as the one she watched. the pity of the sight became more vivid, deep, and overpowering; and she whispered her little bedside prayer, for that was the only one she recalled. then she followed it up with confession. "i know what ought to be done to me. i ought to be taken by the neck--no, that's not right--i ought to be taken to the place of execution, and there hanged by the neck, till i am dead, dead, dead." all this she may have deserved, but what she got was very different. around her bended neck was flung no hangman's noose, but a gentle arm, the softest and loveliest ever felt, while dark eyes glistened into her own, and seeming to be encouraged there, came closer through a clustering bower; and in less time than it takes to tell, two fair young faces touched each other, and two quick but heavy hearts were throbbing very close together. "it is more my fault than yours," said nicie, leading the way to another room, when a few soft words of comfort and good-will had passed; "i am the one who has done all this; and dr. gronow says so--or at least he would, if he said what he thinks. it was the low condition caused by long and lonely thinking, and the want of sufficient food and air, and the sense of having no one, not even me." "but that was her fault. she discouraged you; she showed no affection for you; she was even very angry with you; because you dared to think differently, because you had noble faith and trust." "for that i deserve no credit, because i could not help it. but i might have been kinder to her, christie; i might have shown less pride and temper. i might have said to myself more often--'she is sadly shattered; and she is my mother.' it will teach me how to behave another time. for if she does not get well, and forgive me, i shall never forgive myself. i must have forgotten how much easier it is, to be too hard, than to be too soft." "probably you never thought about it;" said christie, who knew a great deal about what were then called "the mental processes"--now gone into much bigger names, but the same nut in a harder shell. "you acted according to your sense of right; and that meant what you felt was right; and that came round to mean--jemmy." nicie, who never examined her mind--perhaps the best thing to be done with it--was not quite satisfied with this abruptly concrete view of the issue. "perhaps, i did," she said and sighed; because everything felt so cloudy. "whatever you did--you are a darling;" said the more experienced one. "there is a lot of trouble before us both. never mind, if we only stick together. poor jemmy believes that he is a wonder. between us, we will fetch him down." nicie could perceive no call for that, being as yet of less practical turn. she was of that admirable, and too rare, and yearly diminishing, type of women, who see and feel that heaven meant them, not to contend with and outdo, but to comfort, purify, and ennoble that stronger, coarser, and harder half, called men. "i think that he wants fetching up," she said, with very graceful timidity; "but his sister must know best, of course. is it right to talk of such things now?" "decidedly not;" miss fox replied. "in fact it is downright wicked. but somehow or other, i always go astray. whenever i am out of sorts with myself, i take a turn at other people. but how many turns must i have at others before i get my balance now! did you ever see anything so sad? but how very beautiful she is! i never noticed it this afternoon, because i was in such a rage, i suppose. how long is she likely to remain like this?" "dr. gronow cannot say. he has known one case which lasted for a month. but then there was no consciousness at all. he thinks that there is a little now. but we can perceive no sign of it." "well, i think i did. i am almost sure i did;" christie answered eagerly; "when i said 'dead, dead, dead,' in that judicial manner, there came a little gleam of light into her eyes, as if she approved of the sentence. and again when you called me your sister, there seemed to be a sparkle of astonishment, as if she thought you were in too much of a hurry; and perhaps you were, my darling. oh, what a good judge jemmy is! no wonder he is getting so conceited." "if there is any consciousness at all," said nicie, avoiding that other subject, "this trance (if that is the english word for it) will not last long--at least dr. gronow says so; and doctor jemmy--what a name for a gentleman of science!--thoroughly confirms it. but dr. fox is so diffident and modest, that he seems to wait for his friend's opinion; though he must know more, being younger." "certainly he ought," miss fox replied, with a twinkle of dubious import; "i hear a great deal of such things. no medical man is ever at his prime, unless it is at thirty-nine years and a half. under forty, he can have no experience, according to the general public; and over forty he is on the shelf, according to his own profession. for that one year, they ought to treble all their fees." "that would only be fair; for they always charge too little." "you are an innocent duck;" said christie. "there is a spot on your cheek that i must kiss; because it always comes, when you hear the name of jemmy. abstract affection for unknown science. oh do have a try at dr. gronow. he knows fifty times as much as poor jemmy." "but he doesn't know how to please me," replied nicie; "and i suppose that ought to count for something; after all. i must go and tell him what you thought you saw. that is his step in the passage now; and he ordered us to watch for any symptoms of that sort. oh what will he think of me, for leaving nurse alone? good night, dear christie; i shall come away no more. but binstock, our great man, is come back. he will attend to you, and see that you don't go home starving, or by yourself." "positive statements suit young men," dr. gronow declared, as he buttoned up his coat, about an hour afterwards; "and so does sitting up all night. fox, you had better act up to that. but i shall just see your sister safe, as far as the hospitable white post, and then i shall go home to my supper. there is not the slightest danger now, but constant attention is needful, in case of sudden revival. that i do not at all expect; but you know what to do, if it happens. the third day will be the most likely time; and then any pleasing excitement, or attraction--but i shall be here, and see to that." "oh dr. gronow," exclaimed miss fox, as she fastened her cloak to go with him; "how i wish i had been born a little sooner, to see you more positive than you are now!" "miss fox, it is a happy thing for me, that i anticipated all such views. young ladies, i meant of course--and not young men. yet alas, the young ladies are too negative." on the third day from lady waldron's seizure, the postman of the name of walker finding not even a mushroom left to retard the mail-delivery, and having a cold north wind at his back, brought to the house, soon after noon, a very large letter, marked "ship despatch. two shillings and tenpence to pay," and addressed to lady waldron. "it must be from dear tom," pronounced nicie; "we have not heard from him since he sailed for india. there is no other person in the world, capable of such a frightful scrawl." "why, this is the very thing we want," said gronow, who was present according to promise; "large, conspicuous, self-assertive. let somebody fetch me a green flower-stick." slitting one end of the stick, he inserted the lower edge of the letter, and fixed it upright in the scroll-work at the bottom of the couch. then he drew the curtain back, and a slant of cheerful sunshine broke upon the thick bold writing. but the figure on the couch lay still, without a sign of interest, cold, rigid, and insensible. "i'll keep out of sight," the doctor whispered, "and let no one say a word. but presently when i hold my hand up, let miss nicie strike a few notes, not too rapidly, on her guitar--some well-known spanish melody." gliding round the back of the couch, with a very gentle touch he raised the unconscious lady's head, and propped it with a large firm pillow; so that the dim half-open eyes were level with and set point-blank upon the shining letter. securing it so, he withdrew a little, and held up his hand to nicie. she, upon a low chair further off, touched the strings of her mother's own and in younger days much loved guitar; gently at first, like a distant ripple; then with a strong bold swell arising into a grand melodious strain--the march of andalusia. all present held their breath to watch, and saw a strange and moving sight. the spanish lady's eyes began to fill with soft and quivering light, like a lake when the moon is rising; the fringe of their dark lashes rose; a little smile played on her lips, and touched them with a living tint; then all the brilliance of her gaze flashed forth, and fastened on that letter. she lifted both her trembling hands, and the letter was put into them. her face was lit with vivid joy, and her lips pronounced--"my son, my son!" then wanting nothing more, she drew the precious token to her breast, concealed it there, and sank into profound, and tranquil, and sweet sleep. "she will be all right, when she awakes, and then she will want a lot of food;" said dr. gronow with a quiet grin, while nicie and chris wept tears of joy, and dr. fox and the nurse looked queer. "mind she can't live on her son's letter. beef-tea, arrowroot, and port-wine, leg of mutton gravy, and neat's foot jelly--finer than the sweetest sweetheart's letters, let alone a boy who writes with the stump of a cigar. ladies and gentlemen, my job is over; what a blessing penniloe is gone to london! we should have had a prayer meeting every day. miss fox, i think i shall call you 'christie,' because you are so unchristian." "you may call me anything you like--that is so long as it is something you do like. i shall almost begin to have faith in doctors now, in spite of poor jemmy being one." "jemmy, you had better throw up the trade. your sister understands it best. the hardest work, and the hardest paid--however i go a trout-fishing, ere ever the river freezes." the wind was very cold, and everybody there shivered at the shudders he would have to undergo, as they saw him set forth with an eager step. he waved his hand back from a turn of the walk which reminded him of the river, and his shoulders went up, as if he had a trout on hook. "he is happy. let him be," said the percipient christie; "he won't catch anything in fact; but the miraculous draught in fancy." "he ought to be pitched in," replied her brother, who was put out about something, possibly the fingering of the second fiddle; "the least that can be done to him is to pitch him in, for trying to catch trout in december. pike had vowed to do it; but those fellows are gone home, hopper and all, just when the world was most in want of them. christie, you will just come back with me, to the old barn." "why does dr. gronow address nearly all his very excellent remarks to me? and why does he always look at me, when he speaks?" "because you are so pretty, dear. and because you catch his meaning first. they like that sort of thing;" said nicie. "for looks i am nowhere, with nicie present. but he sees advanced intelligence in me. and he comes from where they appreciate it. i shall go back to old barn, just when i think right." "we are coming to something!" cried doctor jemmy, who looked pleasantly, but loftily, at all the female race--save nicie, who was saved perhaps, till two months after marriage--"stay, if you like, where you are appreciated, so highly, so very highly." christie's face became red as a rose, for really this was too bad on his part, and after all she had done for him, as witnessed those present. "they like me," she said in an off-handed manner; "and i like them--which is more than one can do to everybody. but it makes very little difference, i am afraid, for i shall never see them any more, unless they come to foxden. i had made up my mind to go home, the moment lady waldron was out of danger. i did not come here to please myself; and this is all i get for it. good-bye to fair perlycross to-morrow! one must not neglect one's dear father and mother, even for--even for such a dear as nicie." "well, i never knew what it was to be out of temper." there was some truth in this assertion, though it seems a large one; for jemmy fox had a remarkably sweet temper; and a man who takes stock of himself, when short of that article, has already almost replaced it. "but how will you go, my dear little cayenne pepper? will you pack up all your grandeur, and have a coach and four?" "yes that i will," answered christie quick as light, "though it won't cost me quite as much as the one i hired, when i came post-haste to your rescue. the name of my coach is the _defiance_; and the guard shall play 'roast-beef' all the way, in honour of the coming christmas-time. won't we have a fine time at foxden, if father is in good health again?" jemmy wisely left her to her own devices--for she generally "took the change out of him"--and consoled himself with soft contemplation of a lovelier, nicer, and (so far as he knew yet) ten thousand times sweeter-tempered girl, whose name was nicie waldron. now that sweet creature had a worry of her own, though she did not afflict the public with it. she was dying with anxiety, all the time, to know the contents of her brother tom's letter, which had so enlivened her dear mother. it is said that the only thing the all-wise solomon could not explain to the queen of sheba, was the process of her own mind, or rather perhaps the leaps of it, which landed her in conclusions quite correct, yet unsupported even by the shadow of an enthymem. miss waldron was not so clever as the queen of sheba, or even as miss christie fox; yet she had arrived at a firm conviction that the one, who was destined to solve the sad and torturing question about her dear father, was no other than her brother, tom rodrigo. she had observed that his letter bore no token of the family bereavement, neither was that to be expected yet, although six weeks had now elapsed since the date of their sore distress. envelopes was not as yet in common use, and a letter was a cumbrous and clumsy-looking thing, one of the many reasons being that a writer was bound by economy, and very often by courtesy as well, to fill three great pages, before he began to double in. this naturally led to a vast sprawl of words, for the most part containing very little; and "what shall i say next?" was the constant enquiry of even the most loving correspondent. nicie knew well, that her brother was not gifted with the pen of a ready writer, and that all his heart indited of was--"what shall i put, to get done with it?" this increased the value of his letters (by means of their rarity) and also their interest, according to the canon that plenty of range should be allowed for the reader's imagination. but now even too much range was left, for that of the affectionate and poetic maiden, inasmuch as her mother lay asleep for hours with this fine communication to support her heart. there was nothing for nicie to do, except to go to sleep patiently on her own account, and that she did in her own white bed, and saw a fair vision through tears of joy. behold, she was standing at the door, the sacred portal of walderscourt, gazing at trees that were full of singing birds, with her milk-white pony cropping clover honey-sweet, and _pixie_ teetotuming after his own tail. all the air was blossoming with dance of butterflies, and all the earth was laughing at the flatteries of the sun. and behold a very tall form arose, from beyond the weeping willow, leading a form yet taller, and looking back for fear of losing it. then a loud voice shouted, and it was brother tom's--"here he is at last! no mistake about it. i have found the governor--hurrah, hurrah!" the maiden sprang up with a bounding heart, to embrace her darling father. but alas, there was nothing, except the cold moon, and a pure virgin bosom that glistened with tears. when tom's letter came to the reading at last, there was plenty of blots in it, and brown sand, but not a blessed bit of poetry. the youth had been at eton, and exhausted there all the tendency of his mind towards metre. even now people, who ought to know better, ask why poetry will not go down with the tall, and imaginative, and romantic public. it must be from the absence of the spark divine among them. nay rather because ere they could spell, their flint was fixed for life, with the "fire" used up by classic hammer. of these things the present sir thomas rodrigo waldron had neither thought nor heed. for him it was enough to be released; and the less he saw of book and pen, for the rest of his natural life, the better for the book, the pen, and him. so that on the whole he deserved much credit, and obtained even more (from his mother) as the author of the following fine piece of correspondence. though all the best bits were adapted from a book, entitled "the young man's polite letter-writer, to his parents, sisters, sweethearts, friends, and the minister of his native parish, etc., etc.--also when applying for increase of wages." "valetta, in the island of malta, mediterranean sea, etc. november the 5th, also guy fawkes' day, a.d. 1835. "my beloved and respected mother,--i take up my pen with mingled feelings of affection and regret. the bangs"--oh, he ought to say "pangs," thought nicie, as her mother read it on most gravely--"which i have suffered, and am suffering still, arise from various sources. affection, because of your unceasing and unmerited parental goodness; regret because absence in a foreign land enhances by a hundred fold the value of all those lost endearments. i hope that you will think of me, whenever you sit on the old bench by the door, and behold the sun setting in the east." "it is very beautiful," said lady waldron, animated by a cup of strong beef-tea; "but rodrigo was so hard to kiss. very often, i have knocked my head--but he is competent to feel it in his own head now." "mother, there is no bench by the door. and how can the sun set in the east? oh i see it was 'west,' and he has scratched it out, because of his being in the east himself." "that means the same thing;" replied lady waldron; "inez, if you intend to find fault with your dear brother's letter about such trifles, you deserve to hear no more of it." "mother, as if it made any difference where the sun sets; so long as he can see it!" "he always had large thoughts," reflected his mother; "he is not of this cold geography. hearken how beautifully he proceeds to write-"'but it is vain to indulge these contemplations. thanks to your careful tuition, and the lofty example set before me, i trust that i shall never be found wanting in my duty to the country that gave me birth. unfortunately in these foreign parts, the price of every article is excessive; and although i am guided, as you are well aware, by the strictest principles of economy, my remembrance of what is due to you, and the position of a highly respected family, have in some degree necessitated an anticipation of resources. feeling assured of your sympathy, and that it will assume a practical form by return of post, i venture to state for your guidance that the house of plumper, wiggins, and golightly in this city have been advised, and have consented to receive on my behalf a remittance of â£120, which will, i trust, appear a very reasonable sum.'" "mother, dear mother, let me go on," cried nicie, as the letter dropped from her mother's hand; "the pleasure and excitement have been too much for you, although the style is so excellent." "it is not the style; but my breath has been surprised, by--by the expressions of that last sentence. the sum that i myself placed to his credit, out of my bonds of the city of corduba, was in addition, and without his father's knowledge--but no doubt he will give explanation more further down; though the writing appears now to become of a different kind, shorter and less polished. but why is he in malta, when the ship sailed for bombay? oh i am terrified there will be some war. the english can never stay without fighting very long. and behold his letter seems to go into three pieces! see now, it is quite crooked, inez, and of less correction. nevertheless i approve more of it so. listen again, child. "'i was almost forgeting to say that we were mett before we had got very far on our way by a despatch vessle bringing urgent orders for all of the draught to be sent to this place, which is not half so hot as the other place would be, and much more convenient, and healthy but too white. but it does make the money fly, and they are a jolley sett. i have long been wanting to write home, but waited untill there was some news to tell, and we could tell where we are going next. but we shall have to stay here for some time, because most of our things were sent to west indies, and the other part went on to east india. it will all be for the best because so strong a change of climate will be almost certain to destroy the moths. i have bought three dogs. there is a new sort here, very clever, and can almost speak. i hope all the dogs at home are well. i miss the shooting very much, and there are no horses in the mediterranean big enough to cary me. now i must conclude with best love and duty to the governor and you, and nicie, and old nurse sweetland, and anybody else who inquires for "'remaining your affectionate and dutiful son, "'tom r. waldron. "'p.s.--your kind letter of aug. 30th just come. they must be very clever to have found us here. i am dredfully cutt up to hear dear governor not at all well when you wrote. shall hope for better news every day. there is a greek gentleman here with a pill waranted to cure everything yet discovered. they are as large as yellow sluggs, and just the same shape. he will let me have 10 for my amathist studds which are no good to me. shall try to send them by the next ship that goes home. do write at once, because i never heard before of anything wrong with dear governor. "'t. r. w.'" "poor darling!" said his mother with tears in her eyes, while nicie was sobbing quietly; "by this time he may be aware of it perhaps, though not of the dreadful thing that happened since. it will not be for his happiness that he should ever know. remember that, inez. he is of so much vigour and high blood of the best andalusian, that he would become insane, and perhaps do himself deep injury. he would cast away his office--what you call the commission,--and come back to this country, and be put in prison for not accepting quietly the sacrilegious laws." "mother, you have promised never to speak of that subject. if it is too much for poor tom, what is it likely to be for us? all we can do is to leave it to god." "there is not the same god in this country as we have. if there was, he would never endure it." chapter xxiv. a wager. it was true enough that mr. penniloe was gone to london, as gronow said. but it was not true that otherwise he would have held a prayer-meeting every day in lady waldron's room, for the benefit of her case. he would have been a great support and strength to inez in her anxiety, and doubtless would have joined his prayers with hers; that would have been enough for him. dr. gronow was a man who meant well upon the whole, but not in every crick and cranny, as a really fine individual does. but the parson was even less likely than the doctor, to lift a latch plugged by a lady against him. "thyatira, do you think that you could manage to see to the children, and the butcher's bill, during the course of next week," he enquired, when the pupils were off for their holiday, with accordions, and pan-pipes and pea-shooters; "i have particular business in london. only betty cork, and old job tapscott, have come to my readings of solomon's song, and both of them are as deaf as milestones. master harry will be home again in three days' time, and when he is in the house you have no fear; though your confidence should be placed much higher. master michael is stronger of late, and if we can keep shocking stories from him, his poor little head may be right again. there really has been no proof at all of the existence of any spring-heeled jack; and he would never come here to earn his money. he may have been mentioned in prophecy, as the wesleyan minister declared, but i have failed to come across the passage. our church does not deal in those exciting views, and does not recognise dark lanterns." "no sir, we are much soberer like; but still there remains the seven vials." the parson was up to snuff--if the matter may be put upon so low a footing. mrs. muggridge had placed her arms akimbo, in challenge theological. he knew that her views were still the lowest of the low, and could not be hoisted by any petard to the high church level. and the worst of it is that such people are pat with awkward points of holy writ, as hard to parry as the stroke of jarnac. in truth he must himself confess that partly thus had thyatira, at an early and impressible age, been induced to join the church, when there chanced to be a vacancy for a housemaid at the parsonage. it was in his father's parish, where her father, stephen muggridge, occupied a farm belonging to the rev. isaac penniloe. philip, as a zealous churchman, urged that the parson's chief tenant should come to church, but the rev. isaac took a larger view, preferring his tangible cornland to his spiritual vineyard. "you had better let stephen alone," he said, "you would very soon get the worst of it, with all your new oxford theology. farmer steve is a wonderfully stout antipã¦dobaptist; and he searches the scriptures every day, which leaves no chance for a churchman, who can only find time on a saturday." this dissuasion only whetted the controversial appetite, and off set philip with his polyglot bible under his arm. when farmer stephen saw him coming, he smiled a grim and gallant smile, being equally hot for the combat. says he, after a few preliminary passes, "now, young sir, look here! i'll show 'e a text as you can't explain away, with all oxford college at the back of thee. just you turn to gospel of john, third chapter and fifth verse, and you read it, after me. 'except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of god.' the same in your copy, bain't it now? then according to my larning, m. a. n. spells _man_, and b. a. b. e. spells _babe_. now till you can put b. a. b. e. in the place of m. a. n. in that there text, what becomes of your church baptism?" the farmer grinned gently at the parson, in the pride of triumph, and looked round for his family to share it. "farmer stephen, that sounds well;" replied the undaunted philip, "but perhaps you will oblige me, by turning over a few leaves, as far as the sixteenth chapter of the same gospel, and verse twenty-one. you see how it begins with reference to the pains of a mother, and then occur these words--'she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a _man_ is born into the world.' now was that man born full-grown, farmer stephen?" the farmer knitted his brows, and stared; there was no smile left upon his face; but in lieu of it came a merry laugh from beside his big oaken chair; and the head of her class in the village school was studying his countenance. "her can go to parsonage," quoth the antipã¦dobaptist, "her won't take no harm in a household where they know their bible so." farmer stephen was living still; and like a gentleman had foregone all attempts to re-capture his daughter. with equal forbearance, penniloe never pressed his own opinions concerning smaller matters upon his pious housekeeper, and therefore was fain to decline, as above, her often proffered challenges. "there are many things still very dark before us," he answered with his sweet sad smile; "let us therefore be instant in prayer, while not neglecting our worldly duties. it is a worldly duty now, which takes me from my parish, much against my own desires. i shall not stay an hour more than can be helped, and shall take occasion to forward, if i can, the interests of our restoration fund." mrs. muggridge, when she heard of that, was ready at once to do her best. not that she cared much about the church repairs, but that her faithful heart was troubled by her master's heavy anxieties. as happens (without any one established exception) in such cases, the outlay had proved to be vastly vaster than the most exhaustive estimate. mr. penniloe felt himself liable for the repayment of every farthing; and though the contractors at exeter were most lenient and considerate (being happily a firm of substance), his mind was much tormented--at the lower tides of faith--about it. at least twelve hundred pounds was certain to fall due at christmas, that season of peace and good-will for all christians, who can pay for it. even at that date there were several good and useful corporations, societies, associations, ready to help the church of england, even among white men, when the case was put well before them. the parson had applied by letter vainly; now he hoped to see the people, and get a trifle out of them. the long and expensive journey, and the further expense of the sojourn, were quite beyond his resources--drained so low by the house of the lord--but now the solicitors to the estate of sir thomas waldron bart. deceased required his presence in london for essential formalities, and gladly provided the _viaticum_. therefore he donned his warmest clothes, for the weather was becoming wintry, put the oilskin over his sunday hat--a genuine beaver, which had been his father's, and started in life at two guineas, and even now in its curate stage might stand out for twenty-one shillings--and committing his household solemnly to the care of the almighty, met the first up-coach before daylight on monday, when it changed horses at the _blue ball_ inn, at the north-east corner of his parish. all western coaches had been quickened lately by tidings of steam in the north, which would take a man nearly a score of miles in one hour; and though nobody really believed in this, the mere talk of it made the horses go. there was one coach already, known by the rather profane name of _quicksilver_, which was said to travel at the almost impious pace of twelve miles an hour. but few had much faith in this break-neck tale, and the _quicksilver_ flew upon the southern road, which never comes nigh the perle valley. even so, there were coaches on this upper road which averaged nine miles an hour all the way, foregoing for the sake of empty speed, breakfast, and dinner, and even supper on the road. by one of these called the _tallyho_, mr. penniloe booked his place for london, and arrived there in good health but very tired, early on tuesday morning. the curate of perlycross was not at all of the rustic parson type, such as may still be found in many an out-of-the-way parish of devon. he was not likely to lose himself in the streets of "mighty babylon," as london was generally called in those days--and he showed some perception of the right thing to do, by putting up at the "old hummums." his charges for the week were borne by the lawyers, upon whose business he was come; and therefore the whole of his time was placed at the disposal of their agents, messrs. spindrift, honeysweet, and hoblin, of theobald's road, gray's inn. that highly respected firm led him about from office to office, and pillar to post, sometimes sitting upon the pillar, sometimes leaning against the post, according to the usage immemorial of their learned profession. but one of the things he was resolved to do between doe and roe, and nokes and styles, was to see his old friend harrison gowler, concerning the outrage at perlycross. there happened to be a great run now upon that eminent physician, because he had told a lady of exalted rank, who had a loose tendon somewhere, that she had stepped on a piece of orange-peel five and twenty years ago. historical research proved this to be too true, although it had entirely escaped the august patient's memory. dr. gowler became of course a baronet at once, his practice was doubled, though it had been very large, and so were all his fees, though they had not been small. in a word, he was the rage, and was making golden hay in the full blaze of a royal sun. no wonder then that the simple friend for a long time sought the great man vainly. he could not very well write, to ask for an interview on the following day, because he never knew at what hour he might hope to be delivered from the lawyers; and it never occurred to him to prepay the postage of his card from door to table, through either of the haughty footmen. slow as he was to take offence, he began to fear that it must be meant, for the name of his hotel was on his cards; until as he was turning away once more, debating with himself whether self-respect would allow him to lift that brass knocker again, the great man himself came point-blank upon him. the stately footman had made a rush for his pint of half-and-half round the corner, and sir harrison had to open his own door to show a noble patient forth. "what, you in london, penniloe!" and a kind grasp of the hand made it clear, that the physician was not himself to blame. in a few quick words it was arranged that the parson should call again at six o'clock, and share his old friend's simple meal. "we shall have two good hours for a talk," said gowler, "for all the great people are at dinner then. at eight, i have a consultation on." "i never have what can be called a dinner;" sir harrison said, when they met again; "only a bit of--i forget what the greek expression is. there is an american turn for it." "you must indeed be overdone, if you are forgetting your greek," replied his friend; "you were far in front of me there always; though i think i was not so far behind, in latin." "i think you were better in both. but what matter? we have little time now for such delights. how often i wish i were back again at oxford; ten times poorer, but a thousand times happier. what is the good of my hundred pounds a day? i often get that; and am ashamed of it." the parson refrained from quoting any of the plentiful advice upon that matter, from the very highest authorities. he tried to look cheerfully at his old friend, and did not even shake his head. but a very deep sadness was in his own heart; and yet a confirmation of his own higher faith. then knowing that the time was very short and feeling his duty to his own parish, he told the tale he was come to tell; and sir harrison listened intently to it. "i scarcely know what to think," he said; "even if i were on the spot, and knew every one whom it was possible to suspect, it would be a terrible puzzle to me. one thing may be said, with confidence, amounting almost to certainty, that it is not a medical matter at all. that much i can settle, beyond all doubt, by means which i need not specify. even with you i cannot enter upon questions so professional. we know that irregular things are done, and the folly of the law compels them. but this is quite out of the course they pursue. however i can make quite certain about all that within a week. meanwhile you should look for a more likely clue. you have lost invaluable time by concluding, as of course the stupid public would, especially after all the burke and hare affairs, that 'the doctors must be at the bottom of it.' most unlucky that you were so unwell, or you might have set the enquiry on the right track from the first. surely it must have occurred to you that medical men, as a general rule, are the sharpest fellows of the neighbourhood, except of course--of course excepting the parsons?" "they are sharper than we are," said the parson with a smile; "but perhaps that is the very thing that tells against our faith in them." "very likely. but still it keeps them from utterly mad atrocities. sir thomas waldron, a famous man, a grand old soldier, and above all a wealthy man! why they could have done no more to a poor old wretch from the workhouse!" "the crime in that case would have been as great; perhaps greater, because more cowardly." "you always were a highflyer, my friend. but never mind the criminality. what we want to know is the probability. and to find out that, we have to study not the laws of morality, but the rules of human conduct. what was the name of the man i met about the case, at your house? oh, i remember--gronow; a very shrewd clear-headed fellow. well, what does he say about it?" "as nearly as possible what you have said. some slight suspicion has fallen upon him. but as i told you, jemmy fox has come in for the lion's share of it." "poor young fellow! it must be very hard to bear. it will make him hate a profession in which he would have been sure to distinguish himself, because he really loves it. what a thick-headed monster the english public is! they always exult in a wild-goose chase. are you sure that the body was ever carried off at all?" "the very question doctor gronow asked! unhappily, there can be no doubt whatever upon that point. as i ought to have told you, though i was not there to see it, the search was made in the middle of the day, and with a dozen people round the grave. they went to the bottom, found the brickwork broken down, and no sign of any coffin." "well, that ought to lead us to something clear. that alone is almost certain proof of what i said just now. 'resurrection-men,' as the stupid public calls them--would have taken the body alone. not only because they escape all charge of felony by doing so, but that it is so much easier; and for many other reasons which you may imagine. i begin to see my way more clearly. depend upon it, this is some family matter. some private feud, or some motive of money, or perhaps even some religious scruple lies at the bottom of this strange affair. i begin to think that you will have to go to spain, before you understand it all. how has lady waldron behaved about it?" "she has been most bitter against poor jemmy." mr. penniloe had not heard of what was happening this very week at walderscourt. "she will not see him, will not hear his name, and is bitter against any one who takes his part. she cannot even bring herself to speak to me, because in common fairness i have done my best for him, against the general opinion, and her own firm conclusion. that is one reason why i am in london now. she will not even act with me in taking probate of the will. in fact it has driven her, as i fear, almost to the verge of insanity; for she behaves most unkindly even to her daughter. but she is more to be pitied than blamed, poor thing." "i agree with you; in case of all this being genuine. but is it so? or is it a bit of acting over-acted? i have known women, who could act so as to impose upon their own brains." "it has never once entered my head," replied the simple-minded parson, "to doubt that all she says, and does, is genuine. even you could not doubt, if you beheld her." "i am not so sure of that," observed sir harrison very drily; "the beauty of your character is the grand simplicity. you have not the least idea of any wickedness." "my dear fellow," cried the parson deeply shocked; "it is, alas, my sad duty to find out and strive with the darkest cases of the depravity of our fallen race!" "of course. but you think none the worse of them for that. it is water on a duck's back, to such a man as you. well, have it so; if you like. i see the worst of their bodies, and you the worst of their souls, as you suppose. but i think you put some of your own into them--infusion of sounder blood, as it were." "gowler, you may think as ill, as fallen nature can make you think, of all your fellow-creatures;" mr. penniloe spoke with a sharpness very seldom found in words of his. "but in fair truth, it is beyond the blackest of all black bitterness to doubt poor lady waldron's simple and perfect sincerity." "because of her very magnificent eyes," sir harrison answered, as if to himself, and to meet his own too charitable interjections. "but what has she done, to carry out her wild revenge at an outrage, which she would feel more keenly perhaps than the most sensitive of english women? has she moved high and low, ransacked the earth, set all the neighbourhood on fire, and appealed with tears, and threats, and money, (which is the strongest of all appeals) to the cã¦sar enthroned in london? if she had done any of these things, i fancy i should have heard of them." for the moment mr. penniloe disliked his friend; as a man may feel annoyance at his own wife even, when her mind for some trivial cause is moving on a lower level than his own. "as yet she has not taken any strong steps," he confessed with some reluctance; "because she has been obliged to act under her lawyer's guidance. remember that she is a foreigner, and knows nothing of our legal machinery." "very likely not. but webber does--webber her solicitor. i suppose webber has been very energetic." "he has not done so much as one might have expected. in fact he has seemed to me rather remiss. he has had his own private hands at work, which as he says is the surest plan; but he has brought no officers from london down. he tells me that in all such cases they have failed; and more than that, they have entirely spoiled the success of all private enquiry." "it looks to me very much as if private enquiry had no great desire to succeed. my conclusion grows more and more irresistible. shall i tell you what it is?" "my dear fellow, by all means do. i shall attach very great importance to it." "it is simply this," sir harrison spoke less rapidly than usual; "all your mystery is solved in this--_lady waldron knows all about it_. how you all have missed that plain truth, puzzles me. she has excellent reasons for restricting the enquiry, and casting suspicion upon poor fox. did i not hear of a brother of hers, a spanish nobleman i think he was?" "yes, her twin-brother, the count de varcas. she has always been warmly attached to him; but sir thomas did not like him much. i think he has been extravagant. lady waldron has been doing her utmost to discover him." "i dare say. to be sure she has! advertised largely of course. oh dear, oh dear! what poor simple creatures we men are, in comparison with women!" mr. penniloe was silent. he had made a good dinner, and taken a glass of old port-wine; and both those proceedings were very rare with him. like all extremely abstemious men, when getting on in years, he found his brain not strengthened, but confused, by the unusual supply. the air of london had upon him that effect which it often has at first upon visitors from the country--quick increase of appetite, and hearty joy in feeding. "another thing you told me, which confirms my view," resumed the relentless doctor--"the last thing discovered before you came away--but not discovered, mark you, by her ladyship's agents--was that the cart supposed to have been employed had been traced to a smuggler's hiding-place, in a desolate and unfrequented spot, probably in the direction of the coast. am i right in supposing that?" "partly so. it would be towards the sea; though certainly not the shortest way." "but the best way probably of getting at the coast, if you wished to avoid towns and villages? that you admit? then all is plain. poor sir thomas was to be exported. probably to spain. that i will not pretend to determine; but i think it most likely. perhaps to be buried in catholic soil, and with catholic ceremonial; which they could not do openly here, because of his own directions. how simple the very deepest mystery becomes, when once you have the key to it! but how strange that it never occurred to you! i should have thought gronow at any rate would have guessed it." "he has more penetration than i have; i am well aware of that," replied the humble parson; "and you of course have more than either of us. but for all that, gowler, and although i admit that your theory is very plausible, and explains many points that seemed inexplicable, i cannot, and i will not accept it for a moment." "where is your difficulty? is it not simple--consistent with all that we know of such people, priest-ridden of course, and double-faced, and crafty? does it not solve every difficulty? what can you urge against it?" "my firm belief in the honesty, affection, and good faith of women." "whew!" the great physician forgot his dignity, in the enjoyment of so fine a joke. he gave a long whistle, and then put his thumb to his nose, and extended his fingers, as schoolboys of that period did. "honesty of women, penniloe! at your age, you surely know better than that. a very frail argument indeed." "because of my age it is perhaps that i do know better. i would rather not discuss the subject. you have your views; and i have mine." "i am pleased with this sort of thing, because it reminds one so much of boyhood;" sir harrison stood by the fire, and began to consult his short gray locks. "let me see, how many years is it, since i cherished such illusions? well, they are pleasant enough while they last. i suppose you never make a bet, penniloe?" "of course not, gowler. you seem to be as ignorant of clergymen, as you are of women." "don't be touchy, my dear fellow. many of the cloth accept the odds, and have privilege of clergy when they lose. well, i'll tell you what i will do. you see that little cupboard in the panelling? it has only one key, and the lock is peculiar. here i deposit--behold my act and deed--these two fifty-pound notes. you take the key. now you shall come, or send either churchwarden, and carry them off for the good of your church-restoration fund, the moment you can prove that my theory is wrong." "i am not sure," said the clergyman, with a little agitation, as the courage of that single glass of port declined, "that this is not too much in the nature of a wager." "no, there is no wager. that requires two parties. it is simply a question of forfeiture. no peril to a good cause--as you would call it--in case of failure. and a solid gain to it, if i prove wrong. take the key, my friend. my time is up." mr. penniloe, the most conscientious of mankind, and therefore the most gentle, had still some qualms about the innocence of this. but his friend's presumptuous manner hushed them. he dropped the key into his deep watch-pocket, specially secured against the many rogues of london; and there it was when he mounted on the _magnet_ coach, at two o'clock on the friday afternoon, prepared for a long and dreary journey to his home. the _magnet_ was one of those calm and considerate coaches which thought a great deal more of the comfort and safety of their passengers and horses, than of the fidgety hands of any clock--be it even a cathedral clock--on the whole road from london to exeter. what are the most important hours of the day? manifestly those of feeding. each of them is worth any other three. therefore, you lose three times the time you save, by omitting your dinner. this coach breakfasted, dined, and supped, and slept on the road, or rather out of it, and started again as fresh as paint, quite early enough in the morning. with his usual faith in human nature, mr. penniloe had not enquired into these points, but concluded that this coach would rush along in the breathless manner of the _tallyho_. this leisurely course began to make him very nervous, and when on the saturday at two o'clock, another deliberate halt was made at a little wayside inn, some fifty miles still from perlycross, and every one descended with a sprightly air, the clergyman marched up to the coachman to remonstrate. "unless we get on a little faster," he said, with a kind but anxious smile; "i shall not be at home for sunday." "can't help that, sir. the coach must dine;" replied the fat driver, as he pulled his muffler down, to give his capacious mouth fair play. "but--but consider, mr. coachman; i must get home. i have my church to serve." "must serve the dinner first, sir, if you please," said the landlord coming forward with a napkin, which he waved as if it were worth a score of sermons: "all the gents are waiting, sir, for you to say the grace--hot soup, knuckle of veal, boiled round, and baked potatoes. gents has to pay, if they dine, or if they don't. knowing this, all gents does dine. preach all the better, sir, to-morrow for it." if this preparation were needful, the curate's sermon would not have been excellent, for anxiety had spoiled his appetite. when at length they lumbered on again, he strove to divert his thoughts by observing his fellow-passengers. and now for the first time he descried, over the luggage piled on the roof, a man with a broad slouched hat and fur cloak, who sat with his back towards him, for mr. penniloe had taken his place on the hinder part of the coach. that man had not joined the dinner party, yet no one remained on the coach or in it during the dinner hour; for the weather was cold and windy, with a few flakes of snow flying idly all day, and just making little ribs of white upon the road. mr. penniloe was not a very observant man, least of all on a saturday, when his mind was dwelling chiefly upon scriptural subjects; but he could not help wondering how this man came there; for the coach had not stopped since they left the little inn. this perhaps drew his attention to the man, who appeared to be "thoroughly a foreigner," as john bull in those days expressed it. for he wore no whiskers, but a long black beard streaked with silver, as even those behind could see, for the whirl of the north wind tossed it now and then upon his left shoulder. he kept his head low behind the coachman's broad figure, and appeared to speak to nobody, but smoked cigars incessantly, lighting each from the stump of its predecessor, and scattering much ash about, to the discomfort of his neighbours' eyes. although mr. penniloe never smoked, he enjoyed the fragrance of a good cigar, perhaps more than the puffer himself does (especially if he puff too vehemently), and he was able to pronounce this man's tobacco very fine. at length they arrived at pumpington, about six miles from perlycross, and here mr. penniloe fully expected another halt for supper, and had made up his mind in that case to leave the coach and trudge home afoot. but to his relief, they merely changed horses, and did that with some show of alacrity; for they were bound to be at exeter that night, and the snow was beginning to thicken. at the turnpike-gate two men got up; one of them a sailor, going probably to plymouth, who mounted the tarpaulin that covered the luggage, and threw himself flat upon it with a jovial air, and made himself quite at home, smoking a short pipe, and waving a black bottle, when he could spare time from sucking it. the other man came and sat beside the parson, who did not recognise him at first; for the coach carried only two lamps, both in front, and their light was thrown over their shoulders now and then, in rough streams, like the beard of the foreigner. all the best coaches still carried a guard, and the royal mail was bound to do so; but the magnet towards the end of its career had none. mr. penniloe meekly allowed the new-comer to edge his feet gradually out of the straw nest, and work his own into the heart of it; for now it was truly a shivering and a shuddering night. the steam of the horses and their breath came back in turbid clouds, and the snow, or soft hail (now known as _graupel_), cut white streaks through them into travellers' eyes, and danced on the roof like lozenges. nobody opened mouth, except the sailor; and his was stopped, as well as opened, by the admirable fit of the neck of his rum-bottle. but this being over-strained became too soon a hollow consolation; and the rim of the glass rattled drily against his chattering teeth, till he cast it away. "never say die, mates. i'll sing you a song. don darkimbo, give us a cigar to chaw. never could smoke them things, gentlemen and ladies. can't 'e speak, or won't 'e then? never mind, here goes!" to his own encouragement this jolly fellow, with his neck and chest thrown open, and his summer duds on, began to pour forth a rough nautical ballad, not only beyond the pale of the most generous orthodoxy, but entirely out of harmony with the tone of all good society. in plainer words, as stupid a bit of ribaldry and blasphemy as the most advanced period could produce. then up rose mr. penniloe, and in a firm voice clear above the piping of the wind, and the roar of wheels, and rattle of loose harness, administered to that mariner a rebuke so grave, and solemn, and yet so full of large kindness and of allowance for his want of teaching, that the poor fellow hung his head, and felt a rising in his throat, and being not advanced beyond the tender stage of intoxication, passed into a liquid state of terror and repentance. with this the clergyman was content, being of longer experience than to indulge in further homily. but the moment he sat down, up rose the gentleman who had cribbed his straw, and addressed the applauding passengers. "my friends, the reverend penniloe has spoken well and eloquently. but i think you will agree with me, that it would be more consistent of him, and more for the service of the lord, if he kept his powers of reproof for the use of his own parishioners. he is the clergyman of perlycross, a place notorious throughout the country for the most infamous of crimes--a place where even the dead are not allowed to sleep in peace." after this settler, the man sat down, and turned his back on the parson, who had now recognised him, with deep sorrow at his low malevolence. for this was no other than solomon pack, watchmaker and jeweller at pumpington, well known among his intimates as "pack of lies," from his affection for malignant gossip. mr. penniloe had offended him by employing the rival tradesman, pack's own brother-in-law, with whom he was at bitter enmity. "mr. pack, you have done much harm, i fear; and this is very unjust of you"--was all that the parson deigned to say. but he had observed with some surprise, that while pack was speaking, the foreigner turned round and gazed intently, without showing much of his swarthy face, at himself--philip penniloe. before silence was broken again, the _magnet_ drew up at the _blue ball_ inn, where the lane turns off towards perlycross, and the clergyman leaving his valise with the landlord, started upon his three-mile trudge. but before he had walked more than a hundred yards he was surprised to see, across the angle of the common, that the coach had stopped again at the top of a slight rise, where a footpath led from the turnpike road towards the northern entrance to walderscourt. the clouds were now dispersing, and the full moon shining brightly, and the ground being covered with newly fallen snow, the light was as good as it is upon many a winter afternoon. mr. penniloe was wearing a pair of long-sight glasses, specially adapted to his use by a skilful optician in london, and he was as proud of them as a child is of his first whistle. without them the coach might have been a haystack, or a whale, so far as he could tell; with them he could see the horses, and the passengers, and the luggage. having seen too much of that coach already, he was watching it merely as a test for his new glasses; and the trial proved most satisfactory. "how proud fay will be," he was thinking to himself, "when i tell her that i can see the big pear-tree from the window, and even the thrushes on the lawn!" but suddenly his interest in the sight increased. the man, who was standing in the road with his figure shown clearly against a snowy bank, was no other than that dark foreigner, who had stared at him so intently. there was the slouched hat, and there was the fur cloak, and even the peculiar bend of the neck. a parcel was thrown to him from the roof, and away he went across the common, quite as if he knew the way, through furze and heather, to the back entrance of walderscourt grounds. he could not see the parson in the darker lane below, and doubtless believed himself unseen. the circumstance aroused some strange ideas in the candid mind of penniloe. that man knowing who he was from pack's tirade, must have been desirous to avoid him, otherwise he would have quitted the coach at the _blue ball_, and taken this better way to walderscourt; for the lane mr. penniloe was following led more directly thither by another entrance. what if there were something, after all, in gowler's too plausible theory? that man looked like a spaniard, probably a messenger from lady waldron's scapegrace brother; for that was his character if plain truth were spoken, without any family gloss upon it. and if he were a messenger, why should he come thus, unless there were something they wanted to conceal? the curate had not traversed all this maze of meditations, which made him feel very miserable--for of all things he hated suspiciousness, and that â£100, though needed so sadly, would be obtained at too high a cost, if the cost were his faith in womankind--when, lo, his own church-tower rose grandly before him, its buttresses and stringing courses capped with sparkling snow, and the yew-tree by the battlements feathered with the same, and away to the east the ivy mantle of the abbey, laced and bespangled with the like caprice of beauty, showered from the glittering stores of heaven. he put on a spurt through the twinkling air, and the frozen snow crushed beneath his rapid feet; and presently he had shaken hands with muggridge, and fay in her nightgown made a reckless leap from the height of ten stairs into his gladsome arms. chapter xxv. a sermon in stone. now sergeant jakes was not allowed to chastise any boys on sunday. this made the day hang very heavy on his hands; and as misfortunes never come single, the sacred day robbed him of another fine resource. for mr. penniloe would not permit even muggridge, the pious, the sage, and the prim, to receive any visitors--superciliously called by the front-door people "followers"--upon that blessed day of rest, when surely the sweeter side of human nature is fostered and inspirited, from reading-desk and lectern, from gallery and from pulpit. however even clergymen are inconsistent, as their own wives acknowledge confidentially; and mr. penniloe's lectures upon solomon's song--a treatise then greatly admired, as a noble allegory, by high churchmen--were not enforced at home by any warmth of practice. thus stood the law; and of all offences upon the sergeant's hecatologue, mutiny was the most heinous; therefore he could not mutiny. but surely if mr. penniloe could have received, or conceived, a germ of the faintest suspicion concerning this faithful soldier's alternatives on the afternoon of the sabbath--as churchmen still entitled it--he would have thrown open every door of kitchen, back-kitchen, scullery, and even pantry to him, that his foot might be kept from so offending. ay, and more than his foot, his breast, and arm--the only arm he had, and therefore leaving no other blameless. it is most depressing to record the lapse of such a lofty character, so gallant, faithful, self-denying, true, austere, and simple--though some of these merits may be refused him, when the truth comes out--as, alas, it must. all that can be pleaded in his favour, is that ancient, threadbare, paltry, and (as must even be acknowledged) dastardly palliation--the woman tempted him, and he fell! fell from his brisk and jaunty mien, his noble indifference to the fair, and severity to their little ones, his power of example to the rising age, and his pure-minded loyalty to thyatira, watered by rivers of tea, and fed by acres of bread and butter. and the worst of it was, that he had sternly resolved, with haughty sense of right and hearty scorn of a previous slip towards backsliding, that none of this weakness should ever, even in a vision, come anigh him any more. yet see, how easily this rigid man was wound round the finger of a female "teener"--as the americans beautifully express it! he was sitting very sadly at his big black desk, one mild and melancholy sabbath eve, with the light of the dull day fading out, and failing to make facets from the diamonds of the windows, and the heavy school-clock ticking feebly, as if it wished time was over: while shadows, that would have frightened any other unmarried man in the parish, came in from the silent population of the old churchyard, as if it were the haze of another world. a little cloud of smoke, to serve them up with their own sauce, would have consoled the school-master; but he never allowed any smoking in this temple of the muses, and as the light waned he lit his tallow candle, to finish the work that he had in hand. this was a work of the highest criticism, to revise, correct, and arrange in order of literary merit all the summaries of the morning sermon prepared by the head-class in the school. some of these compositions were of extreme obscurity, and some conveyed very strange doctrinal views. he was inclined to award the palm to the following fine epitome, practical, terse, and unimpeachably orthodox--"the sermon was, sir, that all men ort to be good, and never to do no wikked things whennever they can help it." but while he yet paused, with long quill in hand, the heavy oak door from the inner yard was opened very gently, and a slender form attired in black appeared at the end of the long and gloomy room. firm of nerve as he was, the master quailed a little at this unexpected sight; and therefore it became a very sweet relief, when the vision brightened into a living and a friendly damsel, and more than that a very charming one. all firm resolutions like shadows vanished; instead of a stern and distant air and a very rigid attitude, a smile of delight and a bow of admiration betrayed the condition of his bosom. that fair and artless tamar knew exactly how to place herself to the very best advantage. she stood on the further side of the candle, so that its low uncertain light hovered on the soft curve of her cheeks, and came back in a flow of steady lustre from her large brown eyes. she blushed an unbidden tear away, and timidly allowed those eyes to rest upon the man of learning. no longer was she the gay coquette, coying with frolic challenge, but the gentle, pensive, submissive maiden, appealing to a loftier mind. the sergeant's tender heart was touched, up sprang his inborn chivalry; and he swept away with his strong right hand the efforts of juvenile piety, and the lessons of holy writ. "sergeant schoolmaster, no chair for me;" tamar began in a humble voice, as he offered his own official seat. "i have but a moment to spare, and i fear you will be so angry with me, for intruding upon you like this. but i am so--oh so unhappy!" "what is it, my dear? who has dared to vex you? tell me his name, and although it is sunday--ah just let me come across him!" "nobody, nobody, sergeant schoolmaster;" here she pulled out a handkerchief, which a woman would have pronounced, at a glance, the property of her mistress. "oh how shall i dare to tell you who it is?" "i insist upon knowing," said the sergeant boldly, taking the upper hand, because the maiden looked so humble; "i insist upon knowing who it is, this very moment." "then if i must tell, if you won't let me off," she answered with a sweet glance, and a sweeter smile; "it is nobody else but sergeant jakes himself." "me!" exclaimed the veteran; "whatever have i done? you know that i would be the last in the world to vex you." "oh it is because you are so fierce. and that of course is, because you are so brave." "but my dear, my pretty dear, how could i ever be fierce to you?" "yes, you are going to cane my brother billy, in the morning." this was true beyond all cavil--deeply and beautifully true. the sergeant stared, and frowned a little. justice must allow no dalliance. "and oh, he has got such chilblains, sir! two of them broke only yesterday, and will be at their worst in the morning. and he didn't mean it, sir, oh he never meant it, when he called you an 'old beast'!" "the discipline of the school must be maintained." mr. jakes stroked his beard, which was one of the only pair then grown in the parish, (the other being dr. gronow's) for the growth of a beard in those days argued a radical and cantankerous spirit, unless it were that of a military man. without his beard mr. jakes would not have inspired half the needful awe; and he stroked it now with dignity, though the heart beneath it was inditing of an _infra dig._ idea. "unhappily he did it, miss, in the presence of the other boys. it cannot be looked over." "oh what can i do, sergeant? what can i do? i'll do anything you tell me, if you'll only let him off." the schoolmaster gave a glance at all the windows. they were well above the level of the ground outside. no one could peep in, without standing on a barrel, or getting another boy to give him a leg up. "tamar, do you mean what you say?" he enquired, with a glance of mingled tenderness and ferocity--the tenderness for her, the ferocity for her brother. "if you have any doubt, you have only got to try me. there can't be any harm in that much, can there?" she looked at him, with a sly twinkle in her eyes, as much as to say--"well now, come, don't be so bashful." upon that temptation, this long-tried veteran fell from his loyalty and high position. he approached to the too fascinating damsel, took her pretty hand, and whispered something through her lovely curls. alas, the final word of his conditions of abject surrender was one which rhymed with "this," or "miss," or--that which it should have been requited with--a hiss. oh muggridge, muggridge, where were you? just stirring a cup of unbefriended tea, and meditating on this man's integrity! "oh you are too bad, too bad, sergeant!" exclaimed the young girl starting back, with both hands lifted, and a most becoming blush. "i never did--i never could have thought that you had any mind for such trifles. why, what would all the people say, if i were only to mention it?" "nobody would believe you;" replied mr. jakes, to quench that idea, while he trembled at it; adding thereby to his iniquities. "well perhaps they wouldn't. no i don't believe they would. but everybody likes a bit of fun sometimes. but we won't say another word about it." "won't we though? i have got a new cane, tamar--the finest i ever yet handled for spring. the rarest thing to go round chilblains. bargain, or no bargain, now?" "bargain!" she cried; "but i couldn't do it now. it must be in a more quieter place. besides you might cheat me, and cane him after all. oh it is too bad, too bad to think of. perhaps i might try, next sunday." "but where shall i see you next sunday, my dear? 'never put off; it gives time for to scoff.' give me one now, and i'll stick to it." "no, sergeant jakes. i don't like to tell you, and my father would be so angry. but i don't see what right he has to put me in there. and oh, it is so lonely! and i am looking out for ghosts, and never have a happy mouthful. that old woman will have something to answer for. but it's no good to ask me, sergeant; because--because ever so many would be after me, if they only got a hint of it." this of course was meant to stop him; but somehow it had quite the opposite effect; and at last he got out of the innocent girl the whole tale of her sunday seclusion. the very best handmaid--as everybody knows--will go through the longest and bitterest bout of soaking, shivering, freezing, starving, dragging under wheels, and being blown up to the sky, rather than forego her "sunday out." miss tamar haddon was entitled always to this sabbath travail; and such was her courage that have it she would, though it blew great guns, and rained cats and dogs. now, her father, as may have been said before, was walter haddon of the _ivy-bush_, as respectable a man as ever lived, and very fond of his children. this made him anxious for their welfare; and welfare meaning even then--though not so much as now it does--fair wealth, and farewell poverty, mr. haddon did his best to please his wealthy aunt, a childless widow who lived at perlycombe. for this old lady had promised to leave her money among his children, if they should fail to offend her. in that matter it was a hundredfold easier to succeed, than it was to fail; for her temper was diabolical. poor tamar, being of flippant tongue, had already succeeded fatally; and the first question mrs. pods always asked, before she got out of her pony-carriage, was worded thus--"is that minx tamar in the house?" whatever the weather might be, this lady always drove up with her lame pony to the door of the _ivy-bush_, at half-past one of a sunday, expecting to find a good hot dinner, and hot rum and water afterwards. for all this refreshment she never paid a penny, but presented the children with promises of the fine things they might look forward to. and thus, like too many other rich people, she kept all her capital to herself, and contrived to get posthumous interest upon it, on the faith of contingent remainders. now tamar's mother was dead; and her father knowing well that all the young sparks of the village were but as the spoils of her bows and bonnets, had contrived a very clever plan for keeping her clear of that bitter mrs. pods, without casting her into the way of yokel youths, and spry young bachelors of low degree. at the back of his hostelry stood the old abbey, covered with great festoons of ivy, from which the inn probably took its name; and the only entrance to the ruins was by the arched gateway at the end of his yard, other approaches having been walled up; and the key of the tall iron gate was kept at this inn for the benefit of visitors. the walls of the ancient building could scarcely be seen anywhere for the ivy; and the cloisters and roofless rooms inside were overgrown with grass and briars. but one large chamber, at the end of a passage, still retained its vaulted ceiling, and stone pavement scarred with age. perhaps it had been the refectory, for at one side was a deep fireplace, where many a hearty log had roared; at present its chief business was to refresh miss tamar haddon. a few sticks kindled in the old fireplace, and a bench from the kitchen of the inn, made it a tolerable keeping-room, at least in the hours of daylight; though at night the bold sergeant himself might have lacked the courage for sound slumber there. to this place was the fair tamar banished, for the sake of the moneybags of mrs. pods, from half-past one till three o'clock, on her sunday visits to the _ivy-bush_. hither the fair maid brought her dinner, steaming in a basin hot, and her father's account-book of rough jottings, which it was her business to verify and interpret; for, as is the duty of each newer generation, she had attained to higher standard of ennobling scholarship. in a few words now she gave the loving sergeant a sketch of this time-serving policy, and her exile from the paternal dinner-table, which aroused his gallant wrath; and then she told him how she had discovered entrance unknown to her father, at a spot where a thicket of sycamores, at the back of the ruins, concealed a loop-hole not very difficult to scale. she could make her escape by that way, if she chose, after her father had locked her in, if it were not for spoiling her sunday frock. and if her father went on so, for the sake of pleasing that ugly old frump, she was blest if she would not try that plan, and sit on the river bank far below, as soon as the spring dried up the rubbish. but if the sergeant thought it worth his while, to come and afford her a little good advice, perhaps he might discover her sunday hat waving among the ivy. this enamoured veteran accepted tryst, with a stout heart, but frail conscience. the latter would haply have prevailed, if only the wind had the gift of carrying words which the human being does not utter, but thinks and forms internally. for the sly maid to herself said this, while she hastened to call her big brother watty, to see her safe back to walderscourt. "what a poor old noodle! as if i cared twopence, how much he whacks billy! does he think i would ever let him come anigh me, if it wasn't to turn him inside out? now if it were low jarks, his young brother, that would be quite another pair of shoes." on the following sunday it was remarked, by even the less observant boys, that their venerated master was not wearing his usual pair of black sunday breeches, with purple worsted stockings showing a wiry and muscular pair of legs. strange to say, instead of those, he had his second best small-clothes on, with dark brown gaiters to the knee, and a pair of thick laced shoes, instead of sunday pumps with silk rosettes. so wholly unversed in craft, as yet, was this good hero of a hundred fights. thyatira also marked this change, with some alarm and wonder; but little dreamed she in her simple faith of any rival delilah. mr. penniloe's sermon, that sunday morning, was of a deeply moving kind. he felt that much was expected of him, after his visit to london; where he must have seen the king and queen, and they might even have set eyes on him. he put his long-sight glasses on, so that he could see anybody that required preaching at; and although he was never a cushion-thumper, he smote home to many a too comfortable bosom. then he gave them the soft end of the rod to suck, as a conscientious preacher always does, after smiting hip and thigh, with a weapon too indigenous. in a word, it was an admirable sermon, and one even more to be loved than admired, inasmuch as it tended to spread good-will among men, as a river that has its source in heaven. sergeant jakes, with his stiff stock on, might be preached at for ever, without fetching a blink. he sat bolt upright, and every now and then flapped the stump of his left arm against his sound heart, not with any eagerness to drive the lesson home, but in proof of cordial approbation of hits, that must tell upon his dear friends round about. one cut especially was meant for farmer john; and he was angry with that thick-skinned man, for staring at another man, as if it were for him. and then there was a passage, that was certain to come home to his own brother robert, who began to slaughter largely, and was taking quite money enough to be of interest to the pulpit. but everybody present seemed to jakes to be applying everything to everybody else--a disinterested process of the noblest turn of thought. however those who have much faith--and who can fail to have some?--in the exhortations of good men who practise their own preaching, would have been confirmed in their belief by this man's later conduct. although the body of the church had been reopened for some weeks now, with the tower-arch finished and the south wall rebuilt, yet there were many parts still incomplete, especially the chancel where the fine stone screen was being erected as a reredos; and this still remained in the builder's hands, with a canvas partition hiding it. when the congregation had dispersed, mr. jakes slipped in behind that partition, and stood by a piece of sculpture which he always had admired. in a recess of the northern wall, was a kneeling figure in pure white marble of a beautiful maiden claimed by death on the very eve of her wedding-day. she slept in the waldron vaults below; while here the calm sweet face, portrayed in substance more durable than ours, spoke through everlasting silence of tenderness, purity, and the more exalted love. the sergeant stood with his hard eyes fixed upon that tranquil countenance. it had struck him more than once that tamar's face was something like it; and he had come to see whether that were so. he found that he had been partly right, but in more important matters wrong. in profile, general outline, and the rounding of the cheeks, there was a manifest resemblance. but in the expression and quality of the faces, what a difference! here all was pure, refined and noble, gentle, placid, spiritual. there all was tempting, flashing, tricksome, shallow, earthly, sensuous. he did not think those evil things, for he was not a physiognomist; but still he felt the good ones; and his mind being in the better tone--through commune with the preacher's face, which does more than the words sometimes, when all the heart is in it--the wonted look of firmness, and of defiance of the devil, returned to his own shrewd countenance. the gables of his eyebrows, which had expanded and grown shaky, came back to their proper span and set; he nodded sternly, as if in pursuit of himself with a weapon of chastisement; and his mouth closed as hard as a wrench-hammer does, with the last turn of the screw upon it. then he sneered at himself, and sighed as he passed the empty grave of his colonel--what would that grand old warrior have thought of this desertion to the enemy? but ashamed as he was of his weak surrender and treachery to his colours, his pride and plighted word compelled him to complete his enterprise. the abbey stood near the churchyard wall, but on that side there was no entrance; and to get at the opposite face of the buildings, a roundabout way must be taken; and jakes resolved now that he would not skulk by the lower path from the corner, but walk boldly across the meadow from the lane that led to perlycombe. this was a back way with no house upon it, and according to every one's belief here must have lurked that horse and cart, on the night of that awful outrage. even to a one-handed man there was no great difficulty in entering one of the desolate courts, by the loophole from the thicket; and there he met the fair recluse in a manner rather disappointing to her. not that she cared at all to pursue her light flirtation with him, but that her vanity was shocked, when he failed to demand his sweet reward. and he called her "miss haddon," and treated her with a respect she did not appreciate. but she led him to her lonely bower, and roused up the fire for him, for the weather was becoming more severe, and she rallied him on his clemency, which had almost amounted to weakness, ever since he allowed her brother billy to escape. "fair is fair, miss;" the master answered pensively. "as soon as you begin to let one off, you are bound to miss the rest of them." "who have they got to thank for that? i am afraid they will never know," she said with one of her most bewitching smiles, as she came and sat beside him. "poor little chaps! how can i thank you for giving them such a nice time, sergeant?" the veteran wavered for a moment, as that comely face came nigh, and the glossy hair she had contrived to loosen fell almost on his shoulders. she had dressed herself in a killing manner, while a lover's knot of mauve-coloured ribbon relieved the dulness of her frock, and enhanced the whiteness of her slender neck. but for all that, the sergeant was not to be killed, and his mind was prepared for the crisis. he glanced around first, not for fear of anybody, but as if he desired witnesses; and then he arose from the bench, and looked at this seductive maiden, with eyes that had a steady sparkle, hard to be discomfited by any storm of flashes. "tamar," he said, "let us come to the point. i have been a fool; and you know it. you are very young; but somehow you know it. now have you meant, from first to last, that you would ever think of marrying me?" it never should have been put like that. why you must never say a word, nor use your eyes except for reading, nor even look in your looking-glass, if things are taken in that way. "oh sergeant, how you frighten me! i suppose i am never to smile again. who ever dreamed of marrying?" "well, i did;" he answered with a twinkle of his eyes, and squaring of his shoulders. "i am not too old for everybody; but i am much too old for you. do you think i would have come here else? but it is high time to stop this fun." "i don't call it fun at all;" said tamar, fetching a little sob of fright. "what makes you look so cross at me?" "i did not mean to look cross, my dear." the sergeant's tender heart was touched. "i should be a brute, if i looked cross. it is the way the lord has made my eyes. perhaps they would never do for married life." "that's the way all of them look," said tamar; "unless they get everything they want. but you didn't look like that, last sunday." "no. but i ought. now settle this. would you ever think of marrying me?" "no. not on no account. you may be sure of that. not even if you was dipped in diamonds." the spirit of the girl was up, and her true vulgarity came out. "according to my opinion of you, that would make all the difference;" said the sergeant, also firing up. "and now, miss haddon, let us say 'good-bye.'" "let me come to myself, dear sergeant jakes. i never meant to be rude to you. but they do court me so different. sit down for a minute. it is so lonely, and i have heard such frightful things. father won't be coming for half an hour yet. and after the way you went on, i am so nervous. how my heart goes pit a pat! you brave men cannot understand such things." at this moving appeal, mr. jakes returned, and endeavoured to allay her terrors. "it is all about those dreadful men," she said; "i cannot sleep at night for thinking of them. you know all about them. if you could only tell me what you are doing to catch them. they say that you have found out where they went, and are going to put them in jail next week. is it true? people do tell such stories. but you found it all out by yourself, and you know all the rights of it." with a little more coaxing, and trembling, and gasping, she contrived to get out of him all that he knew, concerning the matter to the present time. crang had identified the impressions as the footmarks of the disabled horse; and a search of the cave by torchlight showed that it must have been occupied lately. a large button with a raised rim, such as are used on sailors' overalls, had been found near the entrance, and inside were prints of an enormous boot, too big for any man in perlycross. also the search had been carried further, and the tracks of a horse and a narrow-wheeled cart could be made out here and there, until a rough flinty lane was come to, leading over the moors to the honiton road. all these things were known to dr. fox, and most of them to mr. penniloe, who had just returned from london, and the matter was now in skilful hands. but everything must be kept very quiet, or the chance of pursuing the clue might be lost. tamar vowed solemnly that she would never tell a word; and away went the sergeant, well pleased with himself, as the bells began to ring for the afternoon service. chapter xxvi. the old mill. combing up on the south like a great tidal wave, hagdon hill for miles looks down on the beautiful valley of the perle, and then at the western end breaks down into steep declivities and wooded slopes. here the susscot brook has its sources on the southern side of the long gaunt range, outside the parish of perlycross; and gathering strength at every stretch from flinty trough, and mossy runnel, is big enough to trundle an old mill-wheel, a long while before it gets to joe crang's forge. this mill is situated very sweetly for those who love to be outside the world. it stands at the head of a winding hollow fringed along the crest with golden gorse, wild roses by the thousand, and the silvery gleam of birch. up this pretty "goyal"--as they call it--there is a fine view of the ancient mill, lonely, decrepit, and melancholy, with the flints dropping out of its scarred wall-face, the tattered thatch rasping against the wind, and the big wheel dribbling idly; for the wooden carrier, that used to keep it splashing and spinning merrily, sprawls away on its trestles, itself a wreck, broken-backed and bulging. and yet in its time this mill has done well, and pounded the corn of a hundred farms; for, strange as it may be, the perle itself is exceedingly shy of mill-work, being broken upon no wheel save those of the staring and white-washed factory which disfigures the village of perlycross. therefore from many miles around came cart, and butt, and van, and wain, to this out-of-the-way and hard to find, but flourishing and useful tremlett mill. that its glory has departed and its threshold is deserted, came to pass through no fault of wheel, or water, or even wanton trade seduced by younger rivals. man alone was to blame, and he could not--seldom incapable as he is of that--even put the fault on woman. the tremletts were of very ancient race, said to be of norman origin, and this mill had been theirs for generations. thrifty, respectable, and hard-working, they had worn out many millstones--one of which had been set up in the churchyard, an honour to itself and owner--and patched up a lot of ages of mill-wheels (the only useful revolution) until there came into the small human sluice a thread of vile weed, that clogged everything up. a vein of bad blood that tainted all, varicose, sluggish, intractable. what man can explain such things, even to his own satisfaction? yet everybody knows that it is so, and too often with the people who have been in front of him. down went the tremletts for a hundred years--quite a trifle to such an old family--and the wheel ceased to turn, and the hearth had nought to burn, and the brook took to running in a low perverted course. but even sad things may be beautiful--like the grandest of all human tragedies,--and here before mr. penniloe's new long-sighted glasses, which already had a fine effect upon his mind, was a prospect, worth all the three sovereigns he had paid, in addition to the three he had lived under. no monarch of the world--let alone this little isle--could have gilded and silvered and pearled and jewelled his most sumptuous palace, and his chambers of delight, with a tithe of the beauty here set forth by nature, whose adornments come and go, at every breath. for there had just been another heavy fall of snow, and the frost having firm hold of the air, the sun had no more power than a great white star, glistening rather than shining, and doubtful of his own domain in the multitude of sparkles. everything that stood across the light was clad with dazzling raiment; branch, and twig, and reed, and ozier, pillowed with lace of snow above, and fringed with chenille of rime below. under and through this arcade of radiance, stood the old mill-wheel--for now it could stand--black, and massive, and leaning on pellucid pillars of glistering ice. mr. penniloe lifted up his heart to god, as he always did at any of his glorious works; and then he proceeded to his own less brilliant, but equally chilling duty. several times he knocked vainly at the ricketty door of the remaining room, until at last a harsh voice cried--"come in, can't 'e? nort for 'e to steal here." then he pulled the leather thong, an old boot-lace, and the grimy wooden latch clicked up, and the big door staggered inwards. everything looked cold and weist and haggard in the long low room he entered, and hunger-stricked, though of solid fabric once, and even now tolerably free from dirt. at the further end, and in a gloomy recess, was a large low bedstead of ancient oak, carved very boldly and with finely flowing lines. upon it lay a very aged woman, of large frame and determined face, wearing a high yellow cap, and propped by three coarse pillows, upon which fell the folds of a french shawl of rich material. she had thick eyebrows, still as black as a coal, and fierce gray eyes with some fire in them still, and a hooked nose that almost overhung a pointed chin; and her long bony arms lay quivering upon a quilt of well-worn patchwork. she looked at mr. penniloe, discerning him clearly without the aid of spectacles, and saluted him with a slight disdainful nod. "oh, passon is it? well, what have 'e got to say to me?" her voice was hard and pitched rather high, and her gaunt jaws worked with a roll of wrinkles, intended for a playful grin. "mrs. tremlett, i was told that you wished to see me, and that it is a solemn moment with you--that soon you will stand in the presence of a merciful but righteous judge." mr. penniloe approached her with a kind and gentle look, and offered to take one of her clenched and withered hands, but she turned the knuckles to him with a sudden twist, and so sharp were they that they almost cut his palm. he drew back a little, and a flash of spiteful triumph told him that she had meant this rasper for him. "bain't a gwain' to die yet," she said; "i be only ninety-one, and my own moother wor ninety-five afore her lost a tooth. i reckon i shall see 'e out yet, master passon; for 'e don't look very brave--no that 'e don't. wants a little drap out o' my bottle, i conzider." the clergyman feared that there was little to be done; but he never let the devil get the best of him, and he betook himself to one of his most trustworthy resources. "mrs. tremlett, i will with your permission offer a few simple words of prayer, not only for you but for myself, my friend. you can repeat the words after me, if you feel disposed." "stop!" she cried, "stop!" and threw out both hands with great vigour, as he prepared to kneel. "why, you ban't gi'en me the zhillin' yet. you always gives betty cork a zhillin', afore 'e begins to pray to her. bain't my soul worth every varden of what betty cork's be?" the parson was distressed at this inverted view of the value of his ministrations. nevertheless he pulled out the shilling, which she clapped with great promptitude under her pillow, and then turned her back upon him. "goo on now, passon, as long as ever 'e wull; but not too much noise like, case i might drop off to sleep." her attitude was not too favourable; but the curate had met with many cases quite as bad, and he never allowed himself to be discouraged. and something perhaps in his simple words, or the powers of his patient humility, gave a better and a softer turn to the old woman's moody mind. "passon, be you a _h_onest man?" she enquired, when he had risen, affording that adjective a special roughness, according to the manner of devon. "b'lieve 'e be a good man. but be 'e _h_onest?" "my goodness, as you call it, would be very small indeed, unless i were honest, mrs. tremlett. without honesty, all is hypocrisy." "and you bain't no hypocrite; though 'e may be a vule. most fine scholards is big vules, and half-scholards always maketh start for rogues. but i'll trust 'e, passon; and the lord will strike 'e dead, being in his white sleeves, every zunday, if 'e goo again the truth. what do 'e say to that, passon penniloe? what do 'e think now of that there? and thee praying for me, as if i hadn't got ne'er a coffin's worth!" the old lady pulled out a canvas bag, and jingled it against mr. penniloe's gray locks. strong vitality was in her face. how could she die, with all that to live for? "vifty-two guineas of jarge the zecond. t'other come to the throne afore i did it; but his head wasn't out much, and they might goo back of his 'en. so i took 'un of the man as come afore, and there they has been ever since--three score years, and ten, and two. the lord knoweth, if he reckon'th up the sparrows, what a fine young woman i were then. there bain't such a one in all the county now. six foot high, twenty inch across the shoulders, and as straight as a hazel wand sucker'd from the root. have mercy on you, passon! your wife, as used to come to see me, was a very purty woman. but in the time of my delight, i could 'a taken her with one hand, and done--well, chucked her over horse-shoe." "what do you mean?" mr. penniloe asked, and his quiet eyes bore down the boastful gaze, and altered the tone of the old virago. "nort, sir, nort. it bain't no use to worrit me. her tumbled off the clift, and her bruk her purty nack. her was spying too much after coney's holes, i reckon. but her always waz that tender-hearted. you bain't fit to hold a can'le to her, with all your precious prayers and litanies. but i'll trust 'e, passon, for her zake. vetch thiccy old book out o' cubbert." in the cupboard near the fireplace he found an ancient bible, bound in black leather, and fortified with silver clasps and corners. "hold that there book in your right hand, and this here bag in t'other;" the old lady still clave to the bag, as if far more precious than the bible--"and then you say slowly after me, same as i was to do the prayers, 'i, passon penniloe, of perlycross, christian minister, do hereby make oath and swear that i will do with this bag of money as zipporah tremlett telleth me, so help me god almighty.'" "stop, if you please. i will make no such promise, until i know all about it;" objected mr. penniloe, while she glared at him with rising anger, and then nodded as something occurred to her. "well, then, i'll tell 'e fust; and no call for prabbles. this money bain't none o' they tremletts; every varden of theirs is gone long ago, although they had ten times so much as this, even while i can mind of 'un. all this, except for a bit of a sto'un in the lower cornder, and that hath been hunderds of years with the tremletts, but all the rest cometh from my own father, and none on 'em knoweth a word of it. wouldn't believe if they did, i reckon. zippy, that's my grand-darter as minds me, her hath orders to burn for her life and vetch you--night or day, mind,--fust moment the breath be gone out of my body. and every varden of it is for she. you be to take it from this here little nestie, wi'out a word to no one, and keep it zealed up under lock and key, till zippy be eighteen year of age, and then, accordin' to your oath, you putt it into her two hands. if 'e do that, passon, i'll die a christian, and you be welcome of me to your churchyard. but if 'e wun't do it, then i'll die a hathen, and never go to no churchyard, same as scores and scores of the tremletts is. now, do 'e care for the soul of an old 'ooman? or would 'e soonder her went to the devil?" by this alternative the curate felt much pressure put upon his conscience. if there were no other way to save her, he must even dispense with legal form, and accept a trust, which might for all he knew defraud the revenue of legacy duty, and even some honest solicitor of a contribution to his livelihood. but first he must be certain that the scheme was just and rational. "no fear of robbing nobody. they tremletts be a shocking lot," she said, with amiable candour. "just slip the wedge on top of latch, for fear one on 'em should come to see if i be dead; though i reckon, this weather, it would be too much for either son or darter. wouldn't 'em burn, if 'em knowed of this? but here i may lie and be worm-eaten. and chillers of my own--my own buys and girls. dree quarters of a score i've had, and not one on 'em come anigh me! never was a harrier-bird could fly so fast as every one on 'em would, to this old bed, if 'em knowed what be in it. no, i be a liar--every one on 'em can't, because the biggest half be gone. twelve buys there was, and dree wenches of no count. dree buys was hanged, back in time of jarge the third, to exeter jail, for ship-staling, and one to gibbet-moor, for what a' did upon the road. vour on 'em was sent over seas, for running a few bits of goods from france. two on 'em be working to whetstone pits, 'cording to their own account, though i reckon they does another sort of job, now and again. and as for t'other two, the lord, or the devil, knoweth what be come to they. not one on 'em comes nigh poor old moother, who might a' died years ago 'cep for little zippy. though little zip's father have a' been here now and then. the biggest and the wildest of the dozen i call him, though a' kapeth wonderful out of jail. 'tis his cheel he comes to see, not his poor old moother. look 'e ere, passon, all the ins and outs of 'un be set down rarely in that there book; same as the game with lines and crosses we used to play with a oyster-shell, fourscore years agone and more." on three or four leaves of the ancient bible, bound in for that purpose, was a pedigree of these tremletts of the mill, descending from the fourteenth century. mr. penniloe looked at it with no small interest. what a pity to find them come to this! the mill itself had been a fall no doubt; but the whetstone pits were a great descent from that. "tremletts has always had one or two fine scholards"--the old woman had a strange theory about this. "'twor all along o' that they come down so. whenever any man taketh much to books, a' stoppeth up his ears to good advice, and a' heedeth of his headpiece, and robbeth of 's own belly. but there, no matter. i can do a bit myself. have 'e made up your mind about my poor soul?" from the toss of her nose, mr. penniloe was afraid that she was not much in earnest about that little matter. and in common sense, he was loth to get entangled with the nettles and briars of such a queer lot. "i think, mrs. tremlett," he said, with a smile containing some light of wavering, "that your wisest plan by far would be to have a short will drawn up, and leave the money----" "gi'e me my bag, and go thy ways," she screamed in a fury, though the bag was in her claws. "no churchyard for me, and my soul at thy door, thou white-livered, black-smocked passon!" her passion struck into her lungs or throat, and she tore at her scraggy chest, to ease the pain and gripe of a violent coughing-fit. mr. penniloe supported her massive head, for if it fell back, it might never rise again. "a drap out o' bottle!" she gasped at last, pointing to the cupboard where the bible had been. he propped up her head with a pillow on end, and took from the cupboard a long-necked bottle of the best french brandy, and a metal pannikin. "no watter! no watter!" the old woman shrieked, as he went towards a pitcher that stood by the chimney. "watter spileth all. no vear. vill up!" he gave her the pannikin full, and she tipped it off, like a mouthful of milk, and then sat up and looked at him steadily. "i be no drunkard," she said, "though a man as knoweth nort might vancy it. never touches that stuff, excep' for physic. i've a' seed too much what comes of that. have a drap, wull 'e? clane glass over yanner." she seemed annoyed again at his refusal, but presently subsided into a milder vein, as if she were soothed by the mighty draught, instead of becoming excited. "naden't have troubled 'e, passon," she said, "but for zending of little zip away. i'll tell 'e why, now just. better cheel never lived than little zip. her tendeth old grannie night and day, though her getteth a tap on the head now and then. but her mustn't know of this here money, or her father'd have it out of her in two zeconds. now 'e see why i won't make no will. now, will 'e do what i axed of 'e?" after some hesitation the parson gave his promise. he had heard from his wife about poor little zip, and how faithful she was to her old grandmother; and he felt that it would be unfair to the child to deprive her of the chance in life this money might procure; while he knew that if he declined the trust, not a penny would she ever see of it. he insisted however upon one precaution--that the owner should sign a memorandum of the gift, and place it with the guineas in the bag, and then hand the whole to him as trustee, completing by delivery the _donatio mortis causã¢_. in spite of her sufferings from the ruinous effects of the higher education, zipporah could sign her name very fairly, and a leaf of her grandchild's copybook served very well for the memorial prepared by mr. penniloe. "now rouse up the fire there, 'e must be frore a'most," mrs. tremlett said when that was finished, and she had shown him where she concealed the treasure. "'one good toorn desarves another,' as i've heerd say, though never had much chance of proving it; and i could tell 'e a thing or two, 'e might be glad to know, passon penniloe, wi'out doing harm to nobody. fust place then, you mind hearing of the man as gi'ed that doiled zany of a blacksmith such a turn--how long agone was it? i can't say justly; but the night after squire waldron's vuneral." "to be sure. the big man with the lame horse, at susscot ford." "well, that man was my son harvey, little zip's father. you see the name in big bible. french name it waz then, spelled different, and with a stroke to the tail, as maight be. tremletts had a hankering after foreign languages. see 'un all down the page you can." "what, mrs. tremlett!" exclaimed the parson. "are you aware what you are doing? informing against your own son--and one of the very few remaining!" "zober now, zober! don't 'e be a vule, passon. i knows well enough what i be adoing of. just i wants 'un out of way, till arter i be buried like. i zent his little darter to the pits to-day, to tell 'un as how you knowed of it. that'll mak 'un cut sticks, till i be underground, i reckon." as the old woman grinned and nodded at her own sagacity, a horrible idea crossed the mind of mr. penniloe. could she be afraid that her own son would dig up her body, and dispose of it? before he had condemned himself for such a vile suspicion, mrs. tremlett seemed to have read his thoughts; for she smiled with bitter glory, as if she had caught a pious man yielding to impiety. "no, harvey bain't no body-snatcher--leastways not as i ever heer'd on; though most volk would say a' was bad enough for anything. all that i wants 'un out of way for, is that he mayn't have the chance to rob his darter. he loveth of the little maid, so much as old nick 'loweth him. but he could never kape his hands out of this here bag, if a' zeed 'un. and as for your folk doin' any hurt to 'un, 'twould be more use for 'e to drive nails into a shadow, than to lay hold of harvey when he knoweth you be arter 'un. and even if 'e wor to vind 'un, man alive, it would be a bad job for you, or for zix such men as you be, to come nigh the hands of harvey tremlett. volk about these parts don't know nort of un', else they'd have had un' for the 'rastling long ago. he hath been about a good deal among the gipsies, and sailor-folk, and so on; and the lord knows he musn't look for too very much of good in 'un." "we must make allowances, mrs. tremlett. we never do justice to our fellow-men, in that way." mr. penniloe was saying to himself, while he spoke--"and a great deal must be allowed for such bringing-up as yours, ma'am. but have you anything more to tell me, about that shocking thing, that is such a sad disgrace to perlycross?" the parson buttoned up his spencer, as if he still felt that dirty pack's hits below the belt. "i could tell 'e a saight of things, if i waz so minded, about what they vules to perlycross, and you among t'others be mazed about. i can't make 'un out myself; but i be free to swear you'm a passel of idiots. tremletts was bad enough; no vamley could be worse a'most; and much older they was than any waldrons. but none on 'em never was dug up for generations. won'erful things has come to them--things as would fill books bigger than this bible; because 'em always wor above the lids of the ten commandments. but 'em always had peace, so soon as they was dead, till such time as the devil could come for 'un, and he don't care for no corpses. they waldrons is tame--no french blood in 'em. vitted for big pews in church, and big vunerals. vellers not laikely to be dug up, when that waz never done to tremletts. passon, i could tell 'e such a saight of things, as would make the hair creep round the head of thee. can't talk no more, or my cough will come on. will tell 'e all about your little boy, mike; if 'e come again when this vrost is over. and then i'll show 'e zip. but i can't talk vair, while the houze be so cold. i've a dooed too much to-day, for a 'ooman in her ninety-zecond year. you come again about this day wake. i trust 'e now, passon. you be a good man, because you'm got no good blood in you. a old 'ooman's blessing won't do 'e no harm." vast is the power of a good kind face, and of silence at the proper moment. the curate of perlycross possessed that large and tender nature, at which the weak are apt to scoff, because they are not afraid of it. over them no influence can last, for there is nothing to lay hold of. but a strong-willed person, like that old woman, has substance that can be dealt with, if handled kindly and without pretence. thus mr. penniloe indulged some hope of soothing and softening that fierce and flinty nature, and guiding it towards that peace on earth, which is the surest token of the amnesty above. but while he was at breakfast on the following day, he was told that a little maid was at the front door, crying very bitterly, and refusing to come in. he went out alone, but not a syllable would she utter, until he had closed the door behind him. there she stood, shivering in the snow, and sobbing, very poorly dressed, and with nothing on her head, but mopping her eyes and nose, as she turned away, with a handkerchief of the finest lace. "zip," was all the answer mr. penniloe could get to his gentle enquiry as to who she was; and then she looked at him with large and lustrous eyes, beautifully fringed below as well as above, and announcing very clearly that she was discussing him within. although he guessed what her errand was, the clergyman could not help smiling at her earnest and undisguised probation of his character; and that smile settled the issue in his favour. "you be to coom to wance;" her vowel-sounds were of the purest devonshire air, winged by many a quill, but never summed in pen by any; "wi'out no stapping to think, you be to coom!" "what an imperious little zenobia!" said mr. penniloe, in self-commune. "dunno, whatt thiccy be. grandmoother zayeth, 'e must coom to wance. but her be dead, zince the can'le gooed out." her eyes burst into another flood, and she gave up the job of sopping it. "my dear. i will come with you, in half a minute. come and stand in the warmth, till i am ready." "noo. noo. i bain't to stop. putt on hat, and coom raight awai. vire gooed out, and can'le gooed out, and grannie gooed out, along wi' 'un." mr. penniloe huddled his spencer on, while the staring child danced with impatience in the snow; and quiet little fay came and glanced at her, and wondered how such things could be. but fay would not stare, because she was a little lady. the clergyman was very quick of foot; but the child with her long tremlett legs kept easily in front of him all the way, with the cloud of her black hair blowing out, on the frosty air, to hurry him. "i bain't aveared of her. be you?" said the little maid, as she rose on tip-toe, to pull the thong of the heavy latch. "if her coom back, her would zay--'good cheel, zippy!'" chapter xxvii. panic. christmas day fell on a friday that year, and the funeral of that ancient woman took place on the previous afternoon. the curate had never read the burial-service, before so small an audience. for the weather was bitterly cold, and poor mrs. tremlett had outlived all her friends, if she ever had any; no one expected a farthing from her, and no one cared to come and shudder at her grave. of all her many descendants none, except the child zip, was present; and she would have stood alone upon the frozen bank, unless mrs. muggridge had very kindly offered to come and hold the shivering and streaming little hand. what was to be done with zip? nobody came forward. there were hundreds of kind people in the parish, and dozens to whom the poor waif would have been a scarcely perceptible burden. yet nobody cared to have a tremlett at his hearth, and everybody saw the duty marked out for his neighbour. "then i will take her;" said mr. penniloe with his true benevolence, "but the difficulty is where to place her. she cannot well be among my children yet, until i know more about her. and, although the old family is so reduced, the kitchen is scarcely the place for her." however, that question soon answered itself; and though little zip was at first a sad puzzle (especially to the staid muggridge), her grateful and loving nature soon began to win a warm hold and a tranquil home for her. that winter, although it began rather early, was not of prolonged severity, for the frost broke up on christmas night, at least in the west of england, with a heavy fall of snow which turned to rain. but christmas day itself was very bright and pleasant, with bracing air, hard frozen snow, and firm sunshine throwing long shadows on it, and sparkling on the icicles from thatch and spout and window-frame. as the boys of the sunday school filed out, at the call of the bells in the tower chiming (after long silence while the arch was being cut) and as they formed into grand procession, under the military eye of jakes, joyfully they watched their cloudy breath ascending, or blew it in a column on some other fellow's cap. visions were before them,--a pageantry of joy, a fortnight of holidays, a fortnight of sliding, snow balling, bone-runners, cooper baker's double-hoops, why not even skates? but alas, even now the wind was backing, as the four vanes with rare unanimity proclaimed, a white fog that even a boy could stand out of was stealing up the valley, while the violet tone of the too transparent sky, and the whiteness of the sun (which used to be a dummy fireball), and even the short sharp clack of the bells, were enough to tell any boy with weather eyes and ears, that the nails on his heels would do no cobbler's click again, till the holiday time was over. but blessed are they who have no prophetic gift, be it of the weather, or of things yet more unstable. all went to church in a happy frame of mind; and the parson in a like mood looked upon them. every head was there that he had any right to count, covered or uncovered. of the latter perhaps more than a sunday would produce; of the former not so many, but to a christian mind enough; for how shall a great church-festival be kept without a cook? but the ladies who were there were in very choice attire, happy in having nothing but themselves to dress; all in good smiling condition, and reserving for home use their candid reviews of one another. there was the genial and lively mrs. farrant, whose good word and good sayings everybody valued; close at her side was her daughter minnie, provided by nature with seasonable gifts--lips more bright than the holly-berry, teeth more pearly than mistletoe, cheeks that proved the hardiness of the rose in devon, and eyes that anticipated easter-tide with the soft glance of the forget-me-not. then there was mrs. john horner, _interdum aspera cornu_, but _foenum habens_ for the roast-beef time; and kind mrs. anning (quite quit of this tale, though the perle runs through her orchard), and tall mrs. webber with two pretty girls--all purely distinct from the lawyer--and mrs. james hollyer, and mrs. john hollyer, both great in hospitality; and others of equally worthy order, for whom the kind hearts of bright and cobden would have ached, had they not been blind seers. to return to our own sheep, themselves astray, there was no denying mrs. gilham, looking still a christian, up a fathom of sea-green bonnet; and her daughter rose, now so demure if ever she caught a wandering eye, that it had to come again to beg pardon; and by her side a young man stood, with no eyes at all for the prettiest girl inside the sacred building! but strange as it may seem, he had eyes enough and to spare, for a young man opposite; whose face he perused with perpetual enquiry, which the other understood, but did not want to apprehend. for instance, "how is your very darling sister? have you heard from her by the latest post? did she say anything about me? when is she coming to perlycross again? do you think she is reading the same psalm that we are? have they got any christmas parties on? i hope there is no mistletoe up that way, or at any rate no hateful fellow near her with it?" these, and fifty other points of private worship, not to be discovered in the book of common prayer--even by the cleverest anagram of ritualist--did frank gilham vainly strive to moot with jemmy fox across the aisle, instead of being absorbed and rapt in the joyful tidings of the day. neither was jemmy fox a ha'porth more devout. with the innate selfishness of all young men, he had quite another dish of fish to fry for his own plate. as for frank gilham's, he would upset it joyfully, in spite of all sympathy or gratitude. and, if so low a metaphor can ever be forgiven, jemmy's fish, though not in sight but in a brambly corner, was fairly hooked and might be felt; whereas frank gilham's, if she had ever seen his fly, had (so far as he could be sure) never even opened mouth to take it; but had sailed away upstream, leaving a long furrow, as if--like the celebrated trout in crocker's hole--she scorned any tackle a poor farmer could afford. fox, on the other hand, had reasonable hopes, that patience and discretion and the flowing stream of time, would bring his lovely prize to bank at last. for the chief thing still against him was that black and wicked charge: and even now he looked at all the women in the church, with very little interest in their features, but keen enquiry as to their expression. his eyes put the question to them, one after another,--"my good madam, are you still afraid of me?" and sad to say, the answer from too many of them was--"well, i had rather not shake hands with you, till you have cleared your reputation." so certain is it that if once a woman has believed a thing--be it good, or be it evil--nothing but the evidence of her own eyes will uproot that belief; and sometimes not even that. especially now with lady waldron, fox felt certain that his case stood thus; that in spite of all the arguments of christie and of inez, he was not yet acquitted, though less stubbornly condemned; and as long as that state of things lasted, he could not (with proper self-respect) press his suit upon the daughter. for it should be observed that he had no doubt yet of the genuine strength of her ladyship's suspicions. mr. penniloe had not thought it right or decent, placed as he was towards the family, to impart to young jemmy sir harrison gowler's hateful (because misogynic) conclusions. that excellent preacher, and noble exemplar, the reverend philip penniloe, gave out his text in a fine sonorous voice, echoing through the great pillars of his heart, three words--as many as can ever rouse an echo--and all of them short,--"on earth, peace." he was gazing on his flock with large good will, and that desire to see the best side of them which is creditable to both parties; for take them altogether they were a peaceful flock--when a crack, as of thunder and lightning all in one, rang in every ear, and made a stop in every heart. before any body could start up to ask about it, a cavernous rumble rolled into a quick rattle; and then deep silence followed. nervous folk started up, slower persons stared about, even the coolest and most self-possessed doubted their arrangements for the day of judgment. the sunlight was shining through the south aisle windows, and none could put the blame on any storm outside. then panic arose, as at a trumpet-call. people huddled anyhow, to rush out of their pews, without even sense enough to turn the button-latch. bald heads were plunging into long-ribboned bonnets, fathers forgot their children, young men their sweethearts, but mothers pushed their little ones before them. "fly for dear life"--was the impulse of the men; "save the life dearer than my own"--was of the women. that is the moment to be sure what love is. "sit still boys, or i'll skin you"--sergeant jakes' voice was heard above the uproar; many believed that the roof was falling in; every kind of shriek and scream abounded. "my friends," said mr. penniloe, in a loud clear voice, and lifting up his bible calmly, "remember in whose house, and in whose hands we are. it is but a fall of something in the chancel. it cannot hurt you. perhaps some brave man will go behind the screen, and just tell us what has happened. i would go myself, if i could leave the pulpit." people were ashamed, when they saw little fay run from her seat to the newly-finished steps, and begin groping at the canvas, while she smiled up at her father. in a moment three men drew her back and passed in. they were jemmy fox, frank gilham, and the gallant jakes; and a cloud of dust floated out as they vanished. courage returned and the rush and crush was stayed, while horner and farrant, the two churchwardens, came with long strides to join the explorers. deep silence reigned when doctor fox returned, and at the request of farmer john, addressed the parson so that all could hear. "there is no danger, sir, of any further fall. there has been a sort of settlement of the south-east corner. the stone screen is cracked, and one end of it has dropped, and the small lancet window has tumbled in. all is now quite firm again. there is not the smallest cause for fear." "thank god!" said mr. penniloe, "and thank you my friends, for telling us. and now, as soon as order is quite restored, i shall beg to return to the discussion of my text, which with your permission i will read again." as soon as he had finished a very brief discourse, worthy of more attention than it could well secure, his flock hurried gladly away, with much praise of his courage and presence of mind, but no thought of the heavy loss and sad blow cast upon him. fox alone remained behind, to offer aid and sympathy, when the parson laid his gown aside and came to learn the worst of it. they found that the south-east corner of the chancel-wall, with the external quoin and two buttresses, had parted from the rest, and sunk bodily to the depth of a yard or more, bearing away a small southern window, a portion of the roof and several panels of that equally beautiful and unlucky screen. at a rough guess, at least another hundred pounds would be required to make good the damage. it was not only this, but the sense of mishaps so frequent and unaccountable--few of which have been even mentioned here--that now began to cast heavy weight and shadow, upon the cheerful heart of penniloe. for it seemed as if all things combined against him, both as regarded the work itself, and the means by which alone it could be carried on. and this last disaster was the more depressing, because no cause whatever could be found for it. that wall had not been meddled with in any way externally, because it seemed quite substantial. and even inside there had been but little done to it, simply a shallow excavation made, for the plinth, or footings, of the newly erected screen. "never mind, sir," said fox; "it can soon be put to rights; and your beautiful screen will look ever so much better without that lancet window, which has always appeared to me quite out of place." "perhaps," replied the parson, in a sad low voice, and with a shake of his head which meant--"all very fine; but how on earth am i to get the money?" even now the disaster was not complete. subscriptions had grown slack, and some had even been withdrawn, on the niggardly plea that no church was worth preserving, which could not protect even its own dead. and now the news of this occurrence made that matter worse again, for the blame of course fell upon penniloe. "what use to help a man, who cannot help himself?" "a fellow shouldn't meddle with bricks and mortar, unless he was brought up to them." "i like him too well, to give him another penny. if i did he'd pull the tower down upon his own head." thus and thus spoke they who should have flown to the rescue; some even friendly enough to deal the coward's blow at the unfortunate. moreover, that very night the frost broke up, with a fall of ten inches of watery snow, on the wet back of which came more than half an inch of rain, the total fall being two inches and three quarters. the ground was too hard to suck any of it in; water by the acre lay on streaky fields of ground-ice; every gateway poured its runnel, and every flinty lane its torrent. the perle became a roaring flood, half a mile wide in the marshes; and the susscot brook dashed away the old mill-wheel, and whirled some of it down as far as joe crang's anvil, fulfilling thereby an old prophecy. nobody could get--without swimming horse or self--from perlycombe to perlycross, or from perlycross to perliton; and old mother pods was drowned in her own cottage. the view of the valley, from either beacon hill or hagdon, was really grand for any one tall enough to wade so far up the weltering ways. old channing vowed that he had never seen such a flood, and feared that the big bridge would be washed away; but now was seen the value of the many wide arches, which had puzzled christie fox in the distance. alas for the hopper, that he was so far away at this noble time for a cross-country run! but he told pike afterwards, and mrs. muggridge too, that he had a good time of it, even in the mendips. in this state of things, the condition of the chancel, with the shattered roof yawning to the reek of the snow-slides, and a southern gale hurling floods in at the wall-gaps, may better be imagined than described, as a swimming rat perhaps reported to his sodden family. and people had a fine view of it at the sunday service, for the canvas curtain had failed to resist the swag and the bellying of the blast, and had fallen in a squashy pile, and formed a rough breakwater for the mortary lake behind it. there was nothing to be done for the present except to provide against further mischief. the masons from exeter had left work, by reason of the frost, some time ago; but under the directions of mr. richard horner the quoin was shored up, and the roof and window made waterproof with tarpaulins. so it must remain till easter now; when the time of year, and possibly a better tide of money, might enable beaten christians to put shoulder to the hod again. meanwhile was there any chance of finding any right for the wrong, which put every man who looked forward to his grave out of all conceit with perlycross? "vaither, do 'e care to plaze your luving darter, as 'e used to doo? or be 'e channged, and not the zame to her?" "the vurry za-am. the vurry za-am," mr. penniloe answered, with his eyes glad to rest on her, yet compelled by his conscience to correct her vowel sounds. it had long been understood between them, that fay might forsake upon occasion what we now call 'higher culture,' and try her lissome tongue at the soft ionic sounds, which those who know nothing of the west call _doric_. "then vaither," cried the child, rising to the situation; "whatt vor do 'e putt both han's avore the eyes of 'e? the lard in heaven can zee 'e, arl the zaam." the little girl was kneeling with both elbows on a chair, and her chin set up stedfastly between her dimpled hands, while her clear eyes, gleaming with the tears she was repressing, dwelt upon her father's downcast face. "my darling, my own darling, you are the image of your mother," mr. penniloe exclaimed, as he rose, and caught her up. "what is the mammon of this world to heaven's angels?" after that his proper course would have been to smoke a pipe, if that form of thank-offering had been duly recommended by the rising school of churchmen. his omission however was soon repaired; for, before he could even relapse towards "the blues," the voice of a genuine smoker was heard, and the step of a man of substance, the time being now the afternoon of monday. "halloa, penniloe!" this gentleman exclaimed; "how are you, this frightful weather? very glad to see you. made a virtue of necessity; can't have the hounds out, and so look up my flock. never saw the waters out so much in all my life. _nancy_ had to swim at susscot ford. thought we should have been washed down, but crang threw us a rope. says nobody could cross yesterday. _nancy_ must have a hot wash, please mrs. muggridge. i'll come and see to it, if you'll have the water hot. harry's looking after her till i come back. like to see a boy that takes kindly to a horse. what a job i had to get your back-gate open! never use your stable-yard, it seems. beats me, how any man can live without a horse! well, my dear fellow, i hope the world only deals with you, according to your merits. bless my heart, why, that can never be fay! what a little beauty! got a kiss to spare, my dear? don't be afraid of me. children always love me. got one little girl just your height. won't i make her jealous, when i get home? got something in my vady, that will make your pretty eyes flash. come, come, penniloe, this won't do. you don't look at all the thing. want a thirty mile ride, and a drop of brown mahogany--put a little colour into your learned face. just you should have a look at my son, jack. mean him for this little puss, if ever he grows good enough. not a bad fellow though. and how's your little mike? why there he is, peeping round the corner! i'll have it out with him, when i've had some dinner. done yours, i daresay? anything will do for me. a rasher of bacon, and a couple of poached eggs is a dinner for a lord, i say. you don't eat enough, that's quite certain. saw an awful thing in the papers last week. parsons are going to introduce fasting! protestant parsons, mind you! can't believe it. shall have to join the church of rome, if they do. all jolly fellows there--never saw a lean one. i suppose i am about the last man you expected to turn up. glad to see you though, upon my soul! you don't like that expression--ha, how well i know your face! strictly clerical i call it though; or at any rate, professional. but bless my heart alive--if you like that better--what has all our parish been about? why a dead man belongs to the parson, not the doctor. the doctors have done for him, and they ought to have done with him. but we parsons never back one another up. not enough colour in the cloth, i always say. getting too much of black, and all black." the rev. john chevithorne, rector of the parish, was doing his best at the present moment to relieve "the cloth" of that imputation. for his coat was dark green, and his waistcoat of red shawl-stuff, and his breeches of buff corduroy, while his boots--heavy jack-boots coming halfway up the thigh--might have been of any colour under the sun, without the sun knowing what the colour was, so spattered, and plastered, and cobbed with mud were they. and throughout all his talk, he renewed the hand-shakes, in true pump-handle fashion, at short intervals, for he was strongly attached to his curate. they had been at the same college, and on the same staircase; and although of different standing and very different characters, had taken to one another with a liking which had increased as years went on. mr. penniloe had an englishman's love of field-sports; and though he had repressed it from devotion to his calling, he was too good a christian to condemn those who did otherwise. "chevithorne, i have wanted you most sadly," he said, as soon as his guest was reclad from his vady, and had done ample justice to rashers and eggs; "i am really ashamed of it, but fear greatly that i shall have to be down upon you again. children, you may go, and get a good run before dark. things have been going on--in fact the lord has not seemed to prosper this work at all." "if you are going to pour forth a cloud of sorrows, you won't mind my blowing one of comfort." the rector was a pleasant man to look at, and a pleasant one to deal with, if he liked his customer. but a much sharper man of the world than his curate; prompt, resolute, and penetrating, short in his manner, and when at all excited, apt to indulge himself in the language of the laity. "well," he said, after listening to the whole church history, "i am not a rich man, as you know, my friend. people suppose that a man with three livings must be rolling in money, and all that. they never think twice of the outgoings. and jack goes to oxford in january. that means something, as you and i know well. though he has promised me not to hunt there; and he is a boy who never goes back from his word. but chancel of course is my special business. will you let me off for fifty, at any rate for the present? and don't worry yourself about the debt. we'll make it all right among us. our hunt will come down with another fifty, if i put it before them to the proper tune, when they come back to work, after this infernal muck. only you mustn't look like this. the world gets worse and worse, every day, and can't spare the best man it contains. you should have seen the rick of hay i bought last week, just because i didn't push my knuckles into it. thought i could trust my brother tom's churchwarden. and tom laughs at me; which digs it in too hard. had a rise out of him last summer though, and know how to do him again for easter-offerings. tom is too sharp for a man who has got no family. won't come down with twopence for jack's time at oxford. and he has got all the chevithorne estates, you know. nothing but the copyhold came to me. always the way of the acres, with a man who could put a child to stand on every one of them. however, you never hear me complain. but surely you ought to get more out of those waldrons. an offering to the lord _in memoriam_--a proper view of chastisement; have you tried to work it up?" "i have not been able to take that view of it," mr. penniloe answered, smiling for a moment, though doubtful of the right to do so. "how can i ask them for another farthing, after what has happened? and leaving that aside, i am now in a position in which it would be unbecoming. you may have heard that i am trustee for a part of the waldron estates, to secure a certain sum for the daughter, nicie." "then that puts it out of the question," said the rector; "i know what those trust-plagues are. i call them a tax upon good repute. 'the friendly balm that breaks the head.' i never understood that passage, till in a fool's moment i accepted a trusteeship. however, go on with that waldron affair. they are beginning to chaff me about it shamefully, now that their anger and fright are gone by. poor as i am, i would give a hundred pounds, for the sake of the parish, to have it all cleared up. but the longer it goes on, the darker it gets. you used to be famous for concise abstracts. do you remember our thucydides? wasn't it old short that used to put a year of the war on an oyster-shell, and you beat him by putting it on a thumbnail? give us in ten lines all the theories of the great perlycrucian mystery. ready in a moment. i'll jot them down. what's the greek for perlycross? puzzle even you, i think, that would. number them, one, two, and so on. there must be a dozen by this time." mr. penniloe felt some annoyance at this too jocular view of the subject; but he bore in mind that his rector was not so sadly bound up with it, as his own life was. so he set down, as offering the shortest form, the names of those who had been charged with the crime, either by the public voice, or by private whisper. 1. fox. 2. gronow. 3. gowler. 4. some other medical man of those parts--conjecture founded very often upon the last half-year's account. 5. lady waldron herself. 6. some relative of hers, with or without her knowledge. "now i think that exhausts them," the curate continued, "and i will discuss them in that order. no. 1 is the general opinion still. i mean that of the great majority, outside the parish, and throughout the county. none who knew jemmy could conceive it, and those who know nothing of him will dismiss it, i suppose, when they hear of his long attachment to miss waldron. "nos. 2, 3, and 4, may also be dismissed, being founded in each case on personal dislikes, without a _scintilla_ of evidence to back it. as regards probability, no. 4 would take the lead; for gronow, and gowler, are out of the question. the former has given up practice, and hates it, except for the benefit of his friends. and as for gowler, he could have no earthly motive. he understood the case as well as if he had seen it; and his whole time is occupied with his vast london practice. but no. 4 also is reduced to the very verge of impossibility. there is no one at exeter, who would dream of such things. no country practitioner would dare it, even if the spirit of research could move him. and as for bath, and bristol, i have received a letter from gowler disposing of all possibility there." "who suggested no. 5? that seems a strange idea. what on earth should lady waldron do it for?" "gowler suggested it. i tell you in the strictest confidence, chevithorne. of course you will feel that. i have told no one else, and i should not have told you, except that i want your advice about it. you have travelled in spain. you know much of spanish people. i reject the theory altogether; though gowler is most positive, and laughs at my objections. you remember him, of course?" "i should think so," said the rector, "a wonderfully clever fellow, but never much liked. nobody could ever get on with him, but you; and two more totally different men--however, an opinion of his is worth something. what motive could he discover for it?" "religious feelings. narrow, if you like--for we are as catholic as they are--but very strong, as one could well conceive, if only they suited the character. the idea would be, that the wife, unable to set aside the husband's wishes openly, or unwilling to incur the odium of it, was secretly resolved upon his burial elsewhere, and with the rites which she considered needful." "it is a most probable explanation. i wonder that it never occurred to you. gowler has hit the mark. what a clever fellow! and see how it exculpates the parish! i shall go back, with a great weight off my mind. upon my soul, penniloe, i am astonished that you had to go to london, to find out this _a_, _b_, _c_. if i had been over here a little more often, i should have hit upon it, long ago." "chevithorne, i think that very likely," the curate replied, with the mildness of those who let others be rushed off their legs by themselves. "the theory is plausible,--accounts for everything,--fits in with the very last discoveries, proves this parish, and even the english nation, guiltless. nevertheless, it is utterly wrong; according at least to my view of human nature." "your view of human nature was always too benevolent. that was why everybody liked you so. but, my dear fellow, you have lived long enough now, to know that it only does for christmas-day sermons." "i have not lived long enough, and hope to do so never," mr. penniloe answered very quietly; but with a manner, which the other understood, of the larger sight looking over hat-crowns. "will you tell me, chevithorne, upon what points you rely? and then, i will tell you what i think of them." "why, if it comes to argument, what chance have i against you? you can put things, and i can't. but i can sell a horse, and you can buy it--fine self-sacrifice on your side. i go strictly upon common sense. i have heard a lot of that lady waldron. i have had some experience of spanish ladies. good and bad, no doubt, just as english ladies are. it is perfectly obvious to my mind, that lady waldron has done all this." "to my mind," replied mr. penniloe, looking stedfastly at the rector, "it is equally obvious that she has not." "upon what do you go?" asked the rector, rather warmly, for he prided himself on his knowledge of mankind, though admitting very handsomely his ignorance of books. "i go upon my faith in womankind." the curate spoke softly, as if such a thing were new, and truly it was not at all in fashion then. "this woman loved her husband. her grief was deep and genuine. his wishes were sacred to her. she is quite incapable of double-dealing. and indeed, i would say, that if ever there was a straightforward simple-hearted woman----" "if ever, if ever," replied mr. chevithorne, with a fine indulgent smile. "but upon the whole, i think well of them. let us have a game of draughts, my dear fellow, where the queens jump over all the poor men." "kings, we call them here," answered mr. penniloe. chapter xxviii. vagabonds. although mr. penniloe's anxiety about the growth of church-debt was thus relieved a little, another of his troubles was by no means lightened through the visit of the rector. that nasty suspicion, suggested by gowler, and heartily confirmed by chevithorne, was a very great discomfort, and even a torment, inasmuch as he had no one to argue it with. he reasoned with himself that even if the lady were a schemer, so heartless as to ruin a young man (who had done her no harm) that she might screen herself, as well as an actress so heaven-gifted as to impose on every one--both of which qualifications he warmly denied--yet there was no motive, so far as he could see, strong enough to lead her into such a crooked course. to the best of his belief, she was far too indifferent upon religious questions; he had never seen, or heard, of a priest at walderscourt; and although she never came to church with the others of the family, she had allowed her only daughter to be brought up as a protestant. she certainly did not value our great nation, quite as much as it values itself, and in fact was rather an ardent spaniard, though herself of mixed race. but it seemed most unlikely, that either religion or patriotism, or both combined, were strong enough to drive her into action contrary to her dead husband's wishes and to her own character, so far as an unprejudiced man could judge it. there remained the last theory, no. 6, as given above. to the curate it seemed the more probable one, although surrounded with difficulties. there might be some spanish relative, or even one of other country, resolute to save the soul of sir thomas waldron, without equal respect for his body; and in that case it was just possible, that the whole thing might have been arranged, and done, without lady waldron's knowledge. but if that were so, what meant the visit of the foreigner, who had tried to escape his notice, when he left the coach? before mr. penniloe could think it out--jemmy fox (who might have helped him, by way of nicie, upon that last point) was called away suddenly from perlycross. his mother was obliged, in the course of nature, to look upon him now as everybody's prop and comfort; because her husband could not be regarded in that light any longer. and two or three things were coming to pass, of family import and issue, which could not go aright, except through jemmy's fingers. and of these things the most important was concerning his sister christina. "i assure you, jemmy, that her state of mind is most unsatisfactory," the lady said to her son, upon their very first consultation. "she does not care for any of her usual occupations. she takes no interest in parish matters. she let that wicked old margery daw get no less than three pairs of blankets, and polly church go without any at all--at least she might, so far as christie cared. then you know that admirable huggins' charity--a loaf and three halfpence for every cottage containing more than nine little ones;--well, she let them pass the children from one house to another; and neither loaves nor halfpence held out at all! 'i'll make it good,' she said, 'what's the odds?' or something almost as vulgar. how thankful i was, that sir henry did not hear her! 'oh i wish he had, rayther,' she exclaimed with a toss of her head. you know that extremely low slangish way of saying _rayther_ to everything. it does irritate me so, and she knows it. one would think that instead of desiring to please as excellent a man as ever lived, her one object was to annoy and disgust him. and she does not even confine herself to--to the language of good society. she has come back from perlycross, with a sad quantity of devonshirisms; and she always brings them out before sir henry, who is, as you know, a fastidious man, without any love of jocularity. and it is such a very desirable thing. i did hope it would have been all settled, before your dear father's birthday." "well, mother, and so it may easily be. the only point is this--after all her bad behaviour, will sir henry come to the scratch?" "my dear son! my dear jemmy, what an expression! and with reference to wedded life! but if i understand your meaning, he is only waiting my permission to propose; and i am only waiting for a favourable time. the sweetest tempered girl i ever saw; better even than yours, jemmy, and yours has always been very fine. but now--and she has found out, or made up, some wretched low song, and she sings it down the stairs, or even comes singing it into the room, pretending that she does not see me. all about the miseries of stepmothers. oh, she is most worrying and aggravating! and to me, who have laboured so hard for her good! sometimes i fancy that she must have seen somebody. surely, it never could have been at perlycross?" "i'll put a stop to all that pretty smartly"--the doctor exclaimed, with fine confidence. "but--but perhaps it would be better, mother, for me not to seem to take sir henry's part too strongly. at any rate until things come to a climax. he is coming this afternoon, you said; let him pop the question at once; and if she dares to refuse him, then let me have a turn at her. she has got a rare tongue; but i think i know something--at any rate, you know that i don't stand much nonsense." they had scarcely settled their arrangements for her, when down the stairs came christie, looking wonderfully pretty; but her song was not of equal beauty. "there was an old dog, and his name was 'shep;' says he to his daughter--don't you ever be a step." she nodded to her mother very dutifully, and to her brother with a smile that made him laugh; and then she went out of the front-door, almost as if she felt contempt for it. "won't do. won't do at all;" said jemmy. "she'll say 'no,' this afternoon. girls never know what they are about. but better let him bring it to the point. and then leave it to me, mother. i understand her. and she knows i am not to be trifled with." sir henry haggerstone came in time for luncheon, showed no signs of nervousness, and got on very well with everybody. he knew something of everything that is likely to be talked of anywhere; and yet he had the knack of letting down his knowledge, as a carpet for his friends to walk upon. everybody thought--"well, i have taught him something. he could not be expected to understand that subject. but now, from his own words, i feel that he will. what a fool smith is, to be bothering a man like sir henry with the stuff that is _a_. _b_. _c_. to him! i wonder that he could put up with it." but however great sir henry was in powers of conversation, or even of auscultation, his eloquence--if there was any--fell flat, and his audience was brief, and the answer unmistakable. "it can't be. it mustn't be. it shan't be, at any price." that last expression was a bit of slang, but it happened to fit the circumstances. "but why can it not be? surely, miss fox, i may ask you to give me some reason for that." the gentleman thought--"what a strange girl you are!" while the lady was thinking--"what a difference there is between an artificial man and a natural one!" "what o'clock is it, by that time-piece, if you please, sir henry haggerstone?" "half-past two, within about two minutes." "thank you; can you tell me why it isn't half-past ten? just because it isn't. and so now you understand." "i am sorry to say, that i do not very clearly. probably it is very stupid of me. but can you not give me a little hope, miss fox?" "yes, a great deal; and with my best wishes. there are thousands of nice girls, a thousand times nicer than i ever was, who would say 'yes,' in a minute." "but the only one, whose 'yes' i want, says 'no,' in less than half a minute!" "to be sure, she does--and means it all over; but begs to offer no end of thanks." "perhaps it is all for the best," he thought as he rode homeward slowly; "she is a very sweet girl; but of late she seems to have grown so fond of slang expressions--all very well for a man, but not at all what i like in a woman. i should have been compelled to break her of that trick; and even the sweetest tempered woman hates to be corrected." this gentleman would have been surprised to hear that the phrases he disliked were used, because he so thoroughly disliked them. which, to say the least, was unamiable. "all settled? hurrah! my dear chris, let me congratulate you," cried jemmy rushing in with a jaunty air, though he well knew what the truth was. "amen! it is a happy thing. that golden parallelogram, all tapered and well-rounded, will come to harass me no more." "what a mixture of quotations! a girl alone could achieve it. a tapered parallelogram! but you have never been fool enough to refuse him?" "i have been wise enough to do so." "and soon you will be wise enough to think better of it. i shall take good care to let him know, that no notice is to be taken of your pretty little vagaries." "don't lose your temper, my dear jemmy. as for taking notice of it, sir henry may be nothing very wonderful. but at any rate he is a gentleman." "i am heartily glad that you have found that out. i thought nobody could be a gentleman, unless he lived in a farm-house, and could do a day's ploughing, and shear his own sheep." "yes, oh yes! if he can roll his own pills, and mix his own black draughts, and stick a knife into any one." "now, it is no use trying to insult me, my dear girl. my profession is above all that." "what, above its own business? oh jemmy, jemmy! and yet you know, you were afraid sometimes of leaving it all to that little boy george. however george did the best part of it." "christie, i shall be off, because you don't know what you are talking of. i am sorry for any man, who gets you." "ha! that depends upon whether i like him. if i do, wouldn't i polish his boots? if i don't, wouldn't i have the hair off his head?" "good-bye, my dear child. you will be better, by and by." "stop," exclaimed christie, who perceived that dear jemmy preferred to have it out with her, when she might be less ready; "don't be in such a hurry. there is no child with the measles, which is about the worst human complaint that you can cure. just answer me one question. have i ever interfered, between you and nicie waldron?" "the lord look down upon me! what an idea! as if you could ever be so absurd!" "the lord looks down upon me, also, jemmy;" said christie, passing into a different mood. "and he gives me the right to see to my own happiness, without consulting you; any more than you do me." the doctor made off, without another word; for he was not a quarrelsome fellow; especially when he felt that he would get the worst of it. "let her alone a bit;" he told his mother. "she has been so much used to have her own way, that she expects to have it always. it will require a little judgment, and careful handling, to bring her out of her absurdities. you must not expect her to have the sense a man has. and she has got an idea that she is so clever; which makes her confoundedly obstinate. if you had heard how insolent she was to me, you would have been angry with her. but she cannot vex me with her childish little talk. i shall go for a thirty mile ride, dear mother, to get a little fresh air after all that. don't expect me back to dinner. be distant with her, and let her see that you are grieved; but give her no chance of arguing--if indeed she calls such stuff argument." in a few minutes he was on the back of _perle_--as he called the kindly and free-going little mare, who had brought him again from perlycross--and trotting briskly towards the long curve of highlands, which form the western bulwark of the mendip hills. the weather had been very mild and rather stormy, ever since the christmas frost broke up, and now in the first week of the year, the air was quite gentle and pleasant. but the roads were heavy and very soft, as they always are in a thaw; and a great deal of water was out in the meadows, and even in the ditches alongside of the lanes. in a puzzle of country roads and commons, further from home than his usual track, and very poorly furnished with guide-posts, fox rode on without asking whither; caring only for the exercise and air, and absorbed in thought about the present state of things, both at perlycross and foxden. to his quick perception and medical knowledge it was clear that his father's strength was failing, gradually, but without recall. and one of the very few things that can be done by medical knowledge is that it can tell us (when it likes) that it is helpless. now jemmy was fond of his father, although there had been many breezes between them; and as nature will have it, he loved him a hundredfold, now that he was sure to lose him. moreover the change in his own position, which must ensue upon his father's death, was entirely against his liking. what he liked was simplicity, plain living and plain speaking, with enough of this world's goods to help a friend in trouble, or a poor man in distress; but not enough to put one in a fright about the responsibility, that turns the gold to lead. but now, if he should be compelled to take his father's place at foxden, as a landowner and a wealthy man, he must give up the practice of his beloved art, he must give up the active and changeful life, the free and easy manners, and the game with bill and dick; and assume the slow dignity and stiff importance, the consciousness of being an example and a law, and all the other briars and blackthorns in the paradise of wealth and station. yet even while he sighed at the coming transformation, it never occurred to him that his sister was endowed with tastes no less simple than his own, and was not compelled by duty to forego them. occupied thus, and riding loose-reined without knowing or caring whither, he turned the corner of a high-banked lane, and came upon a sight which astonished him. the deep lane ended with a hunting-gate, leading to an open track across a level pasture, upon which the low sun cast long shadows of the rider's hat, and shoulders, and elbow lifted to unhasp the gate. turning in the saddle he beheld a grand and fiery sunset, such as in mild weather often closes a winter but not wintry day. a long cloud-bank, straight and level at the base, but arched and pulpy in its upper part, embosomed and turned into a deep red glow the yellow flush of the departing sun. below this great volume of vapoury fire, were long thin streaks of carmine, pencilled very delicately on a background of limpid hyaline. it was not the beauty of the sky however, nor the splendour, nor the subtlety, that made the young man stop and gaze. fine sunsets he had seen by the hundred, and looked at them, if there was time to spare; but what he had never seen before was the grandeur of the earth's reply. on the opposite side of the level land, a furlong or so in front of him, arose the great breastwork to leagues of plain; first a steep pitch of shale and shingle, channelled with storm-lines, and studded with gorse; and then, from its crest, a tall crag towering, straight and smooth as a castle-wall. the rugged pediment was dark and dim, and streaked with sombre shadows; but the bastion cliff above it mantled with a deep red glow, as if colour had its echo, in answer to the rich suffusion of that sunset cloud. even the ivy, and other creepers, on its kindled face shone forth, like chaplets thrown upon a shield of ruddy gold. and all the environed air was thrilling with the pulses of red light. fox was smitten with rare delight--for he was an observant fellow--and even _perle's_ bright eyes expanded, as if they had never seen such a noble vision. "i'll be up there before it is gone," cried jemmy, like a boy in full chase of a rainbow; "the view from that crag must be glorious." at the foot of the hill stood a queer little hostel, called the _smoking limekiln_; and there he led his mare into the stable, ordered some bread and cheese for half an hour later, and made off at speed for the steep ascent. active as he was, and sound of foot, he found it a slippery and awkward climb, on account of the sliding shingle; but after a sharp bout of leaping and scrambling he stood at the base of the vertical rock, and looked back over the lowlands. the beauty of colour was vanishing now, and the glory of the clouds grown sombre, for the sun had sunk into a pale gray bed; but the view was vast and striking. the fairest and richest of english land, the broad expanse of the western plains for leagues and leagues rolled before him, deepening beneath the approach of night, and shining with veins of silver, where three flooded rivers wound their way. afar towards the north, a faint gleam showed the hovering of light, above the severn sea; whence slender clues of fog began to steal, like snakes, up the watercourses, and the marshy inlets. before there was time to watch them far, the veil of dusk fell over them, and things unwatched stood forth, and took a prominence unaccountable, according to the laws of twilight, arbitrary and mysterious. fox felt that the view had repaid his toil, and set his face to go down again, with a tendency towards bread and cheese; but his very first step caused such a slide of shingle and loose ballast, that he would have been lucky to escape with a broken bone, had he followed it. thereupon instead of descending there, he thought it wiser to keep along the ledge at the foot of the precipice, and search for a safer track down the hill. none however presented itself, until he had turned the corner of the limestone crag, and reached its southern side, where the descent became less abrupt and stony. here he was stepping sideways down, for the pitch was still sharp and dangerous, and the daylight failing in the blinks of hills, when he heard a loud shout--"jemmy! jemmy!"--which seemed to spring out of the earth at his feet. in the start of surprise he had shaped his lips for the answering halloa, when good luck more than discretion saved him; for both his feet slipped, and his breath was caught. by a quick turn he recovered balance; but the check had given him time to think, and spying a stubby cornel-bush, he came to a halt behind it, and looked through the branches cautiously. some twenty yards further down the hill, he saw a big man come striding forth from the bowels of the earth--as it seemed at first--and then standing with his back turned, and the haze beyond enlarging him. and then again, that mighty shout rang up the steep and down the valley--"jemmy, jemmy, come back, i tell thee, or i'l let thee know what's what!" fox kept close, and crouched in his bush, for he never had seen such a man till now, unless it were in a caravan; and a shudder ran through him, as it came home that his friend down there could with one hand rob, throttle, and throw him down a mining shaft. this made him keep a very sharp look-out, and have one foot ready for the lightest of leg-bail. presently a man of moderate stature, who could have walked under the other's arm, came panting and grumbling back again from a bushy track leading downwards. he flung something on the ground and asked-"what be up now; to vetch me back up-hill for? harvey, there bain't no sense in 'e. maight every bit as well a' had it out, over a half pint of beer." "sit you there, jem," replied the other, pressing him down on a ledge of stone with the weight of one thumb on his shoulder. then he sat himself down on a higher ridge, and pulled out a pipe, with a sigh as loud as the bellows of a forge could compass; and then slowly spread upon the dome of his knee a patch of german punk, and struck sparks into it. there was just light enough for fox to see that the place where they sat was at the mouth of a mining shaft, or sloping adit; over the rough stone crown of which, standing as he did upon a higher level, he could descry their heads and shoulders, and the big man's fingers as he moved them round his pipe. presently a whiff of coarse brown smoke came floating uphill to the doctor's nostrils; and his blood ran cold, as he began to fear that this great harvey must be the harvey tremlett, of whom he had heard from mr. penniloe. "made up my maind i have. can't stand this no longer;" said the big man, with the heavy drawl, which nature has inflicted upon very heavy men. "can't get no more for a long day's work, than a hop o' my thumb like you does." "and good raison why, mate. do 'e ever do a hard day's work?" fox could have sworn that the smaller throat gave utterance to the larger share of truth. "what be the vally of big arms and legs, when a chap dothn't care to make use of 'un?" but the big man was not controversial. giants are generally above that weakness. he gave a long puff, and confined himself to facts. "got my money: and d--d little it is. and now i means to hook it. you can hang on, if you be vule enough." "what an old turk it is!" jem replied reproachfully. "did ever you know me throw you over, harvey? who is it brings you all the luck? tell 'e what--let's go back to clampits. what a bit o' luck that loudering wor!" "hor, hor, hor!" the big man roared. "a purty lot they be to perlycrass! to take jemmy kettel for a gentleman! and a doctor too! oh lord! oh lord! doctor jemmy vox kettel! licensed to deal in zalts and zenna, powders, pills, and bolusses. oh jemmy, jemmy, my eye, my eye!" "could do it, i'll be bound, as well as he doth. a vaine doctor, to dig up the squire of the parish, and do it wrong way too, they zay of 'un! vaine doctor, wasn't 'un? oh lord! oh lord!" as these two rovers combined in a hearty roar of mirth at his expense, dr. jemmy fox, instead of being grateful for a purely impartial opinion, gave way to ill feeling, and stamped one foot in passionate remonstrance. too late he perceived that this movement of his had started a pebble below the cornel-bush, and sent it rolling down the steep. away went the pebble with increasing skips, and striking the crown of the pit-mouth flew just over the heads of the uncouth jokers. "halloa, jemmy! anybody up there? just you goo, and look, my boy." fox shrunk into himself, as he heard those words in a quicker roar coming up to him. if they should discover him, his only chance would be to bound down the hill, reckless of neck, and desperate of accident. but the light of the sky at the top of the hill was blocked by the rampart of rock, and so there was nothing for him to be marked upon. "nort but a badger, or a coney there, i reckon," jem kettel said, after peering up the steep; and just then a rabbit of fast style of life whisked by; "goo on, harvey. you han't offered me no 'bacco!" "you tak' and vinish 'un;" said the lofty-minded giant, poking his pipe between the other fellow's teeth. "and now you give opinion; if the lord hath gived thee any." "well, i be up for bunkum, every bit so much as you be. but where shall us be off to? that's the p'int of zettlement. clampits, i say. roaring fun there, and the gim'-keepers aveared of 'e." "darsn't goo there yet, i tell 'e. last thing old moother did was to send me word, passon to perlycrass had got the tip on me. don't want no bother with them blessed beaks again." "wonder you didn't goo and twist the passon's neck." the faithful mate looked up at him, as if the captain had failed of his duty, unaccountably. "wouldn't touch a hair of that man's head, if it wor here atwixt my two knees." harvey tremlett brought his fist down on his thigh, with a smack that made the stones ring round him. "tell 'e why, jem kettel. he have took my little zip along of his own chiller, and a' maneth to make a lady on her. and a lady the little wench hath a right to be--just you say the contrairy--if hanncient vam'ley, and all that, have right to count. us tremletts was here, long afore they waldrons." the smaller man appeared afraid to speak. he knew the weak point of the big man perhaps, and that silence oils all such bearings. "tull 'e what, jemmy," said the other coming round, after stripping his friend's mouth of his proper pipe; "us'll go up country--shoulder packs and be off, soon as ever the moon be up. like to see any man stop me, i would." he stood up, with the power of his mighty size upon him; a man who seemed fit to stop an avalanche, and able to give as much trouble about stopping him. "all right, i be your man;" replied the other, speaking as if he were quite as big, and upon the whole more important. "bristol fust; and then lunnon, if so plaise 'e. always a bit of louderin' there. but that remindeth me of perlycrass. us be bound to be back by fair-time, you know. can't afford to miss old timberlegs." "time enow for that;" harvey tremlett answered. "zix or zeven weeks yet to perlycrass fair. what time wor it as old timberlegs app'inted?" "ten o'clock at naight, by churchyard wall. reckon the old man hath another job of louderin' handy. what a spree that wor, and none a rap the wiser! come along, harvey, let's have a pint at the _kiln_, to drink good luck to this here new start." the big man took his hat off, while the other jumped nimbly on a stump and flung over his head the straps of both their bundles; and then with a few more leisurely and peaceful oaths they quitted their stony platform, and began to descend the winding path, from which jem kettel had been recalled. fox was content for a minute or two with peeping warily after them, while his whole frame tingled with excitement, wrath, and horror, succeeded by a burning joy at the knowledge thus vouchsafed to him, by a higher power than fortune. as soon as he felt certain that they could not see him, even if they looked back again, he slipped from his lurking-place, and at some risk of limb set off in a straighter course than theirs for the public house in the valley, where a feeble light was twinkling. from time to time he could hear the two rovers laughing at their leisure, probably with fine enjoyment of very bad jokes at his expense. but he set his teeth, and made more speed, and keeping his distance from them, easily arrived first at the inn, where he found his bread and cheese set forth, in a little private parlour having fair view of the bar. this suited him well, for his object was to obtain so clear a sight of them, that no change of dress or disguise should cast any doubt upon their identity; and he felt sure that they were wending hither to drink good speed to their enterprise. there was not much fear of their recognising him, even if his face were known to them, which he did not think at all likely. but he provided against any such mishap, by paying his bill beforehand, and placing his candle so that his face was in the dark. then he fell to and enjoyed his bread and cheese; for the ride and the peril had produced fine relish, and a genuine cheddar--now sighed for so vainly--did justice to its nativity. he also enjoyed, being now in safety, the sweet sense of turning the tables upon his wanton and hateful deriders. for sure enough, while his mouth was full, and the froth on his ale was winking at him, in came those two scoffing fellows, followed by a dozen other miners. it appeared to be pay-night, and generous men were shedding sixpences on one another; but fox saw enough to convince him that the rest fought shy of his two acquaintances. when he saw this, a wild idea occurred to him for a moment--was it not possible to arrest that pair, with the aid of their brother miners? but a little consideration showed the folly of such a project. he had no warrant, no witness, no ally, and he was wholly unknown in that neighbourhood. and even if the miners should believe his tale, would they combine, to lay hands on brother workmen, and hand them over to the mercies of the law? even if they would, it was doubtful that they could, sturdy fellows though they were. but the young man was so loth to let these two vagabonds get away, that his next idea was to bribe somebody to follow them, and keep them in view until he should come in chase, armed with the needful warrant, and supported by stout _posse comitatus_. he studied the faces of his friends at the bar, to judge whether any were fitted for the job. alas, among all those rough and honest features, there was not a spark of craft, nor a flash of swift intelligence. if one of them were put to watch another, the first thing he would do would be to go and tell him of it. and what justice of the peace would issue warrant upon a stranger's deposition of hearsays? much against his will, jemmy fox perceived that there was nothing for it, but to give these two rogues a wide berth for the present, keep his own counsel most jealously, and be ready to meet them at perlycross fair. and even so, on his long homeward ride, he thought that the prospect was brightening in the west; and that he with his name cleared might come forward, and assert his love for the gentle nicie. chapter xxix. two puzzles. "then if i understand aright, lady waldron, you wish me to drop all further efforts for the detection of those miscreants? and that too at the very moment, when we had some reason to hope that we should at last succeed. and all the outlay, which is no trifle, will have been simply thrown away! this course is so extraordinary, that you will not think me inquisitive, if i beg you to explain it." mr. webber, the lawyer, was knitting his forehead, and speaking in a tone of some annoyance, and much doubt, as to the correctness of his own reluctant inference. meanwhile the spanish lady was glancing at him with some dismay, and then at mr. penniloe, who was also present, for the morning's discussion had been of business matters. "no, i doubt very much if you quite comprehend," she answered, with mr. penniloe's calm eyes fixed upon her. "i did not propose to speak entirely like that. what i was desirous of describing to you is, that to me it is less of eagerness to be going on with so much haste, until the return of my dear son. he for instance will direct things, and with his great--great command of the mind, will make the proceedings to succeed, if it should prove possible for the human mind to do it. and there is no one in this region, that can refuse him anything." mr. penniloe saw that she spoke with some misgivings, and shifted her gaze from himself to the lawyer and back again, with more of enquiry, and less of dictation, than her usual tone conveyed. "the matter is entirely one for your ladyship's own decision," replied mr. webber, beginning to fold up the papers he had submitted. "mr. penniloe has left that to us, as was correct, inasmuch as it does not concern the trust. i will stop all enquiries at once, upon receiving your instructions to that effect." "but--but i think you do not well comprehend. perhaps i could more clearly place it with the use of my own tongue. it is nothing more than this. i wish that my dear son should not give up his appointment as officer, and come back to this country, for altogether nothing. i wish that he should have the delight of thinking that--that it shall be of his own procuration, to unfold this mysterious case. yes, that is it--that is all that i wish--to let things wait a little, until my son comes." if either of her listeners had been very keen, or endowed with the terrier nose of suspicion, he would have observed perhaps that the lady had found some relief from an afterthought, and was now repeating it as a happy hit. but mr. penniloe was too large, and mr. webber too rough of mind--in spite of legal training--to pry into a lady's little turns of thought. "very well, madam," said the lawyer, rising, "that finishes our business for to-day, i think. but i beg to congratulate you on your son's return. i cannot call to mind that i have heard of it before. every one will be delighted to see him. even in his father's time, everybody was full of him. when may we hope to see him, lady waldron?" "before very long, i have reason for good hope," the lady replied, with a smile restoring much of the beauty of her careworn face. "i have not heard the day yet; but i know that he will come. he has to obtain permission from all the proper authorities, of course. and that is like your very long and very costful processes of the great british law, mr. webber. but now i will entreat of you to excuse me any more. i have given very long attention. mr. webber, will you then oblige me by being the host to mr. penniloe? the refreshment is in the approximate room." "devilish fine woman," mr. webber whispered, as her ladyship sailed away. "wonderfully clever too! how she does her w's--i don't know much about them, but i always understood, that there never was any one born out of england, who could make head or tail of his w's. why, she speaks english quite like a native! but i see you are looking at me. shocking manners, i confess, to swear in the presence of a parson, sir; though plenty of them do it--ha, ha, ha!--in their own absence, i suppose." "it is not my presence, mr. webber. that makes it neither better nor worse. but the presence of god is everywhere." "to be sure! so it is. come into the next room. her ladyship said we should find something there. i suppose we shan't see missy though," said the lawyer, as he led the parson to the luncheon-table. "she fights very shy of your humble servant now. girls never forgive that sort of thing. i don't often make such a mistake though, do i? and it was my son waldron's fault altogether. waldron is a sharp fellow, but not like me. can't see very far into a milestone. pity to stop the case, before we cleared fox. i don't understand this new turn though. a straw shows the way the wind blows. something behind the scenes, mr. penniloe. more there than meets the eye. is it true that old fox is dropping off the hooks?" "if you mean to ask me, mr. webber, what i have heard about his state of health, i fear that there is little hope of his recovery. dr. fox returns to-morrow, as you may have heard through--through your especial agents. you know what my opinion is of that proceeding on your part." "yes, you spoke out pretty plainly. and, by george, you were right, sir! as fine a property as any in the county. i had no idea it was half as much. why, bless my heart sir, jemmy fox will be worth his â£8000 a year, they tell me!" "i am glad that his worth," mr. penniloe said quietly, "is sufficient _per annum_ to relieve him from your very dark suspicion." "got me there!" replied webber, with a laugh. "ah, you parsons always beat the lawyers. bury us, don't you? if you find no other way. but we get the last fee after all. probate, sir, probate is an expensive thing. well, i must be off. i see my gig is ready. if you can make my peace with jemmy fox, say a word for me. after all it looked uncommonly black, you know. and young men should be forgiving." scarcely had his loud steps ceased to ring, when a very light pit-a-pat succeeded, and mr. penniloe found himself in far more interesting company. nicie came softly, and put back her hair, and offered her lovely white forehead to be kissed, and sat down with a smile that begged pardon for a sigh. "oh, uncle penniloe, i am so glad! i thought i should never have a talk with you again. my fortune has been so frightful lately. everything against me, the same as it has been with this dear little soul here." she pointed to _jess_, the wounded one, who trotted in cheerfully upon three legs, with the other strapped up in a white silk pouch. the little doggie wagged her tail, and looked up at the clergyman, with her large eyes full of soft gratitude and love; as by that reflex action, which a dog's eyes have without moving, they took in--and told their intense delight in--that vigilant nurse, and sweet comrade, nicie. "oh, she is so proud;" miss waldron said, looking twice as proud herself; "this is the first time that she has had the privilege of going upon three legs, without anybody's hand; and she does think so much of herself! _jess_, go and show uncle penniloe what she can do, now her health is coming back. _jess_, go and cut a little caper--very steadily, you know, for fear of going twisty; and keep her tail up, all the time! now _jess_ come, and have a pretty kiss; because she has earned it splendidly." "she takes my breath away, because she is so good;" continued nicie, leaning over her. "i have studied her character for six weeks now, and there is not a flaw to be found in it, unless it is a noble sort of jealousy. _pixie_"--here _jess_ uttered a sharp small growl, and showed a few teeth as good as ever--"i must not mention his name again, because it won't do to excite her; but he is out in the cold altogether, because he has never shown any heroism. no, no, he shan't come, _jess_. he is locked up, for want of chivalry. oh, uncle penniloe, there is one question i have long been wanting to ask you. do you think it possible for even god to forgive the man--the brute, i mean--who slashed this little dear like that, for being so loving, and so true?" "my dear child," mr. penniloe replied; "i have just been saying to myself, how like your dear father you are growing--in goodness and kindness of face, i mean. but when you look like that, the resemblance is quite lost. i should never have thought you capable of such a ferocious aspect." "ah, that is because you don't know what i can do." but as she spoke, her arched brows were relaxing, and her flashing eyes filled with their usual soft gleam. "you forget that i am half a spaniard still, or at any rate a quarter one, and therefore i can be very terrible sometimes. ah, you should have seen me the other day. i let somebody know who i am. he thought perhaps that butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. did not i astonish him, the impertinent low wretch?" "why, nicie, this is not at all like you! i always quote you as a model of sweet temper. who can have aroused your angry passions thus?" "oh, never mind. i should like to tell you, and i want to tell you very much. but i am not permitted, though i don't know why. my mother has begged me particularly not to speak of that man who came--gentleman, i suppose he would call himself--but there, i am telling you all about him! and mother is so different, and so much more humble now. if she were still as unfair as she was, i should not be so particular. but she seems to be so sad, and so mysterious now, without accusing any one. and so i will not say a word against her orders. you would not wish it, uncle penniloe, i am sure." "certainly not, my dear. i will not ask another question. i have noticed that your mother is quite different myself. i hope she is not falling into really bad health." "no, i don't think that. but into frightfully low spirits. we have enough to account for that, haven't we, uncle penniloe? to think of my dear father, all this time! what can i do? i am so wretchedly helpless. i try to trust in god, and to say to myself--'what does the earthly part matter, after all? when the soul is with the lord, or only waiting for his time, and perhaps rewarded all the better--because--because of wicked treatment here.' but oh, it won't do, uncle penniloe, it won't, when i think how noble and how good he was, and to be treated in that way! and then i fall away, and cry, and sob, and there comes such a pain--such a pain in my heart, that i have no breath left, and can only lie down, and pray that god would take me to my father. is it wicked? i suppose it is. but how am i to help it?" "no, my dear, it is not wicked to give way sometimes." the parson's voice was tremulous, at sight of her distress, and remembrance of his own, not so very long ago. "sorrow is sent to all of us, and doubtless for our good; and if we did not feel it, how could we be at all improved by it? but you have borne it well, my child; and so has your good mother, considering how the first sad blow has been doubled and prolonged so strangely. but now it will be better for you, ever so much better, nicie, with your dear brother home again." "but when will that be? perhaps not for years. we do not even know where he is. they were not likely to stay long in malta. he may be at the cape of good hope by this time, if the ship has had long enough to get there. everything seems to be so much against us." "are you sure that you are right, my dear?" mr. penniloe asked with no little surprise. "from what your mother said just now, i hoped that i should see my old pupil very soon." "i am afraid not, uncle penniloe. my dear mother seems to confuse things a little, or not quite understand them. through her late illness, no doubt it is. we have not had a word from tom, since that letter, which had such a wonderful effect, as i told you, when you were gone to london. and then, if you remember, he had no idea how long they were to be at valetta. and he said nothing about their future movements very clearly. so full of his duties, no doubt, that he had no time to write long particulars. even now he may never have heard of--of what has happened, and our sad condition. they may have been at sea, ever since he wrote. soldiers can never tell where they may have to be." "that has always been so, and is a part of discipline;" the parson was thinking of the centurion and his men. "but even if your letter should have gone astray, they must have seen some english newspapers, i should think." "tom is very clever, as you know, uncle penniloe; but he never reads a word, when he can help it. and besides that, it is only fair to remember that he is under government. and the government never neglects an opportunity of turning right into left, and the rest upside down. if all the baggage intended for their draft, was sent to the west indies, because they were ordered to the east, it ought to follow that their letters would go too. but the worst of it is that one cannot be sure they will stick to a mistake, after making it." "it is most probable that they would; especially if it were pointed out to them. your dear father told me that they never forgive anybody for correcting them. but how then could your mother feel so sure about tom's coming home almost immediately?" "it puzzles me, until i have time to think;" answered nicie, looking down. "she has never said a word to me about it, beyond praying and hoping for tom to come home. oh, i know, or at least i can guess, how! she may have had a dream--she believes firmly in her dreams, and she has not had time to tell me yet." mr. penniloe had no right to seek further, and no inclination so to do. the meanest, mangiest, and most sneaking understrapper of that recent addition to our liberal institutions--the "private enquiry firm"--could never have suspected nicie waldron, after looking at her, of any of those subterfuges, which he (like a slack-skin'd worm) wriggles into. but on the other hand who could suppose that lady waldron would endeavour to mislead her own man of business by a trumpery deceit? and yet who was that strange visitor, of whom her daughter was not allowed to speak? unable to understand these things, the curate shortly took his leave, being resolved, like a wise man, to think as little as he could about them, until time--that mighty locksmith, at whom even love rarely wins the latest laugh--should bring his skeleton key to bear on the wards of this enigma. what else can a busy man do, when puzzled even by his own affairs? and how much more must it be so, in the business of other persons, which he doubts his right to meddle with? perhaps it would have been difficult to find any male member of our race more deeply moved by the haps and mishaps of his fellow-creatures than this parson of perlycross; and yet he could take a rosier view for most of them than they took for themselves. so when he left the grounds of walderscourt, he buttoned up his spencer, and stepped out bravely, swinging his stick vigorously, and trusting in the lord. "what did 'e hat me vor, like that?" cried a voice of complaint from a brambled ditch, outside a thick copse known as puddicombe wood. mr. penniloe had not got his glasses on, and was grieved to feel rather than to see, although he was at the right end of his stick, that he had brought it down (with strong emphasis of a passage in his coming sermon) on the head of a croucher in that tangled ditch. "oh i beg your pardon! i am so sorry. i had not the least idea there was anybody there. i was thinking of the sower, and the cares that choke the seed. but get up, and let me see what i have done. what made you hide yourself down there? i am not the gamekeeper. why, it is sam speccotty! poaching again, i am afraid, sam. but i hope i have not hurt you--so very much." "bruk' my head in two. that's what you have done, passon. oh you can't goo to tell on me, after hatting me on the brains with clubstick! ooh, ooh, ooh! i be gooing to die, i be." "speccotty, no lies, and no shamming!" mr. penniloe put on his spectacles, for he knew his customer well enough,--a notorious poacher, but very seldom punished, because he was considered "a natural." "this is no clubstick, but a light walking-stick; and between it and your head there was a thick briar, as well as this vast mop of hair. let me see what you have got under that tree-root." sam had been vainly endeavouring to lead his minister away from his own little buried napkin, or rather sack of hidden treasure. "turn it out;" commanded the parson, surprised at his own austerity. "a brace of cock-pheasants, a couple of woodcocks, two couple of rabbits, and a leash of hares! oh, sam, sam! what have you done? speccotty, i am ashamed of you." "bain't no oother chap within ten maile," said speccotty, regarding the subject from a different point of view; "as could a' dooed that, since dree o'clock this marnin'; now passon do 'e know of wan?" "i am happy to say that i do not; neither do i wish for his acquaintance. give up your gun, sam. even if i let you off, i insist upon your tools; as well as all your plunder." "han't a got no goon," replied the poacher, looking slyly at the parson, through the rough shock of his hair. "never vired a goon, for none on 'un. knows how to vang 'un, wi'out thiccy." "i can well believe that." mr. penniloe knew not a little of poachers, from his boyish days, and was not without that secret vein of sympathy for them, which every sportsman has, so long as they elude and do not defy the law. "but i must consider what i shall do. send all this to my house to-night, that i may return it to the proper owners. unless you do that, you will be locked up to-morrow." "oh passon, you might let me have the roberts. to make a few broth for my old moother." "not a hair, nor a feather shall you keep. your mother shall have some honest broth--but none of your stolen rabbits, speccotty. you take it so lightly, that i fear you must be punished." "oh don't 'e give me up, sir. oh, my poor head do go round so! don't 'e give me up, for god's sake, passon. two or dree things i can tell 'e, as 'e 'd give the buttons off thy coat to know on. do 'e mind when the devil wor seen on hagdon hill, the day avore the good lady varled all down the harseshoe?" "i do remember hearing some foolish story, sam, and silly people being frightened by some strange appearances, very easily explained, no doubt." "you volk, as don't zee things, can make 'un any colour to your own liking. but i tell 'e old nick gooed into the body of a girt wild cat up there; and to this zide of valley, her be toorned to a black dog. zayeth so in the baible, don't 'un?" "i cannot recall any passage, sam, to that effect; though i am often surprised by the knowledge of those who use holy scripture for argument, much more freely than for guidance. and i fear that is the case with you." "whuther a' dooed it, or whuther a' did not, i be the ekal of 'un, that i be. when her coom to me, a'gapin' and a yawnin', i up wi' bill-hook, and i gie'd 'un zummat. if 'tis gone back to hell a' harth, a' wun't coom out again, i reckon, wi'out sam speccotty's mark on 'un. 'twill zave 'e a lot of sarmons, passon. her 'ont want no more knockin' on the head, this zide of yester, to my reckoning. hor! passon be gone a'ready; a' don't want to hear of that. taketh of his trade away. ah, i could tell 'un zomethin', if a' wadn't such a softie." mr. penniloe had hastened on, and no longer swung his holly-stick; not through fear of knocking any more skulking poachers on the head, but from the sadness which always fell upon him, at thought of the dark and deadly blow the lord had been pleased to inflict on him. chapter xxx. frankly speaking. supposing a man to be engaged--as he often must be even now, when the general boast of all things is, that they have done themselves by machinery--in the useful and interesting work of sinking a well, by his own stroke and scoop; and supposing that, when he is up to his hips, and has not got a dry thread upon him, but reeks and drips, like a sprawling jelly-fish--at such a time there should drop upon him half a teaspoonful of water from the bucket he has been sending up--surely one might expect that man to accept with a smile that little dribble, even if he perceives it. alas, he does nothing of the kind! he swears, and jumps, as if he were in a shower-bath of vitriol, then he shouts for the ladder, drags his drenched legs up, and ascends for the purpose of thrashing his mate, who has dared to let a drop slip down on him. such is the case; and no ratepayer who has had to delve for his own water (after being robbed by sewage-works) will fail to perceive the force of it. even so (if it be lawful to compare small things with great), even so it has been, and must be for ever, with a young man over head and ears in love, and digging in the depths of his own green gault. he throws back his head, and he shovels for his life; he scorns the poor fellows who are looking down upon him; and he sends up bucketfuls of his own spooning, perhaps in the form of gravelly verse. the more he gets waterlogged the deeper is his glow, and the bowels of the earth are as goldbeaters' skin to him. but let anybody cast cold water, though it be but a drop, on his fervid frozen loins, and up he comes with both fists clenched. these are the truths that must be cited, in explanation of the sad affair next to be recorded--the quarrel between two almost equally fine fellows,--dr. jemmy fox to wit, and master frank gilham. these two had naturally good liking for each other. there was nothing very marvellous about either of them; although their respective mothers perceived a heavenful of that quality. but they might be regarded as fair specimens of englishmen--more wonderful perhaps than admirable in the eyes of other races. if it were needful for any one to make choice between them, that choice would be governed more by points of liking, than of merit. both were brave, straightforward, stubborn, sensible, and self-respecting fellows, a little hot-headed sometimes perhaps, but never consciously unjust. it seemed a great pity, that such a pair should fall away from friendship, when there were so many reasons for goodwill and amity; not to mention gratitude--that flower of humanity, now extinct, through the number of its cuttings that have all damped off. jemmy fox indeed had cherished a small slip of that, when gilham stood by him in his first distress; but unhappily the slightest change of human weather is inevitably fatal to our very miffy plant. young as he was, frank gilham had been to market already too many times, to look for offal value in gratitude, and indeed he was too generous to regard it as his due; still his feelings of friendship, and of admiration for the superior powers of the other, were a little aggrieved when he found himself kept at a distance, and avoided, for reasons which he understood too well. so when he heard that young dr. fox had returned from that visit to his father, he rode up to _old barn_, to call upon him, and place things upon a plainer footing. jemmy received him in a friendly manner, but with his mind made up to put a stop to any nonsense concerning his sister christie, if gilham should be fool enough to afford him any opening. and this the young yeoman did without delay, for he saw no good reason why he should be made too little of. "and how did you leave miss fox?" he asked, as they took their chairs opposite the great fireplace, in the bare room, scientific with a skull or two, and artistic with a few of christie's water-colour sketches. "i had no difficulty in leaving her," jemmy answered, with a very poor attempt at wit, which he intended to be exasperating. "how was she, i mean? i dare say you got away, without thinking much of anybody but yourself." frank gilham was irritated, as he deserved to be. "thank you; well, i think upon the whole," jemmy fox drawled out his words, as if his chin were too slack to keep them going, and he stroked it in a manner which is always hateful; "yes, i think i may say upon the whole, that she was quite as well as can be expected. i hope you can say the same of your dear mother." frank gilham knew that he was challenged to the combat; and he came forth, as the duty is, and the habit of an englishman. "this is not the first time you have been rude to me;" he said. "and i won't pretend not to know the reason. you think that i have been guilty of some presumption, in daring to lift my eyes to your sister." "to tell you the truth," replied fox getting up, and meeting his steadfast gaze steadfastly; "you have expressed my opinion, better than i could myself have put it." "it is not the sort of thing one can argue about," said the other, also rising; "i know very well that she is too good for me, and has the right to look ever so much higher. but for all that, i have a perfect right to set my heart upon her; especially considering--considering, that i can't help it. and if i do nothing to annoy her, or even to let her know of my presumption, what right have you to make a grievance of it?" "i have never made a grievance of it. i simply wish you to understand, that i do not approve of it." "you have a perfect right to disapprove; and to let me know that you do so. only it would have been more to your credit, if you had done it in an open manner, and in plain english; instead of cutting me, or at any rate dropping my acquaintance. i don't call that straightforward." "the man is a jackass. what rot he talks! look here, my fine fellow. how could i speak to you about it, before you acknowledged your infatuation? could i come up to you in the street, and say--'hi there! you are in love with my sister, are you? if you want to keep a sound skin, you'll haul off.' is that the straightforward course i should have taken?" "well, there may be something in the way you put it. but i would leave it to anybody, whether you have acted fairly. and why should i haul off, i should like to know. i won't haul off, for fifty of you. because i have got no money, i suppose! how would you like to be ordered to haul off from miss waldron, in case you were to lose your money, or anything went against you? instead of hauling off, i'll hold on--in my own mind, at any rate. i don't want a farthing of the money of your family. i would rather not have it,--dirty stuff, what good is it? but i tell you what--if your dear sister would only give me one good word, i would snap my fingers at you, and everybody. i know i am nothing at all. however, i am quite as good as you are; though not to be spoken of, in the same week with her. i tell you, i don't care twopence for any man, or all the men in the world put together--if only your sister thinks well of me. so now, you know what you may look out for." "all this is very fine; but it won't do, gilham." fox thought he saw his way to settle him. "surely you are old enough to see the folly of getting so excited. my sister will very soon be married to sir henry haggerstone--a man of influence, and large fortune. and you--, well to some lady, who can see your value, through a ball of glass, as you do. that power is not given to all of us; but on no account would i disparage you. and when this little joke is over, you will come, and beg my pardon; and we shall be hearty friends again." "sir henry haggerstone!" gilham replied, in a tone of contempt, which would justly have astonished that exemplary baronet. "not she! why, that's the old codger that has had three wives--fiddles, and fiddlesticks, i'm not afraid of him! but just tell me one thing now, upon your honour. would you object to me, if she liked me, and i had a hundred thousand pounds?" "well, no, i don't know that i should, mr. gilham." "then, dr. fox, you would sell your sister, for a hundred thousand pounds. and if she likes to put a lower price upon herself, what right have you to stop her?" "i tell you, gilham, all this is childish talk. if christie has been fool enough to take a fancy to you, it is your place, as a man of honour, to bear in mind how young she is; and to be very careful that you do nothing to encourage it." "but there is no chance of such luck. has it ever seemed likely to you, my dear jemmy, that she--that she even had any idea----" "a great deal too much, i am afraid. at least, i don't mean to say that exactly--but at any rate--well, enough to place you on your honour." "and upon my honour i will be--not to neglect any shadow of a chance, that turns up in my favour. but i can never believe it, jemmy; she is ever so much too lofty, and too lovely, and too clever--did anybody ever see such fingers, and such eyes, and such a smile, and such a voice? and altogether----" "altogether a pack of rubbish. the sooner you order your horse, the better. i can't have you raving here, and fetching all the parish up the hill." "i am a sensible man, jemmy fox. i know a noble thing, when i see it. you are too small of nature, and too selfish for such perception. but you may abuse me, to your heart's content. you will never get a harsh word in reply; after what you have told me. because there must be good in you, or you would never have such a sister. i shall take my own course now; without the smallest consideration for your crotchets. now don't make any mistake about that. and as for honour--clearly understand, that i shall pitch it to the devil." "well, don't come here with any more of your raving. and don't expect me to encourage you. you have been a good fellow--i don't mind saying that--until you took this infernal craze." "oh, i won't trouble you; never you fear. you are doing what you think right, no doubt; and you are welcome to do your worst. only there is one thing i must say. i know that you are too much of a man, to belie me to your sister, or run me down, behind my back. shake hands, jemmy, before i go; perhaps we shall never shake hands again." "get somebody to leave you that hundred thousand pounds," said fox, as he complied with this request; "and then we'll shake hands all day long, instead of shaking fists at each other." "jem crow said to his first wife's mother, what right have you to be anybody's brother?" gilham responded, being in high spirits, with this quotation from that piece of negro doggerel, with which all england was at that time crazed. and thus they parted, with a neutral smile; and none the less perhaps, for that each of them perceived that the parting would prove a long one. "what will nicie have to say about all this? i shall not be contented until i know;" said fox to himself, when his visitor was gone; "i have a great mind to go and get my riding-gaiters. that blessed mother of hers can scarcely growl at me, if i call to-day; considering how long i have been away. i seem to knock under to everybody now. i can't think what has come over me." when a man begins to think that of himself, it shows that he is getting pugnacious, and has not found his proper outlet. the finest thing for him is a long ride then; or a long walk, if he has only two legs. fox was shaking down upon his merits, but still a little crusty with himself, and therefore very much so with every one outside it, when his pretty mare pulled up, to think about the water she was bound to walk through at priestwell. this is one of the fairest hamlets to be found in england. there are houses enough to make one think of the other people that live in them; but not so many as to make it certain that a great many people will be nasty. you might expect, if you lived there, to know something about everybody in the place; and yet only to lift up your hands, and smile, when they did a thing you were too wise to do. the critical inhabitant in such a place--unless he is very wicked--must be happy. he falls into a habitude of small smiles; "many a mickle makes a muckle"--if that be the right way to quote it, which it isn't--however, the result is all the same, he knows what he is about, and it leads him to smile twenty times, for one smile he would have had in town. all these things were producing a fine effect upon the character of dr. gronow. by head and shoulders, without standing up for himself for a single moment, he was the biggest man at priestwell; in knowledge of the world, in acquaintance with books, in power to give good advice, and to help the people who took it--the largest. and after the many hot contentions of his life, and the trouble in being understood (where the game never pays for the candle) here he was taken at his own appraisement, after liberal prepayment. he was not a bad man, take him all in all; though inclined by nature to be many-angled, rather than many-sided. and now, as he stood on the plank that goes over the brook where the road goes under it, he was about as happy as the best of men can be. the old doctor in truth was as full of delight--though his countenance never expressed it--as the young doctor was of dejection. and why? for the very noble reason, that the wiser man now had his fly-rod in hand, fly-book in pocket, creel on back, and waterproof boots upon stiff but sturdy legs. and, main point of all--he was just setting forth; his return must be effected perhaps in quite another pair of shoes. the priestwell water flows into the perle from the north, some half mile higher up than the influx of susscot brook from the south, and it used to be full of bright stickles and dark hovers, peopled with many a bouncing trout. for a trout of a pound is a bouncer there; and a half-pounder even is held a comely fish; and sooth to say, the angler is not so churlish as to fail of finding joy in one of half that size. not a sign of spring was on the earth as yet, and very little tidings of it in the air; but any amount was in the old man's heart, as he listened to the warbling of the brook, and said to himself that he should catch, perhaps, a fish. he was going to fish downwards, as he always did, for he never liked to contradict the water. at the elbow of the stream was his own willow-tree, at the bottom of his lawn, and there a big fish lived--the dr. gronow of the liquid realm, who defied the dr. gronow of the dry land. ha, why not tackle him this very afternoon, and ennoble the opening day thereby; for the miserable floods, and the long snow-time, and the shackling of the stream is over; no water-colour artist could have brought the stickles to a finer fishing tint; and lo, there is a trout upon the rise down there, tempted by the quiver of a real iron-blue! with these thoughts glowing in his heart, and the smoke of his pipe making rings upon the naked alder-twigs, he was giving his flies the last titivating touch--for he always fished with three, though two were one too many--when he heard a voice not too encouraging. "i say, doctor, if you don't look out, you'll be certain to get bogged, you know." "don't care if i do;" replied the doctor, whisking his flies around his head, and startling _perle_ with the flash of his rod. "you had better go home," continued jemmy, "and let the banks dry up a bit, and some of your fish have time to breed again. why, the floods must have washed them all down into the perle; and the perle must have washed them all down into the sea." "that shows how much you know about it. i have got a most splendid patent dodge, at the bottom of my last meadow. i'll show it to you some fine day, if you are good. it is so constructed that it keeps all my trout from going down into the perle, and yet it lets all the perle trout come up to me; and when they are up, they can't get back again of course. and the same thing reversed, at the top of my grounds. i expect to have more fish than pebbles in my brook. and nobody can see it, that's the beauty of it. but mind, you mustn't say a word about it, jemmy. people are so selfish!" "of course, i won't; you may trust me. but when you have got everybody else's fish in your water, can you get them out of it? i know nothing at all about it. but to make any hand at angling, is it not the case that you must take to it in early life? look at pike, for instance. what a hand he is! never comes home without a basketful. he'll be here again next week, i believe." fox knew well enough that dr. gronow hated the very name of pike. "i am truly sorry to hear it. i am sure it must be high time for that lad to go to college. penniloe ought to be sent to prison, for keeping such a poacher. but as for myself, if i caught too many, i should not enjoy it half so much, because i should think there was no skill in it." "well, now, i never thought of that. and _pari ratione_ if we save too many of our patients, we lay ourselves open to the charge of luck." "no fear for you, jemmy. you are not a lucky fellow. come in and have a talk with me, by and by. i want to hear the last news, if there is any." "yes, there is some. but i must tell you now, or never. for i have to ride round through pumpington. and i came this way on purpose, to get the benefit of your opinion." "but, my dear fellow, it gets dark so soon;" dr. gronow looked wistfully at his flies. "well, if you won't be more than five minutes, i will put an iron-blue on, instead of a half-kingdon. but don't be longer than you can help. you are the only man in the parish i would stop for." omitting all description, except of persons, fox told the elder doctor what he had learned at the mouth of the mendip mine, and at the _smoking limekiln_, as well as what he knew of harvey tremlett from mr. penniloe's account, reminding him also of joe crang's description, and showing how well it tallied. "my advice can be given in a word; and that is 'not a word;'" answered gronow, forgetting his flies for the moment. "not a word to any one, but mockham the magistrate; and not even to him, until needful. shrove-tuesday, you say, is the date of the fair. don't apply for your warrant, until that morning, if you can get it then without delay. only you must make sure that mockham will be at home to issue it, and you must have joe crang there quietly, and gag him somewhere for the rest of the day--perhaps a little opiate in his beer. you see it is of the first importance that not a word should leak out about your intention of nabbing those fellows at the fair, until you are down upon them; for your birds would never come near the trap. it is perfectly amazing how such things spread, faster than any bird can fly; for the whole world seems to be in league against the law. there is plenty of time for us to talk it over, between this and then, if you only keep it close. of course you have not mentioned it to anybody yet." "not to a soul. i had sense enough for that. but i might have done so before long, if i had missed meeting you to-day. shall i not tell even penniloe? he has known everything hitherto." "certainly not yet. he is quite safe of course, so far as mere intention goes; but he might make a slip, and he is a nervous man. for his own sake, he had better not have this upon his mind. and his ideas are so queer. if he were questioned, i feel sure that he would not even tell a white lie; but be frightfully clumsy, and say, 'i refuse to answer.' better tell the whole truth than do that; for suspicion is shrewder than certainty." "but i don't like concealing it from him at all. i fear he will be hurt, when he comes to know it; because we have acted together throughout, and the matter so closely concerns his parish." "have no fear, jemmy. i'll make that all right. we will tell him about it on the day of action, and let him know that for his own sake only, i persuaded you to keep it from him. why, that fellow's daughter is in his house, and a wonderfully clever imp, they say. and i am not at all sure that he would not preach about it. he thinks so much more of people's souls, than of their parts that are rational." "very well then, for his own sake, i won't say a word to him about it. you are right; it would make him miserable to have such a shindy so long in prospect. for it will be a rare fight, i can tell you. the fellow is as big as an elephant almost; and my namesake, jem kettel, is a stuggy young chap, very likely to prove a tough customer. and then there will be timberlegs, whoever he may be." "all right, jemmy, we will give a good account of them. mind _v._ matter always wins the verdict. but let me congratulate you upon your luck. we must get to the bottom of this strange affair now, if we can only nab those fellows." "i should hope so. but how do you think it will prove? who will be detected as the leading villain? for these rogues have only been hired of course." "well, i own myself puzzled, jemmy, worse than ever. until this last news of yours, i was inclined to think that there had been some strange mistake all through, while the good colonel slept still undisturbed. but now it appears that i must have been wrong. and i hardly like to tell you my last idea, because of your peculiar position." "i know what you mean, and i thank you for it;" fox replied with a rapid glance. "but to my mind that seems the very reason why i should know everything." "well, if you take it so, friend jemmy, as my first theory is now proved wrong, my second one is that lady waldron knows more about this matter than anybody else. she has always shown herself hostile to you, so that my idea cannot shock you, as otherwise it might. are you angry with me?" "not in the least; though i cannot believe it, thereby returning good for evil; for she was quick enough to believe it--or feign to do so--about me. there are things that tend towards your conclusion. i am sorry to acknowledge that there are. and yet, until it is positively proved, i will not think it possible. she is no great favourite of mine, you know, any more than i am of hers. also, i am well aware that women do things a man never would believe; and some women don't mind doing anything. but i cannot persuade myself that she is one of that sort. she has too much pride to be a hypocrite." "so i should have thought. but against facts, where are you? shrove tuesday will tell us a thing or two however. that is a very nice mare of yours. i know nothing of horses, but judge them by their eyes; though their legs are the proper study. good-bye, my boy! perhaps i shall amaze you with a dish of trout to-morrow. they are always in very fine condition here." chapter xxxi. a great prize. one of the beauties of this world is, for the many who are not too good for it, that they never can tell what may turn up next, and need not over-exert themselves in the production of novelty, because somebody will be sure to do it for them. and those especially who have the honour and pleasure of dealing with the gentler sex are certain, without any effort of their own, to encounter plenty of vicissitude. such was the fortune of dr. fox, when he called that day at walderscourt. he found his sweet nicie in a sad condition, terribly depressed, and anxious, in consequence of a long interview with her mother, which had been as follows. for the last fortnight, or three weeks, lady waldron had not recovered strength, but fallen away even more, declining into a peculiar and morbid state. sometimes gloomy, downcast, and listless, secluding herself, and taking very little food, and no exercise whatever; at other times bewildered, excited, and restless, beginning a sentence and breaking it off, laughing about nothing, and then morose with every one. pretty tamar haddon had a great deal to put up with, and probably would not have shown the needful patience, except for handsome fees lightly earned by reports collected in the village. but sergeant jakes being accessible no more--for he had cast off the spell in the abbey, that sunday--poor lady waldron's anxiety was fed with tales of very doubtful authority. and the strange point was that she showed no impatience at the tardiness of the enquiry now, but rather a petulant displeasure at its long continuance. now that very morning, while fox was on the road to call upon his beloved, she was sent for suddenly by her mother, and hastened with some anxiety to the room which the widow now left so seldom. inez had long been familiar with the truth that her mother's love for her was not too ardent; and she often tried--but without much success--to believe that the fault was on her part. the mother ascribed it very largely to some defect in her daughter's constitution. "she has not one drop of spanish blood in her. she is all of english, except perhaps her eyes; and the eyes do not care to see things of spain." thus she justified herself, unconscious perhaps that jealousy of the father's love for this pet child had been, beyond doubt, the first cause of her own estrangement. this terribly harassed and lonely woman (with no one but god to comfort her, and very little sense of any consolation thus) was now forsaken by that support of pride and strength of passion, which had enabled her at first to show a resolute front to affliction. leaning back upon a heavy couch, she was gazing without much interest at the noble ivory crucifix, which had once so strongly affected her, but now was merely a work of art, a subject for admiration perhaps, but not for love or enthusiasm. of these there was no trace in her eyes, only apathy, weariness, despondence. "lock the outer door. i want no spies," she said in a low voice which alarmed her daughter; "now come and sit close to me in this chair. i will speak in my own language. none but you and i understand it here now." "it is well, mother mine," replied her daughter, speaking also in spanish; "but i wish it were equally well with you." "it will never be well with me again, and the time will be long before it can be well with you. i have doubted for days about telling you, my child, because i am loth to grieve you. but the silence upon this matter is very bitter to me; moreover it is needful that you should know, in case of my obtaining the blessed release, that you also be not triumphed over. it is of that unholy outrage i must speak. long has it been a black mystery to us. but i understand it now--alas, i cannot help understanding it!" inez trembled exceedingly; but her mother, though deadly pale, was calm. both face and voice were under stern control, and there were no dramatic gestures. "never admit him within these doors, if i am not here to bar them. never take his hand, never listen to his voice, never let your eyes rest upon his face. never give him a crust, though he starve in a ditch; never let him be buried with holy rites. as he has treated my dear husband, so shall god treat him, when he is dead. it is for this reason that i tell you. if you loved your father, remember it." "but who is it, mother? what man is this, who has abandoned his soul to the evil one? make me sure of his name, that i may obey you." "the man who has done it is my own twin-brother, rodrigo, count de varcas: rodrigo, the accursed one." the spanish lady clasped her hands, and fell back against the wall, and dropped her eyes; as if the curse were upon her also, for being akin to the miscreant. her daughter could find no words, and was in doubt of believing her own ears. "yes, i know well what i am saying;" lady waldron began again with some contempt. "i am strong enough. offer me nothing to smell. shall i never die? i ought to have died, before i knew this, if there were any mercy in heaven. that my twin-brother, my own twin-brother, the one i have loved and laboured for, and even insulted my own good husband, because he would not bow down to him--not for any glory, revenge, or religion, but for the sake of grovelling money--oh inez, my child, that he should have done this!" "but how do you know that he has done it? has he made any confession, mother? surely it is possible to hope against it, unless he himself has said so." "he has not himself said so. he never does. to accuse himself is no part of his habits, but rather to blame every other. and such is his manner that every one thinks he must be right and his enemies wrong. but to those who have experience of him, the question is often otherwise. you remember that very--very faithful gentleman, who came to us, about a month ago?" "mother, can you mean that man, arrogant but low, who consumed all my dear father's boxes of cigars, and called himself seã±or josã© quevedo, and expected even me to salute him as of kin?" "hush, my child! he is your uncle's foster-brother, and trusted by him in everything. you know that i have in the journals announced my desire to hear from my beloved brother--beloved alas too much, and vainly. i was long waiting, i was yearning, having my son in the distance, and you who went against me in everything, to embrace and be strengthened by my only brother. what other friend had i on earth? and in answer to my anxiety arrives that man, sedate, mysterious, not to be doubted, but regarded as a lofty cavalier. i take him in, i trust him, i treat him highly, i remember him as with my brother always in the milky days of childhood, although but the son of a well-intentioned peasant. and then i find what? that he has come for money--for money, which has always been the bane of my only and well-born brother, for the very dismal reason that he cannot cling to it, and yet must have both hands filled with it for ever. inez, do you attend to me?" "mother, i am doing so, with all my ears; and with all my heart as well i heed. but these things surprise me much, because i have always heard from you that my uncle rodrigo was so noble, so chivalrous, so far above all englishmen, by reason of the grandeur of his spirit." "and in that style will he comport himself, upon most of life's occasions, wherein money does not act as an impediment. of that character is he always, while having more than he can spend of it. but let him see the necessity, and the compulsion to deny himself, too near to him approaching, and he will not possess that loftiness of spirit, and benevolence universal. departing from his larger condition of mind, he will do things which honour does not authorise. things unworthy of the mighty barcas, from whom he is descended. but the barcas have often been strong and wicked; which is much better than weak and base." her ladyship paused, as in contemplation of the sterling nobility of her race, and apparently derived some comfort from the strong wickedness of the barcas. "mother, i hope that it is not so." nicie's view of excellence was milder. "you are strong but never wicked. i am not strong; but on the other hand, i trust, that i am not weak and base." "you never can tell what you can do. you may be most wicked of the wicked yet. those english girls, that are always good, are braised vegetables without pepper. the only one i ever saw to approve, was the one who was so rude to me. how great her indignation was! she is worthy to be of andalusia." "but why should so wicked a thing be done--so horrible even from a stranger?" the flashing of nicie's dark eyes was not unworthy of andalusia. "how could the meanest greed of money be gratified by such a deed?" "in this manner, if i understand aright. during the time of the french invasion, just before our marriage, the junta of our city had to bear a great part of the burden of supporting and paying our brave troops. they fell into great distress for money, which became scarcer and scarcer, from the terrible war, and the plundering. all lovers of their country came with both hands full of treasure; and among them my father contributed a loan of noble magnitude, which has impaired for years to come the fortunes of our family. for not a _peseta_ will ever be repaid, inasmuch as there was no security. when all they could thus obtain was spent, and the richest men would advance no more, without prospect of regaining it, the junta (of which my father was a member) contrived that the city should combine with them in pledging its revenues, which were large, to raise another series of loans. and to obtain these with more speed, they appealed to the spirit of gambling; which is in the hearts of all men, but in different forms and manners. "one loan that was promulgated thus amounted to 100,000 dollars, contributed in twenty shares of 5,000 dollars each: and every share was to have a life of not less than fifteen years in age appointed to represent it. no money was to be repaid; but the interest to accumulate, until nineteen out of those twenty lives became extinct, and thereupon the whole was to go to the last survivor, and by that time it would be a very large sum. i believe that the scheme came from the french, who are wonderfully clever in such calculations; whereas finance is not of us. do you seem to yourself to understand it?" "not very much, but to some extent. i have read of a wheel of life; and this appears to me to be a kind of wheel of death." "so it is, my child. you can scarcely be so stupid, as you have been described to me. i am not too strong of the arithmetic science, though in other ways not wanting. you will see, that there was a royal treasure thus, increasing for the one who should deserve it, by having more of life than the nineteen others, and acquiring it thus, for the time he had to come. that kind of lottery, coming from paris, was adopted by other governments, under the title of _tontine_, i think. my dear father, who was a warm patriot, but unable to contribute more without hope of return, accepted two of those five thousand dollar shares, and put into one the name of my brother, and into the other that of my dear husband, then about to be: because those two were young, while himself was growing old. your father has spoken to me of his share, several times, as it became of greater value; and he provided for it in his will, supposing that he should ever become the possessor, although he approved not of any kind of gambling. "if you can represent to yourself that scheme, you will see that each share was enlarged in prospect, as the others failed of theirs by death; and, of the twenty lives appointed, the greater part vanished rapidly; many by war, and some by duels, and others by accident and disease; until it appears--though we knew it not--that your father and your uncle rodrigo were the sole survivors. your father and i kept no watch upon it, being at such a distance; but now i have learned that your uncle has been exceedingly acute and vigilant, having no regard for your dear father, and small affection, i fear, for me; but a most passionate devotion to the huge treasure now accumulated upon heavy interest, and secured by the tolls of the city. "i am grieved by discovering from this man quevedo, that your uncle has been watching very keenly everything that has happened here; he has employed an agent, whose name i could not by any means extort from quevedo, and not contented with his reports, but excited by the tidings of your father's ill-health, he has even been present in these parts himself, to reconnoitre for himself; for he is capable of speaking english, even better than i do. quevedo is very cautious; but by plying him with spanish wine, such as he cannot procure in spain, feigning also to be on his side, i extorted from him more than he wished to part with. no suspicion had i, while he was here, that his master was guilty of the black disgrace thus inflicted upon us: or can you imagine that i would allow that man to remain in the house of the outraged one? and quevedo himself either feigns, or possesses, total ignorance of this vile deed." "but, mother dear, how did this suspicion grow upon you? and for what purpose--if i may inquire--was that man quevedo sent to you?" "he was sent with two objects. to obtain my signature to an attested declaration as to the date of your father's death; and in the second place to borrow money for the support of your uncle's claim. it could not be expected that the city would discharge so vast a sum (more than five hundred thousand crowns they say) without interposing every possible obstacle and delay; and our family, through your uncle's conduct, has lost all the influence it possessed when i was young. i am pleased to think now that he must be disappointed with the very small sum which i advanced, in my deep disgust at discovering, that at the very time when i was sighing and languishing for his support, he was at my very doors, but through his own selfish malignity avoided his twin-sister. quevedo meant not to have told me that. but alas! i extorted it from him, after a slip of his faithful tongue. for you know, i believe, that your father and uncle were never very friendly. my brother liked not that i should wed an englishman; all men of this nation he regarded with contempt, boasting as they did in our country, where we permitted them to come and fight. but you have never been told, my child, that the scar upon your dear father's face was inflicted by your uncle's sword, employed (as i am ashamed to confess) in an unfair combat. upon recovering from the stealthy blow, your father in his great strength could have crushed him to death, for he was then a stripling; but for my sake he forbore. it has been concealed from you. there is no concealment now." "oh, mother, how savage and ignominious also! i wonder that you ever could desire to behold such a man again; and that you could find it in your heart to receive his envoy kindly." "many years have passed since then, my child. and we have a saying, 'to a fellow-countryman forgive much, and to a brother everything.' your father had forgiven him, before the wound was healed. much more slowly did i forgive. and, but for this matter, never would i have spoken." "oh, mother dear, you have had much sorrow! i have never considered it, as i should have done. a child is like an egg, as you say in spain, that demands all the warmth for itself, and yields none. yet am i surprised, that knowing so much of him, you still desired his presence, and listened to the deceits of his messenger. but you have wisdom; and i have none. tell me then what he had to gain, by an outrage hateful to a human being, and impossible to a christian." "it is not clear, my child, to put it to your comprehension. the things that are of great power with us are not in this country so copious. we are loftier. we are more friendly with the great powers that reside above. in every great enterprise, we feel what would be their own sentiments; though not to be explained by heretical logic. your uncle has never been devoted to the church, and has profited little by her teaching; but he is not estranged from her so much, that he need in honour hesitate to have use and advantage from her charitable breast. for she loves every one, even those who mock her, with feeble imitation of her calls." "mother, but hitherto you have cared little or nothing for holy church. you have allowed me to wander from her; and my mind is the stronger for the exercise. why then this new zeal and devotion?" "inez, the reason is very simple; although you may not understand it yet. we love the institutions that make much of us, even when we are dead, and comfort our bodies with ceremonies, and the weepers with reasons for smiling. this heretic corporation, to which mr. penniloe belongs, has many good things imitated from us; but does not understand itself. therefore, it is not a power in the land, to govern the law, or to guide great actions of property and of behaviour, as the holy catholic church can do, in the lands where she has not been deposed. knowing how such things are with us, your uncle (as i am impelled to believe), having plenty of time for preparation, had arranged to make one master-stroke, towards this great object of his life. at once to bring all the ecclesiastics to his side with fervour, and before the multitude to prove his claim in a manner the most dramatic. "behold it thus, as upon a stage! the whole city is agitated with the news, and the immensity of his claim. the young men say that it is just to pay it, if it can be proved, for the honour of the city. but the old men shake their heads, and ask where is the money to come from; what new tolls can be imposed; and who can believe a thing, that must be proved by the oaths of foreign heretics? "lo there appears the commanding figure of the count de varcas before the great cathedral doors; behind him a train of sailors bear the body of the great british warrior, well-known among the elder citizens by his lofty stature and many wounds, renowned among the younger as a mighty hero. the bishop, archbishop, and all powers of the church (being dealt with privately beforehand) are moved to tears by this act of grace, this manifest conversion of a noble briton, claiming the sacred rites of _campo santo_, and not likely to enjoy them without much munificence, when that most righteous claim upon the seculars is paid. dares any one to doubt identity? behold, upon the finger of the departed one, is the very ring with which the city's benefactor sealed his portion of the covenant; and which he presented to his son-in-law, as a holy relic of his ancient family, upon betrothal to his daughter. "thereupon arises the universal cry--'redeem the honour of the city.' a few formalities still remain; one of which is satisfied by the arrival of quevedo with my deposition. the noble count, the descendant of the barcas, rides in a chariot extolled by all, and scatters a few _pesetas_ of his half a million dollars. it was gained by lottery, it goes by gambling; in six months he is penniless again. he has robbed his brother's grave in vain. for another hundred dollars, he would rob his twin-sister's." "oh, mother, it is horrible! too horrible to be true. and yet how it clears up everything! and even so, how much better it is, than what we supposed, and shuddered at! but have you any evidence beyond suspicion? if it is not unbecoming, i would venture to remind you, that you have already in your mind condemned another, whose innocence is now established." "nay, not established, except to minds that are, like mine, full of charity. it is not impossible, that he may have joined my brother--oh that i should call him so!--in this abominable enterprise. i say it not, to vex you in your lofty faith. but it would have made that enterprise far easier to arrange. and if a noble spaniard can stoop thus, why should not a common englishman?" "because he is a gentleman;" cried nicie, rising with a flash of indignation, "which a nobleman sometimes is not. and since you have spoken thus, i doubt the truth of your other accusation. but that can very soon be put to the test, by making enquiry on the spot. if what you suppose has happened at all, it must be of public knowledge there. have you sent any one to enquire about it?" "not yet. i have not long seen things clearly. only since that quevedo left, it has come upon me by reasoning. neither do i know of any trusty person. it must be one faithful to the family, and careful of its reputation; for the disgrace shall never be known in this cold england. remember therefore, i say, that you speak no word, not even to mr. penniloe, or dr. fox, of this conclusion forced upon me. if in justice to others we are compelled to avow that the deed was of the family, we must declare that it was of piety and high religious feeling, and strictly conceal that it was of sordid lucre." "but mother, they may in the course of their own enquiries discover how it was at last. the last things ascertained tend that way. and if they should find any trace of ship----" "i have given orders to drop all further searches. and you must use your influence with--with all you have any sway upon, that nothing more shall be done at present. of course you will not supply the reason; but say that it has been so arranged. now go, my child; i have talked too long. my strength is not as it was, and i dwell most heavily on the better days. but one thing i would enjoin upon you. until i speak again of that which i have seen in my own mind, to its distress and misery, ask me no more about it, neither in any way refer to it. the lord,--who is not of this church, or that, but looks down upon us from the crucifix,--he can pity and protect us. but you will be glad that i have told you this; because it will devour me the less." chapter xxxii. pleadings. "but it will devour me the more. my mother cannot love me;" the poor girl was obliged to think, as she sat in her lonely room again. "she has laid this heavy burden on me; and i am to share it with no one. does she suppose that i feel nothing, and am wholly absorbed in love-proceedings, forgetting all duty to my father? sometimes i doubt almost whether jemmy fox is worthy of my affection. i am not very precious. i know that--the lesson is often impressed upon me--but i know that i am simple, and loving, and true; and he takes me too much for granted. if he were noble, and could love with all his heart, would he be so hard upon his sister, for liking a man, who is her equal in everything but money? the next time i see him, i will try him about that. if a man is noble, as i understand the word, he will be noble for others, as well as for himself. uncle penniloe is the only real nobleman i know; because to him others are equal to himself." this was only a passing mood, and not practical enough to be permanent. however it was the prevailing one, when in came jemmy fox himself. that young doctor plumed himself upon his deep knowledge of the fairer sex; and yet like the rest of mankind who do so, he showed little of that knowledge in his dealings with them. in the midst of so many doubts and fears, and with a miserable sense of loneliness, miss waldron was in "a high-strung condition"--as ladies themselves describe it--though as gentle and affectionate as ever. she was gazing at little pet _pixie_, and wondering in her self-abasement, whether there is any human love so deep, devoted, and everlasting (while his little life endures) as that of an ordinary dog. _pixie_, the pug-dog, sitting at her feet was absorbed in wistful watching, too sure that his mistress was plunged in trouble, beyond the reach of his poor mind, but not perhaps beyond the humble solace of such a yearning heart. in this interchange of tender feelings, a still more tender vein was touched. "squeak!" went _pixie_, with a jump, and then a long eloquence of yelp and howl proved that he partook too deeply of the woe he had prayed to share. a heavy riding-boot had crushed his short but sympathetic tail--the tail he was so fond of chasing as a joyful vision, but now too mournfully and materially his own! dr. fox, with a cheerful smile, as if he had done something meritorious, gazed into nicie's sparkling eyes. perhaps he expected a lovely kiss, after his long absence. "why, you don't seem to care a bit for what you have done!" cried the young girl, almost repelling him. "allow me to go to my wounded little dear. oh you poor little persecuted pet, what did they do to you? was his lovely taily broken? oh the precious little martyr, that he should have come to this! did a monstrous elephant come, and crush his darling life out? give his missy a pretty kiss, with the great tears rolling on his cheek." "well, i wish you'd make half as much fuss about me;" said fox, with all the self-command that could well be expected. "you haven't even asked me how i am!" "oh, i beg your pardon then;" she answered, looking up at him, with the little dog's nose cuddled into her neck, and his short sobs puffing up the golden undergrowth of her darkly-clustering hair. "yes, to be sure, i should have asked that. it was very forgetful of me. but his poor tail seems to be a little easier now; and the vigour of your step shows how well you have come back to us." "well, more than welcome, i am afraid. i can always make allowance for the humours of young ladies; and i know how good and sweet you are. but i think you might have been glad to see me." "not when you tread upon my dear dog's tail, and laugh in my face afterwards, instead of being very sorry. i should have begged pardon, if i had been so clumsy as to tread upon a dog of yours." "dogs are all very well, in their way; but they have no right to get into our way. this poor little puggie's tail is all right now. shake hands, puggie. why, look! he has forgiven me." "that shows how wonderfully kind he is, and how little he deserves to be trodden on. but i will not say another word about that; only you might have been sorrier. their consciences are so much better than ours. he is licking your hand, as if he had done the wrong. your sister agreed with me about their nobility. how is darling christie?" "everybody is a darling, except me to-day! christie is well enough. she always is; except when she goes a cropper out of a trap, and knocks young men's waistcoat-buttons off." "how coarsely you put it, when you ought to be most thankful to the gentleman who rescued her, when you left her at the mercy of a half-wild horse!" "i don't know what to make of you to-day, miss waldron. have i done anything to offend you? you are too just and sensible, and--gentle, i should like to say--not to know that you have put an entirely wrong construction upon that little accident with farrant's old screw. it was christie's own fault, every bit of it. she thought herself a grand whip, and she came to grief; as girls generally do, when they are bumptious." "you seem to have a great contempt for girls, dr. fox. what have the poor things done to offend you so?" "somebody must have been speaking against me. i'd give a trifle to know who it is. i have always been accustomed to reasonable treatment." "there now, his dear little tail is better! little _pixie_ loves me so. little _pixie_ never tells somebody that she is an unreasonable creature. little _pixie_ is too polite for that." "well, i think i had better be off for the day. i have heard of people getting out of bed the wrong side; and you can't make it right all the day, when that has happened. miss waldron, i must not go away without saying that my sister sends you her very best love. i was to be sure to remember that." "oh, thank you, dr. fox! your sister is always so very sweet and considerate. and i hope she has also been allowed to send it where it is due, a thousand times as much as here." "where can that be? at the rectory, i suppose. yes, she has not forgotten mr. penniloe. she is not at all fickle in her likings." "now that is a very fine quality indeed, as well as a very rare one. and another she has, and will not be driven from it; and i own that i quite agree with her. she does not look down upon other people, and think that they belong to another world, because they are not so well off in this one as she is. a gentleman is a gentleman, in her judgment, and is not to be cast by, after many kind acts, merely because he is not made of money." "ah, now i see what all this comes to!" exclaimed fox, smiling pleasantly. "well, i am quite open to a little reasoning there, because the whole thing is so ridiculous. now put it to yourself; how would you like to be a sort of son-in-law to good mother gilham's green coal-scuttle? a coal-scuttle should make one grateful, you will say. hear, hear! not at all a bad pun that; though quite involuntary." "the bonnet may be behind the age, or in front of it, i know not which;" said nicie, very resolute to show no smile; "but a better and sweeter old face never looked----" "a better horse never looked out of a bridle. it is bridle, and blinkers, and saddle, all in one." "it is quite useless trying to make me laugh." her voice however belied her; and _pixie_ watching her face began to wag the wounded tail again. "your sister, who knows what bonnets are, to which you can have no pretension, is well acquainted with the sterling value----" "oh come, i am sure it would not fetch much now, though it may have cost two guineas, or more, in the days before 'my son frank' was born." "really, jemmy, you are too bad, when i want to talk seriously." "so long as i am 'jemmy' once more, i don't care how bad i am." "that was a slip. but you must listen to me. i will not be laughed off from saying what i think. do you suppose that it is a joking matter for poor frank gilham?" "i don't care a copper for his state of mind, if chris is not fool enough to share it. the stupid fellow came to me this morning, and instead of trying to smoothe me down, what does he do but blow me up sky-high! you should have heard him. he never swore at all, but gave utterance to the noblest sentiments--just because they were in his favour." "then i admire him for it. it was very manly of him. why were all large ideas in his favour? just because the small ones are on your side. i suppose, you pretend to care for me?" "no pretence about it. all too true. and this is what i get done to me?" "but how would you like my brother to come and say--'i disapprove of dr. fox. i forbid you to say another word to him'? would you recognize his fraternal right in the matter, and go away quietly?" "hardly that. i should leave it to you. and if you held by me, i should snap my fingers at him." "of course you would. and so would anybody else; frank gilham among the number. and your sister--is she to have no voice, because you are a roaring lion? surely her parents, and not her brother, should bar the way, if it must be barred. just think of yourself, and ask yourself how your own law would fit you." "the cases are very different, and you know it as well as i do. frank gilham is quite a poor man; and, although he is not a bad kind of fellow, his position in the world is not the same as ours." "that may be so. but if christie loves him, and is quite content with his position in the world, and puts up with the coal-scuttle--as you call it--and he is a good man and true, and a gentleman, are they both to be miserable, to please you? and more than that--you don't know christie. if frank gilham shows proper courage, and is not afraid of mean imputations, no one will ask your leave, i think." "well, i shall have done my best; and if i cannot stop it, let them rue the day. her father and mother would never allow it; and as i am responsible for the whole affair, and cannot consult them, as things are now, i am bound to act in their place, i think. but never mind that. one may argue for ever, and a girl in a moment can turn the tables on the cleverest man alive. let us come back to our own affairs. i have some news which ought to please you. by rare good luck i have hit upon the very two men who were employed upon that awful business. i shall have them soon, and then we shall know all about this most mysterious case. by george, it shall go hard indeed with the miscreant who plotted it." "oh don't--oh don't! what good can it be?" cried nicie, trembling, and stammering. "it will kill my mother; i am sure it will. i implore you not to go on with it." "what!" exclaimed fox with amazement. "you to ask me, you his only daughter, to let it be so--to hush up the matter--to submit to this atrocious wrong! and your father--it is the last thing i ever should have thought to hear." in shame and terror she could not speak, but quailed before his indignant gaze, and turned away from him with a deep low sob. "my darling, my innocent dear," he cried in alarm at her bitter anguish; "give me your hand; let me look at your face. i know that no power on earth would make you do a thing that you saw to be shameful. i beg your pardon humbly, if i spoke too harshly. you know that i would not vex you, inez, and beyond any doubt you can explain this strange--this inconceivable thing. you are sure to have some good reason for it." "yes, you would say so if you knew all. but not now--i dare not; it is too dreadful. it is not for myself. if i had my own way--but what use? i dare not even tell you that. for the present, at least for the present, do nothing. if you care about me at all, i beg you not to do what would never be forgiven. and my mother is in such a miserable state, so delicate, so frail, and helpless! do for my sake, do show this once, that you have some affection for me." nicie put her soft hand on his shoulder, and pleaded her cause with no more words, but a gaze of such tenderness and sweet faith, that he could not resist it. especially as he saw his way to reassure her, without departing from the plan he had resolved upon. "i will do anything, my pretty dove," he said with a noble surrender; "to relieve your precious and trustful heart. i will even do this, if it satisfies you--i will take no steps for another month, an entire month from this present time. i cannot promise more than that, now can i, for any bewitchment? and in return, you must pledge yourself to give your mother not even a hint of what i have just told you. it would only make her anxious, which would be very bad for her health, poor thing; and she has not the faith in me, that you have. she must not even dream that i have heard of those two villains." this was a bright afterthought of his; for if lady waldron should know of his discovery, she might contrive to inform them, that he had his eye upon them. "oh, how good you are!" cried nicie. "i can never thank you enough, dear jemmy; and it must appear so cruel of me, to ask you to forego so long the chance of shaming those low people, who have dared to belie you so." "what is a month, compared to you?" jemmy asked, with real greatness. "but if you feel any obligation, you know how to reward me, dear." nicie looked at him, with critical eyes; and then as if reckless of anything small, flung both arms round his neck, and kissed him. "oh it is so kind, so kind of him!" she declared to herself, to excuse herself; while he thought it was very kind of her. and she, being timid of her own affection, loved him all the more for not encroaching on it. jemmy rode away in a happy frame of mind. he loved that beautiful maiden, and he was assured of her love for him. he knew that she was far above him, in the gifts of nature, and the bloom that beautifies them--the bloom that is not of the cheeks alone, but of the gentle dew of kindness, and the pearl of innocence. fox felt a little ashamed of himself, for a trifle of sharp practice; but his reason soon persuaded him, that his conscience was too ticklish. and that is a thing to be stopped at once. while jogging along in this condition, on the road towards pumpington, he fell in with another horseman less inclined to cheerfulness. this was farmer stephen horner, a younger brother of farmer john, a less substantial, and therefore perhaps more captious agriculturist. he was riding a very clever cob, and looked both clever and smart himself, in his bottle-green cutaway coat, red waistcoat, white cord breeches and hard brown hat. striking into the turnpike road from a grass-track skirting the beacon hill, he hailed the doctor, and rode beside him. "heard the news, have 'e?" asked farmer steve, as his fat calves creaked against the saddle-flaps within a few inches of jemmy's, and their horses kept step, like a dealer's pair. "but there--come to think of it, i be a fool for asking, and you always along of passon so?" "only came home yesterday. haven't seen him yet," the doctor answered briskly. "haven't heard anything particular. nothing the matter with him, i hope?" "not him, sir, so much as what he've taken up. hath made up his mind, so people say, to abolish our old fair to perlycross." farmer steve watched the doctor's face. he held his own opinion, but he liked to know the other's first. moreover he owed him a little bill. "but surely he cannot do that;" said fox, who cared not a jot about the fair, but thought of his own concern with it. "why, it was granted by charter, i believe, hundreds of years ago; when perlycross was a much larger place, and the main road to london passed through it, as the pack-saddle teams do still sometimes." "so it were, sir, so it were. many's the time when i were a boy, i have read of magner charter, and the time as they starved the king in the island, afore the old yew-tree come on our old tower. but my brother john, he reckoneth as he knoweth everything; and he saith our market-place belongeth to the dean and chapter, and fair was granted to church, he saith, and so church can abolish it. but i can't see no sense in that. why, it be outside of church railings altogether. now you are a learned man, doctor fox. and if you'll give me your opinion, i can promise 'e, it shan't go no further." "the plain truth is," replied jemmy, knowing well that if his opinion went against the parson, it would be all over the parish by supper-time, "i have never gone into the subject, and i know nothing whatever about it. but we all know the fair has come down to nothing now. there has not been a beast there for the last three years, and nothing but a score of pigs, and one pen of sheep last year. it has come to be nothing but a pleasure-fair, with a little show of wrestling, and some singlestick play, followed by a big bout of drinking. still i should have thought there would be at least a twelvemonth's notice, and a public proclamation." "so say i, sir; and the very same words i used to my brother john, last night. john horner is getting a'most too big, with his churchwarden, and his hundred pounds, he had better a' kept for his family. let 'un find out who have robbed his own churchyard, afore 'a singeth out again' a poor man's glass of ale. i don't hold with john in all things; though a' hath key pianner for's dafters, and addeth field to field, same as rich man in the bible laid up treasure for his soul this night. i tell you what, doctor, and you may tell john horner--i likes old things, for being old; though there may be more bad than good in them. what harm, if a few chaps do get drunk, and the quarrelsome folks has their heads cracked? they'd only go and do it somewhere else, if they was stopped of our place. passon be a good man as ever lived, and wonnerful kind to the poor folk. but a' beginneth to have his way too much; and all along of my brother john. to tell you the truth, doctor, i couldn't bear the job about that old tombstone, to memory of squire jan toms, and a fine piece of poetry it were too. leap-frogged it, hundreds and hundreds of times, when i were a boy, i have; and so has my father and grandfather afore me; and why not my sons, and my grandsons too, when perhaps my own standeth 'longside of 'un? i won't believe a word of it, but what thic old ancient stone were smashed up a' purpose, by order of passon penniloe. tell 'e what, doctor, thic there channging of every mortial thing, just for the sake of channging, bain't the right way for to fetch folks to church; 'cordin' at least to my mind. why do us go to church? why, because can't help it; 'long of wives and children, when they comes, and lookin' out for 'un, when the children was ourselves. turn the bottom up, sir, and what be that but custom, same as one generation requireth from another? and to put new patches on it, and be proud of them, is the same thing as tinker did to wife's ham-boiler--drawed the rivets out, and made 'un leak worse than ever. not another shilling will they patchers get from me." farmer steve sat down in his saddle, and his red waistcoat settled down upon the pommel. his sturdy cob also laid down his ears, and stubborn british sentiment was in every line of both of them. "well, i won't pretend to say about the other matters;" said fox, who as an englishman could allow for obstinacy. "but, farmer, i am sure that you are wrong about the tombstone. parson did not like it, and no wonder. but he is not the man to do things crookedly. he would have moved it openly, or not at all. it was quite as much an accident, as if your horse put his foot upon a nut and cracked it." "well, sir, well, sir, we has our own opinions. oh, you have paid the pike for me! thank 'e, doctor. i'll pay yours, next time we come this way together." the story of the tombstone war simply this. john toms, a rollicking cavalier of ancient devonshire lineage, had lived and died at perlycross, nearly two centuries agone. his grave was towards the great southern porch, and there stood his headstone large and bold, confronting the faithful at a corner where two causeways met. thus every worshipper, who entered the house of prayer by its main approach, was invited to reflect upon the fine qualities of this gentleman, as recorded in large letters. to a devout mind this might do no harm; but all perlycross was not devout, and many a light thought was suggested, or perhaps an untimely smile produced, by this too sprightly memorial. "a spirited epitaph that, sir," was the frequent remark of visitors. "but scarcely conceived in a proper spirit," was the parson's general reply. the hideous western gallery, the parish revel called the fair, and this unseemly tombstone, had been sore tribulations to the placed mind of penniloe; and yet he durst not touch that stone, sacred not to memory only, but to vested rights, and living vein of local sentiment. however the fates were merciful. "very sad accident this morning, sir. i do hope you will try to forgive us, mr. penniloe," said robson adney, the manager of the works, one fine october morning, and he said it with a stealthy wink; "seven of our chaps have let our biggest scaffold-pole, that red one, with a butt as big as a milestone, roll off their clumsy shoulders, and it has smashed poor squire toms' old tombstone into a thousand pieces. never read a word of it again, sir--such a sad loss to the churchyard! but quite an accident, sir, you know; purely a casual accident." the curate looked at him, but he "smiled none"--as another tombstone still expresses it; and if charity compelled mr. penniloe to believe him, gratitude enforced another view; for adney well knew his dislike of that stone, and was always so eager to please him. but that every one who so desires may judge for himself, whether farmer steve was right, or parson penniloe, here are the well-remembered lines that formed the preface to divine worship in the parish of perlycross. "'halloa! who lieth here?' 'i, old squire jan toms.' 'what dost lack?' 'a tun of beer, for a tipple with them fantoms.'" chapter xxxiii. the schoolmaster abroad. "boys, here's a noise!" sergeant jakes strode up and down the long schoolroom on friday morning, flapping his empty sleeve, and swinging that big cane with the tuberous joints, whose taste was none too saccharine. that well-known ejaculation, so expressive of stern astonishment, had for the moment its due effect. curly heads were jerked back, elbows squared, sniggers were hushed, the munch of apples (which had been as of milching kine) stuck fast, or was shunted into bulging cheek; never a boy seemed capable of dreaming that there was any other boy in the world besides himself. scratch of pens, and grunts of mental labour, were the only sounds in this culmination of literature, known as "copy-exercise." as achilles, though reduced to a ghost, took a longer stride at the prowess of his son; and as deep joys, on a similar occasion, pervaded latona's silent breast; even so high-jarks sucked the top of his cane, and felt that he had not lived in vain. there are many men still hearty--though it is so long ago--who have led a finer life, through that man's higher culture. but presently--such is the nature of human nature, in its crude probation--the effect of that noble remonstrance waned. silence (which is itself a shadow, cast by death upon life perhaps) began to flicker--as all dulness should--with the play of small ideas moving it. little timid whispers, a cane's length below the breath, and with the heart shuffling out of all participation; and then a tacit grin that was afraid to move the molars, and then a cock of eye, that was intended to involve (when a bigger eye was turned away) its mighty owner; and then a clink of marbles in a pocket down the leg; and then a downright joke, of such very subtle humour, that it stole along the bench through funnel'd hands; and then alas, a small boy of suicidal levity sputtered out a laugh, which made wiser wigs stand up! his crime was only deepened by ending in sham cough; and sad to say, the very boy who had made the fatal joke (instead of being grateful for reckless approbation) stood up and pointed an unmanly finger at him. the sergeant's keen eye was upon them both; and a tremble ran along the oak, that bore many tempting aptitudes for the vindication of ethics. but the sergeant bode his time. his sense of justice was chivalrous. let the big boy make another joke. "boys, here's a noise, again!" those who have not had the privilege of the sergeant's lofty discipline can never understand--far less convey--the significance of his second shout. it expressed profound amazement, horror at our fallen state, incredulity of his own ears, promptitude to redress the wrong, and yet a pathetic sorrow at the impending grim necessity. the boys knew well that his second protest never ascended to heaven in vain; and the owners of tender quarters shrank, and made ready to slide beneath the protection of their bench. other boys, with thick corduroys, quailed for the moment, and closed their mouths; but what mouth was ever closed permanently, by the opening of another? "now you shall have it, boys," the sergeant thundered, as the uproar waxed beyond power of words. "any boy slipping out of stroke shall have double cuts for cowardice. stop the ends up. all along both rows of benches; i am coming, i am coming!" "oh sir, please sir, 'twadn' me, sir! 'twor all along o' bill cornish, sir." he had got this trimmer by the collar, and his cane swung high in air, when the door was opened vigorously, and a brilliant form appeared. brilliant, less by its own merits, than by brave embellishment, as behoves a youth ascending stairs of state from page to footman, and mounting upward, ever upward, to the vinous heights of butlerhood. for this was bob cornish, bill's elder brother; and he smiled at the terrors of the hurtling cane, compulsive but a year ago, of tears. with a dignity already imbibed from binstock, this young man took off his hat, and employing a spare slate as a tray, presented a letter with a graceful bow. he was none too soon, but just in time. the weapon of outraged law came down, too lightly to dust a jacket; and the smiter, wonder-smitten, went to a desk, and read as follows. "lady waldron will be much obliged if sergeant jakes will come immediately in the vehicle sent with the bearer of this letter. let no engagement forbid this. mr. penniloe has kindly consented to it." the roof resounded with shouts of joy, instead of heavy wailing, as the sergeant at once dismissed the school; and in half an hour he entered the business-room at walderscourt, and there found the lady of the house, looking very resolute, and accompanied by her daughter. "soldier jakes will take a chair. see that the door is closed, my child, and no persons lingering near it. now, inez, will you say to this brave soldier of your father's regiment, what we desire him to undertake, if he will be so faithful; for the benefit of his colonel's family; also for the credit of this english country." this was clever of my lady. she knew that the veteran's liking was not particularly active for herself, or any of the spanish nation; but that he had transferred his love and fealty of so many years, to his officer's gentle daughter. any request from nicie would be almost as sacred a command to him, as if it had come from her father. he stood up, made a low bow followed by a military salute, and gazed at the sweet face he loved so well. "it is for my dear father's sake; and i am as sure as he himself would be," miss waldron spoke with tears in her eyes, and a sad smile on her lips that would have moved a heart much harder than this veteran's, "that you will not refuse to do us a great, a very great service, if you can. and we have nobody we can trust like you; because you are so true, and brave." the sergeant rose again, and made another bow even deeper than the former one; but instead of touching his grizzled locks he laid his one hand on his heart; and although by no means a gushing man, he found it impossible to prevent a little gleam, like the upshot of a well, quivering under his ferny brows. "we would not ask you even so," continued nicie, with a grateful glance, "if it were not that you know the place, and perhaps may find some people there still living to remember you. when my father lay wounded at the house of my grandfather, and was in great danger of his life, you, being also disabled for a time, were allowed at his request to remain with him, and help him. will you go to that place again, to do us a service no one else can do?" "to the end of the world, miss, without asking why. but the lord have mercy on all them boys! whatever will they do without me?" "we will arrange about all that, with mr. penniloe's consent. if that can be managed, will you go, at once, and at any inconvenience to yourself?" "no ill-convenience shall stop me, miss. if i thought of that twice, i should be a deserter, afore the lines of the enemy. to be of the least bit of use to you, is an honour as well as a duty to me." "i thought that you would; i was sure that you would." inez gave a glance of triumph at her less trustful mother. "and what makes us hurry you so, is the chance that has suddenly offered for your passage. we heard this morning, by an accident almost, that a ship is to sail from topsham to-morrow, bound direct for cadiz. not a large ship, but a fast-sailing vessel--a schooner i think they call it, and the captain is one of binstock's brothers. you would get there in half the time it would take to go to london, and wait about for passage, and then come all down the channel. and from cadiz you can easily get on. you know a little spanish, don't you?" "not reg'lar, miss. but it will come back again. i picked up just enough for this--i couldn't understand them much; but i could make them look as if they understanded me." "that is quite sufficient. you will have letters to three or four persons who are settled there, old servants of my grandfather. we cannot tell which of them may be alive, but may well hope that some of them are so. the old house is gone, i must tell you that. after all the troubles of the war, there was not enough left to keep it up with." "that grand old house, miss, with the pillars, and the carrots, and the arches, the same as in a picture! and everybody welcome; and you never knew if there was fifty, or a hundred in it----" "sergeant, you describe it well;" lady waldron interrupted. "there are no such mansions in this country. alas, it is gone from us for ever, because we loved our native land too well!" "not only that," said the truthful inez; "but also because the young count, as you would call him, has wasted the relics of his patrimony. and now i will explain to you the reasons for our asking this great service of you." the veteran listened with close attention, and no small astonishment, to the young lady's clear account of that great public lottery, and the gorgeous prize accruing on the death of sir thomas waldron. this was enough to tempt a ruined man to desperate measures; and jakes had some knowledge in early days of the young count's headstrong character. but if it should prove so, if he were guilty of the crime which had caused so much distress and such prolonged unhappiness, yet his sister could not bear that the sordid motive should be disclosed, at least in this part of the world. for the sake of others, it would be needful to denounce the culprit; but if the detection were managed well, no motive need be assigned at all. let every one form his own conclusion. spanish papers, and spanish news, came very sparely to devonshire; and the english public would be sure (in ignorance of that financial scheme, whose result supplied the temptation) to ascribe the assault upon protestant rites to popish contempt and bigotry. "i should tell the whole, if i had to decide it;" said nicie with the candour and simplicity of youth. "if he has done it, for the sake of nasty money, let everybody know what he has done it for." but the sergeant shook his head, and quite agreed with lady waldron. the world was quite quick enough at bad constructions, without receiving them ready-made. "leave busy-bodies to do their own buzzing;" was his oracular suggestion. "'tis a grand old family, even on your mother's side, miss;" nicie smiled a little, as her mother stared at this new comparative estimate. "and what odds to our clodhoppers what they do? a don don't look at things the same as a dung-carter; and it takes a man who knows the world to make allowance for him. the count may have done it, mind. i won't say no, until such time as i can prove it. but after all, 'tis comforting to think that it was so, compared to what we all was afraid of. why, the dear old colonel would be as happy as a king, in the place he was so nigh going to after the battle of barosa; looking down over the winding of the river, and the moon among the orange-trees, where he was a' making love!" "hush!" whispered nicie, as her mother turned away, with a trembling in her throat; and the old man saw that the memory of the brighter days had brought the shadows also. "saturday to-morrow. boys will do very well, till monday;" he came out with this abruptly, to cover his confusion. "by that time, please god, i shall be in the bay of biscay. this is what i'll do, miss, if it suits you and my lady. i'll come again to-night at nine o'clock, with my kit slung tidy, and not a word to anybody. then i can have the letters, miss, and my last orders. ship sails at noon to-morrow, name of _montilla_. mail-coach to exeter passes white post, a little after half-past ten to-night. be aboard easily, afore daylight. no, miss, thank you, i shan't want no money. passage paid to and fro. old soldier always hath a shot in the locker." "as if we should let you go, like that! you shall not go at all, unless you take this purse." that evening he received his last instructions, and the next day he sailed in the schooner _montilla_. even after the many strange events, which had by this time caused such a whirl of giddiness in perlycross, that if there had been a good crack across the street, every man and woman would have fallen headlong into it; and even before there had been leisure for people to try to tell them anyhow, to one another--much less discuss them at all as they deserved--this sudden break-up of the school, and disappearance of high jarks, would have been absolutely beyond belief, if there had not been scores of boys, too loudly in evidence everywhere. but when a chap, about four feet high, came scudding in at any door that was open, and kicking at it if it dared to be shut, and then went trying every cupboard-lock, and making sad eyes at his mother if the key was out; and then again, when he was stuffed to his buttons--which he would be, as sure as eggs are eggs--if the street went howling with his playful ways, and every corner was in a jerk with him, and no elderly lady could go along without her umbrella in front of her--how was it possible for any mother not to feel herself guilty of more harm than good? in a word, "high jarks" was justified (as all wisdom is) of his children; and the weak-minded women, who had complained that he smote too hard, were the first to find fault with the feeble measures of his substitute, vickary toogood of honiton. this gentleman came into office on monday, smiling in a very superior manner at his predecessor's arrangements. "i think we may lock up that," he said, pointing to the sergeant's little tickler; "we must be unworthy of our vocation, if we cannot dispense with such primitive tools." a burst of applause thrilled every bench; but knowing the boys of his parish so well, mr. penniloe shook his head with dubious delight. and truly before the week was out, many a time would he murmur sadly--"oh for one hour of the sergeant!" as he heard the babel of tongues outside, and entering saw the sprawling elbows, slouching shoulders, and hands in pockets, which the "apostle of moral force"--_moral farce_ was its sound and meaning here--permitted as the attitude of pupilage. "sim'th i be quite out in my reckoning;" old channing the clerk had the cheek to say, as he met the parson outside the school-door; "didn't know it were whit-monday yet." mr. penniloe smiled, but without rejoicing; he understood the reference too well. upon whit-monday the two rival benefit-clubs of the village held their feast, and did their very utmost from bridge to abbey, to out-drum, out-fife, and out-trumpet one another. neither in his house was his conscience left untouched. "i think lady waldron might have sent us a better man than that is;" mrs. muggridge observed one afternoon, when the uproar came across the road, and pierced the rectory windows. "i am not sure but what little master mike could keep better order than that is. why, the beating of the bounds was nothing to it. what could you be about, sir, to take such a man as that?" thyatira had long established full privilege of censure. "certainly there is a noise;" the curate was always candid. "but he brought the very highest credentials from the institute. we have scarcely given him fair trial yet. the system is new, you see, mrs. muggridge; and it must be allowed some time to take effect. no physical force, the moral sense appealed to, the higher qualities educed by kindness, the innate preference of right promoted and strengthened by self-exertion, the juvenile faculties to be elevated, from the moment of earliest development, by a perception of their high responsibility, and, and--well i really forget the rest, but you perceive that it amounts to----" "row, and riot, and roaring rubbish. that's what it amounts to, sir. but i beg your pardon, sir; excuse my boldness, for speaking out, upon things so far above me. but when they comes across the road, at ten o'clock in the morning, to beg for a lump of raw beefsteak, by reason of two boys getting four black eyes, in fighting across the master's desk, the new system seem not apostolical. an apostle, about as much as i am! my father was above me, and had gifts, and he put himself back, when not understanded, to the rising generation; but he never would demean himself, to send for raw beefsteak for their black eyes." "and i think he would have shown his common sense in that. what did you do, my good thyatira?" mr. penniloe had a little spice of mischief in him, which always accompanies a sub-sense of humour. "this was what i did, sir. i looked at him, and he seemed to have been in the wars himself, and to have come across, perhaps to get out of them, being one of the clever ones, as true schoolmaster sayeth, and by the same token not so thick of head; and he looked up at me, as if he was proud of it, to take me in; while the real fighting boys look down, as i know by my brother who was guilty of it; and i said to him, very quiet like--'no steak kept here for moral-force black-eyes-boys. you go to robert jakes, the brother of a man that understands his business, and tell him to enter in his books, half a pound prime-cut, for four black eyes, to the credit of vickary toogood.'" it was not only thus, but in many other ways, that the village at large shed painful tears (sadly warranted by the ears), and the church looked with scorn at the children straggling in, like a lot of dissenters going anyhow; and the cross at the meeting of the four main roads, which had been a fine stump for centuries, lost its proper coat of whitewash on candlemas-day; and the crystal perle itself began to be threaded with red from pugnacious noses. for the lesson of all history was repeated, that softness universal, and unlimited concession, set off very grandly, but come home with broken heads, to load their guns with grapnel. and what could mr. penniloe do, when some of the worst belligerents were those of his own household; upon one frontier his three pupils, and upon another, zip tremlett? pike, peckover, and mopuss, the pupils now come back again, were all very decent and law-abiding fellows, but had drifted into a savage feud with the factory boys at the bottom of the village. as they were but three against three score, it soon became unsafe for them to cross perlebridge, without securing their line of retreat. of course they looked down from a lofty height upon "cads who smelled of yarn, and even worse;" but what could moral, or even lineal excellence, avail them against the huge disparity of numbers? each of them held himself a match for any three of the enemy, and they issued a challenge upon that scale; but the paper-cap'd host showed no chivalry. on one occasion, this noble trio held the bridge victoriously against the whole force of the enemy, inflicting serious loss, and even preparing for a charge upon the mass. but the cowardly mass found a heap of road-metal, and in lack of their own filled the air with it, and the pennilovian heroes had begun to bite the dust, when luckily farmer john rode up, and saved the little force from annihilation by slashing right and left through the operative phalanx. when mr. penniloe heard of this pitched battle, he was deeply grieved; and sending for his pupils administered a severe rebuke to them. but john pike's reply was a puzzler to him. "if you please, sir, will you tell us what to do, when they fall upon us?" "endeavour to avoid them;" replied the clergyman, feeling some want of confidence however in his counsel. "so we do, sir, all we can;" pike made answer, with the aspect of a dove. "but they won't be avoided, when they think they've got enough cads together to lick us." "i should like to know one thing," enquired the hopper, striking out his calves, which were now becoming of commanding size; "are we to be called 'latin tay-kettles,' and 'parson's pups,' and then do nothing but run away?" "my father says that the road is called the king's highway;" said mopuss, who was a fat boy, with great deliberation, "because all his subjects have a right to it, but no right to throw it at one another." "i admit that a difficulty arises there;" replied mr. penniloe as gravely as he could, for mopuss was always quoting his papa, a lawyer of some eminence. "but really, my lads, we must not have any more of this. there is fault upon both sides, beyond all doubt. i shall see the factory manager to-morrow, and get him to warn his pugnacious band. i am very unwilling to confine you to these premises; but if i hear of any more pitched battles, i shall be compelled to do so, until peace has been proclaimed." here again was jakes to seek; for the fear of him lay upon the factory boys, as heavily as upon his own school-children. and perhaps as sore a point as any was that he should have been rapt away, without full reason rendered. chapter xxxiv. loyalty. "i do not consider myself at all an inquisitive man," mr. penniloe reflected, and here the truth was with him; "nevertheless it is hard upon me to be refused almost the right to speculate upon this question. they have told me that it is of the last importance, to secure this great disciplinarian--never appreciated while with us, but now deplored so deeply--for a special service in the south of spain. what that special service is, i am not to know, until his return; possibly not even then. and mr. webber has no idea what the meaning of it is. but i know that it has much to do--all to do, i might even say--with that frightful outrage of last november--three months ago, alas, alas, and a sad disgrace upon this parish still! marvellous are the visitations of the lord. practically speaking, we know but little more of that affair now, than on the day it was discovered. if it were not for one thing, i should even be driven at last to gowler's black conclusion; and my faith in the true love of a woman, and in the honesty of a proud brave woman would be shattered, and leave me miserable. but now it is evident that good and gentle nicie is acting entirely with her mother; and to imagine that she would wrong her father is impossible. perhaps i shall even get friend gowler's hundred pounds. what a triumph that would be! to obtain a large sum for the service of god from an avowed--ah well, who am i to think harshly of him? but the money might even be blest to himself; which is the first thing to consider. it is my duty to accept it therefore, if i can only get it. "and here again is jemmy fox, not behaving at all as he used to do. concealing something from me--i am almost sure of it by his manner--and discussing it, i do believe, with gronow--an intimacy that cannot be good for him. i wish i could perceive more clearly, in what points i have neglected my duty to the parish; for i seem to be losing hold upon it, which must be entirely my own fault. there must be some want of judgment somewhere--what else could lead to such very sad fighting? even zip, a little girl, disgracing us by fighting in the streets! that at any rate i can stop, and will do so pretty speedily." this was a lucky thought for him, because it led to action, instead of brooding, into which miserable condition he might otherwise have dropped. and when a man too keen of conscience hauls himself across the coals, the governor of a hot place takes advantage to peep up between them. mr. penniloe rang the bell, and begged mrs. muggridge to be good enough to send miss zippy to him. zip, who had grown at least two inches since the death of her grandmother--not in length perhaps so much as in the height she made of it--came shyly into the dusky bookroom, with one of her long hands crumpling the lower corner of her pinafore into her great brown eyes. she knew she was going to catch it, and knew also the way to meet it, for she opened the conversation with a long-drawn sob. "don't be frightened, my dear child;" said the parson with the worst of his intention waning. "i am not going to scold you much, my dear." "oh, i was so terrible afraid, you was." the little girl crept up close to him, and began to play with his buttonhole, curving her lissome fingers in and out, like rosebuds in a trellis, and looking down at the teardrops on her pinny. "plaise sir, i knows well enough as i desarves a bit of it." "then why did you do it, my dear child? but i am glad that you feel it to be wrong." the clergyman was sitting in the deep square chair, where most of his sermons came to him, and he brought his calm face down a little, to catch the expression of the young thing's eyes. suddenly she threw herself into his arms, and kissed his lips, and cheeks, and forehead, and stroked his silvery hair, and burst into a passionate wail; and then slid down upon a footstool, and nursed his foot. "do 'e know why i done that?" she whispered, looking up over his knees at him. "because there be nobody like 'e, in the heavens, or the earth, or the waters under the earth. her may be as jealous as ever her plaiseth; but i tell 'e, i don't care a cuss." "my dear little impetuous creature," mr. penniloe knew that his darling fay was the one defied thus recklessly; "i am sure that you are fond of all of us. and to please me, as well as for much higher reasons, you must never use bad words. bad deeds too i have heard of, zip, though i am not going to scold much now. but why did you get into conflict with a boy?" zip pondered the meaning of these words for a moment, and then her conscience interpreted. "because he spoke bad of 'e, about the fair." she crooked her quick fingers together as she spoke, and tore them asunder with vehemence. "and what did you do to him? eh zip? oh zip!" "nort, for to sarve 'un out, as a' desarved. only pulled most of 's hair out. his moother hurned arter me; but i got inside the ge-at." "a nice use indeed for my premises--to make them a refuge, after committing assault and battery! well, what shall we come to next?" "plaise sir, i want to tell 'e zummut;" said the child, looking up very earnestly. "bain't it perlycrass fair, come tuesday next?" "i am sorry to say that it is. a day of sad noise and uproar. remember that little zip must not go outside the gates, that day." "nor passon nayther;" the child took hold of his hand, as if she were pulling him inside the gate, for her nature was full of gestures; and then she gazed at him with a sage smile of triumph--"and passon mustn't go nayther." mr. penniloe took little heed of this (though he had to think of it afterwards) but sent the child to have her tea, with muggridge and the children. but before he could set to his work in earnest, although he had discovered much to do, in came his own child, little fay, looking round the room indignantly. with her ladylike style, she was much too grand to admit a suspicion of jealousy, but she smoothed her golden hair gently back, and just condescended to glance round the chairs. mr. penniloe said nothing, and feigned to see nothing, though getting a little afraid in his heart; for he always looked on fay as representing her dear mother. he knew that the true way to learn a child's sentiments, is to let them come out of their own accord. there is nothing more jealous than a child, except a dog. "oh, i thought darkie was here again!" said fay, throwing back her shoulders, and spinning on one leg. "this room belongs to darkie now altogether. though i can't see what right she has to it." mr. penniloe treated this soliloquy, as if he had not heard it; and went on with his work, as if he had no time to attend to children's affairs just now. "it may be right, or it may be wrong," said fay, addressing the room in general, and using a phrase she had caught up from pike, a very great favourite of hers; "but i can't see why all the people of this house should have to make way for a gipsy." this was a little too much for a father and clergyman to put up with. "fay!" said mr. penniloe in a voice that made her tremble; and she came and stood before him, contrite and sobbing, with her head down, and both hands behind her back. without raising her eyes the fair child listened, while her father spoke impressively; and then with a reckless look, she tendered full confession. "father, i know that i am very wicked, and i seem to get worse every day. i wish i was the devil altogether; because then i could not get any worse." "my little child," said her father with amazement; "i can scarcely believe my ears. my gentle little fay to use such words!" "oh, _she_ thinks nothing of saying that! and you know how fond you are of her, papa. i thought it might make you fond of me." "this must be seen to at once," thought mr. penniloe, when he had sent his jealous little pet away; "but what can i do with that poor deserted child? passionate, loving, very strong-willed, grateful, fearless, sensitive, inclined to be contemptuous, wonderfully quick at learning, she has all the elements of a very noble woman--or of a very pitiable wreck. quite unfit to be with my children, as my better judgment pronounced at first. she ought to be under a religious, large-minded, firm, but gentle woman--a lady too, or she would laugh at her. though she speaks broad devonshire dialect herself, she detects in a moment the mistakes of others, and she has a lofty contempt for vulgarity. she is thrown by the will of god upon my hands, and i should be a coward, or a heartless wretch, if i shirked the responsibility. it will almost break her heart to go from me; but go she must for her own sake, as well as that of my little ones." "how are you, sir?" cried a cheerful voice. "i fear that i interrupt you. but i knocked three or four times, and got no answer. excuse my coming in like this. can i have a little talk with you?" "certainly, dr. fox. i beg your pardon; but my mind was running upon difficult questions. let us have the candles, and then i am at your service." "now," said jemmy when they were alone again; "i dare say you think that i have behaved very badly, in keeping out of your way so long." "not badly, but strangely;" replied the parson, who never departed from the truth, even for the sake of politeness. "i concluded that there must be some reason; knowing that i had done nothing to cause it." "i should rather think not. nothing ever changes you. but it was for your sake. and now i will enlighten you, as the time is so close at hand. it appears that you have not succeeded in abolishing the fair." "not for this year. there were various formalities. but this will be the last of those revels, i believe. the proclamation will be read on tuesday morning. after this year, i hope, no more carousals prolonged far into the penitential day. it will take them by surprise; but it is better so. otherwise there would have been preparations for a revel more reckless, as being the last." "i suppose you know, sir, what bitter offence you are giving to hundreds of people all around?" "i am sorry that it should be so. but it is my simple duty." "nothing ever stops you from your duty. but i hope you will do your duty to yourself and us, by remaining upon your own premises that day." "certainly not. if i did such a thing, i should seem to be frightened of my own act. please god, i shall be in the market-place, to hear the proclamation read, and attend to my parish-work afterwards." "i know that it is useless to argue with you, sir. none of our people would dare to insult you; but one cannot be sure of outsiders. at any rate, do keep near the village, where there are plenty to defend you." "no one will touch me. i am not a hero; and i can't afford to get my new hat damaged. i shall remain among the civilized, unless i am called away." "well, that is something; though not all that i could wish. and now i will tell you why i am glad, much as i dislike the fair, that for this year at least it is to be. it is a most important date to me, and i hope it will bring you some satisfaction also. unless we manage very badly indeed, or have desperately bad luck, we shall get hold of the villains who profaned your churchyard, and through them of course find the instigator." with this preface, fox told his tale to mr. penniloe, and quite satisfied him about the reasons for concealing it so long, as well as made him see that it would not do to preach upon the subject yet. "my dear young friend, no levity, if you please;" said the parson, though himself a little, a very little, prone to it on the sly, among people too solid to stumble. "i draw my lessons from the past, or present. better men than myself insist upon the terrors of the future, and scare people from looking forward. but our church, according to my views, is a cheerful and progressive mother, encouraging her children, and fortifying----" "quite so;" said jemmy fox, anticipating too much on that head; "but she would not fortify us with such a lenten _fare_ as this. little pun, sir, not so very bad. however, to business. i meant to have told you nothing of this till monday or tuesday, until it struck me that you would be hurt perhaps, if the notice were so very short. the great point is that not a word of our intentions should get abroad, or the rogues might make themselves more scarce than rogues unluckily are allowed to be. this is why we have put off our application to mockham, until tuesday morning; and even then we shall lay our information as privately as possible. but we must have a powerful posse, when we proceed to arrest them; for one of the men, as i told you, is of tremendous bulk and stature, and the other not a weakling. and perhaps the third, the fellow they come to meet, will show fight on their behalf. we must allow no chance of escape, and possibly they may have fire-arms. we shall want at least four constables, as well as gronow, and myself." "but all good subjects of the king are bound to assist, if called upon in the name of his majesty, at the execution of a warrant." "so they are; but they never do it, even when there is no danger. in the present case, they would boldly run away. and more than that, by ten o'clock on fair-night, how will his majesty's true lieges be? unable to keep their own legs, i fear. the trouble will be to keep our own force sober. but gronow has undertaken to see to that. if he can do it, we shall be all right. we may fairly presume that the enemy also will not be too steady upon their pins. the only thing i don't like is that a man of gronow's age should be in the scuffle. he has promised to keep in the background; but if things get lively, can i trust him?" "i should think it very doubtful. he looks an uncommonly resolute man. if there is a conflict, he will be in it. but do you think that the big man harvey really is our zippy's father? if so, i am puzzled by what his mother said; and i think the old lady was truthful. so far as i could understand what she said, her son had never been engaged in any of the shocking work we hear so much of now. and she would not have denied it from any sense of shame, for she confessed to even worse things, on the part of other sons." "she may not have known it. he has so rarely been at home. a man of that size would have been notorious throughout the parish, if he had ever lived at home; whereas nobody knows him, not even joe crang, who knows every man and horse for miles around. but the whetstone people are a tribe apart, and keep all their desolate region to themselves." "the district is extra-parochial, a sort of no-man's land almost," mr. penniloe answered thoughtfully. "an entire parish intervenes between their hill and hagdon; so that i cannot go among them, without seeming to intrude upon a neighbour's duties. otherwise it is very sad to think that a colony almost of heathens should be permitted in the midst of us. i hear that there is a new landowner now, coming from your father's part of the country, who claims seigniorial rights over them, which they intend to resist with all their might." "to be sure. sir henry haggerstone is the man, a great friend of mine, and possibly something nearer before long. he cares not a pin for the money; but he is not the man to forego his rights, especially when they are challenged. i take a great interest in those people. sir henry promised me an introduction, through his steward, or whoever it is; and but for this business i should have gone over. but as these two fellows have been among them, i thought it wiser to keep away. i intend to know more of them, when this is over. i rather like fellows who refuse to pay." "you have plenty of experience of them, doctor, without going over to the whetstone. would that we had a few gratuitous church-builders, as well as a gratuitous doctor in this parish! but i sadly fear that your services will be too much in demand after this arrest. you should have at least six constables, if our people will not help you. supposing that the whetstone men are there, would they not attempt a rescue?" "no sir; they will not be there; it is not their custom. i am ashamed, as it is, to take four men against two, and would not, except for the great importance of it. but i am keeping you too long. i shall make a point of beholding you no more, until wednesday morning; except of course in church on sunday. you must be kept out of it altogether. it is not for me to tell you what to do; but i trust that you will not add to our anxieties, by appearing at all in the matter. your busiest time of the year is at hand; and i scarcely know whether i have done right, in worrying you at all about this affair." "truly the time is appointed now for conflict with the unseen powers, rather than those of our own race. but why are we told to gird our loins--of which succincture the spencer is expressive, and therefore curtly clerical--unless we are also to withstand evil-doers, even in the market-place? peace is a thing that we all desire; but no man must be selfish of it. if every man stuck to his own corner only, would there ever be a dining-table? be not surprised then, master jemmy fox, if i should appear upon the warlike scene. as the statesmen of the age say--when they don't know what to say--i reserve my right of action." fox was compelled to be satisfied with this because he could get no better. yet he found it hard to be comfortable about the now urgent outlook. beyond any doubt, he must go through with the matter in hand, and fight it well out. but where would he be, if the battle left him, with two noble heroes disabled, and both of them beyond the heroic time of life. as concerned himself, he was quite up for the fight, and regarded the prospect with pleasure, as behoves a young man, who requires a little change, and has a lady-love who will rejoice in his feats. moreover he knew that he was very quick of foot, and full of nimble dodges; but these elderly men could not so skip away, even if their dignity allowed it. after much grim meditation, when he left the rectory, he made up his mind to go straight to squire mockham; and although it was a doubtful play of cards, to consult thus informally the justice, before whom the information was soon to be laid, it seemed to him, on the whole, to be the proper course. on tuesday it would be too late to receive any advice upon the subject. but mr. mockham made no bones of it. whether he would grant the warrant or not, was quite another question, and must depend upon the formal depositions when received. the advice that he gave was contingent only upon the issue of the warrant, as to which he could say nothing yet. but he did not hesitate, as the young man's friend, to counsel him about his own share in the matter. "keep all your friends out of it. let none of them be there. the execution of a warrant is the duty of the authorities, not of amateurs and volunteers. even you yourself should not appear, unless it be just to identify; though afterwards you must do so, of course, when the charge comes to be heard. better even that criminals should escape, than that non-official persons should take the business on themselves. as a magistrate's son, you must know this." "that is all very well, in an ordinary case," said fox, who had got a great deal more than he wanted. "but here it is of such extreme importance to get to the bottom of this matter; and if they escape, where are we?" "all very true. but if you apply to the law, you must let the law do its own work, and in its own way, though it be not perfect. all you can do, is to hope for the best." "and probably get the worst," said jemmy, with a grin of resignation. "but i suppose i may be at hand, and ready to give assistance, if called upon?" "certainly," answered mr. mockham, rubbing his hands gently; "that is the privilege of every subject, though not claimed very greedily. by-the-by, i was told that there is to be some sort of wrestling at your fair this year. have you heard anything about it?" "well, perhaps a little." the young man looked slyly at the magistrate, for one of the first things he had heard was that mockham had started the scheme by giving ten guineas towards the prize-fund. "among other things i heard that polwarth is coming, the cornish champion, as they call him." "and he holds the west of england belt. it is too bad," said the magistrate, "that we should have no man to redeem it. when i was a boy, we should all have been mad, if the belt had gone over the border long. but who is there now? the sport is decaying, and fisticuffs (far more degrading work) are ousting it altogether. i think you went to see the play last year." "i just looked in at it, once or twice. it did not matter very much to me, as a son of somerset; but it must have been very grievous to a true devonian, to see cornwall chucking his countrymen about, like a lot of wax-headed ninepins. and no doubt he will do the same thing this year. you can't help it--can you, squire?" "don't be too sure of that, my friend. a man we never heard of has challenged for the belt, on behalf of devon. he will not play in the standards, but have best of three backs with the cornishman, for the belt and a special prize raised by subscription. when i was a lad i used to love to see it, ay, and i knew all the leading men. why, all the great people used to go to see it then. the lord lieutenant of the county would come down from westminster for any great match; and as for magistrates--well, the times are changed." "you need not have asked me the news, i see. to know all about it, i must come to you. i should have been glad to see something of it, if it is to be such a big affair. but that will be impossible on account of this job. good night, sir. twelve o'clock, i think you said, will suit for our application?" "yes, and to stop malicious mouths--for they get up an outcry, if one knows anybody--i shall get sir edwin sanford to join me. he is in the commission for somerset too; and so we can arrange it--if issued at all, to hold good across the border." chapter xxxv. a wrestling bout. valentine's day was on sunday that year, and a violent gale from the south and west set in before daylight, and lasted until the evening, without bringing any rain. anxiety was felt about the chancel roof, which had only been patched up temporarily, and waterproofed with thick tarpaulins; for the exeter builders had ceased work entirely during that december frost, and as yet had not returned to it. to hurry them, while engaged elsewhere, would not have been just, or even wise, inasmuch as they might very fairly say, "let us have a little balancing of books first, if you please." however, the old roof withstood the gale, being sheltered from the worst of it, and no further sinking of the wall took place; but at the abbey, some fifty yards eastward, a very sad thing came to pass. the south-western corner and the western end (the most conspicuous part remaining) were stripped, as if by a giant's rip-hook, of all their dark mantle of ivy. like a sail blown out of the bolt-ropes, away it all went bodily, leaving the white flint rough and rugged, and staring like a suburban villa of the most choice effrontery. the contrast with the remainder of the ruins and the old stone church was hideous; and mr. penniloe at once resolved to replace and secure afresh as much of the fallen drapery as had not been shattered beyond hope of life. walter haddon very kindly offered to supply the ladders, and pay half the cost; for the picturesque aspect of his house was ruined by this bald background. this job was to be put in hand on thursday; but worse things happened before that day. "us be going to have a bad week of it," old channing, the clerk, observed on monday, as he watched the four vanes on the tower (for his eyes were almost as keen as ever) and the woodcock feathers on the western sky; "never knowed a dry gale yet, but were follered by a wet one twice as bad; leastways, if a' coom from the dartmoor mountains." however, things seemed right enough on tuesday morning, to people who seldom think much of the sky; and the rustics came trooping in to the fair, as brave as need be, and with all their sunday finery. a prettier lot of country girls no englishman might wish, and perhaps no other man might hope to see, than the laughing, giggling, blushing, wondering, simpering, fluttering, or bridling maidens, fresh from dairy, or churn, or linhay, but all in very bright array, with love-knots on their breasts, and lavender in their pocket-handkerchiefs. with no depressing elegance perhaps among them, and no poetic sighing for impossible ideals; and probably glancing backwards, more than forwards on the path of life, because the rule and the practice is, for the lads of the party to walk behind. louts are these, it must be acknowledged, if looked at from too high a point; and yet, in their way, not by any means so low, as a topper on the high horse, with astral spurs, and a banner of bad latin, might condemn them for to be. if they are clumsy, and awkward, and sheepish, and can only say--"thank 'e, sir! veyther is quite well," in answer to "how are you to-day, john?"--some of it surely is by reason of a very noble quality, now rarer than the great auk's egg; and known, while it was a noun still substantive, as modesty. but there they were, and plenty of them, in the year 1836; and they meant to spend their money in good fairing, if so be their girls were kind. mr. penniloe had a lot of good heart in him; and when he came out to stand by the bellman, and trumpeter who thrilled the market-place, his common sense, and knowledge of the darker side, had as much as they could do to back him up against the impression of the fair young faces, that fell into the dumps, at his sad decree. the strong evil-doers were not come yet, their time would not begin till the lights began to flare, and the dark corners hovered with temptation. silence was enjoined three times by ding-dong of bell and blare of trump, and thrice the fatal document was read with stern solemnity and mute acceptance of every creature except ducks, whom nothing short of death can silence, and scarcely even that when once their long valves quiver with the elegiac strain. the trumpeter from exeter, with scarlet sash and tassel, looked down from an immeasurable height upon the village bellman, and a fiddler in the distance, and took it much amiss that he should be compelled to time his sonorous blasts by the tinkle tinkle of old nunks. "truly, i am sorry," said the curate to himself, while lads and lasses, decked with primrose, and the first white violets, whispered sadly to one another--"no more fairing after this"--"i am sorry that it should be needful to stop all these innocent enjoyments." "then why did you send for me, sir?" asked the trumpeter rather savagely, as one who had begged at the rectory for beer, to medicate his lips against the twang of brass, but won not a drop from mrs. muggridge. suddenly there came a little volley of sharp drops--not of the liquid he desired--dashed into the trumpeter's red face, and against the back of the parson's hat--the first skit of rain, that seemed rather to rise, as if from a blow-pipe, than fall from the clouds. mr. penniloe hastened to his house close by, for the market-place was almost in a straight line with the school, and taking his old gingham umbrella, set off alone for a hamlet called southend, not more than half a mile from the village. although not so learned in the weather as his clerk, he could see that the afternoon was likely to prove wet, and the longer he left it the worse it would be, according to all indications. without any thought of adversaries, he left the village at a good brisk pace, to see an old parishioner of whose illness he had heard. crossing a meadow on his homeward course he observed that the footpath was littered here and there with strips and patches of yellow osier peel, as if, since he had passed an hour or so ago, some idle fellow had been "whittling" wands from a withy-bed which was not far off. for a moment he wondered what this could mean; but not a suspicion crossed his mind of a rod in preparation for his own back. alas, too soon was this gentleman enlightened. the lonely footpath came sideways into a dark and still more lonesome lane, deeply sunk between tangled hedges, except where a mouldering cob wall stood, sole relic of a worn-out linhay. mr. penniloe jumped lightly from the treddled stile into the mucky and murky lane, congratulating himself upon shelter here, for a squally rain was setting in; but the leap was into a den of wolves. from behind the cob wall, with a yell, out rushed four hulking fellows, long of arm and leg, still longer of the weapons in their hands. each of them bore a white withy switch, flexible, tough, substantial, seemly instrument for a pious verger--but what would pious vergers be doing here, and why should their faces retire from view? each of them had tied across his most expressive, and too distinctive part, a patch of white muslin, such as imparts the sweet sense of modesty to a chamber-window; but modesty in these men was small. three of them barred the parson's road, while the fourth cut off his communications in the rear; but even so did he not perceive the full atrocity of their intentions. to him they appeared to be inditing of some new form of poaching, or some country game of skill perhaps, or these might be rods of measurement. "allow me to pass, my friends," he said; "i shall not interfere with your proceedings. be good enough to let me go by." "us has got a little bit o' zummat," said the biggest of them, with his legs astraddle, "to goo with 'e, passon, and to 'baide with 'e a bit. a choice bit of fairing, zort o' peppermint stick, or stick lickerish." "i am not a fighting man; but if any man strikes me, let him beware for himself. i am not to be stopped on a public highway, like this." as mr. penniloe spoke, he unwisely closed his umbrella, and holding it as a staff of defence, advanced against the enemy. one step was all the advance he made, for ere he could take another, he was collared, and tripped up, and cast forward heavily upon his forehead. there certainly was a great stone in the mud; but he never knew whether it was that, or a blow from a stick, or even the ebony knob of his own umbrella, that struck him so violently as he fell; but the effect was that he lay upon his face, quite stunned, and in danger of being smothered in the muck. "up with's coat-tails! us'll dust his jacket. ring the bull on 'un--one, two, dree, vour." the four stood round, with this very fine christian, ready--as the christian faith directs, for weak members, not warmed up with it,--ready to take everything he could not help; and the four switches hummed in the air with delight, like the thirsty swords of homer; when a rush as of many winds swept them back to innocence. a man of great stature, and with blazing eyes, spent no words upon them, but lifted up the biggest with a chuck below his chin, which sent him sprawling into the ditch, with a broken jaw, then took another by the scruff of his small clothes, and hefted him into a dog-rose stool, which happened to stand on the top of the hedge with shark's teeth ready for their business; then he leaped over the prostrate parson, but only smote vacant air that time. "the devil, the devil, 'tis the devil himself!" cried the two other fellows, cutting for their very lives. "reckon, i were not a breath too soon;" said the man who had done it, as he lifted mr. penniloe, whose lips were bubbling and nose clotted up; "why, they would have killed 'e in another minute, my dear. d--d if i bain't afeared they has done it now." that the clergyman should let an oath pass unrebuked, would have been proof enough to any one who knew him that it never reached his mind. his silver hair was clogged with mud, and his gentle face begrimed with it, and his head fell back between the big man's knees, and his blue eyes rolled about without seeing earth or heaven. "that doiled jemmy fox, we wants 'un now. never knowed a doctor come, when a' were wanted. holloa, you be moving there, be you? you dare stir, you murderer!" it was one of the men lately pitched into the hedge; but he only groaned again, at that great voice. "do 'e veel a bit better now, my dear? i've a girt mind to kill they two hosebirds in the hedge; and what's more, i wull, if 'e don't came round pretty peart." as if to prevent the manslaughter threatened, the parson breathed heavily once or twice, and tried to put his hand to his temples; and then looked about with a placid amazement. "you 'bide there, sir, for a second," said the man, setting him carefully upon a dry bank with his head against an ash-tree. "thy soul shall zee her desire of thine enemies, as i've a'read when i waz a little buy." to verify this promise of holy writ, he took up the stoutest of the white switches, and visiting the ditch first, and then the hedge-trough, left not a single accessible part of either of those ruffians without a weal upon it as big as his thumb, and his thumb was not a little one. they howled like a couple of pigs at the blacksmith's, when he slips the ring into their noses red-hot; and it is lawful to hope that they felt their evil deeds. "t'other two shall have the very same, bumbai; i knows where to put hands on 'em both;" said the operator, pointing towards the village; and it is as well to mention that he did it. "now, sir, you come along of i." he cast away the fourth rod, having elicited their virtues, and taking mr. penniloe in his arms, went steadily with him to the nearest house. this stood alone in the outskirts of the village; and there two very good old ladies lived, with a handsome green railing in front of them. these, after wringing their hands for some minutes, enabled mr. penniloe to wash his face and head, and gave him some red currant wine, and sent their child of all work for mrs. muggridge. meanwhile the parson began to take a more distinct view of the world again, his first emotion being anxiety about his sunday beaver, which he had been wearing in honour of the proclamation--the last duty it was ever destined to discharge. but the "gigantic individual," as the good ladies called him, was nowhere to be seen, when they mustered courage to persuade one another to peep outside the rails. by this time the weather was becoming very bad. everybody knows how a great gale rises; not with any hurry, or assertion of itself, (as a little squall does, that is limited for time) but with a soft hypocritical sigh, and short puffs of dissimulation. the solid great storm, that gets up in the south, and means to make every tree in england bow, to shatter the spray on the land's-end cliffs while it shakes all the towers of london, begins its advance without any broad rush, but with many little ticklings of the space it is to sweep. a trumpery frolic where four roads meet, a woman's umbrella turned inside out, a hat tossed into a horse-pond perhaps, a weather-cock befooled into chace of head with tail, and a clutch of big raindrops sheafed into the sky and shattered into mist again--these, and a thousand other little pranks and pleasantries, are as the shrill admonitions of the fife, in the vanguard of the great invasion of the heavens. but what cares a man, with his money in his pockets, how these larger things are done? and even if his money be yet to seek, still more shall it preponderate. a tourney of wrestlers for cash and great glory was crowding the courtyard of the _ivy-bush_ with every man who could raise a shilling. a steep roof of rick-cloth and weatherproof canvas, supported on a massive ridge-pole would have protected the enclosure from any ordinary storm; but now the tempestuous wind was tugging, whistling, panting, shrieking, and with great might thundering, and the violent rain was pelting, like the rattle of pebbles on the chessil beach, against the strained canvas of the roof; while the rough hoops of candles inside were swinging, with their crops of guttering tallow welted, like sucked stumps of asparagus. nevertheless the spectators below, mounted on bench, or stool, or trestle, or huddled against the rope-ring, were jostling, and stamping, and craning their necks, and digging elbows into one another, and yelling, and swearing, and waving rotten hats, as if the only element the lord ever made was mob. suddenly all jabber ceased, and only the howls of the storm were heard, and the patter from the sodden roof, as polwarth of bodmin, having taken formal back from dascombe of devon, (the winner of the standards, a very fine player, but not big enough for him) skirred his flat hat into the middle of the sawdust, and stood there flapping his brawny arms, and tossing his big-rooted nose, like a bull. in the flare of the lights, his grin looked malignant, and the swing of his bulk overweening; and though he said nothing but "cornwall for ever!" he said it as if it meant--"devonshire be d--d!" after looking at the company with mild contempt, he swaggered towards the umpires, and took off his belt, with the silver buckles and the red stones flashing, and hung it upon the cross-rail for defiance. a shiver and a tremble of silence ran through the hearts, and on the lips of three hundred sad spectators. especially a gentleman who sate behind the umpires, dressed in dark riding-suit and a flapped hat, was swinging from side to side with strong feeling. "is there no man to try a fall for devonshire? won't kill him to be beaten. consolation money, fifty shillings." the chairman of the committee announced; but nobody came forward. a deep groan was heard from old channing the clerk, who had known such very different days; while the cornishman made his three rounds of the ring, before he should buckle on the belt again; and snorted each time, like goliath. gathering up the creases of his calves, which hung like the chins of an alderman, he stuck his heels into the devonshire earth, to ask what it was made of. then, with a smile, which he felt to be kind, and heartily large to this part of the world, he stooped to pick up the hat gay with seven ribbons, wrung from devonshire button-holes. but behold, while his great hand was going to pick it up thus carelessly, another hat struck it, and whirled it away, as a quoit strikes a quoit that appears to have won. "devon for ever! and cornwall to the devil!" a mighty voice shouted, and a mighty man came in, shaking the rain and the wind from his hair. a roar of hurrahs overpowered the gale, as the man taking heed of nobody, strode up to the belt, and with a pat of his left hand, said--"i wants this here little bit of ribbon." "thee must plai for 'un fust," cried the hero of cornwall. "what else be i come for?" the other enquired. when formalities had been satisfied, and the proper clothing donned, and the champions stood forth in the ring, looking at one another, the roof might have dropped, without any man heeding, until it came across his eyes. the challenger's name had been announced--"harvey tremlett, of devonshire"--but only one or two besides old channing had any idea who he was; and even old channing was not aware that the man had been a wrestler from early youth, so seldom had he visited his native place. "a' standeth like a man as understood it," "a' be bigger in the back than carnishman," "hope 'a hath trained, or 's wind won't hold;" sundry such comments of critical power showed that the public, as usual, knew ten times as much as the performers. these, according to the manner of the time, were clad alike, but wore no pads, for the brutal practice of kicking was now forbidden at meetings of the better sort. a jacket, or jerkin, of tough sail-cloth, half-sleeved and open in front afforded firm grasp, but no clutch for throttling; breeches of the stoutest cord, belted at waist and strapped at knee, red worsted stockings for devonshire, and yellow on behalf of cornwall, completed their array; except that the cornishman wore ankle-boots, while the son of devon, at his own request, was provided only with sailor's pumps. the advantage of these, for lightness of step and pliancy of sole, was obvious; but very few players would venture upon them, at the risk of a crushed and disabled foot. "fear he bain't nim' enough for they pea-shells. they be all very well for a boy;" said channing. the cornishman saw that he had found his match, perhaps even his master in bodily strength, if the lasting power could be trusted. skill and endurance must decide the issue, and here he knew his own pre-eminence. he had three or four devices of his own invention, but of very doubtful fairness; if all other powers failed, he would have recourse to them. for two or three circuits of the ring, their mighty frames and limbs kept time and poise with one another. each with his left hand grasped the other by the shoulder lappet; each kept his right hand hovering like a hawk, and the fingers in ply for a dash, a grip, a tug. face to face, and eye to eye, intent upon every twinkle, step for step they marched sideways, as if to the stroke of a heavy bell, or the beating of slow music. each had his weight thrown slightly forwards, and his shoulders slouched a little, watching for one unwary move, and testing by some subtle thrill the substance of the other, as a glass is filliped to try its ring. by a feint of false step, and a trick of eye, polwarth got an opening. in he dashed, the other's arm flew up, and the cornish grip went round him. in vain he put forth his mighty strength, for there was no room to use it. down he crashed, but turned in falling, so that the back was doubtful. "back"! "fair back"! "no back at all." "four pins." "never, no, three pins." "see where his arm was?" "foul, foul, foul!" shouts of wrath, and even blows ensued; for a score or two of cornishmen were there. "hush for the umpires!" "hold your noise." "thee be a liar." "so be you." the wind and the rain were well out-roared, until the umpires, after some little consultation gave award. "we allow it true back, for cornwall. unless the fall claims foul below belt. if so, it will be for referee." which showed that they differed upon that point. "let 'un have it. i won't claim no foul. let 'un do it again, if 'a can." thus spake the fallen man, striding up to the umpires' post. a roar of cheers rang round the tent, though many a devonshire face looked glum, and a few groans clashed with the frank hurrahs. the second bout was a brief one, but afforded much satisfaction to all lovers of fair play, and therefore perhaps to the cornishmen. what tremlett did was simply this. he feigned to be wholly absorbed in guarding against a repetition of the recent trick. the other expecting nothing more than tactics of defence was caught, quite unawares, by his own device, and down he went--a very candid four-pin fall. now came the final bout, the supreme decision of the tie, the crowning struggle for the palm. the issue was so doubtful, that the oldest and most sage of all palã¦stric oracles could but look,--and feared that voice might not prove--wise. skill was equally divided, (setting dubious tricks aside), strength was a little in favour of devon, but not too much turn of the balance, (for cornwall had not produced a man of such magnitude for many years) experience was on cornwall's side; condition, and lasting power, seemed to be pretty fairly on a par. what was to settle it? devonshire knew. that is to say, the fair county had its hopes,--though always too modest and frugal to back them--that something which it produces even more freely than fair cheeks and kind eyes, and of which the corner land is not so lavish--to wit fine temper, and tranquillity of nature, might come to their mother's assistance. even for fighting, no man is at the best of himself, when exasperated. far less can he be so in the gentler art. a proverb of large equity, and time-honoured wisdom, declares (with the bluntness of its race) that "sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." this maxim is pleasant enough to the goose; but the gander sputters wrathfully when it comes home to his breast. polwarth felt it as a heinous outrage, that he had been the victim of his own device. as he faced his rival for the last encounter, a scowl came down upon his noble knobby forehead, his keen eyes glowered as with fire in his chest, and his wiry lips closed viciously. the devonshire man, endowed with larger and less turbid outlook, perceived that the other's wrath was kindled, and his own duty was to feed the flame. accordingly, by quiet tricks, and flicks, such as no man would even feel unless already too peppery, he worked the moral system hard, and roused in the other's ample breast--or brain, if that be the combative part--a lofty disdain of discretion. polwarth ground his teeth, and clenched his fist, spat fire--and all was up with him. one savage dash he made, which might have swept a milestone backward, breast clashed on breast, he swung too high, the great yellow legs forsook the earth, and the great red ones flashed between them, then the mighty frame span in the air like a flail, and fell flat as the blade of a turf-beater's spade. "all over! all up! needn't ask about that. three times three for devonshire! again, again, again! carnies, what can 'e say to that now?" wild triumph, fierce dejection, yearning to fight it out prevailed; every man's head was out of the government of his neck--when these two leading counties were quenched alike. the great pole of red pine, fit mast for an admiral, bearing all the structure overhead, snapped, like a carrot, to a vast wild blast. in a weltering squash lay victor and vanquished, man with his fists up, and man eager to go at him, hearts too big to hold themselves for exultation, and hearts so low that wifely touch was needed to encourage them, glorious head that had won fifty shillings, and poor numskull that had lost a pot of beer. prostrate all, with mouths full of tallow, sawdust, pitch, and another fellow's toes. many were for a twelvemonth limpers; but nobody went to churchyard. chapter xxxvi. a fighting bout. after that mighty crash, every body with any sense left in its head went home. there was more to talk about than perlycross had come across in half a century. and the worst of it was, that every blessed man had his own troubles first to attend to; which is no fun at all, though his neighbour's are so pleasant. the fair, in the covered market-place, had long been a dreary concern, contending vainly against the stronger charm of the wrestling booth, and still more vainly against the furious weather. even the biggest and best fed flares--and they were quite as brisk in those days as they are now--gifted though they might be with rage and vigour, lost all self-control, and dashed in yellow forks, here there and everywhere, singeing sometimes their own author's whiskers. like a man who lives too fast, they killed themselves; and the poor cheap-jacks, the universal oracles, the benevolent bounty-men, chucking guineas right and left, the master of cupid's bower, who supplied every lass with a lord, and every lad with a lady having a lapful of a hundred thousand pounds--sadly they all strapped up, and lit their pipes, and shivered at that terrible tramp before them, cursing the weather, and their wives, and even the hallowed village of perlycross. though the coaches had forsaken this ancient track from exeter to london, and followed the broader turnpike roads, there still used to be every now and then a string of packhorses, or an old stage-waggon, not afraid of hills and making no fuss about time, but straggling at leisure through the pristine thoroughfares, thwarted less with toll-bars. notably, old hill's _god-be-with-us_ van left exeter on tuesdays, with the goodwill of three horses, some few hours in the afternoon, and might be trusted to appear at perlycross according to the weather and condition of the roads. what more comfortable course of travel could there be for any one who understood it, and enjoyed sound sleep, and a good glass of ale at intervals, with room enough to dine inside if he thought fit, than the _god-be-with-us_ van afforded? for old hill was always in charge of it himself, and expected no more than a penny a mile, and perhaps the power to drink the good health of any peaceful subject of the king, who might be inclined to come along with him, and listen to his moving tales. the horses were fat, and they rested at night, and took it easily in the daytime; and the leader had three little bells on his neck, looking, when you sat behind him, like a pair of scales; and without them he always declined to take a step, and the wheelers backed him up in that denial. for a man not bound to any domineering hour, or even to a self-important day, the broad-wheeled waggon belonging to old hill--"old-as-the-hills" some flippant younkers called him--was as good an engine as need be, for crossing of the country, when it wanted to be crossed, and halting at any town of hospitable turn. that same shrove-tuesday,--and it is well to mark the day, because master hill was so superior to dates--this man who asserted the dignity of our race, by not allowing matter to disturb him, was coming down hill with his heavy drag on, in a road that was soft from the goodness of the soil; when a man with two legs made of better stuff than ours, either came out of a gate across the van, or else fairly walked it down by superior speed behind. "ship ahoy!" he shouted; and old hill was wide awake, for he had two or three barrels that would keep rolling into the small of his back--as he called it, with his usual oblivion of chronology--and so he was enabled to discern this man, and begin at his leisure to consider him. if the man had shouted again, or shown any other symptom of small hurry, the driver--or properly speaking the drifter, for the horses did their own driving--would have felt some disappointment in him, as an inferior fellow-creature. but the man on foot, or at least on stumps, was in no more hurry than old hill himself, and steadfastly trudged to the bottom of the hill, looking only at the horses--a very fine sign. the land being devon, it is needless to say that there was no inconsistency about it. wherever one hill ends, there another begins, with just room enough between them for a horse to spread his legs, and shake himself with self-approbation. and he is pretty sure to find a crystal brook, purling across the road, and twinkling bright temptation to him. "hook up skid, and then 'e can jump in;" said old hill in the hollow where the horses backed, and he knew by the clank that it had been done, and then by a rattle on the floor behind him, that the stranger had embarked by the chains at the rear. after about a mile or so of soft low whistling, in which he excelled all carriers, old hill turned round with a pleasant grin, for there was a great deal of good about him. "going far?" he asked, as an opening of politeness, rather than of curiosity. "zort of a place, called perlycrass;" replied the wooden-leg'd man, who was sitting on a barrel. manifestly an ancient sailor, weather-beaten, and taciturn, the residue of a strong and handsome man. the whole of this had been as nearly to the carrier's liking, as the words and deeds of any man can be to any other's. therefore before another mile had been travelled, old hill turned round again, with a grin still sweeter. "pancake day, bain't it?" was his very kind enquiry. "b'lieve it be;" replied the other, in the best and truest british style. after this no more was lacking to secure old hill's regard than the very thing the sailor did. there was a little flap of canvas, like a loophole in the tilt, fitted for the use of chawers, and the cleanliness of the floor. timberlegs after using this, with much deliberation and great skill, made his way forward, and in deep silence poked old hill with his open tobacco-box. if it were not silver, it was quite as good to look at, and as bright as if it held the freedom of the city; the tobacco, moreover, was of goodly reek, and a promise of inspiration such as never flows through custom-house. "thank 'e, i'll have a blade bumbai. will 'e zit upon that rope of onions?" the sailor shook his head; for the rim of a barrel, though apt to cut, cuts evenly like a good schoolmaster. "'long of nelson?" master hill enquired, pointing to the places where the feet were now of deputy. the old tar nodded; and then with that sensitive love of accuracy which marks the tar, growled out, "leastways, wan of them." "and what come to t'other wan?" master hill was capable of really large human interest. "had 'un off, to square the spars, and for zake of vamily." he had no desire to pursue the subject, and closed it by a big squirt through the flap. old hill nodded with manly approbation. plymouth was his birthplace; and he knew that other sons of nelson had done this; for it balanced their bodies, and composed their minds with another five shillings a week for life, and the sale of the leg covered all expenses. "you'm a very ingenious man;" he glanced as he spoke, at the sailor's jury-rig; "i'll war'n no doctor could a' vitted 'e up, like thiccy." "vitted 'un myself with double swivel. can make four knots an hour now. they doctors can undo 'e; but 'em can't do 'e up. a cove can't make sail upon a truck-head." "and what do 'e say to the weather, cap'n?" master hill enquired of his passenger, when a few more compliments had passed, and the manes of the horses began to ruffle, and the tilt to sway and rattle with the waxing storm. "think us shall have as big a gale of wind as ever come out of the heavens," the sailor replied, after stumping to the tail of the van, and gazing windwards; "heave to pretty smart, and make all snug afore sunset, is my advice. too much sail on this here little craft, for such a blow as us shall have to-night." "can't stop short of taunton town." old hill was famed for his obstinacy. "can 'e take in sail? can 'e dowse this here canvas? can 'e reef it then somehow?" the old man shook his head. "tell 'e what then, shipmate--if 'e carry on for six hours more, this here craft will be on her beam-ends, wi'out mainsail parteth from his lashings, sure as my name is dick herniman." this tar of the old school, better known as "timber-leg'd dick," disembarked from the craft, whose wreck he had thus predicted, at a turning betwixt perliton and perlycross, and stumped away up a narrow lane, at a pace quite equal to that of the _god-be-with-us_ van. the horses looked after him, as a specimen of biped hitherto beyond their experience; and old hill himself, though incapable of amazement (which is a rapid process) confessed that there were some advantages in this form of human pedal, as well as fine economy of cloth and leather. "how 'a doth get along, nimbler nor i could!" the carrier reflected, as his nags drove on again. "up to zummat ratchety, i'll be bound he be now. a leary old salt as ever lived. never laughed once, never showed a smile, but gotten it all in his eyes he have: and the eyes be truer folks than the lips. enough a'most to tempt a man to cut off 's own two legses." some hours later than this, and one hour later than the downfall of the wrestler's roof, the long market-place, forming one side of the street--a low narrow building set against the churchyard wall, between the school and the lych-gate, looked as dismal, and dreary, and deserted, as the bitterest enemy of fairs could wish. the torrents of rain, and fury of the wind, had driven all pleasure-seekers, in a grievously drenched and battered plight, to seek for wiser comfort; and only a dozen or so of poor creatures, either too tipsy to battle with the wind, or too reckless in their rags to care where they were, wallowed upon sacks, and scrabbled under the stanchion-boards, where the gaiety had been. the main gates, buckled back upon their heavy hinges, were allowed to do nothing in their proper line of business, until the church-clock should strike twelve, for such was the usage; though as usual nobody had ever heard who ordained it. a few oil-lamps were still in their duty, swinging like welted horn-poppies in the draught, and shedding a pale and spluttering light. the man who bore the keys had gone home three times, keeping under hele with his oil-skins on, to ask his wife--who was a woman of some mark--whether he might not lock the gates, and come home and have his bit of bacon. but she having strong sense of duty, and a good log blazing, and her cup of tea, had allowed him very generously to warm his hands a little, and then begged him to think of his family. this was the main thing that he had to do; and he went forth again into the dark, to do it. meanwhile, without anybody to take heed (for the sergeant, ever vigilant, was now on guard in spain), a small but choice company of human beings, was preparing for action in the old school-porch, which stood at the back of the building. staffs they had, and handcuffs too, and supple straps, and loops of cord; all being men of some learning in the law, and the crooked ways of people out of harmony therewith. if there had been light enough to understand a smile, they would have smiled at one another, so positive were they that they had an easy job, and so grudgeful that the money should cut up so small. the two worthy constables of perlycross felt certain that they could do it better by themselves; and the four invoked from perliton were vexed, to have to act with village lubbers. their orders were not to go nigh the wrestling, or show themselves inside the market-place, but to keep themselves quiet, and shun the weather, and what was a great deal worse, the beer. every now and then, the ideas of jolly noises, such as were appropriate to the time, were borne upon the rollicking wings of the wind into their silent vestibule, suggesting some wiping of lips, which, alas, were ever so much too dry already. at a certain signal, they were all to hasten across the corner of the churchyard, at the back of the market-place, and enter a private door at the east end of the building, after passing through the lych-gate. suddenly the rain ceased, as if at sound of trumpet; like the mouth of a cavern the sky flew open, and the wind, leaping three points of the compass, rushed upon the world from the chambers of the west. such a blast, as had never been felt before, filled the whole valley of the perle, and flung mowstack, and oakwood, farmhouse, and abbey, under the sweep of its wings as it flew. the roar of the air overpowered the crash of the ruin it made, and left no man the sound of his own voice to himself. these great swoops of wind always lighten the sky; and as soon as the people blown down could get up, they were able to see the church-tower still upright, though many men swore that they heard it go rock. very likely it rocked, but could they have heard it? in the thick of the din of this awful night, when the church-clock struck only five instead of ten--and it might have struck fifty, without being heard--three men managed, one by one, and without any view of one another, to creep along the creases of the storm, and gain the gloomy shelter of the market-place. "every man for himself," is the universal law, when the heavens are against the whole race of us. not one of these men cared to ask about the condition of the other two, nor even expected much to see them, though each was more resolute to be there himself, because of its being so difficult. "very little chance of timberlegs to-night," said one to another, as two of them stood in deep shadow against the back wall, where a voice could be heard if pitched in the right direction; "he could never make way again' a starm like this." "thou bee'st a liar," replied a gruff voice, as the clank of metal on the stone was heard. "timberlegs can goo, where flesh and bone be mollichops." he carried a staff like a long handspike, and prodded the biped on his needless feet, to make him wish to be relieved of them. "us be all here now," said the third man, who seemed in the wavering gloom to fill half the place. "what hast thou brought us for, timber-leg'd dick?" "bit of a job, same as three months back. better than clam-pits, worn't it now? got a good offer for thee too, harvey, for that old ramshackle place. handy hole for a louderin' job, and not far from them clam-pits." "ay, so a' be. never thought of that. and must have another coney, now they wise 'uns have vound out nigger's nock. lor' what a laugh we had, jem and i, at they fules of perlycrass!" "then perlycross will have the laugh at thee. harvey tremlett, and james kettel, i arrest 'e both, in the name of his majesty the king." six able-bodied men (who had entered, unheard in the roar of the gale, and unseen in the gloom), stood with drawn staffs, heels together, and shoulder to shoulder, in a semi-circle, enclosing the three conspirators. "read thy warrant aloud," said dick herniman, striking his handspike upon the stones, and taking command in right of intellect; while the other twain laid their backs against the wall, and held themselves ready for the issue. dick had hit a very hard nail on the head. none of these constables had been young enough to undergo sergeant jakes, and thenceforth defy the most lofty examiner. "didn't hear what 'e zed," replied head-constable, making excuse of the wind, which had blown him but little of the elements. but he lowered his staff, and held consultation. "then i zay it again," shouted timber-leg'd dick, stumping forth with a power of learning, for he had picked up good leisure in hospitals; "if thou representest the king, read his majesty's words, afore taking his name in vain." these six men were ready, and resolute enough, to meet any bodily conflict; but the literary crisis scared them. "can e' do it, jack?" "don't know as i can." "wish my boy bill was here." "don't run in my line"--and so on. "if none on 'e knows what he be about," said the man with the best legs to stand upon, advancing into the midst of them, "i know a deal of the law; and i tell 'e, as a friend of the king, who hath lost two legs for 'un, in the royal navy, there can't be no lawful arrest made here. and the liberty of the subject cometh in, the same as a' doth again' highwaymen. harvey tremlett, and jem kettel, the law be on your side, to 'protect the liberty of the subject.'" this was enough for the pair who had stood, as law-abiding englishmen, against the wall, with their big fists doubled, and their great hearts doubting. "here goo'th for the liberty of the subject," cried harvey tremlett, striding forth; "i shan't strike none as don't strike me. but if a doth, a' must look out." the constables wavered, in fear of the law, and doubt of their own duty; for they had often heard that every man had a right to know what he was arrested for. unluckily one of them made a blow with his staff at harvey tremlett; then he dropped on the flags with a clump in his ear, and the fight in a moment was raging. somebody knocked jemmy kettel on the head, as being more easy to deal with; and then the blood of the big man rose. three stout fellows fell upon him all together, and heavy blows rung on the drum of his chest, from truncheons plied like wheel-spokes. forth flew his fist-clubs right and left, one of them meeting a staff in the air, and shattering it back into its owner's face. never was the peace of the king more broken; no man could see what became of his blows, legs and arms went about like windmills, substance and shadow were all as one, till the substance rolled upon the ground, and groaned. this dark flight resembled the clashing of a hedgerow in the fury of a midnight storm; when the wind has got in and cannot get out, when ground-ash, and sycamore, pole, stub, and saplin, are dashing and whirling against one another, and even the sturdy oak-tree in the trough is swaying, and creaking, and swinging on its hole. "zoonder not to kill e'er a wan of 'e, i 'ood. but by the lord, if 'e comes they byses"--shouted harvey tremlett, as a rope was thrown over his head from behind, but cut in half a second by herniman--"more of 'e, be there?" as the figures thickened--"have at 'e then, wi' zummat more harder nor visties be!" he wrenched from a constable his staff, and strode onward, being already near the main gate now. as he whirled the heavy truncheon round his head, the constables hung back, having two already wounded, and one in the grip of reviving jem, who was rolling on the floor with him. "zurrender to his majesty;" they called out, preferring the voluntary system. "a varden for the lot of 'e!" the big man said, and he marched in a manner that presented it. but not so did he walk off, blameless and respectable. he had kept his temper wonderfully, believing the law to be on his side, after all he had done for the county. now his nature was pressed a little too hard for itself, when just as he had called out--"coom along, jem; there be nort to stop 'e, timberlegs;" retiring his forces with honour--two figures, hitherto out of the moil, stood across him at the mouth of exit. "who be you?" he asked, with his anger in a flame; for they showed neither staff of the king, nor warrant. "volunteers, be 'e? have a care what be about." "harvey tremlett, here you stop." said a tall man, square in front of him. but luckily for his life, the lift of the sky showed that his hair was silvery. "never hits an old man. you lie there;" tremlett took him with his left hand, and laid him on the stones. but meanwhile the other flung his arms around his waist. "wult have a zettler? then thee shall," cried the big man, tearing him out like a child, and swinging his truncheon, for to knock him on the head, and jemmy fox felt that his time was come. down came the truncheon, like a paviour's rammer, and brains would have weltered on the floor like suds, but a stout arm dashed across, and received the crash descending. "pumpkins!" cried the smiter, wondering much what he had smitten, as two bodies rolled between his legs and on the stones. "coom along, jemmy boy. nare a wan to stop 'e." the remnant of the constables upon their legs fell back. the lord was against them. they had done their best. the next job for them was to heal their wounds, and get an allowance for them, if they could. now the human noise was over, but the wind roared on, and the rushing of the clouds let the stars look down again. tremlett stood victorious in the middle of the gateway. hurry was a state of mind beyond his understanding. was everybody satisfied? well, no one came for more. he took an observation of the weather, and turned round. "shan't bide here no longer," he announced. "dick, us'll vinish up our clack to my place. rain be droud up, and i be off." "no, harvey tremlett, you will not be off. you will stay here like a man, and stand your trial." mr. penniloe's hand was upon his shoulder, and the light of the stars, thrown in vaporous waves, showed the pale face firmly regarding him. "well, and if i says no to it, what can 'e do?" "hold you by the collar, as my duty is." the parson set his teeth, and his delicate white fingers tightened their not very formidable grasp. "sesh!" said the big man, with a whistle, and making as if he could not move. "when a man be baten, a' must gie in. wun't 'e let me goo, passon? do 'e let me goo." "tremlett, my duty is to hold you fast. i owe it to a dear friend of mine, as well as to my parish." "well, you be a braver man than most of 'em, i zimmeth. but do 'e tell a poor chap, as have no chance at all wi' 'e, what a' hath dooed, to be lawed for 'un so crule now." "prisoner, as if you did not know. you are charged with breaking open colonel waldron's grave, and carrying off his body." "oh lord! oh lord in heaven!" shouted harvey tremlett. "jem kettel, hark to thiccy! timberlegs, do 'e hear thic? all they blessed constables, as has got their bellyful, and ever so many wise gen'lemen too, what do 'e think 'em be arter us for? arter us for resurrectioneering! never heered tell such a joke in all my life. they hosebirds to _ivy-bush_ cries 'carnwall for ever!' but i'm blest if i don't cry out 'perlycrass for ever!' oh lord, oh lord! was there ever such a joke? don't 'e hold me, sir, for half a minute, just while i has out my laugh--fear i should throw 'e down with shaking so." timber-leg'd dick came up to his side, and not being of the laughing kind, made up for it by a little hornpipe in the lee; his mental feet striking, from the flints pitched there, sparks enough to light a dozen pipes; while kettel, though damaged severely about the mouth, was still able to compass a broad and loud guffaw. "prisoners," mr. penniloe said severely, for he misliked the ridicule of his parish; "this is not at all a matter to be laughed at. the evidence against you is very strong, i fear." "zurrender, zurrender, to his majesty the king!" cried tremlett, being never much at argument. "constables, if 'ee can goo, take charge. but i 'ont have no handicuffs, mind. wudn't a gie'd 'ee a clout, if i had knawed it. zarve 'ee right though, for not rading of thic warrant-papper. jemmy boy, you zurrender to the king; and i be passon's prisoner. honour bright fust though--nort to come agin' us, unless a' be zet down in warrant-papper. passon, thee must gi'e thy word for that. timberlegs, coom along for layyer." "certainly, i give my word, as far as it will go, that no other charge shall be brought against you. the warrant is issued for that crime only. prove yourselves guiltless of that, and you are free." "us won't be very long in prison then. a day or two bain't much odds to we." chapter xxxvii. gentle as a lamb. of the nine people wounded in that agorã¤ic struggle, which cast expiring lustre on the fairs of perlycross, every one found his case most serious to himself, and still more so to his wife; and even solemn, in the presence of those who had to settle compensation. herniman had done some execution, as well as received a nasty splinter of one leg, which broke down after his hornpipe; and kettel had mauled the man who rolled over with him. but, as appeared when the case was heard, tremlett had by no means done his best; and his lawyer put it touchingly and with great effect, that he was loth to smite the sons of his native county, when he had just redeemed their glory, by noble discomfiture of cornwall. one man only had a parlous wound; and as is generally ordained in human matters, this was the one most impartial of all, the one who had no interest of his own to serve, the one who was present simply out of pure benevolence, and a briton's love of order. so at least his mother said; and every one acknowledged that she was a woman of high reasoning powers. many others felt for him, as who would have done the same, with like opportunity. for only let a healthy, strong, and earnest-minded englishman--to use a beloved compound epithet of the day--hear of a hot and lawful fight impending, with people involved in it, of whom he has some knowledge, and we may trust him heartily to be there or thereabouts, to see--as he puts it to his conscience--fair play. but an if he chance to be in love just then, with a very large percentage of despair to reckon up, and one of the combatants is in the count against him, can a doubt remain of his eager punctuality? this was poor frank gilham's case. dr. gronow was a prudent man, and liked to have the legions on his side. he perceived that young frank was a staunch and stalwart fellow, sure to strike a good blow on a friend's behalf. he was well aware also of his love for christie, and could not see why it should come to nothing. while jemmy fox's faith in the resources of the law, and in his own prowess as a power in reserve, were not so convincing to the elder mind. "better make sure, than be too certain," was a favourite maxim of this shrewd old stager; and so without jemmy's knowledge he invited frank, to keep out of sight unless wanted. this measure saved the life of dr. fox, and that of harvey tremlett too, some of whose brothers had adorned the gallows. even as it was, jemmy fox lay stunned, with the other man's arm much inserted in his hat. where he would have been without that arm for buffer, the cherub, who sits on the chimney-pots of harley street, alone can say. happily the other doctor was unhurt, and left in full possession of his wits, which he at once exerted. after examining the wounded yeoman, who had fainted from the pain and shock, he borrowed a mattress from the rectory, a spring-cart and truss of hay from channing the baker, and various other appliances; and thus in spite of the storm conveyed both patients to hospital. this was the _old barn_ itself, because all surgical needs would be forthcoming there more readily, and so it was wiser to decline mr. penniloe's offer of the rectory. with the jolting of the cart, and the freshness of the air, fox began to revive ere long; and though still very weak and dizzy, was able to be of some service at his own dwelling-place; and although he might not, when this matter first arose, have shown all the gratitude which the sanguine do expect, in return for frank gilham's loyalty, he felt very deep contrition now, when he saw this frightful fracture, and found his own head quite uncracked. the six constables, though they had some black eyes, bruised limbs, and broken noses, and other sources of regret, were (in strict matter of fact, and without any view to compensation) quite as well as could be expected. and as happens too often, the one who groaned the most had the least occasion for it. it was only the wick of a lamp, that had dropped, without going out, on this man's collar, and burned a little hole in his _niddick_, as it used to be called in devonshire. tremlett readily gave his word that no escape should be attempted; and when mrs. muggridge came to know that this was the man who had saved her master, nothing could be too good for him. so constables and prisoners were fed and cared for, and stowed for the night in the long schoolroom, with hailstones hopping in the fireplace. in the morning, the weather was worse again; for this was a double-barrel'd gale, as an ignorant man might term it; or rather perhaps two several gales, arising from some vast disturbance, and hitting into one another. otherwise, why should it be known and remembered even to the present day, as the great ash-wednesday gale, although it began on shrove-tuesday, and in many parts raged most fiercely then? at perlycross certainly there was no such blast upon the second day, as that which swept the abbey down: when the wind leaped suddenly to the west, and the sky fell open, as above recorded. upon that wild ash-wednesday forenoon, the curate stood in the churchyard mourning, even more than the melancholy date requires. where the old abbey had stood for ages (backing up the venerable church with grand dark-robed solemnity, and lifting the buckler of ancient faith above many a sleeping patriarch) there was nothing but a hideous gap, with murky clouds galloping over it. shorn of its ivy curtain by the tempest of last sunday, the mighty frame had reeled, and staggered, and with one crash gone to ground last night, before the impetuous welkin's weight. "is all i do to be always vain, and worse than vain--destructive, hurtful, baneful, fatal i might say, to the very objects for which i strive? here is the church, unfinished, leaky, with one of its corners gone underground, and the grand stone screen smashed in two; here is the abbey, or alas not here, but only an ugly pile of stones! here is the outrage to my dear friend, and the shame to the parish as black as ever; for those men clearly know nothing of it. and here, or at any rate close at hand, the sad drawback upon all good works; for at lady-day in pour the bills, and my prayers (however earnest) will not pay them. it has pleased the lord, in his infinite wisdom, to leave me very short of cash." unhappily his best hat had been spoiled, in that interview with the four vergers; and in his humility he was not sure that the one on his head was good enough even to go to the commination service. however it need not have felt unworthy; for there was not a soul in the church to be adjured, save that which had been under its own brim. the clerk was off for perliton, swearing--even at his time of life!--that he had been subpoenaed, as if that could be on such occasion; and as for the pupils, all bound to be in church, the hopper had been ordered by the constables to present himself to the magistrates (though all the constables denied it) and pike, and mopuss, felt it their duty to go with him. in a word, all perlycross was off, though services of the church had not yet attained their present continuity; and though every woman, and even man, had to plod three splashy miles, with head on chest, in the teeth of the gale up the river. how they should get into the room, when there, was a question that never occurred to them. there they all yearned to be; and the main part, who could not raise a shilling, or prove themselves uncles, or aunts, or former sweethearts of the two constables who kept the door, had to crouch under dripping shrubs outside the windows, and spoiled all squire mockham's young crocuses. that gentleman was so upright, and thoroughly impartial, that to counteract his own predilections for a champion wrestler, he had begged a brother-magistrate to come and sit with him on this occasion; not sir edwin sanford, who was of the quorum for somerset, but a man of some learning and high esteem, the well-known dr. morshead. thus there would be less temptation for any tattler to cry, "hole and corner," as spiteful folk rejoice to do, while keeping in that same place themselves. although there was less perhaps of mischief-making in those days than now; and there could be no more. the constables marched in, with puff and blow, like victors over rebels, and as if they had carried the prisoners captive, every yard of the way, from perlycross. all of them began to talk at once, and to describe with more vigour than truth the conflict of the night before. but dr. morshead stopped them short, for the question of resistance was not yet raised. what the bench had first to decide was whether a case could be made out for a _mittimus_, in pursuance of the warrant, to the next petty sessions on monday; whence the prisoners would be remitted probably to the quarter sessions. the two accused stood side by side (peaceful and decorous, as if they were accustomed to it); and without any trepidation admitted their identity. it was rather against their interests that the official clerk was absent--this not being a stated meeting, but held for special purpose--for magistrates used to be a little nervous, without their proper adviser; and in fear of permitting the guilty to escape, they sometimes remanded upon insufficient grounds. in the present case, there was nothing whatever to connect these two men with the crime, except the testimony of joe crang, and what might be regarded as their own admission, overheard by dr. fox. the latter was not in court, nor likely so to be; and as for the blacksmith's evidence, however positive it might seem, what did it amount to? and such as it was, it was torn to rags, through the quaking of the deponent. for a sharp little lawyer started up, as lawyers are sure to do everywhere, and crossed the room to where herniman sat, drumming the floor with metallic power, and looking very stolid. but a glance had convinced the keen attorney, that here were the brains of the party, and a few short whispers settled it. "guinea, if 'e gets 'em off; if not, ne'er a farden." "right!" said the lawyer, and announced himself. "blickson, for the defence, your worships--maurice blickson of silverton." the proper bows were interchanged; and then came crang's excruciation. already this sturdy and very honest fellow, was as he elegantly described it, in a "lantern-sweat" of terror. it is one thing to tell a tale to two friends in a potato-field, and another to narrate the same on oath, with four or five quills in mysterious march, two most worshipful signors bending brows of doubt upon you, and thirty or forty faces scowling at every word--"what a liar you be!" and when on the top of all this, stands up a noble gentleman, with keen eyes, peremptory voice, contemptuous smiles, and angry gestures, all expressing his christian sorrow, that the devil should have so got hold of you,--what blacksmith, even of poetic anvil (whence all rhythm and metre spring) can have any breath left in his own bellows? joe crang had fallen on his knees, to take the oath; as witnesses did, from a holy belief that this turned the rungs of the gallows the wrong way; and then he had told his little tale most sadly, as one who hopes never to be told of it again. his business had thriven, while his health was undermined; through the scores of good people, who could rout up so much as a knife that wanted a rivet, or even a boy with one tooth pushing up another; and though none of them paid more than fourpence for things that would last them a fortnight to talk about, their money stayed under the thatch, while joe spent nothing but a wink for all his beer. but ah, this was no winking time! crang was beginning to shuffle off, with his knuckles to his forehead; and recovering his mind so loudly that he got in a word about the quality of his iron--which for the rest of his life he would have cited, to show how he beat they justesses--when he found himself recalled, and told to put his feet together. this, from long practice of his art, had become a difficulty to him, and in labouring to do it he lost all possibility of bringing his wits into the like position. this order showed blickson to be almost a verulam in his knowledge of mankind. joe crang recovered no self-possession, on his own side of better than a gallon strong. "blacksmith, what o'clock is it now?" crang put his ears up, as if he expected the church-clock to come to his aid; and then with a rally of what he was hoping for, as soon as he got round the corner, replied--"four and a half, your honour." "i need not remind your worships," said blickson, when the laughter had subsided; "that this fellow's evidence, even if correct, proves nothing whatever against my clients. but just to show what it is worth, i will, with your worships' permission, put a simple question to him. he has sworn that it was two o'clock on a foggy morning, and with no church-clock to help him, when he saw, in his night-mare this ghostly vision. perhaps he should have said--'four and a half;' which in broad daylight is his idea of the present hour. now, my poor fellow, did you swear, or did you not, on a previous occasion, that one of the men who so terrified you out of your heavy sleep, was dr. james fox--a gentleman, dr. morshead, of your own distinguished profession? don't shuffle with your feet, crang, nor yet with your tongue. did you swear that, or did you not?" "well, if i did, twadn't arkerate." "in plain english, you perjured yourself on that occasion. and yet you expect their worships to believe you now! now look at the other man, the tall one. by which of his features do you recognize him now, at four and a half, in the morning?" "dun'now what veitchers be. knows 'un by his size, and manner of standin'. should like to hear's voice, if no object to you, layyer." "my friend, you call me by your own name. such is your confusion of ideas. will your worships allow me to assist this poor numskull? the great cornish wrestler is here, led by that noble fraternal feeling, which is such a credit to all men distinguished, in any walk of life. mr. polwarth of bodmin, will you kindly stand by the side of your brother in a very noble art?" it was worth a long journey in bad weather (as squire mockham told his guests at his dinner-party afterwards, and dr. morshead and his son confirmed it) to see the two biggest growths of devonshire and of cornwall standing thus amicably side by side, smiling a little slyly at each other, and blinking at their worships with some abashment, as if to say--"this is not quite in our line." for a moment the audience forgot itself, and made itself audible with three loud cheers. "silence!" cried their worships, but not so very sternly. "reckon, i could drow 'e next time;" said cornwall. "wun't zay but what 'e maight;" answered devon courteously. "now little blacksmith," resumed the lawyer, though joe crang was considerably bigger than himself; "will you undertake to swear, upon your hope of salvation, which of those two gentlemen you saw, that night?" joe crang stared at the two big men, and his mind gave way within him. he was dressed in his best, and his wife had polished up his cheeks and nose with yellow soap, which gleamed across his vision with a kind of glaze, and therein danced pen, ink, and paper, the figures of the big men, the faces of their worships, and his own hopes of salvation. "maight 'a been carnisher;" he began to stammer, with a desire to gratify his county; but a hiss went round the room from devonian sense of justice; and to strike a better balance, he finished in despair--"wull then, it waz both on 'em." "stand down, sir!" dr. morshead shouted sternly, while blickson went through a little panorama of righteous astonishment and disgust. all the audience roared, and a solid farmer called out--"don't come near me, you infernal liar," as poor crang sought shelter behind his topcoat. so much for honesty, simplicity, and candour, when the nervous system has broken down! "after that, i should simply insult the intelligence of your worships;" continued the triumphant lawyer, "by proceeding to address you. perhaps i should ask you to commit that wretch for perjury; but i leave him to his conscience, if he has one." "the case is dismissed," dr. morshead announced, after speaking for a moment to his colleague. "unless there is any intention to charge these men with resisting or assaulting officers, in the execution of their warrant. it has been reported, though not formally, that some bystander was considerably injured. if any charge is entered on either behalf, we are ready to receive the depositions." the constables, who had been knocked about, were beginning to consult together, when blickson slipped among them, after whispering to herniman, and a good deal of nodding of heads took place, while pleasant ideas were interchanged, such as, "handsome private compensation;" "twenty-five pounds to receive to-night, and such men are always generous;" "a magnificent supper-party at the least, if they are free. if not, all must come to nothing." the worthy constabulary--now represented by a still worthier body, and one of still finer feeling--perceived the full value of these arguments; and luckily for the accused, dr. gronow was not present, being sadly occupied at _old barn_. "although there is no charge, and no sign of any charge, your worships, and therefore i have no _locus standi_;" mr. blickson had returned to his place, and adopted an airy and large-hearted style; "i would crave the indulgence of the bench, for one or two quite informal remarks; my object being to remove every stigma from the characters of my respected clients. on the best authority i may state, that their one desire, and intention, was to surrender, like a pair of lambs"--at this description a grin went round, and the learned magistrates countenanced it--"if they could only realise the nature of the charge against them. but when they demanded, like englishmen, to know why their liberty should be suddenly abridged, what happened? no one answered them! all those admirable men were doubtless eager to maintain the best traditions of the law; but the hurricane out-roared them. they laboured to convey their legal message; but where is education, when the sky falls on its head? on the other hand, one of these law-abiding men had been engaged gloriously, in maintaining the athletic honour of his county. this does not appear to have raised in him at all the pugnacity, that might have been expected. he strolled into the market-place, partly to stretch his poor bruised legs, and partly perhaps, to relieve his mind; which men of smaller nature would have done, by tippling. suddenly he is surrounded by a crowd of very strong men in the dark. the fair has long been over; the lights are burning low; scarcely enough of fire in them to singe the neck of an enterprising member of our brave constabulary. in the thick darkness, and hubbub of the storm, the hero who has redeemed the belt, and therewith the ancient fame of our county, supposes--naturally supposes, charitable as his large mind is, that he is beset for the sake of the money, which he has not yet received, but intends to distribute so freely, when he gets it. the time of this honourable bench is too valuable to the public to be wasted over any descriptions of a petty skirmish, no two of which are at all alike. my large-bodied client, the mighty wrestler, might have been expected to put forth his strength. it is certain that he did not do so. the man, who had smitten down the pride of cornwall, would strike not a blow against his own county. he gave a playful push or two, a chuck under the chin, such as a pretty milkmaid gets, when she declines a sweeter touch. i marvel at his wonderful self-control. his knuckles were shattered by a blow from a staff; like a roof in a hailstorm his great chest rang--for the men of perliton can hit hard--yet is there anything to show that he even endeavoured to strike in return? and how did it end? in the very noblest way. the pastor of the village, a most saintly man, but less than an infant in harvey tremlett's hands, appears at the gate, when there is no other let or hindrance to the freedom of a briton. is he thrust aside rudely? is he kicked out of the way? nay, he lays a hand upon the big man's breast, the hand of a minister of the cross. he explains that the law, by some misapprehension, is fain to apprehend this simple-minded hero. the nature of the sad mistake is explained; and to use a common metaphor, which excited some derision just now, but which i repeat, with facts to back me,--gentle as a lamb, yonder lion surrenders!" "the lamb is very fortunate in his shepherd;" said dr. morshead drily, as the lawyer sat down, under general applause. "but there is nothing before the bench, mr. blickson. what is the object of all this eloquence?" "the object of my very simple narrative, your worships, is to discharge my plain duty to my clients. i would ask this worshipful bench, not only to dismiss a very absurd application, but also to add their most weighty opinions, that harvey tremlett, and james fox--no, i beg pardon that was the first mistake of this ever erroneous blacksmith--james kettel, i should say, have set a fine example of perfect submission to the law of the land." "oh come, mr. blickson, that is out of the record. we pronounce no opinion upon that point. we simply adjudge that the case be now dismissed." chapter xxxviii. an inland run. "won'erful well, 'e doed it, sir. if ever i gets into queer street, you be the one to get me out." this well-merited compliment was addressed by dick herniman to attorney blickson, at a convivial gathering held that same afternoon, to celebrate the above recorded triumph of astrã¦a. the festal party had been convoked at the wheatsheaf tavern in perliton square, and had taken the best room in the house, looking out of two windows upon that noble parallelogram, which perliton never failed to bring with it, orally, when it condescended to visit perlycross. the party had no idea of being too abstemious, the object of its existence being the promotion, as well as the assertion, of the liberty of the subject. six individuals were combining for this lofty purpose, to wit the two gentlemen so unjustly charged, and their shrewd ally of high artistic standing, that very able lawyer who had vindicated right; also captain timberlegs, and horatio peckover, esquire; and pleasant it is as well as strange to add, master joseph crang of susscot, blacksmith, farrier, and engineer. for now little differences of opinion, charges of perjury and body-snatching, assault and battery, and general malfeasance, were sunk in the large liberality of success, the plenitude of john barleycorn, and the congeniality of cordials. that a stripling like the hopper should be present was a proof of some failure of discretion upon his part, for which he atoned by a tremendous imposition; while the prudent pike, and the modest mopuss, had refused with short gratitude this banquet, and gone home. but the hopper regarded himself as a witness--although he had not been called upon--in right of his researches at blackmarsh, and declared that officially he must hear the matter out, for an explanation had been promised. the greater marvel was perhaps that joe crang should be there, after all the lash of tongue inflicted on him. but when their worships were out of sight, blickson had taken him by the hand, in a truly handsome manner, and assured him of the deep respect he felt, and ardent admiration, at his too transparent truthfulness. joe crang, whose heart was very sore, had shed a tear at this touching tribute, and was fain to admit, when the lawyer put it so, that he was compelled in his own art to strike the finest metal the hardest. so now all six were in very sweet accord, having dined well, and now refining the firmer substances into the genial flow. attorney blickson was in the chair, for which nature had well qualified him; and perhaps in the present more ethereal age, he might have presided in a "syndicate" producing bubbles of gold and purple, subsiding into a bluer tone. for this was a man of quick natural parts, and gifted in many ways for his profession. every one said that he should have been a barrister; for his character would not have mattered so much, when he went from one town to another, and above all to such a place as london, where they think but little of it. if he could only stay sober, and avoid promiscuous company, and make up his mind to keep his hand out of quiet people's pockets, and do a few other respectable things, there was no earthly reason that any one could see, why he should not achieve fifty guineas a day, and even be a match for mopuss k. c., the father of mr. penniloe's fattest pupil. "this honourable company has a duty now before it;" mr. blickson drew attention by rapping on the table, and then leaning back in his chair, with a long pipe rested on a bowl of punch, or rather nothing but a punch-bowl now. on his right hand sat herniman, the giver of the feast--or the lender at least, till prize-money came to fist--and on the other side was tremlett, held down by heavy nature from the higher flights of bacchus, because no bowl was big enough to make him drunk; "yes, a duty, gentlemen, which i, as the representative of law cannot see neglected. we have all enjoyed one another's 'good health,' in the way in which it concerns us most; we have also promoted, by such prayers, the weal of the good squire mockham, and that of another gentleman, who presented himself as _amicus curiã¦_--gentlemen, excuse a sample of my native tongue--a little prematurely perhaps last night, and left us to sigh for him vainly to-day. i refer to the gentleman, with whom another, happily now present, and the soul of our party, and rejoicing equally in the scriptural name of james, was identified in an early stage of this still mysterious history, by one of the most conscientious, truthful and self-possessed of all witnesses, i have ever had the honour yet of handling in the box. at least he was not in the box, because there was none; but he fully deserves to be kept in a box. i am sorry to see you smile--at my prolixity i fear; therefore i will relieve you of it. action is always more urgent than words. duty demands that we should have this bowl refilled. pleasure, which is the fairer sex of duty, as every noble sailor knows too well, awaits us next in one of her most tempting forms, as an ancient poet has observed. if it is sweet to witness from the shore the travail of another, how much sweeter to have his trials brought before us over the flowing bowl, while we rejoice in his success and share it. gentlemen, i call upon captain richard herniman for his promised narrative of that great expedition, which by some confusion of the public mind has become connected with a darker enterprise. captain richard herniman to the fore!" "bain't no cappen, and han't got no big words," said timber-leg'd dick, getting up with a rattle, and standing very staunchly; "but can't refuse this here gentleman, under the circumstances. and every word as i says will be true." after this left-handed compliment, received with a cheer in which the lawyer joined, the ancient salt premised that among good friends, he relied on honour bright, that there should be no dirty turn. to this all pledged themselves most freely; and he trusting rather in his own reservations than their pledge, that no harm should ever come of it, shortly told his story, which in substance was as follows. but some names which he omitted have been filled in, now that all fear of enquiry is over. in the previous september, when the nights were growing long, a successful run across the channel had been followed by a peaceful, and well-conducted, landing at a lonely spot on the devonshire coast, where that pretty stream the otter flows into the sea. that part of the shore was very slackly guarded then; and none of the authorities got scent, while scent was hot, of this cordial international transaction. some of these genuine wares found a home promptly and pleasantly in the neighbourhood, among farmers, tradesmen, squires, and others, including even some loyal rectors, and zealous justices of the peace, or peradventure their wives and daughters capable of minding their own keys. some, after dwelling in caves, or furze-ricks, barns, potato-buries, or hollow trees, went inland, or to sidmouth, or seaton, or anywhere else where a good tax-payer had plastered up his windows, or put "dairy" on the top of them. but the prime of the cargo, and the very choicest goods, such as fine cognac, rich silk and rare lace, too good for pedlars, and too dear for country parsons still remained stored away very snugly, in some old dry cellars beneath the courtyard of a ruined house at budleigh; where nobody cared to go poking about, because the old gentleman who lived there once had been murdered nearly thirty years ago, for informing against smugglers, and was believed to be in the habit of walking there now. these shrewd men perceived how just it was that he should stand guard in the spirit over that which in the flesh he had betrayed, especially as his treason had been caused by dissatisfaction with his share in a very fine contraband venture. much was now committed to his posthumous sense of honour; for the free-traders vowed that they could make a thousand pounds of these choice wares in any wealthy town, like bath, or bristol, or even weymouth, then more fashionable than it is now. but suddenly their bright hopes were dashed. instead of reflecting on the value of these goods, they were forced to take hasty measures for their safety. a very bustling man, of a strange suspicious turn, as dry as a mull of snuff, and as rough as a nutmeg-grater; in a word a scotchman out of sympathy with the natives, was appointed to the station at sidmouth, and before he unpacked his clothes began to rout about, like a dog who has been trained to hunt for morels. very soon he came across some elegant french work, in cottages, or fishers' huts, or on the necks of milkmaids; and nothing would content him until he had discovered, even by such deep intriguery as the distribution of lollipops, the history of the recent enterprise. "let bygones be bygones," would have been the christian sentiment of any new-comer at all connected with the district; and sandy macspudder must have known quite well, that his curiosity was in the worst of taste, and the result too likely to cast discredit on his own predecessor, who was threatening to leave the world just then, with a large family unprovided for. yet such was this scotchman's pertinacity and push, that even the little quiet village of budleigh, which has nothing to do but to listen to its own brook prattling to the gently smiling valley, even this rose-fringed couch of peace was ripped up by the slashing of this rude lieutenant's cutlass. a spectre, even of the best devonian antecedents, was of less account than a scare-crow to this matter-of-fact lowlander. "a' can smell a rat in that ghostie," was his profane conclusion. this put the spirited free-traders on their mettle. fifty years ago, that scotch interloper would have learned the restful qualities of a greener sod than his. but it is of interest to observe how the english nature softened, when the martial age had lapsed. it scarcely occurred to this gentler generation, that a bullet from behind a rock would send this spry enquirer to solve larger questions on his own account. savage brutality had less example now. the only thing therefore was to over-reach this man. he was watching all the roads along the coast, to east and west; but to guard all the tangles of the inward roads, and the blessed complexity of devonshire lanes would have needed an army of pure natives. whereas this busy foreigner placed no faith in any man born in that part of the world--such was his judgment--and had called for a draft of fellows having different vowels. this being so, it served him right to be largely out-witted by the thick-heads he despised. and he had made such a fuss about it, at head-quarters, and promised such wonders if the case were left to him, that when he captured nothing but a string of worn-out kegs filled with diluted sheep-wash, he not only suffered for a week from gastric troubles--through his noseless hurry to identify cognac--but also received a stinging reprimand, and an order for removal to a very rugged coast, where he might be more at home with the language and the manners. and his predecessor's son obtained that sunny situation. thus is zeal rewarded always, when it does not win the seal. none will be surprised to hear that the simple yet masterly stratagem, by means of which the fair western county vindicated its commercial rights against northern arrogance and ignoble arts, was the invention of a british tar, an old agamemnon, a true heart of oak, re-membered also in the same fine material. the lessons of nelson had not been thrown away; this humble follower of that great hero first mis-led the adversary, and then broke his line. invested as he was by superior forces seeking access even to his arsenal, he despatched to the eastward a lumbering craft, better known to landsmen as a waggon, heavily laden with straw newly threshed, under which was stowed a tier of ancient kegs, which had undergone too many sinkings in the sea (when a landing proved unsafe) to be trusted any more with fine contents. therefore they now contained sheep-wash, diluted from the brook to the complexion of old brandy. in the loading of this waggon special mystery was observed, which did not escape the vigilance of the keen lieutenant's watchmen. with a pair of good farm-horses, and a farm-lad on the ridge of the load, and a heavy fellow whistling not too loudly on the lade-rail, this harmless car of fictitious bacchus, crowned by effete ceres, wended its rustic way towards the lowest bridge of otter, a classic and idyllic stream. these two men, of pastoral strain and richest breadth of language, carried orders of a simplicity almost equal to their own. no sooner was this waggon lost to sight and hearing in the thick october night, and the spies sped away by the short cuts to report it, than a long light cart, with a strong out-stepping horse, came down the wooded valley to the ghostly court. in half an hour, it was packed, and started inland, passing the birthplace of a very great man, straight away to farringdon and rockbear, with orders to put up at clist hidon before daylight, where lived a farmer who would harbour them securely. on the following night they were to make their way, after shunning cullompton, to the shelter in blackmarsh, where they would be safe from all intrusion, and might await fresh instructions, which would take them probably towards bridgwater, and bristol. by friendly ministrations of the whetstone men, who had some experience in trade of this description, all this was managed with the best success; jem kettel knew the country roads, by dark as well as daylight, and harvey tremlett was not a man to be collared very easily. in fact, without that sad mishap to their very willing and active nag, they might have fared through perlycross, as they had through other villages, where people wooed the early pillow, without a trace or dream of any secret treasure passing. meanwhile at sidmouth the clever scotchman was enjoying his own acuteness. he allowed that slowly rolling waggon of the eleusine dame to proceed some miles upon its course, before his men stood at the horses' heads. there was wisdom in this, as well as pleasure--the joy a cat prolongs with mouse--inasmuch as all these good things were approaching his own den of spoil. when the scotchmen challenged the devonshire swains, with flourish of iron, and of language even harder, an interpreter was sorely needed. not a word could the northmen understand that came from the broad soft southron tongues; while the devonshire men feigning, as they were bidden, to take them for highwaymen, feigned also not to know a syllable of what they said. this led, as it was meant to do, to very lavish waste of time, and increment of trouble. the carters instead of lending hand for the unloading of their waggon, sadly delayed that operation, by shouting out "thaves!" at the top of their voice, tickling their horses into a wild start now and then, and rolling the preventive men off at the tail. macspudder himself had a narrow escape; for just when he chanced to be between two wheels, both of them set off, without a word of notice; and if he had possessed at all a western body, it would have been run over. being made of corkscrew metal by hereditary right, he wriggled out as sound as ever; and looked forward all the more to the solace underlying this reluctant pile, as dry as any of his own components. nothing but his own grunts can properly express the fattening of his self-esteem (the whole of which was home-fed) when his men, without a fork--for the boreal mind had never thought of that--but with a great many chops of knuckles (for the skin of straw is tougher than a scotchman's) found their way at midnight, like a puzzled troop of divers, into the reef at bottom of the sheefy billows. their throats were in a husky state, from chaff too penetrative, and barn-dust over volatile, and they risked their pulmonary weal, by opening a too sanguine cheer. "duty compels us to test the staple;" the officer in command decreed; and many mouths gaped round the glow of his bullseye. "don't 'ee titch none of that their wassh!" the benevolent devonians exclaimed in vain. want of faith prevailed; every man suspected the verdict of his predecessor, and even his own at first swallow. if timber-leg'd dick could have timed the issue, what a landing he might have made! for the coast-guard tested staple so that twenty miles of coast were left free for fifty hours. having told these things in his gravest manner, herniman, who so well combined the arts of peace and war, filled another pipe, and was open to enquiry. everybody accepted his narrative with pleasure, and heartily wished him another such a chance of directing fair merchandise along the lanes of luck. the blacksmith alone had some qualms of conscience, for apparent back-slidings from the true faith of free-trade. but they clapped him on the back, and he promised with a gulp, that he never would peep into a liberal van again. "there is one thing not quite clear to me;" said the hopper, when the man of iron was settled below the table, whereas the youth had kept himself in trim for steeple-chasing. "what could our friend have seen in that vehicle of free-trade, to make him give that horrible account of its contents? and again, why did mr. harvey tremlett carry off that tool of his, which i found in the water?" with a wave of his hand--for his tongue had now lost, by one of nature's finest arrangements, the exuberance of the morning, whereas a man of sober silence would now have gushed into bright eloquence--the chairman deputed to herniman, and tremlett, the honour of replying to the hopper. "you see, sir," said the former, "it was just like this. we was hurried so in stowing cargo, that some of the finest laces in the world, such as they call _valentines_, worth maybe fifty or a hundred pounds a yard, was shot into the hold anyhow, among a lot of silks and so on. harvey, and jemmy, was on honour to deliver goods as they received them; blacksmith seed some of this lace a'flappin' under black tarporly; and he knowed as your poor squire had been figged out for 's last voyage with same sort of stuff, only not so good. a clever old 'ooman maketh some, to perlycrass; honiton lace they calls it here. what could a' think but that squire was there? reckon, master crang would a' told 'e this, if so be a' hadn't had a little drap too much." "thou bee'st a liar. han't had half enough, i tell 'e." the blacksmith from under the table replied, and then rolled away into a bellowsful of snores. "to be sure!" said peckover. "i see now. tamsin tamlin's work it was. sergeant jakes told me all about it. with all the talk there had been of robbing graves, and two men keeping in the dark so, no wonder crang thought what he did. many people went to see that lace, i heard; and they said it was too good to go underground; though nothing could be too good for the squire. well now, about that other thing--why did mr. tremlett make off with _little billy_?" "can't tell 'e, sir, very much about 'un;" the wrestler answered, with a laugh at the boy's examination. "happen i tuk 'un up, a'veelin' of 'un, to frighten blacksmith maybe; and then i vancied a' maight come handy like, if nag's foot went wrong again. then when nag gooed on all right, i just chucked 'un into a pool of watter, for to kape 'un out o' sight of twisty volk. ort more to zatisfy this yung gent?" "yes. i am a twisty folk, i suppose. unless there is any objection, i should like very much to know why dr. fox was sent on that fool's errand to the pits." "oh, i can tell 'e that, sir," replied jem kettel, for the spirit of the lad, and his interest in their doings, had made him a favourite with the present company. "it were one of my mates as took too much trouble. he were appointed to meet us at the cornder of the four roads, an hour afore that or more; and he got in a bit of a skear, it seems not knowing why we was so behindhand. but he knowed dr. vox, and thought 'un better out o' way, being such a sharp chap, and likely to turn meddlesome. he didn't want 'un to hang about up street, as a' maight with some sick 'ooman, and so he zent un' t'other road, to tend a little haxident. wouldn't do he no harm, a' thought, and might zave us some bother. but, lord! if us could have only knowed the toorn your volk would putt on it, i reckon us should have roared and roared, all droo the strates of perlycrass. vainest joke as ever coom to my hearin', or ever wull, however long the lord kapeth me a'livin'. and to think of jem kettel being sworn to for a learned doctor! never had no teethache i han't, since the day i heered on it." a hearty laugh was held to be a sovereign cure for toothache then, and perhaps would be so still, if the patient could accomplish it. "well, so far as that goes, you have certainly got the laugh of us;" master peckover admitted, not forgetting that he himself came in for as much as any one. "but come now, as you are so sharp, just give me your good opinion. and you being all along the roads that night, ought to have seen something. who were the real people in that horrid business?" "the lord in heaven knoweth, sir;" said tremlett very solemnly. "us passed in front of perlycrass church, about dree o'clock of the morning. nort were doing then, or us could scarcely have helped hearing of it. even if 'em heered our wheels, and so got out of sight, i reckon, us must a' seed the earth-heap, though moon were gone a good bit afore that. and zim'th there waz no harse there. a harse will sing out a'most always to another harse at night, when a' heareth of him coming, and a' standeth lonely. us coom athert ne'er chick nor cheeld from perlycrass to blackmarsh. as to us and clam-pit volk, zoonder would us goo to gallows than have ort to say to grave-work. and gallows be too good for 'un, accardin' my opinion. but gen'lemen, afore us parts, i wants to drink the good health of the best man i've a knowed on airth. bain't saying much perhaps, for my ways hath been crooked like. but maketh any kearless chap belave in good above 'un, when a hap'th acrass a man as thinketh nort of his own zell, but gi'eth his life to other volk. god bless passon penniloe!" chapter xxxix. needful returns. now it happened that none of these people, thus rejoicing in the liberty of the subject, had heard of the very sad state of things, mainly caused by their own acts, and now prevailing at _old barn_. tremlett knew that he had struck a vicious blow, at the head of a man who had grappled him, but he thought he had missed it and struck something else, a bag, or a hat, or he knew not what, in the pell mell scuffle and the darkness. his turn of mind did not incline him to be by any means particular as to his conduct, in a hot and hard personal encounter; but knowing his vast strength he generally abstained from the use of heavy weapons, while his temper was his own. but in this hot struggle, he had met with a mutually shattering blow from a staff, as straight as need be upon his right-hand knuckles; and the pain from this, coupled with the wrath aroused at the access of volunteer enemies, had carried him--like the raging elements outside--out of all remembrance of the true "sacredness of humanity." he struck out, with a sense of not doing the right thing, which is always strengthened afterwards; and his better stars being ablink in the gale, and the other man's gone into the milky way, he hit him too hard; which is a not uncommon error. many might have reasoned (and before all others, harvey tremlett's wife, if still within this world of reason; and a bad job it was for him that she was now outside it) that nothing could be nobler, taking people as we find them--and how else can we get the time to take them?--than the behaviour of this champion wrestler. but, without going into such sweet logic of affinity, and rhetoric of friends (whose minds have been made up in front of it) there was this crushing fact to meet, that an innocent man's better arm was in a smash. no milder word, however medical, is fit to apply to frank gilham's poor fore-arm. they might call it the _ulna_--for a bit of latin is a solace, to the man who feels the pain in a brother christian's member--and they might enter nobly into fine nerves of anatomy; but the one-sided difficulty still was there--they had got to talk about it; he had got to bear it. not that he made any coward outcry of it. a truer test of manliness (as has been often said, by those who have been through either trial), truer than the rush of blood and reckless dash of battle, is the calm, open-eyed, and firm-fibred endurance of long, ever-grinding, never-graduating pain. the pain that has no pang, or paroxysm, no generosity to make one cry out "well done!" to it, and be thankful to the lord that it must have done its worst; but a fluid that keeps up a slow boil, by day and night, and never lifts the pot-lid, and never whirls about, but keeps up a steady stew of flesh, and bone, and marrow. "i fear there is nothing for it, but to have it off," dr. gronow said, upon the third day of this frightful anguish. he had scarcely left the patient for an hour at a time; and if he had done harsh things in his better days, no one would believe it of him, who could see him now. "it was my advice at first, you know; but you would not have it, jemmy. you are more of a surgeon than i am. but i doubt whether you should risk his life, like this." "i am still in hopes of saving it. but you see how little i can do," replied fox, whose voice was very low, for he was suffering still from that terrible concussion, and but for the urgency of gilham's case, he would now have been doctoring the one who pays the worst for it. "if i had my proper touch, and strength of nerve, i never should have let it come to this. there is a vile bit of splinter that won't come in, and i am not firm enough to make it. i wish i had left it to you, as you offered. after all, you know much more than we do." "no, my dear boy. it is your special line. such a case as lady waldron's i might be more at home with. i should have had the arm off long ago. but the mother--the mother is such a piteous creature? what has become of all my nerve? i am quite convinced that fly-fishing makes a man too gentle. i cannot stand half the things i once thought nothing of. by-the-by, couldn't you counteract her? you know the old proverb- 'one woman rules the men; two makes them think again,' it would be the best thing you could do." "i don't see exactly what you mean," answered jemmy, who had lost nearly all of his sprightliness. "plainer than a pikestaff. send for your sister. you owe it to yourself, and her; and most of all to the man who has placed his life in peril, to save yours. it is not a time to be too finical." "i have thought of it once or twice. she would be of the greatest service now. but i don't much like to ask her. most likely she would refuse to come, after the way in which i packed her off." "my dear young friend," said dr. gronow, looking at him steadfastly, "if that is all you have to say, you don't deserve a wife at all worthy of the name. in the first place, you won't sink your own little pride; and in the next, you have no idea what a woman is." "young farrant is the most obliging fellow in the world," replied fox, after thinking for a minute. "i will put him on my young mare _perle_, who knows the way; and he'll be at foxden before dark. if chris likes to come, she can be here well enough, by twelve or one o'clock to-morrow." "like, or no like, i'll answer for her coming; and i'll answer for her not being very long about it," said the senior doctor; and on both points he was right. christie was not like herself, when she arrived, but pale, and timid, and trembling. her brother had not mentioned frank in his letter, doubting the turn she might take about it, and preferring that she should come to see to himself, which was her foremost duty. but young mr. farrant, the churchwarden's son, and pretty minnie's brother, had no embargo laid upon his tongue; and had there been fifty, what could they have availed to debar such a clever young lady? she had cried herself to sleep, when she knew all, and dreamed it a thousand times worse than it was. now she stood in the porch of the _old barn_, striving, and sternly determined to show herself rational, true to relationship, sisterly, and nothing more. but her white lips, quick breath, and quivering eyelids, were not altogether consistent with that. instead of amazement, when mrs. gilham came to meet her, and no jemmy, she did not even feign to be surprised, but fell into the bell-sleeves (which were fine things for embracing) and let the deep throbs of her heart disclose a tale that is better felt than told. "my dearie," said the mother, as she laid the damask cheek against the wrinkled one, and stroked the bright hair with the palm of her hand, "don't 'e give way, that's a darling child. it will all be so different now you are come. it was what i was longing for, day and night, but could not bring myself to ask. and i felt so sure in my heart, my dear, how sorry you would be for him." "i should think so. i can't tell you. and all done for jemmy, who was so ungrateful! my brother would be dead, if your son was like him. there has never been anything half so noble, in all the history of the world." "my dear, you say that, because you think well of our frankie--i have not called him that, since tuesday now. but you do think well of him, don't you now?" "don't talk to me of thinking well indeed! i never can endure those weak expressions. when i like people, i do like them." "my dear, it reminds me quite of our own country, to hear you speak out so hearty. none of them do it up your way, much; according to what i hear of them. i feel it so kind of you, to like frank gilham." "well! am i never to be understood? is there no meaning in the english language? i don't like him only. but with all my heart, i love him." "he won't care if doctors cut his arm off now, if he hath one left to go round you." the mother sobbed a little, with second fiddle in full view; but being still a mother, wiped her eyes, and smiled with content at the inevitable thing. "one thing remember," said the girl, with a coaxing domestic smile, and yet a lot of sparkle in her eyes; "if you ever tell him what you twisted out of me, in a manner which i may call--well, too circumstantial--i am afraid that i never should forgive you. i am awfully proud, and i can be tremendous. perhaps he would not even care to hear it. and then what would become of me? can you tell me that?" "my dear, you know better. you know, as well as i do, that ever since he saw you, he has thought of nothing else. it has made me feel ashamed, that i should have a son capable of throwing over all the world beside----" "but don't you see, that is the very thing i like? noble as he is, if it were not for that, i--well, i won't go into it; but you ought to understand. he can't think half so much of me, as i do of him." "then there is a pair of you. and the lord has made you so. but never fear, my pretty. not a whisper shall he have. you shall tell him all about it, with your own sweet lips." "as if i could do that indeed! why, mrs. gilham, was that what you used to do, when you were young? i thought people were ever so much more particular in those days." "i can hardly tell, my dear. sometimes i quite forget, because it seems so long ago; and at other times i'm not fit to describe it, because i am doing it over again. but for pretty behaviour, and nice ways--nice people have them in every generation; and you may take place with the best of them. but we are talking, as if nothing was the matter. and you have never asked even how we are going on!" "because i know all about it, from the best authority. coming up the hill we met dr. gronow, and i stopped the chaise to have a talk with him. he does not think the arm will ever be much good again; but he leaves it to younger men, to be certain about anything. that was meant for jemmy, i suppose. he would rather have the pain, than not, he says; meaning of course in the patient--not himself. it shows healthy action--though i can't see how--and just the proper quantity of inflammation, which i should have thought couldn't be too little. he has come round to jemmy's opinion this morning, that if one--something or other--can be got to stay in its place, and not do something or other--the poor arm may be saved, after all; though never as strong as it was before. he says it must have been a frightful blow. i hope that man will be punished for it heavily." "i hope so too, with all my heart; though i am not revengeful. mr. penniloe was up here yesterday, and he tried to make the best of it. i was so vexed that i told him, he would not be quite such a christian about it perhaps, if he had the pain in his own arm. but he has made the man promise to give himself up, if your brother, or my son, require it. i was for putting him in jail at once, but the others think it better to wait a bit. but as for his promise, i wouldn't give much for that. however, men manage those things, and not women. did the doctor say whether you might see my frankie?" "he said i might see jemmy; though jemmy is very queer. but as for frank, if i saw him through a chink in the wall, that would be quite enough. but he must not see me, unless it was with a telescope through a two-inch door. that annoyed me rather. as if we were such babies! but he said that you were a most sensible woman, and that was the advice you gave him." "what a story! oh my dear, never marry a doctor--though i hope you will never have the chance--but they really don't seem to care what they say. it was just the same in my dear husband's time. dr. gronow said to me--'if she comes when i am out, don't let her go near either of them. she might do a lot of mischief. she might get up an argument, or something.' and so, i said----" "oh, mrs. gilham, that is a great deal worse than telling almost any story. an argument! do i ever argue? i had better have stayed away, if that is the way they think of me. a telescope and a two-inch door, and not be allowed perhaps to open my mouth! there is something exceedingly unjust in the opinions men entertain of women." "not my frank, my dear. that is where he differs from all the other young men in the world. he has the most correct and yet exalted views; such as poets had, when there were any. if you could only hear him going on about you, before he got that wicked knock i mean, of course,--his opinions not only of your hair and face, nor even your eyes, though all perfectly true, but your mind, and your intellect, and disposition, and power of perceiving what people are, and then your conversation--almost too good for us, because of want of exercise--and then, well i really forget what came next." "oh, mrs. gilham, it is all so absurd! how could he talk such nonsense? i don't like to hear of such things; and i cannot believe there could be anything, to come next." "oh yes, there was, my dear, now you remind me of it. it was about the small size of your ears, and the lovely curves inside them. he had found out in some ancient work,--for i believe he could hold his own in greek and latin, even with mr. penniloe,--that a well-shaped ear is one of the rarest of all feminine perfections. that made him think no doubt of yours, for men are quite babies when they are in love; and he found yours according to the highest standard. men seem to make all those rules about us, simply according to their own ideas! what rules do we ever make about them?" "i am so glad that you look at things in that way," christie answered, with her fingers going slyly up her hair, to let her ears know what was thought of them; "because i was afraid that you were too much--well perhaps that thinking so much of your son, you might look at things one-sidedly. and yet i might have known from your unusual common sense--but i do believe dr. gronow is coming back; and i have not even got my cloak off! wait a bit, till things come round a little. a telescope, and a two-inch door! one had better go about in a coal-sack, and curl-papers. not that i ever want such things,--curves enough in my ears perhaps. but really i must make myself a little decent. they have taken my things up to my old room, i suppose. try to keep him here, till i come back. he says that i get up arguments. let me get up one with him." "my orders are as stern as they are sensible;" dr. gronow declared, when she had returned, beautifully dressed and charming, and had thus attacked him with even more of blandishment than argument; "your brother you may see, but not to talk much at one time to him; for his head is in a peculiar state, and he does much more than he ought to do. he insists upon doing everything, which means perpetual attention to his friend. but he does it all as if by instinct, apparently without knowing it; and that he should do it all to perfection, is a very noble proof of the thoroughness of his grounding. the old school, the old school of training--there is nothing like it after all. any mere sciolist, any empiric, any smatterer of the new medical course--and where would frank gilham's arm be now? not in a state of lenitive pain, sanative, and in some degree encouraging, but in a condition of incipient mortification. for this is a case of compound comminuted fracture; so severe that my own conviction was--however no more of that to you two ladies. only feel assured that no more could be done for the patient in the best hospital in london. and talking of upstart schools indeed, and new-fangled education, have you heard what the boys have done at perlycross? i heard the noise upstairs, and i was obliged to shut the window, although it is such a soft spring-day. i was going down the hill to stop it, when i met miss fox. it is one of the most extraordinary jokes i ever knew." "oh, do tell us. we have not heard a word about it. but i am beginning to think that this is not at all a common place. i am never surprised at anything that happens at perlycross." this was not a loyal speech on the part of the fair christie. "from what i have heard of that moral force-man," mrs. gilham remarked, with slow shake of her head; "i fear that his system would work better in a future existence, than as we are now. from what my son told me, before his accident, i foresaw that it must lead up to something quite outrageous. nothing ever answers long, that goes against all the wisdom of our ancestors." "excuse me for a minute; i must first see how things are going on upstairs. as soon as i am at liberty, i will tell you what i saw. though i like the march of intellect, when discipline directs it." dr. gronow, who was smiling, which he seldom was, except after whirling out a two-ounce trout, went gently upstairs and returned in a few minutes, and sat down to tell his little tale. "every thing there going on as well as can be. your brother is delighted to hear that you are come. but the other patient must not hear a word about it yet. we don't want any rapid action of the heart. well, what the young scamps have done is just this. the new schoolmaster has abolished canes, you know, and birches, and every kind of physical compulsion. he exclaims against coercion, and pronounces that boys are to be guided by their hearts, instead of being governed by their--pardon me, a word not acknowledged in the language of these loftier days. this gentleman seems to have abolished the old system of the puerile body and mind, without putting anything of cogency in its place. he has introduced novelties, very excellent no doubt, if the boys would only take to them, with intellects as lofty as his own. but that is the very thing the boys won't do. i am a liberal--so far as feelings go, when not overpowered by the judgment--but i must acknowledge that the best extremes of life, the boyhood made of nature, and the age made of experience, are equally staunch in their toryism. but this man's great word is--reform. as long as the boys thought it meant their benches, and expected to have soft cushions on them, they were highly pleased, and looked forward to this tribute to a part which had hitherto been anything but sacred. their mothers too encouraged it, on account of wear and tear; but their fathers could not see why they should sit softer at their books, than they had to do at their trenchers. "but yesterday unluckily the whole of it came out. there arrived a great package, by old hill the carrier, who has had his van mended that was blown over, and out rushed the boys, without asking any leave, to bring in their comfortable cushions. all they found was a great blackboard, swinging on a pillar, with a socket at the back, and a staple and chain to adjust it. toogood expected them to be in raptures, but instead of that they all went into sulks; and the little fellows would not look at it, having heard of black magic and witchcraft. toogood called it a 'demonstration-table, for the exhibition of object-lessons.' "mr. penniloe, as you may suppose, had long been annoyed and unhappy about the new man's doings, but he is not supreme in the week-day school, as he is on sunday; and he tried to make the best of it, till the right man should come home. and i cannot believe that he went away on purpose to-day, in order to let them have it out. but the boys found out that he was going, and there is nobody else they care twopence for. "everybody says, except their mothers, that they must have put their heads together over-night, or how could they have acted with such unity and precision? not only in design but in execution, the accomplished tactician stands confessed. instead of attacking the enemy at once, when many might have hastened to his rescue, they deferred operations until to-day, and even then waited for the proper moment. they allowed him to exhaust all the best of his breath in his usual frothy oration--for like most of such men he can spout for ever, and finds it much easier than careful teaching. "then as he leaned back, with pantings in his chest, and eyes turned up at his own eloquence, two of the biggest boys flung a piece of clothes-line round his arms from behind, and knotted it, while another slipped under the desk, and buckled his ankles together with a satchel-strap, before he knew what he was doing. then as he began to shout and bellow, scarcely yet believing it, they with much panting and blowing, protrusion of tongues, and grunts of exertion, some working at his legs, and some shouldering at his loins, and others hauling on the clothes-line, but all with perfect harmony of action, fetched their preceptor to the demonstration-board, and laying him with his back flat against it, strapped his feet to the pedestal; then pulling out the staple till the board was perpendicular, they secured his coat-collar to the shaft above it, and there he was--as upright as need be, but without the power to move, except at his own momentous peril. then to make quite sure of him, a clever little fellow got upon a stool, and drew back his hair, bright red, and worn long like a woman's, and tied it with a book-tape behind the pillar. you may imagine how the poor preceptor looks. any effort of his to release himself will crush him beneath the great demonstration, like a mouse in a figure-of-four trap." "but are we to believe, dr. gronow," asked christie, "that you came away, and left the poor man in that helpless state?" "undoubtedly i did. it is no concern of mine. and the boys had only just got their pea-shooters. he has not had half enough to cure him yet. besides, they had my promise; for the boys have got the keys, they are charging a penny for a view of this reformer; but they won't let any one in without a promise of strict neutrality. i gave a shilling, for i am sure they have deserved it. somebody will be sure to cast him loose, in plenty of time for his own good. this will be of the greatest service to him, and cure him for a long time of big words." "but suppose he falls forward upon his face, and the board falls upon him and suffocates him. why, it would be the death of mr. penniloe. you are wanted here of course, dr. gronow; but i shall put my bonnet on, and rush down the hill, to the release of the higher education." "don't rush too fast, miss fox. there's a tree blown down across the lane, after you turn out of the one you came by. we ought to have had it cleared, but they say it will take a fortnight to make some of the main roads passable again. i would not go, if i were you. somebody will have set him free, before you get there. i'll go out and listen. with the wind in the north, we can hear their hurrah-ing quite plainly at the gate. you can come with me, if you like." "oh, it is no hurrahing, dr. gronow! how can you deceive me so? it is a very sad sound indeed;" said christie, as they stood at the gate, and she held her pretty palms to serve as funnels for her much admired ears. "it sounds like a heap of boys weeping and wailing. i fear that something sadly vindictive has been done. one never can have a bit of triumph, without that." she scarcely knew the full truth of her own words. it was indeed an epoch of nemesis. this fourth generation of boys in that village are beginning to be told of it, on knees that shake, with time, as well as memory. and thus it befell. "what, lock me out of my own school-door! can't come in, without i pay a penny! may do in spain; but won't do here." a strong foot was thrust into the double of the door, a rattle of the handle ran up the lock and timber, and conscience made a coward of the boy that took the pennies. an odic force, as the present quaky period calls it, permeated doubtless from the master hand. back went the boy, and across him strode a man, rather tall, wiry, torve of aspect, hyporrhined with a terse moustache, hatted with a vast sombrero. at a glance he had the whole situation in his eye, and his heart,--worst of all, in his strong right arm. he flung off a martial cloak, that might have cumbered action, stood at the end of the long desk, squared his shoulders and eyebrows, and shouted-"boys, here's a noise!" as this famous battle-cry rang through the room, every mother's darling knew what was coming. consternation is too weak a word. grinning mouths fell into graves of terror, castaway pea-shooters quivered on the floor, fat legs rattled in their boots, and flew about, helter-skelter, anywhere, to save their dear foundations. vain it was; no vanishing point could be discovered. wisdom was come, to be justified of her children. the schoolmaster of the ancient school marched with a grim smile to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. three little fellows, untaught as yet the expediency of letting well alone, had taken the bunch of keys, and brought forth, and were riding disdainfully the three canes dormant under the new dispensation. "bring me those implements," commanded sergeant jakes, "perhaps they may do--to begin with." he arranged them lovingly, and then spoke wisely. "my dear young friends, it is very sad to find, that while i have been in foreign parts, you have not been studying discipline. the gentleman, whom you have treated thus, will join me, i trust, by the time i have done, in maintaining that i do not bear the rod in vain. any boy who crawls under a desk may feel assured that he will get it ten times worse." pity draws a mourning veil, though she keeps a place to peep through, when her highly respected cousin, justice, is thus compelled to assert herself. enough that very few indeed of the highly cultured boys of perlycross showed much aptitude that week for sedentary employment. chapter xl. home and foreign. six weeks was the average time allowed for the voyage to and fro of the schooner _montilla_ (owned by messrs. besley of exeter) from topsham to cadiz, or wherever it might be; and little uneasiness was ever felt, if her absence extended to even three months. for spaniards are not in the awkward habit of cracking whips at old time, when he is out at grass, much less of jumping at his forelock; and iberian time is nearly always out at grass. when a thing will not help to do itself to-day, who knows that it may not be in a kinder mood to-morrow? the spirit of worry, and unreasonable hurry, is a deadly blast to all serenity of mind and dignity of demeanour, and can be in harmony with nothing but bad weather. thus the _montilla's_ period was a fluctuating numeral. as yet english produce was of high repute, and the continent had not been barb-wired by ourselves, against our fleecy merchandise. the spaniards happened to be in the vein for working, and thus on this winter trip the good trader's hold was quickly cleared of english solids, and refilled with spanish fluids; and so the _montilla_ was ready for voyage homeward the very day her passenger rejoined. this pleased him well, for he was anxious to get back, though not at all aware of the urgent need arising. luckily for him and for all on board, the schooner lost a day in getting out to sea, and thus ran into the rough fringes only of the great storm that swept the english coast and channel. in fact she made good weather across the bay of biscay, and swang into her berth at topsham, several days before she was counted due. the sergeant's first duty was, of course, to report himself at walderscourt; and this he had done, before he made that auspicious re-entry upon his own domain. the ladies did not at all expect to see him, for days or even weeks to come, having heard nothing whatever of his doings; for the post beyond france was so uncertain then, that he went away with orders not to write. when jakes was shown into the room, lady waldron was sitting alone, and much agitated by a letter just received from mr. webber, containing his opinion of all that had happened at perliton on wednesday. feeling her unfitness for another trial, she sent for her daughter, before permitting the envoy to relate his news. then she strove to look calmly at him, and to maintain her cold dignity as of yore; but the power was no longer in her. months of miserable suspense, perpetual brooding, and want of sleep, had lowered the standard of her pride; and nothing but a burst of painful sobs saved her from a worse condition. the sergeant stood hesitating by the door, feeling that he had no invitation to see this, and not presuming to offer comfort. but miss waldron seeing the best thing to do, called him, and bade him tell his news in brief. "may it please your ladyship," the veteran began, staring deeply into his new spanish hat, about which he had received some compliments; "all i have to tell your ladyship is for the honour of the family. your ladyship's brother is as innocent as i be. he hath had nought to do with any wicked doings here. he hath not got his money, but he means to have it." "thank god!" cried lady waldron, but whether about the money, or the innocence, was not clear; and then she turned away, to have things out with herself; and jakes was sent into the next room, and sat down, thanking the crown of his hat that it covered the whole of his domestic interests. when feminine excitement was in some degree spent, and the love of particulars (which can never long be quenched by any depth of tears), was reviving, sergeant jakes was well received, and told his adventures like a veteran. a young man is apt to tell things hotly, as if nothing had ever come to pass before; but a steady-goer knows that the sun was shining, and the rain was raining, and the wind was blowing, ere he felt any one of them. alike the whole must be cut short. it appears that the sergeant had a fine voyage out, and picked up a good deal of his lapsed spanish lore, from two worthy spanish hands among the crew. besley of exeter did things well--as the manner of that city is--victuals were good, and the crew right loyal, as generally happens in that case. captain binstock stood in awe of his elder brother, the butler, and never got out of his head its original belief that the sergeant was his brother's schoolmaster. against that idea chronology strove hazily, and therefore vainly. the sergeant strode the deck with a stick he bought at exeter, spoke of his experience in transports, regarded the masts as a pair of his own canes--in a word was master of the ship, whenever there was nothing to be done to her. a finer time he never had, for he was much too wiry to be sea-sick. all the crew liked him, whether present or absent, and never laughed at him but in the latter case. he corrected their english, when it did not suit his own, and thus created a new form of discipline. most of this he recounted in his pungent manner, without a word of self-laudation; and it would have been a treat to christie fox to hear him; but his present listeners were too anxious about the result to enjoy this part of it. then he went to the city to which he was despatched, and presented his letters to the few he could find entitled to receive them. the greater part were gone beyond the world of letters, for twenty-five years make a sad gap in the post. and of the three survivors, one alone cared to be troubled with the bygone days. but that one was a host in himself, a loyal retainer of the ancient family, in the time of its grandeur, and now in possession of a sinecure post, as well as a nice farm on the hills, both of which he had obtained through their influence. he was delighted to hear once more of the beautiful lady he had formerly adored. he received the sergeant as his guest, and told him all that was known of the present state of things, concerning the young count--as he still called him--and all that was likely to come of it. it was true that the count had urged his claim, and brought evidence in support of it; but at present there seemed to be very little chance of his getting the money for years to come, even if he should do so in the end; and for that he must display, as they said, fresh powers of survivorship. he had been advised to make an offer of release and quit-claim, upon receipt of the sum originally advanced without any interest; but he had answered sternly, "either i will have all, or none." the amount was so large, that he could not expect to receive the whole immediately; and he was ready to accept it by instalments; but the authorities would not pay a penny, nor attempt an arrangement with him, for fear of admitting their liability. in a very brief, and candid, but by no means honest manner, they refused to be bound at all by the action of their fathers. when that was of no avail, because the city-tolls were in the bond, they began to call for proof of this, and evidence of that, and set up every possible legal obstacle, hoping to exhaust the claimant's sadly dwindled revenues. above all, they maintained that two of the lives in the assurance-deed were still subsisting, although their lapse was admitted in their own minutes, and registered in the record. and it was believed that in this behalf, they were having recourse to personation. that scandalous pretext must be demolished, before it could become of prime moment to the count to prove the decease of his brother-in-law; and certain it was that no such dramatic incident had occurred in the city, as that which her ladyship had witnessed, by means of her imagination. with a long fight before him, and very scanty sinews of war to maintain it, the claimant had betaken himself to madrid, where he had powerful friends, and might consult the best legal advisers. but his prospects were not encouraging; for unless he could deposit a good round sum, for expenses of process, and long enquiry, and even counterbribing, no one was likely to take up his case, so strong and so tough were the forces in possession. rash friends went so far as to recommend him to take the bull by the horns at once, to lay forcible hands upon the city-tolls, without any order from a law-court, for the deed was so drastic that this power was conferred; but he saw that to do this would simply be to play into the hands of the enemy. for thus he would probably find himself outlawed, or perhaps cast into prison, with the lapse of his own life imminent; for the family of the barcas were no longer supreme in the land, as they used to be. "ungrateful thieves! vile pigs of burghers!" lady waldron exclaimed with just indignation. "my grandfather would have strung them up with straw in their noses, and set them on fire. they sneer at the family of barca, do they? it shall trample them underfoot. my poor brother shall have my last penny to punish them; for that i have wronged him in my heart. ours is a noble race, and most candid. we never deign to stoop ourselves to mistrust or suspicion: i trust master sergeant, you have not spoken so to the worthy and loyal diego, that my brother may ever hear of the thoughts introduced into my mind concerning him?" "no, my lady, not a word. everything i did, or said, was friendly, straight-forward, and favourable to the honour of the family." "you are a brave man; you are a faithful soldier. forget that by the force of circumstances i was compelled to have such opinions. but can you recite to me the names of the two persons, whose lives they have replenished?" "yes, my lady. seã±or diego wrote them down in this book on purpose. he thought that your ladyship might know something of them." "for one i have knowledge of everything; but the other i do not know," lady waldron said, after reading the names. "this poor seã±orita was one of my bridesmaids, known to me from my childhood. _la giralda_ was her name of intimacy, what you call her nickname, by reason of her stature. her death i can prove too well, and expose any imitation. but the spanish nation--you like them much? you find them gentle, brave, amiable, sober, not as the english are, generous, patriotic, honourable?" "quite as noble and good, my lady, as we found them five and twenty years agone. and i hope that the noble count will get his money. a bargain is a bargain--as we say here. and if they are so honourable----" "ah, that is quite a different thing. inez, i must leave you. i desire some time to think. my mind is very much relieved of one part, although of another still more distressed. i request you to see to the good refreshment of this honourable and faithful soldier." lady waldron acknowledged the sergeant's low bow, with a kind inclination of her andalusian head (which is something in the headway among the foremost) and left the room with a lighter step than her heart had allowed her for many a week. "this will never do, sergeant; this won't do at all," said miss waldron coming up to him, as soon as she had shut the door behind her lofty mother. "i know by your countenance, and the way you were standing, and the side-way you sit down again, that you have not told us everything. that is not the right way to go on, sergeant jakes." "miss nicie!" cried jakes, with a forlorn hope of frightening her, for she had sat upon his knee, many a time, ten or twelve years ago, craving stories of good boys and bad boys. but now the eyes, which he used to fill with any emotion he chose to call for, could produce that effect upon his own. "can you think that i don't understand you?" said nicie, never releasing him from her eyes. "what was the good of telling me all those stories, when i was a little thing, except for me to understand you? when anybody tells me a story that is true, it is no good for him to try anything else. i get so accustomed to his way, that i catch him out in a moment." "but my dear, my dear miss nicie," the sergeant looked all about, as in large appeal, instead of fixing steady gaze; "if i have told you a single word that is not as true as gospel--may i----" "now don't be profane, sergeant jakes. that was allowed perhaps in war-time. and don't be crooked--which is even worse. i never called in question any one thing you have said. all i know is that you have stopped short. you used to do just the same with me, when things i was too young to hear came in. you are easier to read than one of your own copies. what have you kept in the background, you unfaithful soldier?" "oh miss, how you do remind me of the colonel! not that he ever looked half as fierce. but he used to say, 'jakes what a deep rogue you are!' meaning how deeply he could trust me, against all his enemies. but miss, i have given my word about this." "then take it back, as some people do their presents. what is the good of being a deep rogue, if you can't be a shallow one? i should hope you would rather be a rogue, to other people than to me. i will never speak to you again, unless you show now that you can trust me, as my dear father used to trust in you. no secrets from me, if you please." "well, miss, it was for your sake, more than anybody else's. but you must promise, honour bright, not to let her ladyship know of it; for it might be the death of her. it took me by surprise, and it hath almost knocked me over; for i never could have thought there was more troubles coming. but who do you think i ran up against, to exeter?" "how can i tell? don't keep me waiting. that kind of riddle is so hateful always." "master tom, miss nicie! your brother, master tom! 'sir thomas waldron' his proper name is now. you know they have got a new oil they call _gas_, to light the public places of the big towns with, and it makes everything as bright as day, and brighter than some of the days we get now. well, i was intending to come on last night by the bristol mail, and wait about till you was up; and as i was standing with my knapsack on my shoulder, to see her come in from plymouth, in she comes, and a tall young man dressed all in black, gets down slowly from the roof, and stands looking about very queerly. "'bain't you going no further, sir?' says the guard to him very civil, as he locked the bags in; 'only allows us three minutes and a half,'--for the young man seemed as if he did not care what time it was. "'no. i can't go home;' says he, as if nothing mattered to him. i was handing up my things, to get up myself, when the tone of his voice took me all of a heap. "'what, master tom!' says i, going up to him. "'who are you?' says he. 'master tom, indeed!' for i had this queer sort of hat on, and cloak, like a blessed foreigner. "well, when i told him who i was, he did not seem at all as he used to be, but as if i had done him a great injury; and as for his luggage, it would have gone on with the coach, if the guard had not called out about it. "'come in here;' he says to me, as if i was a dog, him that was always so well-spoken and polite! and he turned sharp into _the old london inn_, leaving all his luggage on the stones outside. "'private sitting-room, and four candles!' he called out, marching up the stairs, and making me a sign to follow him. everybody seemed to know him there, and i told them to fetch his things in. "'no fire! hot enough already. put the candles down, and go;' said he to the waiter, and then he locked the door, and threw the key upon the table. it takes a good deal to frighten me, miss. but i assure you i was trembling; for i never saw such a pair of eyes--not furious, but so desperate; and i should have been but a baby in his hands, for he is bigger than even his father was. then he pulled out a newspaper, and spread it among the candles. "'now, you man of perlycross,' he cried, 'you that teach the boys, who are going to be grave-robbers,--is this true, or is it all a cursed lie?' excuse me telling you, miss, exactly as he said it. 'the lord in heaven help me, i think i shall go mad, unless you can tell me it is all a wicked lie.' up and down the room he walked, as if the boards would sink under him; while i was at my wits' ends, as you may well suppose, miss. "'i have never heard a word of any of this, master tom;' i said, as soon as i had read it; for it was all about something that came on at perliton before the magistrates, last wednesday. 'i have been away in foreign parts.' "miss nicie, he changed to me from that moment. i had not said a word about how long i was away, or anything whatever to deceive him. but he looked at my hat that was lying on a chair, and my cloak that was still on my back, as much as to say--'i ought to have known it;' and then he said, 'give me your hand, old jakes. i beg your pardon a thousand times. what a fool i must be, to think you would ever have allowed it!' "this put me in a very awkward hole; for i was bound to acknowledge that i had been here, when the thing, he was so wild about, was done. but i let him go on, and have his raving out. for men are pretty much the same as boys; though expecting of their own way more, which i try to take out of the young ones. but a loud singing out, and a little bit of stamping, brings them into more sense of what they be. "'i landed at plymouth this morning,' he said, 'after getting a letter, which had been i don't know where, to tell me that my dear father, the best man that ever lived, was dead. i got leave immediately, and came home to comfort my mother and sister, and to attend to all that was needful. i went into the coffee-room, before the coach was ready; and taking up the papers, i find this! they talk of it, as if it was a thing well known, a case of great interest in the county; a _mystery_ they call it, a very lively thing to talk about--_the great perlycross mystery_, in big letters, cried at every corner, made a fine joke of in every dirty pot-house. it seems to have been going on for months. perhaps it has killed my mother and my sister. it would soon kill me, if i were there, and could do nothing.' "here i found a sort of opening; for the tears rolled down his face, as he thought of you, miss nicie, and your dear mamma; and the rage in his heart seemed to turn into grief, and he sat down in one of the trumpery chairs that they make nowadays, and it sprawled and squeaked under him, being such an uncommon fine young man in trouble. so i went up to him, and stood before him, and lifted his hands from his face, as i had done many's the time, when he was a little fellow, and broke his nose perhaps in his bravery. and then he looked up at me quite mild, and said-"'i believe i am a brute, jakes. but isn't this enough to make me one?' "i stayed with him all night, miss; for he would not go to bed, and he wouldn't have nothing for to eat or drink; and i was afraid to leave him so. but i got him at last to smoke a bit of my tobacco; and that seemed to make him look at things a little better. i told him all i knew, and what i had been to spain for, and how you and her ladyship were trying bravely to bear the terrible will of the lord; and then i coaxed him all i could, to come along of me, and help you to bear it. but he said--'i might take him for a coward, if i chose; but come to walderscourt he wouldn't, and face his own mother and sister he couldn't; until he had cleared off this terrible disgrace.'" "he is frightfully obstinate, he always was;" said nicie, who had listened to this tale, with streaming eyes; "but it would be such a comfort to us both, to have him here. what has become of him? where is he now?" "that is the very thing i dare not tell you, miss; because he made me swear to keep it to myself. by good rights, i ought to have told you nothing; but you managed so to work it out of me. i would not come away from him, till i knew where he would be, because he was in such a state of mind. but i softened him down a good bit, i believe; and he might take a turn, if you were to write, imploring of him. i will take care that he gets it, for he made me promise to write, and let him know exactly how i found things here, after being away so long. but he is that bitter against this place, that it will take a deal to bring him here. you must work on his love for his mother, miss nicie, and his pity for the both of you. that is the only thing that touches him. and say that it is no fault of perlycross, but strangers altogether." "you shall have my letter before the postman comes, so that you may send it with your own. what a good friend you have been to us, dear jakes! my mother's heart would break at last, if she knew that tom was in england, and would not come first of all to her. i can scarcely understand it. to me it seems so unnatural." "well, miss, you never can tell by yourself, how other people will take things--not even your own brother. and i think he will soon come round, miss nicie. according to my opinion, it was the first shock of the thing, and the way he got it, that drove him out of his mind a'most. maybe, he judges you by himself, and fancies it would only make you worse, to see him, with this disgrace upon him. for that's what he can't get out of his head; and it would be a terrible meeting for my lady, with all the pride she hath in him. i reckon 'tis the spanish blood that does it; englishman as he is, all over. but never fear, miss nicie; we'll fetch him here, between the two of us, afore we are much older. he hath always been loving in his nature; and love will drive the anger out." chapter xli. the pride of life. harvey tremlett kept his promise not to leave the neighbourhood, until the result of the grievous injury done to frank gilham should be known. another warrant against him might be issued for that fierce assault, and he had made up his mind to stand a trial, whatever result might come of it. what he feared most, and would have fled from, was a charge of running contraband goods, which might have destroyed a thriving trade, and sent him and his colleagues across the seas. rough and savage as he became, (when his violent temper was provoked) and scornful of home-life and quiet labour--these and other far from exemplary traits, were mainly the result of his roving habits, and the coarse and lawless company into which he had ever fallen. and it tended little to his edification, that he exercised lordship over them, in virtue of superior strength. but his nature was rather wild than brutal; in its depths were sparks and flashes of manly generosity, and even warmth of true affection for the few who had been kind to him, if they took him the right way of his stubborn grain. he loved his only daughter zip, although ashamed of showing it; and he was very proud of his lineage, and the ancient name of tremlett. thus mr. penniloe had taken unawares the straightest road to his good will, by adopting the waif as an inmate of his house, and treating her, not as a servant, but a child. that zip should be a lady, as the daughters of that norman race had been for generations, was the main ambition of her father's life. he had seen no possibility of it; and here was almost a surety of it, unless she herself threw away the chance. rather a pretty scene was toward for those who are fond of humanity, at the ruined tremlett mill, on the morning of saint david's day. harvey had taken to this retreat--and a very lonely home it was--for sundry good reasons of his own; the most important of which was not entrusted even to his daughter, or the revered and beloved parson. this was to prepare a refuge, and a store house for free-trade, more convenient, better placed, larger, and much safer than the now notorious fastness of blackmarsh. here were old buildings, and mazy webs of wandering; soft cliff was handy, dark wood and rushing waters, tangled lanes, furzy corners, nooks of overhanging, depths of in-and-out hood-winks of nature, when she does not wish man to know everything about her. the solid firm, directed by timber-leg'd dick, were prepared to pay a fine price, as for a paper mill, for this last feudal tenure of the tremlett race. but the last male member of that much discounted stock (or at any rate the last now producible in court, without criminal procedure) had refused to consider the most liberal offers, even of a fine run of free-trade, all to himself--as still it is--for the alienation in fee-simple of this last sod of hereditament. for good consideration, he would grant a lease, which blickson might prepare for them; but he would be--something the nadir of benediction--if he didn't knock down any man, who would try to make him rob his daughter. the league of free-traders came into his fine feelings, and took the mills and premises, on a good elastic lease. but the landlord must put them into suitable condition. this he was doing now, with technical experience, endeavouring at the same time to discharge some little of his new parental duties. jem kettel found it very hard, that though allowed to work, he was not encouraged (as he used to be) to participate in the higher moments. "you clear out, when my darter cometh. you be no fit company for she." jem could not see it, for he knew how good he was. but the big man had taken a much larger turn. he was not going to alter his own course of life. that was quite good enough for him; and really in those days people heard so much of "reform! reform!" dinged for ever in their ears, that any one at all inclined to think for himself had a tendency towards backsliding. none the less, must he urge others to reform; as the manner has been of all ages. tremlett's present anxiety was to provide his daughter with good advice, and principles so exalted, that there might be no further peril of her becoming like himself. from him she was to learn the value of proper pride and dignity, of behaving in her new position, as if she had been born to it, of remembering distant forefathers, but forgetting her present father, at any rate as an example. to this end he made her study the great ancestral bible--not the canonical books however, so much as the covers and fly-leaves--the wholly uninspired records of the tremlett family. these she perused with eager eyes, thinking more highly of herself, and laying in large store of pride--a bitter stock to start with--even when the course of youth is fair. but whether for evil or for good, it was pleasant to see the rough man sitting, this first day of the spring-time, teaching his little daughter how sadly he and she had come down in the world. zip had been spared from her regular lessons, by way of a treat, to dine with her father, before going--as was now arranged--to the care of a lady at exeter. jem kettel had been obliged to dine upon inferior victuals, and at the less fashionable hour of eleven a.m.; for it was not to be known that he was there, lest attention should be drawn to the job they were about. tremlett had washed himself very finely, in honour of this great occasion, and donned a new red woollen jacket, following every curve and chunk of his bulky chest and rugged arms. he had finished his dinner, and was in good spirits, with money enough from his wrestling prize to last him until the next good run, and a pipe of choice tobacco (such as could scarcely be got at exeter), issuing soft rings of turquoise tint to the black oak beams above. the mill-wheel was gone; but the murmur of the brook, and the tinkle of the trickle from the shattered trough, and the singing of birds in their love-time came, like the waving of a branch that sends the sunshine in. the dark-haired child was in the window-seat, with her sunday frock on, and her tresses ribboned back, and her knees wide apart to make a lap for the bible, upon which her great brown eyes were fixed. puffs of the march wind now and then came in, where the lozenges of glass were gone, and lifted loose tussocks of her untrussed hair, and set the sunshine dancing on the worn planks of the floor. but the girl was used to breezes, and her heart was in her lesson. "hunderds of 'em, more than all the kings and queens of england!" she said, with her very clear voice trembling, and her pointed fingers making hop-scotch in and out the lines of genealogy. "what can fay penniloe show like that? but was any of 'em colonels, father?" "maight a'been, if 'em would a' comed down to it. but there wasn't no colonels, in the old times, i've a' heered. us was afore that sort of thing were found out." "to be sure. i might have knowed. but was any of 'em, sirs, the same as sir thomas waldron was?" "scores of 'em, when they chose to come down to it. but they kept that, most ways, for the younger boys among 'em. the father of the family was bound to be a lord." "oh father! real lords? and me to have never seed one! what hath become of the laws of the land? but why bain't you a real lord, the same as they was?" "us never cared to keep it up;" said the last of the visible tremletts, after pondering over this difficult point. "you see, zip, it's only the women cares for that. 'tis no more to a man, than the puff of this here pipe." "but right is right, father. and it soundeth fine. was any of them earls, and marquises, and dukes, and whatever it is that comes over that?" "they was everything they cared to be. barons, and counts, and dukes, spelled the same as ducks, and holy empires, and holy sepulkers. but do'e, my dear, get my baccy box." what summit of sovereignty they would have reached, if the lecture had proceeded, no one knows; for as zip, like a princess, was stepping in and out among the holes of the floor, with her father's tin box, the old door shook with a sharp and heavy knock; and the child with her face lit up by the glory of her birth, marched away to open it. this she accomplished with some trouble, for the timber was ponderous and rickety. a tall young man strode in, as if the place belonged to him, and said, "i want to see harvey tremlett." "here be i. who be you?" the wrestler sat where he was, and did not even nod his head; for his rule was always to take people, just as they chose to take him. but the visitor cared little for his politeness, or his rudeness. "i am sir thomas waldron's son. if i came in upon you rudely, i am sorry for it. it is not what i often do. but just now i am not a bit like myself." "sir, i could take my oath of that; for your father was a gen'leman. zippy, dust a cheer, my dear." "no, young lady, you shall not touch it," said the young man, with a long stride, and a gentle bow to the comely child. "i am fitter to lift chairs than you are." this pleased the father mightily; and he became quite gracious, when the young sir thomas said to him, while glancing with manifest surprise at his quick and intelligent daughter-"mr. tremlett, i wish to speak to you, of a matter too sad to be talked about, in the presence of young ladies." this was not said by way of flattery or conciliation; for zip, with her proud step and steadfast gaze, was of a very different type from that of the common cottage lass. she was already at the door, when her father said-"go you down to the brook, my dear, and see how many nestesses you can find. then come back and say good-bye to daddy, afore go home to passonage. must be back afore dark, you know." "what a beautiful child!" young waldron had been looking with amazement at her. "i know what the tremletts used to be; but i had no idea they could be like that. i never saw such eyes in all my life." "her be well enough," replied the father shortly. "and now, sir, what is it as i can do for you? i knows zummat of the troubles on your mind; and if i can do'e any good, i wull." "two things i want of you. first, your word of honour--and i know what you tremletts have been in better days--that you had nothing to do with that cursed and devilish crime in our churchyard." "sir," answered tremlett, standing up for the first time in this interview, "i give you my oath by that book yon'ner that i knows nort about it. we be coom low; but us bain't zunk to that yet." he met sir thomas waldron, eye to eye, and the young man took his plastered hand, and knew that it was not a liar's. "next i want your good advice," said the visitor, sitting down by him; "and your help, if you will give it. i will not speak of money because i can see what you are. but first to follow it up, there must be money. shall i tell you what i shall be glad to do, without risk of offending you? very well; i don't care a fig for money, in a matter such as this. money won't give you back your father, or your mother, or anybody, when they are gone away from you. but it may help you to do your duty to them. at present, i have no money to speak of; because i have been with my regiment, and there it goes away, like smoke. but i can get any quantity almost, by going to our lawyers. if you like, and will see to it, i will put a thousand pounds in your hands, for you to be able to work things up; and another thousand, if you make anything of it. don't be angry with me. i don't want to bribe you. it is only for the sake of doing right. i have seen a great deal of the world. can you ever get what is right, without paying for it?" "no, sir, you can't. and not always, if you do. but you be the right sort, and no mistake. tell you what, sir thomas--i won't take a farden of your money, 'cos it would be a'robbin' of you. i han't got the brains for gooin' under other folk, like. generally they does that to me. but i know an oncommon sharp young fellow, jemmy kettel is his name. a chap as can goo and come fifty taimes, a'most, while i be a toornin' round wance; a'knoweth a'most every rogue for fifty maile around. and if you like to goo so far as a ten-pun' note upon him, i'll zee that a'doth his best wi'un. but never a farden over what i said." "i am very much obliged to you. here it is; and another next week, if he requires it. i hate the sight of money, while this thing lasts; because i know that money is at the bottom of it. tremlett, you are a noble fellow. your opinion is worth something. now don't you agree with me in thinking, that after all it comes to this--everything else has been proved rubbish--the doctors are at the bottom of it?" "well, sir, i am afeared they be. i never knowed nort of 'em, thank the lord. but i did hear they was oncommon greedy to cut up a poor brother of mine, as coom to trouble. i was out o' country then; or by gosh, i wud a' found them a job or two to do at home." the young man closed his lips, and thought. tremlett's opinion, although of little value, was all that was needed to clench his own. "i'll go and put a stop to it at once;" he muttered; and after a few more words with the wrestler, he set his long legs going rapidly, and his forehead frowning, in the direction of that ã�sculapian fortress, known as the _old barn_. by this time dr. fox was in good health again, recovering his sprightly tone of mind, and magnanimous self-confidence. his gratitude to frank gilham now was as keen and strong as could be wished; for the patient's calmness, and fortitude, and very fine constitution had secured his warm affection, by affording him such a field for skill, and such a signal triumph, as seldom yet have rejoiced a heart at once medical and surgical. whenever dr. gronow came, and dwelling on the ingenious structure designed and wrought by jemmy's skill, poured forth kind approval and the precious applause of an expert, the youthful doctor's delight was like a young mother's pride in her baby. and it surged within him all the more, because he could not--as the mother does--inundate all the world with it. wiser too than that sweet parent, he had refused most stubbornly to risk the duration of his joy, or imperil the precious subject, by any ardour of excitement or flutter of the system. the patient lay, like a well-set specimen in the box of a naturalist, carded, and trussed, and pinned, and fibred, bound to maintain one immutable plane. his mother hovered round him with perpetual presence; as a house-martin flits round her fallen nestling, circling about that one pivot of the world, back for a twittering moment, again sweeping the air for a sip of him. but the one he would have given all the world to have a sip of, even in a dream he must not see. such was the stern decree of the power, even more ruthless than that to which it punctually despatches us--ã�sculapius, less mansuete to human tears than ã�acus. to put it more plainly, and therefore better,--master frank did not even know that miss christie was on the premises. christie was sitting by the window, thrown out where the barn-door used to be,--where the cart was backed up with the tithe-sheaves golden, but now the gilded pills were rolled, and the only wholesome bit of metal was the sunshine on her hair--when she saw a large figure come in at the gate (which was still of the fine agricultural sort) and a shudder ran down her shapely back. with feminine speed of apprehension, she felt that it could be one man only, the man she had heard so much of, a monster of size and ferocity, the man who had "concussed" her brother's head, and shattered an arm of great interest to her. that she ran to the door, which was wide to let the spring in, and clapped it to the post, speaks volumes for her courage. "you can't come in here, harvey tremlett," she cried, with a little foot set, as a forlorn hope, against the bottom of the door, which (after the manner of its kind) refused to go home, when called upon; "you have done harm enough, and i am astonished that you should dare to imagine we would let you in." "but i am not harvey tremlett, at all. i am only tom waldron. and i don't see why i should be shut out when i have done no harm." the young lady was not to be caught with chaff. she took a little peep through the chink, having learned that art in a very sweet manner of late; and then she threw open the door, and showed herself, a fine figure of blushes. "miss fox, i am sure," said the visitor, smiling and lifting his hat as he had learned to do abroad. "but i won't come in, against orders, whatever the temptation may be." "we don't know any harm of you, and you may come in;" answered chris, who was never long taken aback. "your sister is a dear friend of mine. i am sorry for being so rude to you." waldron sat down, and was cheerful for awhile, greatly pleased with his young entertainer, and her simple account of the state of things there. but when she enquired for his mother and sister, the cloud returned, and he meant business. "you are likely to know more than i do," he said, "for i have not been home, and cannot go there yet. i will not trouble you with dark things--but may i have a little talk with your brother?" miss fox left the room at once, and sent her brother down; and now a very strange surprise befell the sprightly doctor. sir thomas waldron met him with much cordiality and warmth, for they had always been good friends, though their natures were so different; and then he delivered this fatal shot. "i am very sorry, my dear jemmy, but i have had to make up my mind to do a thing you won't much like. i know you have always thought a great deal of my sister, inez; and now i am told, though i have not seen her, that you are as good as engaged to her. but you must perceive that it would never do. i could not wish for a better sort of fellow, and i have the highest opinion of you. really i think that you would have made her as happy as the day is long, because you are so clever, and cheerful, and good-tempered, and--and in fact i may say, good all round. but you must both of you get over it. i am now the head of the family; and i don't like saying it, but i must. i cannot allow you to have nicie; and i shall forbid nicie to think any more of you." "what, the deuce, do you mean, tom?" asked jemmy, scarcely believing his ears. "what's up now, in the name of goodness? what on earth have you got into your precious noddle?" "jemmy, my noddle--as you call it--may not be a quarter so clever as yours; and in fact i know it is not over-bright, without having the benefit of your opinion. but for all that, it has some common sense; and it knows its own mind pretty well; and what it says, it sticks to. you are bound to take it in a friendly manner, because that is how i intend it; and you must see the good sense of it. i shall be happy and proud myself to continue our friendship. only you must pledge your word, that you will have nothing more to say to my sister, inez." "but why, tom, why?" fox asked again, with increasing wonder. he was half inclined to laugh at the other's solemn and official style, but he saw that it would be a dangerous thing, for waldron's colour was rising. "what objection have you discovered, or somebody else found out for you? surely you are dreaming, tom!" "no, i am not. and i shall not let you. i should almost have thought that you might have known, without my having to tell you. if you think twice, you will see at once, that reason, and common sense, and justice, and knowledge of the world, and the feeling of a gentleman--all compel you to--to knock off, if i may so express it. i can only say that if you can't see it, everybody else can, at a glance." "no doubt i am the thickest of the thick--though it may not be the general opinion. but do give me ever such a little hint, tom; something of a twinkle in this frightful fog." "well, you are a doctor, aren't you now?" "certainly i am, and proud of it. only wish i was a better one." "very well. the doctors have dug up my father. and no doctor ever shall marry his daughter." the absurdity of this was of a very common kind, as the fallacy is of the commonest; and there was nothing very rare to laugh at. but fox did the worst thing he could have done--he laughed till his sides were aching. too late he perceived that he had been as scant of discretion, as the other was of logic. "that's how you take it, is it, sir?" young waldron cried, ready to knock him down, if he could have done so without cowardice. "a lucky thing for you, that you are on the sick-list; or i'd soon make you laugh the other side of your mouth, you guffawing jackanapes. if you can laugh at what was done to my father, it proves that you are capable of doing it. when you have done with your idiot grin, i'll just ask you one thing--never let me set eyes on your sniggering, grinning, pill-box of a face again." "that you may be quite sure you never shall do," answered fox, who was ashy pale with anger; "until you have begged my pardon humbly, and owned yourself a thick-headed, hot-headed fool. i am sorry that your father should have such a ninny of a cad to come after him. everybody acknowledges that the late sir thomas was a gentleman." the present sir thomas would not trust himself near such a fellow for another moment, but flung out of the house without his hat; while fox proved that he was no coward, by following, and throwing it after him. and the other young man proved the like of himself, by not turning round and smashing him. chapter xlii. his last bivouac. "have i done wrong?" young waldron asked himself, as he strode down the hill, with his face still burning, and that muddy hat on. "most fellows would have knocked him down. i hope that nice girl heard nothing of the row. the walls are jolly thick, that's one good thing; as thick as my poor head, i dare say. but when the fellow dared to laugh! good heavens, is our family reduced to that? i dare say i am a hot-headed fool, though i kept my temper wonderfully; and to tell me i am not a gentleman! well, i don't care a rap who sees me now, for they must hear of this affair at walderscourt. i think the best thing that i can do is to go and see old penniloe. he is as honest as he is clear-headed. if he says i'm wrong, i'll believe it. and i'll take his advice about other things." this was the wisest resolution of his life, inasmuch as it proved to be the happiest. mr. penniloe had just finished afternoon work with his pupils, and they were setting off; pike with his rod to the long pool up the meadows, which always fished best with a cockle up it, peckover for a long steeple-chase, and mopuss to look for chalcedonies, and mosses, among the cleves of hagdon hill; for nature had nudged him into that high bliss, which a child has in routing out his father's pockets. the parson, who felt a warm regard for a very fine specimen of hot youth, who was at once the son of his oldest friend, and his own son in literature--though minerva sat cross-legged at that travail--he, mr. penniloe, was in a gentle mood, as he seldom failed to be; moreover in a fine mood, as behoves a man who has been dealing with great authors, and walking as in a crystal world, so different from our turbid fog. to him the young man poured forth his troubles, deeper than of certain classic woes, too substantial to be laid by any triple cast of dust. and then he confessed his flagrant insult to a rising member of the great profession. "you have behaved very badly, according to your own account;" mr. penniloe said with much decision, knowing that his own weakness was to let people off too easily, and feeling that duty to his ancient friend compelled him to chastise his son; "but your bad behaviour to jemmy fox has some excuse in quick temper provoked. your conduct towards your mother and sister is ten times worse; because it is mean." "i don't see how you can make that out." young waldron would have flown into a fury with any other man who had said this. even as it was, he stood up with a doubtful countenance, glancing at the door. "it is mean, in this way," continued the parson, leaving him to go, if he thought fit, "that you have thought more of yourself than them. because it would have hurt your pride to go to them, with this wrong still unredressed, you have chosen to forget the comfort your presence must have afforded them, and the bitter pain they must feel at hearing that you have returned and avoided them. in a like case, your father would not have acted so." waldron sat down again, and his great frame trembled. he covered his face with his hands, and tears shone upon his warted knuckles; for he had not yet lost all those exuberances of youth. "i never thought of that," he muttered; "it never struck me in that way. though jakes said something like it. but he could not put it, as you do. i see that i have been a cad, as jemmy fox declared i was." "jemmy is older, and he should have known better than to say anything of the sort. he must have lost his temper sadly; because he could never have thought it. you have not been what he calls a cad; but in your haste and misery, you came to the wrong decision. i have spoken strongly, tom, my boy; more strongly perhaps than i should have done. but your mother is in weak health now; and you are all in all to her." "the best you can show me to be is a brute; and i am not sure that that is not worse than a cad. i ought to be kicked every inch of the way home; and i'll go there as fast as if i was." "that won't do at all," replied the curate smiling. "to go is your duty; but not to rush in like a thunderbolt, and amaze them. they have been so anxious about your return, that it must be broken very gently to them. if you wish it, and can wait a little while, i will go with you, and prepare them for it." "sir, if you only would--but no, i don't deserve it. it is a great deal too much to expect of you." "what is the time? oh, a quarter past four. at half past, i have to baptise a child well advanced in his seventh year, whose parents have made it the very greatest personal favour to me, to allow him to be 'crassed'--as they express it. and i only discovered their neglect, last week! who am i to find fault with any one? if you don't mind waiting for about half-an-hour, i will come back for you, and meanwhile mrs. muggridge will make your hat look better; master jemmy must have lost his temper too, i am afraid. good-bye for the moment; unless i am punctual to the minute, i know too well what will happen--they will all be off. for they 'can't zee no vally in it,' as they say. alas, alas, and we are wild about missions to hindoos, and hottentots!" as soon as mr. penniloe had left the house, the youth, who had been lowered in his own esteem, felt a very strong desire to go after him. possibly this was increased by the sad reproachful gaze of thyatira; who, as an old friend, longed to hear all about him, but was too well-mannered to ask questions. cutting all consideration short--which is often the best thing to do with it--he put on his fairly re-established hat, and cared not a penny whether mrs. channing, the baker's wife, was taking a look into the street or not; or even mrs. tapscott, with the rosemary over her window. then he turned in at the lych-gate, thinking of the day when his father's body had lain there (as the proper thing was for a body to do) and then he stood in the churchyard, where the many ways of death divided. three main paths, all well-gravelled, ran among those who had toddled in the time of childhood down them, with wormwood and stock-gilly flowers in their hands; and then sauntered along them, with hands in pockets, and eyes for the maidens over tombstone-heads; and then had come limping along on their staffs; and now were having all this done for them, without knowing anything about it. none of these ways was at all to his liking. peace--at least in death--was there, green turf and the rounded bank, gray stone, and the un-household name, to be made out by a grandchild perhaps, proud of skill in ancient letters, prouder still of a pocket-knife. what a faint scratch on soft stone! and yet the character far and away stronger than that of the lettered times that follow it. young waldron was not of a morbid cast, neither was his mind introspective; as (for the good of mankind) is ordained to those who have the world before them. he turned to the right by a track across the grass, followed the bend of the churchyard wall, and fearing to go any further, lest he should stumble on his father's outraged grave, sat down upon a gap of the gray enclosure. this gap had been caused by the sweep of tempest that went up the valley at the climax of the storm. the wall, being low, had taken little harm; but the great west gable of the abbey had been smitten, and swung on its back, as a trap-door swings upon its hinges. thick flint structure, and time-worn mullion, massive buttress, and deep foundation, all had gone flat, and turned their fangs up, rending a chasm in the tattered earth. but this dark chasm was hidden from view, by a pile of loose rubble, and chunks of flint, that had rattled down when the gable fell, and striking the cross-wall had lodged thereon, breaking the cope in places, and hanging (with tangles of ivy, and tufts of toad-flax) over the interval of wall and ruin, as a snowdrift overhangs a ditch. here the young man sat down; as if any sort of place would do for him. the gap in the wall was no matter to him, but happened to suit his downcast mood, and the misery of the moment. here he might sit, and wait, until mr. penniloe had got through a job, superior to the burial-service, because no one could cut you in pieces, directly afterwards, without being hanged for it. he could see mr. penniloe's black stick, standing like a little parson--for some of them are proud of such resemblance--in the great south porch of the church; and thereby he knew that he could not miss his friend. as he lifted his eyes to the ancient tower, and the black yew-tree still steadfast, and the four vanes (never of one opinion as to the direction of the wind, in anything less than half a gale), and the jackdaws come home prematurely, after digging up broad-beans, to settle their squabble about their nests; and then as he lowered his gaze to the tombstones, and the new foundation-arches, and other labours of a parish now so hateful to him--heavy depression, and crushing sense of the wrath of god against his race, fell upon his head; as the ruin behind him had fallen on its own foundations. he felt like an old man, fain to die, when time is gone weary and empty. what was the use of wealth to him, of bodily strength, of bright ambition to make his country proud of him, even of love of dearest friends, and wedded bliss--if such there were--and children who would honour him? all must be under one black ban of mystery insoluble; never could there be one hearty smile, one gay thought, one soft delight; but ever the view of his father's dear old figure desecrated, mangled, perhaps lectured on. he could not think twice of that, but groaned--"the lord in heaven be my help! the lord deliver me from this life?" he was all but delivered of this life--happy, or wretched--it was all but gone. for as he flung his body back, suiting the action to his agony of mind--crash went the pile of jagged flint, the hummocks of dead mortar, and the wattle of shattered ivy. he cast himself forward, just in time, as all that had carried him broke and fell, churning, and grinding, and clashing together, sending up a cloud of powdered lime. so sudden was the rush, that his hat went with it, leaving his brown curls grimed with dust, and his head for a moment in a dazed condition, as of one who has leapt from an earthquake. he stood with his back to the wall, and the muscles of his great legs quivering, after the strain of their spring for dear life. then scarcely yet conscious of his hair-breadth escape, he descried mr. penniloe coming from the porch, and hastened without thought to meet him. "billy-jack!" said the clergyman, smiling, yet doubtful whether he ought to smile. "they insisted on calling that child 'billy-jack.' 'william-john' they would not hear of. i could not object, for it was too late; and there is nothing in it uncanonical. but i scarcely felt as i should have done, when i had to say--'billy-jack, i baptise thee,' etc. i hope they did not do it to try me. now the devonshire mind is very deep and subtle; though generally supposed to be the simplest of the simple. but what has become of your hat, my dear boy? surely thyatira has had time enough to clean it." "she cleaned it beautifully. but it was waste of time. it has gone down a hole. come, and i will show you. i wonder my head did not go with it. what a queer place this has become!" "a hole! what hole can there be about here?" mr. penniloe asked, as he followed the young man. "the downfall of the abbey has made a heap, rather than what can be called a hole. but i declare you are right! why, i never saw this before; and i looked along here with haddon, not more than a week age. don't come too near; it is safe enough for me, but you are like neptune, a shaker of the earth. alas for our poor ivy!" he put on his glasses, and peered through the wall-gap, into the flint-strewn depth outside. part of the ruins, just dislodged, had rolled into a pit, or some deep excavation; the crown of which had broken in, probably when the gable fell. the remnant of the churchyard wall was still quite sound, and evidently stood away from all that had gone on outside. "be thankful to god for your escape," mr. penniloe said, looking back at the youth. "it has indeed been a narrow one. if you had been carried down there head-foremost, even your strong frame would have been crushed like an egg-shell." "i am not sure about that; but i don't want to try it. i think i can see a good piece of my hat; and i am not going to be done out of it. will you be kind enough, sir, to wait, while i go round by the stile, and get in at that end? you see that it is easy to get down there; but a frightful job from this side. you won't mind waiting, will you, sir?" "if you will take my advice," said the curate, "you will be content to let well alone. it is the great lesson of the age. but nobody attends to it." the young man did not attend to it; and for once mr. penniloe had given bad advice; though most correct in principle, and in practice too, nine times and a half out of every ten. "here i am, sir. can you see me?" sir thomas waldron shouted up the hole. "it is a queer place, and no mistake. please to stop just where you are. then you can give me notice, if you see the ground likely to cave in. halloa! why, i never saw anything like it! here's a stone arch, and a tunnel beyond it, just like what you've got at the rectory, only ever so much bigger. looks as if the old abbey had butted up against it, until it all got blown away. if i had got a fellow down here to help me, i believe i could get into it. but all these chunks are in the way." "my dear young friend, it will soon be dark; and we have more important things to see to. you are not at all safe down there; if the sides fell in, you would never come out alive." "it has cost me a hat; and i won't be done. i can't go home without a hat, till dark. i am not coming up, till i know all about it. do oblige me, sir, by having the least little bit of patience." mr. penniloe smiled. the request, as coming from such a quarter, pleased him. and presently the young man began to fling up great lumps of clotted flint, as if they were marbles, right and left. "what a volcano you are!" cried the parson, as the youth in the crater stopped to breathe. "it is nothing but a waste of energy. the hole won't run away, my dear tom. you had much better leave it for the proper man to-morrow." "don't say that. i am the proper man." how true his words were, he had no idea. "but i hear somebody whistling. if i had only got a fellow, to keep this stuff back, i could get on like a house on fire." it was pike coming back from the long pool in the meadow, with a pretty little dish of trout for supper. his whistling was fine; as a fisherman's should be, for want of something better in his mouth; and he never got over the churchyard stile, without this little air of consolation for the ghosts. as he topped the ridge of meadow that looks down on the river, mr. penniloe waved his hat to him, over the breach of the churchyard wall; and he nothing loth stuck his rod into the ground, pulled off his jacket, and went down to help. "all clear now. we can slip in like a rabbit. but it looks uncommonly black inside, and it seems to go a long way underground;" waldron shouted up to the clergyman. "we cannot do anything, without a light." "i'll tell you what, sir," pike chimed in. "this passage runs right into the church, i do believe." "that is the very thing i have been thinking;" answered mr. penniloe. "i have heard of a tradition to that effect. i should like to come down, and examine it." "not yet, sir; if you please. there is scarcely room for three. and it would be a dangerous place for you. but if you could only give us something like a candle----" "oh, i know!" the sage pike suggested, with an angler's quickness. "ask him to throw us down one of the four torches stuck up at the lych-gate. they burn like fury; and i dare say you have got a lucifer, or a promethean." "not a bad idea, pike;" answered mr. penniloe. "i believe that each of them will burn for half-an-hour." soon he returned with the driest of them, from the iron loop under the covered space; and this took fire very heartily, being made of twisted tow soaked in resin. "i am rather big for this job;" said sir thomas, as the red flame sputtered in the archway, "perhaps you would like to go first, my young friend." "very much obliged," replied pike drawing back; "but i don't seem to feel myself called upon to rush into the bowels of the earth, among six centuries of ghosts. i had better stop here, perhaps, till you come back." "very well. at any rate hold my coat. it is bad enough; i don't want to make it worse. i shan't be long, i dare say. but i am bound to see the end of it." young waldron handed his coat to pike, and stooping his tall head with the torch well in front of him, plunged into the dark arcade. grim shadows flitted along the roof, as the sound of his heavy steps came back; then the torchlight vanished round a bend of wall, and nothing could either be seen or heard. mr. penniloe, in some anxiety, leaned over the breach in the churchyard fence, striving to see what was under his feet; while pike mustered courage to stand in the archway--which was of roughly chiselled stone--but kept himself ready for instant flight, as he drew deep breaths of excitement. by-and-by, the torch came quivering back, throwing flits of light along the white-flint roof; and behind it a man, shaking worse than any shadow, and whiter than any torchlit chalk. "great god!" he cried, staggering forth, and falling with his hand on his heart against the steep side of the pit. "as sure as there is a god in heaven, i have found my father!" "what!" cried the parson; "pike, see to the torch; or you'll both be on fire." in a moment, he ran round by way of the stile, and slid into the pit, without thinking of his legs, laying hold of some long rasps of ivy. pike very nimbly leaped up the other side; this was not the sort of hole to throw a fly in. "give me the torch. you stay here, tom. you have had enough of it." mr. penniloe's breath was short, because of the speed he had made of it. "it is my place now. you stop here, and get the air." "i think it is rather my place, than of any other man upon the earth. am i afraid of my own dear dad? follow me, and i will show him to you." he went with a slow step, dazed out of all wonder--as a man in a dream accepts everything--down the dark passage again, and through the ice-cold air, and the shivering fire. then he stopped suddenly, and stooped the torch, stooping his curly head in lowliness behind it; and there, as if set down by the bearers for a rest, lay a long oaken coffin. mr. penniloe came to his side, and gazed. at their feet lay the good and true-hearted colonel, or all of him left below the heaven, resting placidly, unprofaned, untouched by even the hand of time; unsullied and honourable in his death, as in his loyal and blameless life. the clear light fell upon the diamond of glass, (framed in the oak above his face, as was often done then for the last look of love) and it showed his white curls, and tranquil forehead, and eyelids for ever closed against all disappointment. his son could not speak, but sobbed, and shook, with love, and reverence, and manly grief. but the clergyman, with a godly joy, and immortal faith, and heavenly hope, knelt at the foot, and lifted hands and eyes to the god of heaven. "behold, he hath not forsaken us! his mercy is over all his works. and his goodness is upon the children of men." chapter xliii. two fine lessons. at the _old barn_ that afternoon, no sooner was young sir thomas gone, than remarkable things began to happen. as was observed in a previous case, few of us are yet so vast of mind, as to feel deeply, and fairly enjoy the justice of being served with our own sauce. haply this is why sauce and justice are in latin the self-same word. few of us even are so candid, as to perceive when it comes to pass; more often is a world of difference found betwixt what we gave, and what we got. fox was now treated by nicie's brother, exactly as he had treated gilham about his sister christie. he was not remarkably rash of mind--which was ever so much better for himself and friends--yet he was quick of perception; and when his sister came and looked at him, and said with gentle sympathy--"oh, jemmy, has sir thomas forbidden your bans? no wonder you threw his hat at him"--it was a little more than he could do, not to grin at the force of analogy. "he is mad." he replied, with strong decision. yet at the twinkle of her eyes, he wondered whether she held that explanation valid, in a like case, not so very long ago. "i have made up my mind to it altogether;" he continued, with the air magnanimous. "it is useless to strive against the force of circumstances." "made up your mind to give up nicie, because her brother disapproves of it?" christie knew well enough what he meant. but can girls be magnanimous? "i should think not. how can you be so stupid? what has a brother's approval to do with it? do you think i care twopence for fifty thousand brothers? brothers are all very well in their way; but let them stick to their own business. a girl's heart is her own, i should hope; and her happiness depends on herself, not her brother. i call it a great piece of impudence, for a brother to interfere in such matters." "oh!" said christie, and nothing more. neither did she even smile; but went to the window, and smoothed her apron, the pretty one she wore, when she was mixing water-colours. "you shall come and see him now;" said jemmy, looking at the light that was dancing in her curls, but too lofty to suspect that inward laughter made them dance. "it can't hurt him now; and my opinion is that it might even do him a great deal of good. i'll soon have him ready, and i'll send his blessed mother to make another saucepanful of chicken broth. and chris, i'll give you clear decks, honour bright." "i am quite at a loss to understand your meaning." the mendacious christie turned round, and fixed her bright eyes upon his most grandly; as girls often do, when they tell white lies--perhaps to see how they are swallowed. "very well then; that is all right. it will save a lot of trouble; and perhaps it is better to leave him alone." "there again! you never seem to understand me, jemmy! and of course, you don't care how much it upsets a poor patient, never to see a change of faces. of course you are very kind; and so is dr. gronow; and poor mrs. gilham is a most delightful person. still, after being for all that time so desperately limited--that's not the word at all--i mean, so to some extent restricted, or if you prefer it prohibited, from--from any little change, any sort of variety of expressions, of surroundings, of in fact, society----" "ah yes, no doubt! of etcetera, etcetera. but go you on floundering, till i come back, and perhaps then you will know what you mean. perhaps also you would look a little more decent with your apron off," dr. fox suggested, with the noble rudeness so often dealt out to sisters. "be sure you remind him that yesterday was leap-year's day; and then perhaps you will be able to find some one to understand you." "if that is the case, you may be quite certain that i won't go near him." but before very long she thought better of that. was it just to punish one for the offences of another? with a colour like the first bud of monthly rose peeping through its sepals in the southern corner, she ran into the shrubbery--for there was nothing to call a garden--and gathered a little posy of russian violets and wild primrose. then she pulled her apron off, and had a good look at herself, and could not help knowing that she had not seen a lovelier thing for a long time; and if love would only multiply it by two,--and it generally does so by a thousand--the result would be something stupendous, ineffable, adorable. such thoughts are very bright and cheerful, full of glowing youth and kindness, young romance and contempt of earth. but the longer we plod on this earth, the deeper we stick into it; as must be when the foot grows heavy, having no _talaria_. long enduring pain produces a like effect with lapse of years. the spring of the system loses coil, from being on perpetual strain; sad proverbs flock into the brain, instead of dancing verses. frank gilham had been ploughed and harrowed, clod-crushed, drilled, and scarified by the most advanced, enlightened, and practical of all medical high-farmers. if ever fox left him, to get a breath of air, gronow came in to keep the screw on; and when they were both worn out, young webber (who began to see how much he had to learn, and what was for his highest interest) was allowed to sit by, and do nothing. a consultation was held, whenever the time hung heavily on their hands; and webber would have liked to say a word, if it could have been uttered without a snub. meanwhile, frank gilham got the worst of it. at last he had been allowed to leave his bed, and taste a little of the fine spring air, flowing down from hagdon hill, and bearing first waft of the furze-bloom. haggard weariness and giddy lightness, and a vacant wondering doubt (as to who or what he was, that scarcely seemed worth puzzling out), would have proved to any one who cared to know it, that his head had lain too long in one position, and was not yet reconciled to the change. and yet it should have welcomed this relief, if virtue there be in heredity, inasmuch as this sofa came from white post farm, and must have comforted the head of many a sick progenitor. the globe of thought being in this state, and the arm of action crippled, the question was--would heart arise, dispense with both, and have its way? for awhile it seemed a doubtful thing; so tedious had the conflict been, and such emptiness left behind it. the young man, after dreams most blissful, and hopes too golden to have any kin with gilt, was reduced to bare bones and plastered elbows, and knees unsafe to go down upon. but the turn of the tide of human life quivers to the influence of heaven. in came christie, like a flush of health, rosy with bright maidenhood; yet tremulous as a lily is, with gentle fear and tenderness. pity is akin to love--as those who know them both, and in their larger hearts have felt them, for our smaller sakes pronounce--but when the love is far in front, and pauses at the check of pride; what chance has pride, if pity comes, and takes her mistress by the hand, and whispers--"try to comfort him?" none can tell, who are not in the case, and those who are know little of it, how these strange things come to pass. but sure it is that they have their way. the bashful, proud, light-hearted maiden, ready to make a joke of love, and laugh at such a fantasy, was so overwhelmed with pity, that the bashfulness forgot to blush, the pride cast down its frightened eyes, and the levity burst into tears. but of all these things she remembered none. and forsooth they may well be considered doubtful, in common with many harder facts; because the house was turned upside down, before any more could be known of it. there was coming, and going, and stamping of feet, horses looking in at the door, and women calling out of it; and such a shouting and hurrahing, not only here but all over the village, that the perle itself might well have stopped, like simã¶is and scamander, to ask what the fish out of water were doing. and it might have stopped long, without being much wiser; so thoroughly everybody's head was flown, and everybody's mouth filled with much more than the biggest ears found room for. to put it in order is a hopeless job, because all order was gone to grit. but as concerns the _old barn_ (whose thatch, being used to quiet eaves-droppings, had enough to make it stand up in sheaf again)--first dashed up a young man on horseback, (and the sympathetic nag was half mad also) the horse knocking sparks out of the ground, as if he had never heard of lucifers, and the man with his legs all out of saddle, waving a thing that looked like a letter, and shouting as if all literature were comprised in viv㢠voce. now this was young farrant, the son of the churchwarden; and really there was no excuse for him; for the farrants are a very clever race; and as yet competitive examination had not made the sight of paper loathsome to any mind cultivating self-respect. "you come out, and just read this;" he shouted to the _barn_ in general. "you never heard such a thing in all your life. all the village is madder than any march hare. i shan't tell you a word of it. you come out and read. and if that doesn't fetch you out, you must be a clam of oysters. if you don't believe me, come and see it for yourselves. only you will have to get by jakes, and he is standing at the mouth, with his french sword drawn." "in the name of heaven, what the devil do you mean?" cried fox, running out, and catching fire of like madness, of all human elements the most explosive, "and this--why, this letter is the maddest thing of all! a man who was bursting to knock me down, scarcely two gurgles of the clock ago! and now, i am his beloved jemmy! mrs. gilham, do come out. surely that chicken has been stewed to death. oh, ma'am, you have some sense in you. everybody else is gone off his head. who can make head or tail of this? let me entreat you to read it, mrs. gilham. farrant, you'll be over that colt's head directly. mrs. gilham, this is meant for a saner eye than mine. your head-piece is always full of self-possession." highly flattered with this tribute, the old lady put on her spectacles, and read, slowly and decorously. "beloved jemmy, "i am all that you called me, a hot-headed fool, and a cad; and everything vile on the back of it. the doctors are the finest chaps alive, because they have never done harm to the dead. come down at once, and put a bar across, because jakes must have his supper. perlycross folk are the best in the world, and the kindest-hearted, but we must not lett them go in there. i am off home, for if anybody else was to get in front of me, and tell my mother, i should go wild, and she would be quite upsett. when you have done all you think proper, come up and see poor nicie. "from your affectionate, and very sorry, "t. r. waldron." "now the other, ma'am!" cried doctor fox. "here is another from the parson. oh come now, we shall have a little common sense." "my dear jemmy, "it has pleased the lord, who never afflicts us without good purpose, to remove that long and very heavy trouble from us. we have found the mortal remains of my dear friend, untouched by any human hand, in a hollow way leading from the abbey to the church. we have not yet discovered how it happened; and i cannot stop to tell you more, for i must go at once to walderscourt, lest rumour should get there before us; and sir thomas must not go alone, being of rather headlong, though very noble nature. sergeant jakes has been placed on guard, against any rash curiosity. i have sent for the two churchwardens and can leave it safely to them and to you, to see that all is done properly. if it can be managed, without undue haste, the coffin should be placed inside the church, and the doors locked until the morning. when that is done, barricade the entrance to the tunnel; although i am sure that the people of our parish would have too much right feeling, as well as apprehension, to attempt to make their way in, after dark. to-morrow, i trust we shall offer humble thanks to the giver of all good, for this great mercy. i propose to hold a short special service; though i fear there is no precedent in the prayer-book. this will take a vast weight off your mind, as well as mine, which has been sorely tried. i beg you not to lose a minute, as many people might become unduly excited. "most truly yours, "philip penniloe." "p.s.--this relieves us also from another dark anxiety, simply explaining the downfall of the s.e. corner of the chancel." "it seems hard upon me; but it must be right, because the parson has decreed it;" dr. fox cried, without a particle of what is now called "slavish adulation of the church"--which scarcely stuck up for herself in those days--but by virtue of the influence which a kind and good man always gains, when he does not overstrain his rights. "i am off, mrs. gilham, i can trust you to see to the pair of invalids upstairs." then he jumped upon young mr. farrant's horse, and leaving him to follow at foot leisure, dashed down the hill towards perlycross. at the four cross-roads, which are the key of the position, and have all the village and the valley in command, he found as fine a concourse perhaps as had been there since the great days of the romans. not a rush of dread, and doubting, and of shivering back-bones, such as had been on that hoary morning, when the sun came through the fog, and showed churchwarden farmer john, and channing the clerk, and blacksmith crang, trudging from the potato-field, full of ghastly tidings, and encountering at that very spot sergeant jakes, and cornish, and the tremulous tramp of half the village, afraid of resurrection. instead of hurrying from the churchyard, as a haunt of ghouls and fiends, all were hastening towards it now, with deep respect reviving. the people who lived beyond the bridge, and even beyond the factory, and were much inclined by local right to sit under the dissenting minister--himself a very good man, and working in harmony with the curate--many of these, and even some from priestwell, having heard of it, pushed their right to know everything, in front of those who lived close to the church and looked through the railings every day. farmer john horner was there on his horse, trotting slowly up and down, as brave as a mounted policeman is, and knowing every one by name called out to him to behave himself. moreover walter haddon stood at the door of the _ivy-bush_, with his coat off, and his shirtsleeves rolled, and ready to double his fist at any man who only drank small beer, at the very first sign of tumult. but candidly speaking this was needless, powerful as the upheaval was, and hot the spirit of enquiry; for the wives of most of the men were there, and happily in an english crowd that always makes for good manners. fox was received with loud hurrahs, and many ran forward to shake his hand; some, who had been most black and bitter in their vile suspicions, having the manliness to beg his pardon, and abuse themselves very heartily. he forgave them with much frankness, as behoves an englishman, and with a pleasant smile at their folly, which also is nicely national. for after all, there is no other race that can give and take as we do; not by any means headlong, yet insisting upon decision--of the other side, at any rate--and thus quickening the sense of justice upon the average, in our favour. fox, with the truly british face of one who is understood at last, but makes no fuss about it, gave up his horse at the lych-gate, and made off where he was beckoned for. here were three great scaffold-poles and slings fixed over the entrance to the ancient under-way; and before dark all was managed well. and then a short procession, headed by the martial march of jakes, conveyed into the venerable church the mortal part of a just and kind man and a noble soldier, to be consigned to-morrow to a more secure, and ever tranquil, and still honoured resting-place. this being done, the need of understanding must be satisfied. dr. fox, and dr. gronow, with the two churchwardens, and channing the clerk, descended the ladder into the hole, and with a couple of torches kindled went to see the cause and manner of this strange yet simple matter--a four-month mystery of darkness, henceforth as clear as daylight. when they beheld it, they were surprised, not at the thing itself--for it could scarcely have happened otherwise, under the circumstances--but at the coincidences, which had led so many people of very keen intelligence into, as might almost be said, every track, except the right one. and this brought home to them one great lesson--"_if you wish to be sure of a thing, see it with your own good eyes._" and another--but that comes afterwards. the passage, dug by the monks no doubt, led from the abbey directly westward to the chancel of the church, probably to enable them to carry their tapers burning, and discharge their duties there promptly and with vestments dry, in defiance of the weather. the crown, of loose flints set in mortar, was some eight feet underground, and the line it took was that adopted in all christian burial. the grave of the late sir thomas waldron was prepared, as he had wished, far away from the family vault (which had sadly undermined the church), and towards the eastern end of the yard, as yet not much inhabited. as it chanced, the bottom lay directly along a weak, or worn-out part of the concrete arch below; and the men who dug it said at the time that their spades had struck on something hard, which they took to be loose blocks of flint. however being satisfied with their depth, and having orders to wall the bottom, they laid on either side some nine or ten courses of brickwork, well flushed in with strong and binding mortar; but the ends being safe and bricks running short, to save any further trouble, they omitted the cross-wall at the ends. thus when the weight of earth cast in pressed more and more heavily upon the heavy coffin, the dome of concreted flints below collapsed, the solid oaken box dropped quietly to the bottom of the tunnel, and the dwarf brick sides having no tie across, but being well bonded together, and well-footed, full across the vacancy into one another, forming a new arch, or more correctly a splay span-roof, in lieu of the old arch which had yielded to the strain. thus the earth above took this new bearing, and the surface of the ground was no more disturbed than it always is by settlement. no wonder then that in the hurried search, by men who had not been down there before, and had not heard of any brickwork at the sides, and were at that moment in a highly nervous state, not only was the grave reported empty--which of course was true enough--but no suspicion was entertained that the bottom they came to (now covered with earth) was anything else than a rough platform for the resting-place. and the two who could have told them better, being proud of their skill in foundations, had joined the builders' staff, and been sent away to distant jobs. in the heat of foregone conclusion, and the terror created by the blacksmith's tale, and the sad condition of that faithful little _jess_, the report had been taken as final. no further quest seemed needful; and at squire mockham's order, the empty space had been filled in at once, for fear of the excitement, and throng of vulgar gazers, gathering and thickening around the empty grave. such are the cases that make us wonder at the power of co-incidence, and the very strange fact that the less things seem to have to do with one another, the greater is their force upon the human mind, when it tries to be too logical. many little things, all far apart, had been fetched together by fine reasoning process, and made to converge towards a very fine error, with certainty universal. even that humble agent, or patient, little _jess_--despised as a dog, by the many who have no delight in their better selves--had contributed very largely to the confluence of panic. if she could only have thrown the light of language on her woeful plight, the strongest clench to the blacksmith's tale would never have come near his pincers. for the slash that rewarded her true love fell, not from the spade of a churchyard-robber, but from a poacher's bill-hook. this has already been intimated; and mr. penniloe must have learned it then; if he had simply taken time, instead of making off at five miles an hour, when speccotty wanted to tell his tale. this should be a warning to clergymen; for perhaps there was no other man in the parish, whose case the good parson would thus have postponed, without prospect of higher consolation. and it does seem a little too hard upon a man, that because his mind is gone astray unawares, his soul should drop out of cultivation! that poor little spaniel was going home sadly, to get a bit of breakfast, and come back to her duty; when trespassing unwittingly upon the poacher's tricks, at early wink of daylight, she was taken for a minion of the evil one, and met with a vigour which is shown too seldom, by even true sportsmen, to his emissaries. perhaps before she quitted guard, she may have had a nip at the flowers on the grave, and dropped them back, when she failed to make sweet bones of them. without further words--though any number of words, if their weight were by the score, would be too few--the slowest-headed man in perlycross might lay to his heart the second lesson, read in as mild a voice as penniloe's, above. and without a word at all, he may be trusted to go home with it; when the job is of other folk's hands, but his own pocket. "_never scamp your work_," was preached more clearly by this long trouble, and degradation of an honourable parish, than if mr. penniloe had stood in the pulpit, for a week of sundays, with the mouth of king solomon laid to his ear, and the trump of the royal mail upon his lips. chapter xliv. and one still finer. if it be sweet to watch at ease the troubles of another, how much sweeter to look back, from the vantage ground of happiness, upon one's own misfortunes! to be able to think--"well, it was too bad! another week would have killed me. how i pulled through it, is more than i can tell; for everybody was against me! and the luck--the luck kept playing leap-frog; fifty plagues all upon one another's back; and my poor little self at the bottom. not a friend came near me; they were all so sorry, but happened to be frightfully down themselves. i assure you, my dear, if it had not been for you, and the thought of our blessed children, and perhaps my own--well, i won't say 'pluck,' but determination to go through with it; instead of arranging these flowers for dinner, you would have been wreathing them for a sadder purpose." the lady sheds a tear, and says--"darling jack, see how you have made my hand shake! i have almost spoiled that truss of hoya, and this schubertia won't stand up. but you never said a word about it, at the time! was that fair to me, jack?" and the like will come to pass again, perhaps next year, perhaps next week. but the beauty of country-life, as it then prevailed (ere the hungry hawk of stock-exchange poised his wings above the stock-dove) was to take things gently, softly, with a cooing faith in goodness, both above us and around. men must work; but being born (as their best friends, the horses, are), for that especial purpose, why should they make it still more sad, by dwelling upon it, at the nose-bag time? how much wiser to allow that turbulent bit of stuff, the mind, to abide at ease, and take things in, rather than cast them forth half-chewed, in the style of our present essayists? now this old village was the right sort of place, to do such things, without knowing it. there was no great leading intellect (with his hands returned to feet), to beat the hollow drum, and play shrill fife, and set everybody tumbling over his best friend's head. the rule of the men was to go on, according to the way in which their fathers went; talking as if they were running on in front, but sticking effectually to the old coat-tail. which in the long run is the wisest thing to do. they were proud of their church, when the sunday mood was on, and their children came home to tell about it. there she was. let her stand; if the folk with money could support her. it was utterly impossible to get into their heads any difference betwixt the church in the churchyard, and the one that inhabits the sky above. when a man has been hard at work all the week, let his wife be his better half on sunday. nothing that ever can be said, or done, by the most ardent "pastor," will ever produce that enthusiasm among the tegs of his flock, which spreads so freely among the ewes, and lambs. mr. penniloe would not be called a _pastor_; to him the name savoured of a cant conceit. neither did he call himself a _priest_; for him it was quite enough to be a clergyman of the church of england; and to give his life to that. therefore, when the time came round, and the turn of the year was fit for it, this parson of that humbler type was happy to finish, without fuss, the works that he had undertaken, with a lofty confidence in the lord, which had come to ground too often. his faith, though fine, had never been of that grandly abstract quality, which expects the ravens to come down, with bread instead of bills, and build a nest for sweet doves _gratis_. to pay every penny that was fairly due, and shorten no man of his saturday wage, towards the sunday consolation; to perceive that business must not be treated as a purely spiritual essence; and to know that a great many very good people drip away (as tallow does from its own wick) from their quick flare of promises; also to bear the brunt of all, and cast up the toppling column, with the balance coming down on his own chest--what wonder that he had scarcely any dark hair left, and even the silver was inclined to say adieu? when a man, who is getting on in years, comes out of a long anxiety, about money, and honour, and his sense of right, he finds even in the soft flush of relief that a great deal of his spring is gone. a bachelor of arts, when his ticks have been paid by a groaning governor, is fit and fresh to start again, and seldom dwells with due remorse upon the sacrifice vicarious. his father also, if of right paternal spirit, soars above the unpleasant subject; leaves it to the mother to drive home the lesson--which she feels already to be too severe--and says, "well, jack, you have got your degree; and that's more than the squire's son can boast of." but the ancient m.a. of ten lustres, who has run into debt on his own hook, and felt the hook running into him, is in very different plight, even when he has wriggled off. parson penniloe was sorely humble, his placid forehead sadly wrinkled, and his kindly eyes uncertain how to look at his brother men, even from the height of pulpit; when in his tremulous throat stuck fast that stern and difficult precept--"owe no man anything." even the strongest of mankind can scarcely manage to come up to that, when fortune is not with him, and his family tug the other way. the glory of the lord may be a lofty prospect, but becomes a cloudy pillar, when the column is cast up, and will not square with cash in hand. scarcely is it too much to say, that since the days of abraham, it would have been hard to find a man of stronger faith than penniloe,--except at the times when he broke down (in vice of matters physical) and proved at one break two ancient creeds--_exceptio probat regulam_; and _corruptio optimi pessima_. while he was on the balance now, as a man of the higher ropes should be, lifting the upper end of his pole, that the glory of his parish shone again, yet feeling the butt inclined to swag, by reason of the bills stuck upon it, who should come in to the audience and audit but young sir thomas waldron? this youth had thought perhaps too little of himself,--because those candid friends, his brother-boys had always spoken of his body so kindly, without a single good word for his mind--but now he was authorized, and even ordered, by universal opinion to take a much fairer view of his own value. nothing that ever yet came to pass has gone into words without some shift of colour, and few things even without change of form; and so it would have been beyond all nature if the events above reported had been told with perfect accuracy even here. how much less could this be so, in the hot excitement of the time, with every man eager to excel his neighbour's narrative, and every woman burning to recall it with her own pure imagination! what then of the woman, who had been blessed enough to enrich the world, and by the same gift ennoble it, with the hero, who at a stroke had purged the family, the parish, and the nation? nevertheless he came in gently, modestly, and with some misgivings, into the room, where he had trembled, blushed, and floundered on all fours, over the old gray latin steps, which have broken many a knee-cap. "if you please, sir," he said to his old tutor, who alone had taught him anything, for at eton he had barely learned good manners; "my mother begs you to read this. and we are all ashamed of our behaviour." "no, tom, no. you have no cause for that. your mother may have been a little hard at first. but she has meant to be just throughout. the misery she has passed through--none but herself can realise." "you see, sir, she does not sing out about things, as most women do; and that of course makes it ever so much worse for her." the young man spoke, like some deep student of feminine nature; but his words were only those of the good housekeeper at walderscourt. mr. penniloe took them in that light, and began to read without reply. "truly esteemed and valued sir. with some hesitation of the mind i come to say that in all i have said and done, my mind has been of the wrong intelligence most largely. it always appears in this land of britain, as if nobody of it could make a mistake. but we have not in my country such great wisdom and good fortune. also in any other european land of which i have the acquaintance, the natives are wrong in their opinions sometimes. "but this does not excuse me of my mistake. i have been unjust to you and to all people living around my place of dwelling. but by my dear son, and his very deep sagacity, it has been made manifest that your good people were considered guilty, without proper justice, of a wrong upon my husband's memory. also that your good church, of which he thought so well in the course of his dear life, has treated him not with ignominy, but with the best of her attention, receiving him into the sacred parts, where the priests of our religion in the times of truth conversed. this is to me of the holiest and most gracious consolation. "therefore i entreat you to accept, for the uses of so good a building, the little sum herewith committed to your care, which flows entirely from my own resources, and not from the property of my dear husband, so much engaged in the distribution of the law. when that is disengaged, my dear son rodrigo, with my approbation will contribute from it the same amount for the perfection of the matter." "one, two, three, four, five. and every one of them a hundred pounds! my dear tom, i feel a doubt----" mr. penniloe leaned back and thought. he was never much excited about money, except when he owed it to, or for the lord. "i call it very poor amends indeed. what would ten times as much be, after all that you have suffered? and how can you refuse it, when it is not for yourself? my mother will be hurt most dreadfully, and never think well again of the church of england." "tom, you are right;" mr. penniloe replied, while a smile flitted over his conscience. "i should indeed convey a false impression of the character of our dear mother. but as for the other â£500--well----" "my father's character must be considered, as well as your good mother's." sir thomas was not strong at metaphor. "and i am sure of one thing, sir. if he could have known what would happen about him, and how beautifully every one behaved, except his own people--but it's no use talking. if you don't take it, i shall join the early methodists. what do you think of that, sir? i am always as good as my word, you know." "ah! ah! it may be so;" the curate answered thoughtfully, returning to the mildness of exclamation from which these troubles had driven him. "but allow me a little time for consideration. your mother's very generous gift, i can accept without hesitation, and have no right to do otherwise. but as to your father's estate, i am placed in a delicate position, by reason of my trusteeship; and it is possible that i might go wrong; at any rate, i must consult----" "mrs. fox, sir, from foxden!" thyatira muggridge cried, with her face as red as a turkey's wattle, and throwing the door of the humble back-room as wide as if it never could be wide enough. for the lady was beautifully arrayed. "i come to consult, not to be consulted. my confidence in myself has been misplaced;" said the mother of jemmy and christie, after making the due salutation. "sir thomas, i beg you not to go. you have some right to a voice in the matter; if as they tell me at _old barn_, you have conquered your repugnance to my son, and are ready to receive him as your brother-in-law." "madam, i was a fool," said tom, offering his great hand with a sheepish look. "your son has forgiven me; and i hope that you will. jemmy is the finest fellow ever born." "a credit to his mother, as his mother always thought. and what is still better for himself, a happy man, in winning the affections of the sweetest girl on earth. i have seen your dear sister--what a gentle darling!" "nicie is very well in her way, madam. but she has a strong will of her own. jemmy will find that out, some day. upon the whole, i am sorry for him." "he talks in the very same way of his sister. if young men listened to young men, none of them would ever marry. oh, mr. penniloe, you can be trusted at any rate, to look at things from a higher point of view." "i try sometimes; but it is not easy. and i generally get into scrapes, when i do. but i have one consolation. nobody ever takes my advice." "i mean to take it," mrs. fox replied, looking into his gentle eyes, with the faith which clever women feel in a nature larger than their own. "you need not suppose that i am impulsive. but i know what you are. when every one else in this stupid little place condemned my son, without hearing a word, there was one who was too noble, too good a christian, to listen to any reason. he was right when the mother herself was wrong. for i don't mind telling you, as i have even told my son, that knowing what he is, i could not help suspecting that he--that he had something to do with it. not that lady waldron had any right whatever--and it will take me a long time to forgive her, and her son is quite welcome to tell her that. what you felt yourself was quite different, sir thomas." "i can't see that my mother did any harm. why, she even suspected her own twin-brother! if you were to bear ill-will against my mother----" "of such little tricks i am incapable, sir thomas. and of course i can allow for foreigners. even twenty years of english life cannot bring them to see things as we do. their nature is so--well, i won't say narrow. neither will i say 'bigoted,' although----" "we quite understand you, my dear madam." mr. penniloe was shocked at his own rudeness, in thus interrupting a lady, but he knew that very little more would produce a bad breach betwixt walderscourt and foxden. "what a difference really does exist among people equally just and upright----" "my dear mother is as just and upright as any englishwoman in the world, protestant or catholic," the young man exclaimed, having temper on the bubble, yet not allowing it to boil against a lady. "but if his own mother condemned him, how--i can't put it into words, as i mean it--how can she be in a wax with my mother? and more than that--as it happens, mrs. fox, my mother starts for spain to day, and i cannot let her go alone." "now the lord must have ordered it so," thought the parson. "what a clearance of hostile elements!" but fearing that the others might not so take it, he said only--"ah, indeed!" "to her native land?" asked mrs. fox, as a protestant not quite unbigoted; and a woman who longed to have it out. "it seems an extraordinary thing just now. but perhaps it is a pilgrimage." "yes, madam, for about â£500,000," answered sir thomas, in his youthful tory vein, not emancipated yet from disdain of commerce; "not for the sake of the money, of course; but to do justice to the brother she had wronged. mr. penniloe can tell you all about it. i am not much of a hand at arithmetic." "we won't trouble any one about that now;" the lady replied with some loftiness. "but i presume that lady waldron would wish to see me, before she leaves this country." "certainly she would if she had known that you were here. my sister had not come back yet, to tell her. she will be disappointed terribly, when she hears that you have been at perlycross. but she is compelled to catch the packet; and i fear that i must say 'good-bye'; mother would never forgive me, if she lost her voyage through any fault of mine." "you see how they treat us!" said mrs. fox of foxden, when the young man had made his adieu with great politeness. "i suppose you understand it, mr. penniloe, though your mind is so very much larger?" the clergyman scarcely knew what to say. he was not at all quick in the ways of the world; and all feminine rush was beyond him. "we must all allow for circumstances," was his quiet platitude. "all possible allowance i can make;" the lady replied with much self-command. "but i think there is nothing more despicable than this small county-family feeling! is lady waldron not aware that i am connected with the very foremost of your devonshire families? but because my husband is engaged in commerce, a military race may look down upon us! after all, i should like to know, what are your proudest landowners, but mere agriculturists by deputy? i never lose my temper; but it makes me laugh, when i remember that after all, they are simply dependent upon farming. is not that what it comes to, mr. penniloe?" "and a very noble occupation, madam. the first and the finest of the ways ordained by the lord for the sustenance of mankind. next to the care of the human soul, what vocation can be----" "you think so. then i tell you what i'll do, if only to let those waldrons know how little we care for their prejudices. everything depends upon me now, in my poor husband's sad condition. i will give my consent to my daughter's alliance--great people call it alliance, don't they?--with a young man, who is a mere farmer!" "i am assured that he will make his way," mr. penniloe answered with some inward smile, for it is a pleasant path to follow in the track of ladies. "he gets a higher price for pigs, than either of my churchwardens." "what could you desire more than that? it is a proof of the highest capacity. mr. and mrs. frank gilham shall send their wedding cards to walderscourt, with a prime young porker engraved on them. oh, mr. penniloe, i am not perfect. but i have an unusual gift perhaps of largeness of mind, and common sense; and i always go against any one, who endeavours to get the whip-hand of me. and i do believe my darling christie gets it from her mother." "she is a most charming young lady, mrs. fox. what a treasure she would be in this parish! the other day, she said a thing about our church----" "just like her. she is always doing that. and when she comes into her own money--but that is a low consideration. it is gratitude, my dear sir, the deepest and the noblest feeling that still survives in these latter days. without that heroic young man's behaviour, which has partly disabled him for life, i fear, i should have neither son nor daughter. and you say that the gilhams are of very good birth?" "the true name is _guillaume_, i believe. their ancestor came with the conqueror. not as a rapacious noble, but in a most useful and peaceful vocation; in fact----" "quite enough, mr. penniloe. in such a case, one scorns particulars. my daughter was sure that it was so. but i doubted; although you can see it in his bearing. a more thoroughly modest young man never breathed; but i shall try to make him not afraid of me. he told my daughter that, in his opinion, i realised--but you would think me vain; and i was justly annoyed at such nonsense. however, since i have had your advice, i shall hesitate no longer." mrs. fox smiled pleasantly, because her mind was quite made up, to save herself a world of useless trouble in this matter, and yet appear to take the upper hand in her surrender. wondering what advice he could have been supposed to give, the mild yet gallant parson led her to the foxden carriage, which had halted at his outer gate, and opposite the school house. here with many a bow they parted, thinking well of one another, and hoping for the like regard. but as the gentle curate passed the mouth of the tã¦narian tunnel leading to his lower realms, a great surprise befell him. "what has happened? there is something wrong. surely at this time of day, one ought to see the sunset through that hole," he communed with himself in wonder, for the dark arcade ran from east to west. "there must be a stoppage somewhere. i am almost sure i can see two heads. good people, come out, whoever you may be." "the fact of it is, sir," said sergeant jakes, marching out of the hole with great dignity, though his hat was white with cob-webs; "the fact of it is that this good lady hath received a sudden shock----" "no sir, no sir. not at all like that, sir. only as st. paul saith in chapter 5 of ephesians--'this is a great mystery.'" "it is indeed. and i must request to have it explained immediately." thyatira's blushes and the sparkling of her eyes made her look quite pretty, and almost as good as young again, while she turned away with a final shot from the locker of old authority. "you ought to be ashamed, sir, according to my thinking, to be standing in this wind so long, without no hat upon your head." "you see, sir, it is just like this," the gallant sergeant followed up, when his love was out of hearing; "time hath come for mrs. muggridge to be married, now or never. it is not for me to say, as a man who fears the lord, that i think he was altogether right in the institooting of wedlock, supposing as ever he did so. but whether he did it, or whether he did not, the thing hath been so taken up by the humankind--women particular--that for a man getting on in years, 'tis the only thing respectable. thyatira hath proven that out of the bible, many times." "mr. jakes, the proper thing is to search the scriptures for yourself." "so thyatira saith. but lord! she findeth me wrong at every text, from looking up to women so. if she holdeth by st. paul, a quarter so much as she quoteth him, there won't be another man in perlycross with such a home as i shall have." "you have chosen one of the few wise virgins. jakes, i trust that you will be blest not only with a happy home in this world, but what is a thousand-fold more important, the aid of a truly religious wife, to lead a thoroughly humble, prayerful, and consistent christian life." "thank 'e, sir. thank 'e. with the grace of god, she will; and my first prayer to the lord in heaven will be just this--to let me live long enough for to see that young fool of a bob the butcher ahanging fom his own steelyard. by reason of the idiot he hath made of his self, by marrying of that silly minx, tamar haddon!" "the grace of god is boundless; and tamar may improve. try to make the best of her, mr. jakes. she will always look up to you, i am sure, feeling the strength of your character, and the example of higher principles." "she!" replied the sergeant without a blush, but after a keen reconnoitring glance. "the likes of her doesn't get no benefit from example. but i must not keep you, sir, so long without your hat on." "this is a day of many strange events," mr. penniloe began to meditate, as he leaned back in his long sermon-chair, with the shadows of the spring night deepening. "lady waldron gone, to support her brother's case in spain, because she had so wronged him. a thousand pounds suddenly forthcoming, to lift us out of our affliction; sweet nicie left in the charge of mrs. webber, who comes to five at walderscourt; christie fox allowed to have her own way, as she was pretty sure to do; and now thyatira, thyatira muggridge, not content to lead a quiet, useful, respectable, christian, and well-paid life, but launched into matrimony with a man of many stripes! i know not how the school will be conducted, or my own household, if it comes to that. truly, when a clergyman is left without a wife----" "i want to come in, and the door won't open"--a clear but impatient voice was heard--"i want to see you, before anybody else does." and then another shake was given. "why, zip, my dear child! zip, don't be so headlong. i thought you were learning self-command. why, how have you come? what is the meaning of all this?" "well, now they may kill me, if they like. i told them i would hear your voice again, and then they might skin me, if it suited them. i won't have their religion. there is none of it inside them. you are the only one i ever saw, that god has made with his eyes open. i like them very well, but what are they to you? why, they won't let me speak as i was made! it is no good sending me away again. parson, you mustn't stand up like that. can't you see that i want to kiss you?" "my dear little child, with all my heart. but i never saw any one half so----" "half so what? i don't care what, so long as i have got you round the neck," cried the child as she covered his face with kisses, drawing back every now and then, to look into his calm blue eyes with flashes of adoration. "the lord should have made me your child, instead of that well-conducted waxy thing--look at my nails! she had better not come now." "alas! have you cultivated nothing but your nails? but why did the good ladies send you home so soon? they said they would keep you until whitsuntide." "i got a punishment on purpose, and i let the old girls go to dinner. then i said the lord's prayer, and slipped down the back stairs." "and you plodded more than twenty miles alone! oh zip, what a difficult thing it will be to guide you into the ways of peace!" "they say i talks broad a bit still sometimes, and they gives me ever so much roilying. but i'd sit up all night with a cork in my mouth, if so be, i could plaize 'e, parson." "you must want something better than a cork, my dear"--vexed as he was, mr. penniloe admired the vigorous growth and high spirit of the child--"after twenty-two miles of our up and down roads. now go to mrs. muggridge, but remember one thing--if you are unkind to my little fay, how can you expect me to be kind to you?" "not a very lofty way for me to put it," he reflected, while zip was being cared for in the kitchen; "but what am i to do with that strange child? if the girl is mother to the woman, she will be none of the choir angelic, contented with duty, and hymns of repose. if 'nature maketh nadders,' as our good people say, zippy[2] hath more of sting than sugar in her bowl." but when the present moment thrives, and life is warm and active, and those in whom we take delight are prosperous and happy, what is there why we should not smile, and keep in tune with all around, and find the flavour of the world returning to our relish? this may not be of the noblest style of thinking, or of living; but he who would, in his little way, rather help than harm his fellows, soon finds out that it cannot be done by carping and girding at them. by intimacy with their lower parts, and rank insistence on them, one may for himself obtain some power, yielded by a hateful shame. but who esteems him, who is better for his fetid labours, who would go to him for comfort when the world is waning, who--though in his home he may be loveable--can love him? mr. penniloe was not of those who mount mankind by lowering it. from year to year his influence grew, as grows a tree in the backwood age, that neither shuns nor defies the storm. though certain persons opposed him still--as happens to every active man--there was not one of them that did not think all the others wrong in doing so. for instance lady waldron, when she returned with her son from spain, thought mrs. fox by no means reasonable, and mrs. fox thought lady waldron anything but sensible, when either of them differed with the clergyman and the other. for verily it was a harder thing to settle all the important points concerning nicie and jemmy fox, than to come to a perfect understanding in the case of christie and frank gilham. however the parish was pleased at last to hear that everything had been arranged; and a mighty day it was to be for all that pleasant neighbourhood, although no doubt a quiet, and as every one hoped, a sober one. on account of her father's sad condition, christie as well as nicie, was to make her vows in the grand old church, which was not wholly finished yet, because there was so much more to do, through the fine influx of money. currency is so called perhaps, not only because it runs away so fast, but also because it runs together; the prefix being omitted through our warm affection and longing for the terms of familiarity. at any rate the parson and the stout churchwardens of perlycross had just received another hundred pounds when the following interview came to pass. it was on the bank of the crystal perle, at the place where the priestwell brook glides in, and a single plank without a handrail crosses it into the meads below. here are some stickles of good speed, and right complexion, for the fly to float quietly into a dainty mouth, and produce a fine fry in the evening; and here, if any man rejoice not in the gentle art, yet may he find sweet comfort and release of worldly trouble, by sitting softly on the bank, and letting all the birds sing to him, and all the flowers fill the air, and all the little waves go by, as his own anxieties have gone. sometimes mr. penniloe, whenever he could spare the time, allowed his heart to go up to heaven, where his soul was waiting for it and wondering at its little cares. and so on this fair morning of the may, here he sat upon a bank of spring, gazing at the gliding water through the mute salaam of twigs. "reverend, i congratulate you. never heard of a finer hit. a solid hundred out of gowler! never bet with a parson, eh? i thought he knew the world too well." a few months back and the clergyman would have risen very stiffly, and kept his distance from this joke. but now he had a genuine liking for this "godless gronow," and knew that his mind was the worst part of him. "doctor, you know that it was no bet;" he said, as he shook hands heartily. "nevertheless i feel some doubts about accepting----" "you can't help it. the money is not for yourself, and you rob the church, if you refuse it. the joke of it is that i saw through the mill-stone, where that conceited fellow failed. come now, as you are a sporting man, i'll bet you a crown that i catch a trout in this little stickle above the plank." "done!" cried mr. penniloe, forgetting his position, but observing gronow's as he whirled his flies. the doctor threshed heartily, and at his very best; even bending his back as he had seen pike do, and screwing up his lips, and keeping, in a strict line with his line, his body and his mind and whole existence. mr. penniloe's face wore an amiable smile, as he watched the intensity of his friend. crowns in his private purse were few and far between, and if he should attain one by the present venture, it would simply go into the poor-box; yet such was his sympathy with human nature that he hoped against hope to see a little trout pulled out. but the willows bowed sweetly, and the wind went by, and the water flowed on, with all its clever children safe. "here you are, reverend!" said the philosophic gronow, pulling out his cart-wheel like a man; "you can't make them take you when they don't choose, can you? but i'll make them pay out for it, when they begin to rise." "the fact of it is that you are too skilful, doctor; and you let them see so much of you that they feel it in their hearts." "there may be truth in that. but my own idea is, that i manage to instil into my flies too keen a sense of their own dependence upon me. now what am i to do? i must have a dish and a good dish too of trout, for this evening's supper. you know the honour and the pleasure i am to have of giving the last bachelor and maiden feast to the heroes and heroines of to-morrow, nicie and jemmy fox, christie and frank gilham. their people are glad to be quit of them in the fuss, and they are too glad to be out of it. none of your imported stuff for me. nothing is to be allowed upon the table, unless it is the produce of our own parish. a fine fore-quarter, and a ripe sirloin, my own asparagus, and lettuce, and sea-kail, and frame-potatoes in their jackets. stewed pears and clotted cream, grapes, and a pine-apple (coming of course from walderscourt)--oh reverend, what a good man you would be, if you only knew what is good to eat!" "but i do. and i shall know still better by and by. i understood that i was kindly invited." "to be sure, and one of the most important. but i must look sharp, or i shall never get the fish. by the by, you couldn't take the rod for half an hour, could you? i hear that you have been a fine hand at it." mr. penniloe stood with his hand upon a burr-knot of oak, and looked at the fishing-rod. if it had been a good, homely, hard-working, and plain-living bit of stuff, such as saint peter might have swung upon the banks of jordan, haply the parson might have yielded to the sweet temptation. for here within a few clicks of reel was goodly choice of many waters, various as the weather--placid glides of middle currents rippling off towards either bank, petulant swerves from bank, or hole, with a plashing and a murmur and a gurgling from below, and then a spread of quiet dimples deepening to a limpid pool. taking all the twists and turns of river perle and priestwell brook, there must have been a mile of water in two flowery meadows, water bright with stickle runs, gloomy with still corners, or quivering with crafty hovers where a king of fish might dwell. but lo, the king of fishermen, or at least the young prince was coming! the doctor caught the parson's sleeve, and his face assumed its worst expression, perhaps its usual one before he took to church-going and fly-fishing. "just look! over there, by that wild cherry-tree!" he whispered very fiercely. "i am sure it's that sneak of a pike once more. come into this bush, and watch him. i thought he was gone to oxford. why, i never saw him fishing once last week." "pike is no sneak, but a very honest fellow," his tutor answered warmly. "but i was obliged by a sad offence of his to stop him from handling the rod last week. he begged me to lay it on his back instead. the poor boy scarcely took a bit of food. he will never forget that punishment." "well he seems to be making up for it now. what luck he has, and i get none!" mr. penniloe smiled as his favourite pupil crossed the perle towards them. he was not wading--in such small waters there is no necessity for that--but stepping lightly from pile to pile and slab to slab, where the relics of an ancient weir stood above the flashing river. whistling softly, and calmly watching every curl and ripple, he was throwing a long line up the stream, while his flies were flitting as if human genius had turned them in their posthumous condition into moths. his rod showed not a glance of light, but from spike to top-ring quivered with the vigilance of death. while the envious gronow watched, with bated breath and teeth set hard, two or three merry little trout were taught what they were made for; then in a soft swirl near the bank that dimpled like a maiden's cheek, an excellent fish with a yellow belly bravely made room in it for something choice. before he had smacked his lips thoroughly, behold another fly of wondrous beauty--laced with silver, azure-pinioned, and with an exquisite curl of tail--came fluttering through the golden world so marvellous to the race below. the poor fly shuddered at the giddy gulf, then folded his wings and fell helpless. "i have thee," exclaimed the trout,--but ah! more truly the same thing said the pike. a gallant struggle, a thrilling minute, silvery dashes, and golden rolls, and there between dr. gronow's feet lay upon dr. gronow's land a visitor he would have given half the meadow to have placed there. "don't touch him," said pike, in the calmest manner; "or you'll be sure to let him in again. he will turn the pound handsomely, don't you think?" "a cool hand, truly, this pupil of yours!" quoth the doctor to the parson. "to consult me about the weight of my own fish, and then put him in his basket! young man, this meadow belongs to me." "yes, sir, i dare say; but the fish don't live altogether in the meadow. and i never heard that you preserve the perle. priestwell brook you do, i know. but i don't want to go there, if i might." "i dare say. perhaps the grapes are sour. never mind; let us see how you have done. i find them taking rather short to-day. why you don't mean to say you have caught all those!" "i ought to have done better," said the modest pike, "but i lost two very nice fish by being in too much of a hurry. that comes of being stopped from it all last week. but i see you have not been lucky yet. you are welcome to these, sir, if mr. penniloe does not want them. by strict right, i dare say they belong to you." "not one of them, mr. pike. but you are very generous. i hope to catch a basketful very shortly--still, it is just possible that this may not occur. i will take them provisionally, and with many thanks. now, will you add to the obligation, by telling, if your tutor has no objection, why he put you under such an awful veto?" "my boy, you are welcome to tell dr. gronow. it was only a bit of thoughtlessness, and your punishment has been severe." "i shall never touch cobbler's wax again on sunday. but i wanted to finish a may-fly entirely of my own pattern; and so after church i was touching up his wings, when in comes mr. penniloe with his london glasses on." "and i am proud to assure you, dr. gronow, that the lad never tried to deceive me. i should have been deeply pained, if he had striven to conceal it." "well done! that speaks well for both of you. pike, you are a straight-forward fellow. you shall have a day on my brook once a week. is there anything more i can do for you?" "yes sir, unless it is too much to ask; and perhaps mr. penniloe would like to hear it too. hopper and i have had many talks about it; and he says that i am superstitious. but his plan of things is to cut for his life over everything that he can see, without stopping once to look at it. and when he has jumped over it, he has no more idea what it was, than if he had run under it. he has no faith in anything that he does not see, and he never sees much of anything." "ha, master pike. you describe it well;" said the doctor, looking at him with much interest. "scepticism without enquiry. reverend, that hop-jumper is not the right stuff for a bishop." "if you please, dr. gronow, we will not discuss that now," the parson replied with a glance at young pike, which the doctor understood and heeded: "what is it, my boy, that you would ask of dr. gronow, after serious debate with peckover?" "nothing sir, nothing. only we would like to know, if it is not disagreeable to any one, how he could have managed from the very first to understand all about sir thomas waldron, and to know that we were all making fools of ourselves. i say that he must have seen a dream, like jacob, or have been cast into a vision, like so many other saints. but hopper says no; if there was any inspiration, dr. gronow was more likely to have got it from the devil." "come now, pike, and hopper too,--if he were here to fly my brook,--i call that very unfair of you. no, it was not you who said it; i can quite believe that. no fisherman reviles his brother. but you should have given him the spike, my friend. reverend, is this all the theology you teach? well, there is one answer as to how i knew it, and a very short one--the little word, _brains_." mr. penniloe smiled a pleasant smile, and simply said, "ah!" in his accustomed tone, which everybody liked for its sympathy and good faith. but pike took up his rod, and waved his flies about, and answered very gravely--"it must be something more than that." "no sir," said the doctor, looking down at him complacently, and giving a little tap to his grizzled forehead; "it was all done here, sir--just a trifling bit of brains." "but there never can have been such brains before;" replied pike with an angler's persistence. "why everybody else was a thousand miles astray, and yet dr. gronow hit the mark at once!" "it is a little humble knack he has, sir. just a little gift of thinking," the owner of all this wisdom spoke as if he were half-ashamed of it; "from his earliest days it has been so. nothing whatever to be proud of, and sometimes even a trouble to him, when others require to be set right. but how can one help it, master pike? there is the power, and it must be used. mr. penniloe will tell you that." "all knowledge is from above," replied the gentleman thus appealed to; "and beyond all question it is the duty of those who have this precious gift, to employ it for the good of others." "young man; there is a moral lesson for you. when wiser people set you right, be thankful and be humble. that has been my practice always, though i have not found many occasions for it." pike was evidently much impressed, and looked with reverence at both his elders. "perhaps then," he said, with a little hesitation and the bright blush of ingenuous youth, "i ought to set dr. gronow right in a little mistake he is making." "if such a thing be possible, of course you should," his tutor replied with a smile of surprise; while the doctor recovered his breath, made a bow, and said, "sir, will you point out my error?" "here it is, sir," quoth pike, with the certainty of truth overcoming his young diffidence, "this wire-apparatus in your brook--a very clever thing; what is the object of it?" "my _ichthyophylax_? a noble idea that has puzzled all the parish. a sort of a grill that only works one way. it keeps all my fish from going down to my neighbours, and yet allows theirs to come up to me; and when they come up, they can never get back. at the other end of my property, i have the same contrivance inverted, so that all the fish come down to me, but none of them can go up again. i saw the thing offered in a sporting paper, and paid a lot of money for it in london. reverend, isn't it a grand invention? it intercepts them all, like a sluicegate." "extremely ingenious, no doubt," replied the parson. "but is not it what a fair-minded person would consider rather selfish?" "not at all. they would like to have my fish, if they could; and so i anticipate them, and get theirs. quite the rule of the scriptures, reverend." "i think that i have read a text," said master pike, stroking his long chin, and not quite sure that he quoted aright; "the snare which he laid for others, in the same are his own feet taken!" "a very fine text," replied dr. gronow, with one of his most sarcastic smiles; "and the special favourite of the lord must have realized it too often. but what has that to do with my _ichthyophylax_?" "nothing, sir. only that you have set it so that it works in the wrong direction. all the fish go out, but they can't come back. and if it is so at the upper end, no wonder that you catch nothing." "can i ever call any man a fool again?" cried the doctor, when thoroughly convinced. "perhaps that disability will be no loss;" mr. penniloe answered quietly. footnote: [2] this proved too true, as may be shown hereafter. the end. london: printed by william clowes and sons, limited, stamford street and charing cross.