.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 54374
   :PG.Title: Red Spider, Volume 1 (of 2)
   :PG.Released: 2017-03-16
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Sabine Baring-Gould
   :DC.Title: Red Spider, Volume 1 (of 2)
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1887
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===========================
RED SPIDER, VOLUME 1 (OF 2)
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      RED SPIDER

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      BY
      SABINE BARING-GOULD

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      THE AUTHOR OF 'JOHN HERRING' 'MEHALAH' &c.

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      IN TWO VOLUMES
      VOL. \I.

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      London
      CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
      1887

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      [*The right of translation is reserved*]

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   PREFACE.

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Fifty years ago!  Half a century has passed
since the writer was a child in the parish where
he has laid the scene of this tale.

There he had a trusty nurse, and a somewhat
romantic story was attached to her life.
Faithful, good creature!  She was carrying the
writer in her arms over a brook by a bridge
elevated high above the water, when the plank
broke.  She at once held up her charge
over her head, with both arms, and made no
attempt to save herself, thinking only of him,
as she fell on the stones and into the water.
*He* escaped wholly unhurt, owing to her
devotion.

Many years after, the author read a little
German story which curiously recalled to him
his nurse and her career.  When a few
years ago he revisited the scenes of his
childhood, he thought to recall on paper many and
many a recollection of village life in the
south-west of England in one of its most still and
forgotten corners.  So he has taken this thread
of story, not wholly original in its initiation, and
has altered and twisted it to suit his purpose, and
has strung on it sundry pictures of what was
beginning to fade half a century ago in Devon.
Old customs, modes of thought, of speech,
quaint sayings, weird superstitions are all
disappearing out of the country, utterly and for
ever.

The labourer is now enfranchised, education
is universal, railways have made life
circulate freer; and we stand now before a great
social dissolving view, from which old things
are passing away, and what is coming on we
can only partly guess, not wholly distinguish.

In revisiting the parish of Bratton Clovelly,
the author found little of the outward scenery
changed, but the modes of life were in a state
of transition.  The same hills, the same dear
old moors and woods, the same green coombs,
the same flowers, the same old church, and
the same glorious landscape.  The reader will
perhaps accept with leniency a slight tale for
the sake of the pictures it presents of what is
gone for ever, or is fast fading away.  Coryndon's
Charity, of course, is non-existent in
Bratton parish.  The names are all taken,
Christian and sire, from the early registers
of the parish.  Village characteristics, incidents,
superstitions have been worked in, from
actual recollections.  The author has tried
to be very close in local colour; and, if it be
not too bold a comparison, he would have this
little story considered, like one of Birket Foster's
water-colours, rather as a transcript from
nature than as a finished, original,
highly-arranged and considered picture.

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   CONTENTS

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   OF

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   THE FIRST VOLUME.

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `THE BROTHERS-IN-LAW`_
II.  `THE MONEY-SPINNER`_
III.  `WELLON'S CAIRN`_
IV.  `THE WHITE HARE`_
V.  `'TIMEO DANAOS ET DONA FERENTES'`_
VI.  `THE PROGRESS OF STRIFE`_
VII.  `CORYNDON'S CHARITY`_
VIII.  `A MALINGERER`_
IX.  `CHARLES LUXMORE`_
X.  `ON THE STEPS`_
XI.  `IN THE LINNEY`_
XII.  `LANGFORD`_
XIII.  `THE REVEL`_
XIV.  `THE LAMB-KILLER`_
XV.  `A BOLT FROM THE BLUE`_
XVI.  `KEEPING WATCH`_
XVII.  `MRS. VEALE`_
XVIII.  `TREASURE TROVE`_





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.. _`THE BROTHERS-IN-LAW`:

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   RED SPIDER.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   THE BROTHERS-IN-LAW.

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Heigh! for a badger-skin waistcoat like that
of Hillary Nanspian of Chimsworthy!  What
would not I give to be the owner of such a
waistcoat?  Many a covetous glance was cast
at that waistcoat in the parish church of Bratton
Clovelly, in the county of Devon, on Sunday,
where it appeared during public worship in a
pew; and when the parson read the Decalogue,
many a heart was relieved to learn that the
prohibition against covetousness did not extend
to badger-skin waistcoats.  That waistcoat
made of the skin of a badger Hillary Nanspian
had himself drawn and killed.  In colour it
was silver-grey graduating to black.  The fur
was so deep that the hand that grasped it sank
into it.  The waistcoat was lined with red, and
had flaps of fur to double over the breast when
the wind lay in the east and the frost was
cruel.  When the wind was wet and warm,
the flaps were turned back, exposing the gay
crimson lining, and greatly enhancing its
beauty.  The waistcoat had been constructed
for Hillary Nanspian by his loving wife before
she died.

Hillary Nanspian of Chimsworthy was a
big, brisk, florid man, with light grey eyes.
His face was open, round, hearty, and of
the colour of a ribstone pippin.  He was, to
all appearance, a well-to-do man.  But
appearances are not always to be trusted.
Chimsworthy, where he lived, was a farm of
two hundred acres; the subsoil clay, some of
the land moor, and more bog; but the moor
was a fine place for sheep, and the bog
produced pasture for the young stock when the
clay grass land was drought-dry.  Hillary had
an orchard of the best sorts of apples grown in
the West, and he had a nursery of apples, of
grafts, and of seedlings.  When he ate a
particularly good apple, he collected the pips
for sowing, put them in a paper cornet, and
wrote thereon, 'This here apple was a-eated of
I on ——,' such and such a day, 'and cruel
good he were too.'  (*Cruel*, in the West, means
no more than 'very.')

The farm of Chimsworthy had come to
Nanspian through his wife, who was dead.
His brother-in-law was Taverner Langford of
Langford.  Taverner's mother had been a Hill,
Blandina Hill, heiress of Chimsworthy, and it
went to her daughter Blandina, who carried
it when she married to her Cornish husband,
Hillary Nanspian.

Taverner Langford was unmarried, getting
on in years, and had no nearer relative than
young Hillary Nanspian, his nephew, the only
child of his deceased sister Blandina.  It was
an understood thing in the parish of Bratton
Clovelly that young Hillary would be heir
to his uncle, and succeed to both Langford
and Chimsworthy.  Taverner said nothing
about this, and took no particular notice of
Hillary junior, but, as Hillary senior and the
parish argued, if Taverner does not leave
everything to the young one, whom can he
make his heir?  Hillary was a warm-blooded
man.  He suffered little from cold; he liked
to live in his shirt-sleeves.  When rain fell, he
threw a sack over his shoulders.  He drew on
his cloth coat only for church and market.
He was an imposing man, out of his coat or
in it, big in girth, broad in beam, and tall of
stature.  But especially imposing was he when
he rode to market on his white cob, in his
badger-skin waistcoat turned up with
crimson.  The consciousness that he was, or
ought to be, a man of substance never left
him.  His son Hillary would be a wealthy
yeoman, and he—he Hillary senior—was the
father of this son, this wealthy yeoman
prospective.  On this thought he puffed himself
up.  Considering this, he jingled the coins in
his pocket.  Boasting of this he drank with
the farmers till he was as red in face as the
lappets of his waistcoat.

Adjoining the house was a good oak wood
covering the slope to the brook that flowed in
the bottom.  Fine sticks of timber had been
cut thence, time out of mind.  The rafters of
the old house, the beams of the cattle-sheds,
the posts of the gates, the very rails ('shivers,'
as they were locally called), the flooring
('plancheon' locally), all were of oak, hard as
iron; and all came out of Chimsworthy wood.
An avenue of contorted, stunted limes led to
the entrance gates of granite, topped with
stone balls; and the gates gave admission to a
yard deep in dung.  The house was low, part
of cob—that is, clay and straw kneaded and
unbaked—part of stone laid in clay, not in
lime.  In the cob walls, plastered white, were
oak windows, in the stone walls two granite
windows.  The house was shaped like the
letter T, of which the top stroke represents the
stone portion, containing the parlour and the
best bedroom over it, and the stairs.  The
roofs were thatched.  There was more roof
than wall to Chimsworthy, which cowered
almost into the ground.

At the back of the house rose the lofty
bank of Broadbury, the highest ridge between
Dartmoor and the Atlantic.  The rain that
fell on the Down above oozed through the
shale about Chimsworthy, so that the lane and
yards were perpetually wet, and compelled
those who lived there to walk in wading boots.

In shape, Broadbury is a crescent, with the
horns east and west, and the lap of the half
moon lies to the south.  In this lap, the
nursery of countless streams, stands
Chimsworthy, with a bank of pines behind it, and
above the black pines golden gorse, and over
the golden gorse blue sky and fleecy white
clouds.  The countless springs issue from
emerald patches of bog, where bloom the
purple butterwort, the white grass of Parnassus,
the yellow asphodel, and the blood-tipped
sundew.  The rivulets become rills, and swell to
brooks which have scooped themselves coombs
in the hill slope, and the coombs as they
descend deepen into valleys, whose sides are rich
with oak coppice, and the bottoms are rank
with cotton grass, fleecy and flickering as the
white clouds that drift overhead.

Chimsworthy had originally belonged to
the Hills, a fine old yeoman family, but the
last of the Hills had carried it by marriage
to the Langfords of Langford.  How it had
gone to Hillary Nanspian by his marriage with
the daughter of Mrs. Langford has already
been told.

Langford had been owned for many generations
by the Langfords, once a gentle family,
with large estates both in Bratton Clovelly and
in Marham Church, near Bude in Cornwall.
Nothing now remained to Taverner but the
ancestral house and the home estate of some
four hundred acres.  Chimsworthy had been
united with it by his father's marriage, but lost
again by his sister's union with the Cornishman
Nanspian.

Something like twenty-four months of
married life was all that poor Blandina had;
and since he had lost his wife, Hillary had
remained a widower.  Many a farmer's daughter
had set her eyes on him, for he was a fine
man, but in vain.  Hillary Nanspian had now
lived at Chimsworthy twenty-two years.  His
son Hillary was aged twenty.

Langford was a different sort of place from
Chimsworthy, and Taverner Langford was a
different sort of man from Hillary Nanspian.
Langford stood higher than Chimsworthy.  It
was built on the edge of Broadbury, but slightly
under its lea, in a situation commanding an
extensive and superb view of Dartmoor, that
rose against the eastern horizon, a wall of
turquoise in sunshine, of indigo in cloudy weather,
with picturesque serrated ridge.  The intermediate
country was much indented with deep
valleys, running north and south, clothed in
dark woods, and the effect was that of gazing
over a billowy sea at a mountainous coast.

Not a tree, scarce a bush, stood about
Langford, which occupied a site too elevated and
exposed for the growth of anything but thorns
and gorse.  The house itself was stiff, slate
roofed, and with slate-encased walls, giving it a
harsh metallic appearance.

Taverner Langford was a tall, gaunt man,
high-shouldered, with a stoop, dark-haired,
dark-eyed, and sallow-complexioned.  He had
high cheekbones and a large hard mouth.  His
hair was grizzled with age, but his eyes had
lost none of their keenness, they bored like
bradawls.  His eyebrows were very thick and
dark, looking more like pieces of black fur
glued on to his forehead than natural growths.
He never looked any one steadily in the face, but
cast furtive glances, with which, however, he saw
vastly more than did Hillary with his wide
grey-eyed stare.

Taverner Langford had never married.  It
had never been heard in Bratton that he had
courted a girl.  His housekeeping was managed
by a grey-faced, sour woman, Widow Veale.
As Hillary Nanspian was people's churchwarden,
Taverner Langford was parson's churchwarden.
The Reverend Mr. Robbins, the rector,
had appointed him, at the Easter vestry five
years before the opening of this tale, because
he was a Dissenter.  He did this for two
reasons: first, to disarm Langford's opposition to
the Church; and secondly, to manifest his own
tolerance—an easy tolerance that springs out
of void of convictions.  The two wardens were
reappointed annually.  They and two others
acted as feoffees of an estate left in charity
for the poor.  They let the land to each other
alternate years at a shilling an acre, and
consumed the proceeds in a dinner at the 'Ring of
Bells' once a year.  The poor were provided
with the scraps that fell from the feoffees'
table.

Taverner Langford was respected in the
place and throughout the neighbourhood,
because he represented a family as old as the parish
church, a family which had once owned large
possessions, and maintained some state; also
because he was an exceedingly shrewd man,
whom no one could overreach, and who was
supposed to have amassed much money.  But
he was not a popular man.  He was taciturn,
self-contained, and shunned society.  He drank
water only, never smoked nor swore; with the
farmers he was unsociable, with the labourers
ungracious, in all his dealings he was grasping
and unyielding.  Dishonourable he was not;
unscrupulous he was not, except only in
exacting the last penny of his bargains.

Hillary Nanspian's presence was commanding
and he was fond of his glass, smoked and
swore; the glass, the pipe, and an oath
all links of good fellowship.  Nevertheless, he
also was not a popular man.  In the first place
he was a foreigner—that is, a Cornishman; in
the second, he was arrogant and boastful.

The brothers-in-law got on better with each
other than with others.  Each knew and
allowed for the other's infirmities.  Towards
Taverner Hillary bated his pride; he had sufficient
discretion not to brag in the presence of a man
to whom he owed money.  Hillary was a bad
man of business, wasteful, liberal, and careless
of his money.  He had saved nothing out of
Chimsworthy, and, after a run of bad seasons,
had been forced to borrow of his brother-in-law
to meet current expenses.

Taverner and Hillary were not cordial
friends, but they were friends.  Taverner felt,
though he did not acknowledge, his isolation,
and he was glad to have his brother-in-law to
whom he could open his lips.  Knowing himself
to be of a good old gentle family, Taverner
kept himself from terms of familiarity with the
farmers, but he was too close with his money
to take his place with the gentry.

There was one point on which Hillary
irrationally sensitive; there was also a point on
which Taverner was tender.  Each avoided
touching the delicate and irritable spot in the
other.  Once, and only once, had Nanspian
flared up at a word from Langford, and for a
moment their friendship had been threatened
with rupture.

Hillary Nanspian was, as has been said,
a Cornishman, and the rooted, ineradicable
belief of the Devonians is that their Celtic
Trans-Tamarian neighbours are born with tails.
The people of Bratton Clovelly persisted in
asserting that Nanspian had a tail concealed
under his garments.  When first he entered
the parish, rude boys had shouted after
inquiries about the caudal appendage, he
had retaliated so unmercifully, that their
parents had resented it, and the chastisement,
instead of driving the prejudice out, had
deepened it into indelible conviction.  'For
why,' it was argued, 'should he take on so,
unless it be true?'

He was annoyed at church by the interested
attention paid to him by the women and
children when he seated himself in the
Chimsworthy pew, and when riding to market,
by the look of curiosity with which his seat
on the saddle was watched by the men.

The only occasion on which the friendship
of Langford and Nanspian threatened a
cleavage, was when the former, whether with
kindly intention or sarcastically cannot be
determined, urged on Hillary the advisability
of his publicly bathing in the river Thrustle,
one hot summer day, so as to afford ocular
demonstration to the people of the parish that
they laboured under a delusion in asserting
the prolongation of his spine.  This proposition
so irritated Nanspian, that he burst into a
tempest of oaths, and for some weeks would
not speak to his brother-in-law.  Though
eventually reconciled, the recollection of the
affront was never wholly effaced.

The sensitive point with Taverner Langford
was of a very different nature.  Not being a
married man he was obliged to engage a
housekeeper to manage his dairy, his maids, and his
domestic affairs generally.  His housekeeper,
Mrs. Veale, was a vinegary woman, of very
unpleasant appearance.  She managed admirably,
was economical, active, and clean.  The mere
fact, however, of her being at Langford was
enough to give rise to some scandal.  She was
intensely disliked by all the servants on the
farm and by the maids in the house.

'Why don't Mr. Langford get rid of the
woman, so ill-favoured, so sharp-tongued, so
unpleasant, unless he can't help hisself?' was
reasoned.  'You may depend on it there's
something.'

Taverner was touchy on this matter.  He
broke with Farmer Yelland for inquiring of him
flippantly, 'How goes the missus?'

Langford detested the woman, who had a
livid face, pink eyes, and a rasping voice; but
as scandal attached to him with such a creature
in his house, he argued: How much more
consistency would it assume had he a better
favoured housekeeper!

'Moreover,' he reasoned, 'where can I get
one who will look after my interests so well
as Mrs. Veale?  If she be bitter to me, she's
sloes and wormwood to the servants.'




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.. _`THE MONEY-SPINNER`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   THE MONEY-SPINNER.

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A little spark will burn a big hole—a very
little spark indeed was the occasion of a great
blaze of temper, and a great gap in the
friendship of the brothers-in-law.  Langford
possessed this disadvantage: it lay so high, and
was so exposed, that it lacked cosiness.  It
had nowhere about it a nook where a man
might sit and enjoy the sun without being cut
by the wind.  Broadbury was the meeting-place
of all the winds.  Thither the wind roared
without let from the Atlantic, and to the back
of it every tree bowed from the north-west;
thither it swept from the east with a
from the rocky crests of Dartmoor, sparing the
intervening park-like lowlands.

Chimsworthy had no prospect from its
windows; but it stood at the source of an
affluent of the Tamar, and beyond its granite
gates, across the lane that led up to Broadbury,
was a stile, and beyond the stile a slope
with a view down the valley to the setting sun
and the purple range of Cornish tors above
Liskeard, Caradon, Boarrah, Kilmar, and
Trevartha.

On Sunday evenings, and whenever the
fancy took him, Taverner Langford would
descend Broadbury by the lane, cross the stile,
and seat himself on a rude granite slab on the
farther side of the hedge, that had been placed
there by one of the Hills—it had been the
'quoit' of a great prehistoric dolmen or
cromlech, but the supporters had been removed to
serve as gateposts, and the covering-stone now
formed a seat.  On this stone Taverner
Langford spent many an hour with his chin on the
handle of his thorn stick, looking over the
wood and meadows and arable land of
Chimsworthy, and scheming how money might be
made out of the farm were it profitably
worked.  He noted with jealous eye the
ravages caused by neglect, the gaps in the
hedges, the broken roofs, the crop of thistles,
the choked drains bursting many yards above
their mouths, bursting because their mouths
had not been kept open.  The farm had been
managed by Taverner's father along with
Langford, and had been handed over on
Blandina's marriage, in excellent condition, to
Nanspian, and had gone back ever since he
had enjoyed it.  This angered Langford,
though he knew Chimsworthy would never be
his.  'This is the sort of tricks to which young
Larry is reared, which he will play with
Langford.  As the bull gambols, so capers the calf.'

Hillary did not relish the visits of Taverner
to the Look-out Stone.  He thought, and
thought rightly, that Langford was criticising
unfavourably his management of the estate.
He was conscious that the farm had
deteriorated, but he laid the blame on the
weather and the badness of construction of the
drains, on everything but himself.  'How can
you expect drains to last, put down as they
are, one flat stone on edge and another leaning
on it aslant?  Down it goes with the weight of
earth atop, and the passage is choked.  I'll eat
a Jew without mint-sauce if a drain so
constructed will last twenty years.'  Chimsworthy
could never go to Taverner, what right then
had he to grumble if it were in bad order?

When Langford came to the Look-out Stone
Hillary soon heard of it, and went to him in
his shirt-sleeves, pipe in mouth, and with a jug
of cyder in his hand.  Then some such a
greeting as this ensued:

'Trespassing again, Taverner?'

'Looking at the land over which I've
walked, and where I've weeded many a day,
with my father, before you was thought of in
Bratton Clovelly.'

Then Hillary drew the pipe from his lips,
and, raking the horizon with the sealing-waxed
end, said, 'Fine land, yonder.'

'Moor—naught but moor,' answered Langford
disparagingly.

'No cawding of sheep on peaty moor,' said
Nanspian triumphantly.

'No fattening of bullocks on heather,'
replied Taverner.  'It is wet in Devon, it is
wetter in Cornwall.'

'Wetter!  That is not possible.  Here we
live on the rose of a watering-can, pillowed
among bogs.'

'There are worse things than water,'
sneered Langford, pointing to the jug.

'Ah!' said Hillary in defence.  'Sour is
the land that grows sour apples and sour folks.'

'Heaven made the apples—they are good
enough.  Man makes the cyder—which is evil.
Thus it is with other good gifts, we pervert
them to our bad ends.'

This was the formula gone through, with
slight variations, whenever the brothers-in-law
met at the granite seat.  A little ruffle of
each other, but it went no further.

Hillary Nanspian was a talker, not loud but
continuous.  He had a rich, low, murmuring
voice, with which he spoke out of one side of
his mouth, whilst he inhaled tobacco through
the other.  It was pleasant to listen to, like
the thrum of a bumble-bee or the whirr of a
winnowing fan.  The eyes closed, the head
nodded, and sleep ensued.  But every now and
then Hillary uttered an oath, for he was not a
man to wear a padlock on his lips, and then
the dozing listener woke with a start.  When
that listener was Taverner, he uttered his
protest.  'The word is uncalled for, Hillary;
change it for one that sounds like it, and is
inoffensive and unmeaning.'

There was much difference in the way in
which the two men behaved when angered.
Hillary was hot and blazed up in a sudden
outburst.  He was easily angered, but soon
pacified, unless his pride were hurt.  Taverner,
on the other hand, though equally to
take umbrage, took it in another fashion.  He
turned sallow, said little, and brooded over his
wrong.  If an opportunity offered to resent it,
it was not allowed to pass, however long after
the event.  One evening the brothers-in-law
were at the Look-out Stone.  Hillary was
standing with his foot on the block on which
Taverner sat.

'I'll tell you what,' said Nanspian, 'I wish
I'd got a few thousands to spare.  Swaddledown
is for sale, and the farm joins mine, and
would be handy for stock.'

'And I wish I could buy Bannadon.  That
will be in the market shortly, but I cannot
unless you repay me what you have borrowed.'

'Can't do that just now; not comfortably,
you understand.'

'Then what is the good of your scheming
to buy Swaddledown?  A man without teeth
mustn't pick nuts.'

'And what is the good of your wanting
Bannadon when you have as much as you can
manage at Langford?  A man with his mouth
full mustn't take a second bite till he's swallowed
the first.'

Then neither spoke for a few moments.
Presently, however, Hillary drew a long whiff,
and blew the smoke before him.  Slowly he
pulled the pipe from between his lips, and with
the end of the stem pointed down the valley.
'It would be something to be able to call those
fields my own.'

'That would be pulling on boots to hide
the stocking full of holes,' sneered Taverner.
Hillary coloured, and his eyes twinkled.
'There is no picking feathers off a toad, or
clothes off a naked man,' he muttered; 'and if
you squeeze a crab-apple you get only sourness.
If I were not your brother-in-law I shouldn't
put up with your words.  But you can't help it.
Sloes and blackberries grow in the same hedge,
and their natures are as they began.  Older
they grow, they grow either sweeter or sourer.'

'Ah!' retorted Taverner, 'out of the
acre some grow wheat and others nettles.'

'It is all very well your talking,' said
Hillary, putting his thumbs in his waistcoat
arm-holes, and expanding.  'You, no doubt,
have made money, one way or other.  I have
not; but then, I am not a screw.  I am a
free-handed, open man.  God forbid that I should
be a screw!'

'A screw holds together and a wedge
drives apart,' said Taverner.

'I don't know,' said Hillary, looking across
lovingly at the Swaddledown fields, 'but I
may be able to find the money.  My credit is
not so low that I need look far.  If you will
not help me others will.'

'How can you raise it? on a mortgage?
You cannot without young Hillary's consent,
and he is not of age.'

'Luck will come my way some time,' said
Nanspian.  'Luck is not nailed to one point
of the compass, brother Langford.  Don't you
flatter yourself that it always goes to you.
Luck veers as the wind.'

'That is true, but as the wind here sets
three days out of four from the west, so does
luck set most time towards the thrifty man.'

'Sooner or later it will turn to me.'

'I know what you mean.  I've heard tell
of what you have said to the farmers when
warmed with liquor.  The wind don't blow
over a thistlehead without carrying away some
of its down and dropping it where least wanted.
I've heard your boasts, they are idle—idle as
thistledown.  Do you think you'll ever succeed
to Langford?  I'll live to see your burying.'

'My burying won't help you to Chimsworthy,'
retorted Hillary.  'My Larry stands
in your way.  Heigh!  I said it!  The luck is
coming my way already!' he exclaimed eagerly.
He put down his foot, placed both palms on
the slab of granite, and leaned over it.

'Not a moment before it is needed,' said
Taverner.  'You've had some bad falls, and
they'd have been breakdown tumbles but for
my help.  I suppose you must let Swaddledown
go; it's a pity too, lying handy as the button at
the flap of your pocket.'

'She is coming my way as fast as she can!'

'What, Swaddledown?'

'No!  Luck!  Look! running right into
my hands.  The money-spinner!'

'The money-spinner!'  Taverner started to
his feet.  'Where?  Whither is she running?'

'Stand out of the sunlight, will you!'
exclaimed Hillary.  'How can I see and secure
her with your shadow cast across the stone?'

'Where is she?'

'I tell you she is making direct for me.  I
knew the luck would come if I waited.  Curse
you!  Get on one side, will you?'

'Don't swear,' said Langford, standing at
the other end of the granite slab, and resting
his hands on it.  'The money-spinner is a
tickle (touchy) beast, and may take offence at
a godless word.  I see her, she has turned.
You've scared her with your oaths, and now
she is running towards me.'

'She's going to fetch some of your luck
and bring it to my pocket; she's on the turn
again.'

'No, she is not.  She is making for me,
not you.'

'But she is on my stone.  She has brought
the luck to me.'

'She may be on your stone now, but she is
leaving it for my hand, as fast as her red legs
can carry her.'

'You're luring her away from me, are you?'
cried Hillary, blazing as red as any money-spinner.

'Luring!  She's running her natural course
as sure as a fox runs before the wind.'

'Stand out of the sun!  It is the ugly
shade you cast that chills her.  She goes where
she may be warmest.'

'Out of thine own mouth thou speakest thy
condemnation,' scoffed Langford.  'Of course
she goes to the warmest corner, and which is
warmest, my pocket or thine?—the full or the
empty?'

'The spinner is on my stone, and I will
have her!' cried Hillary.

'Your stone!—yes, yours because you got
it and Chimsworthy away from me.'

'The spinner is by your hand!' roared
Nanspian, and with an oath he threw himself
across the stone and swept the surface with
his hands.

Langford uttered an exclamation of anger.
'You have crushed—you have killed her!
There is an end of luck to you, you long-tailed
Cornish ourang-outang!'

Hillary Nanspian staggered back.  His face
became dark with rage.  He opened his lips,
but was inarticulate for a moment; then he
roared, 'You say that, do you, you ——, that
let yourself be led and tongue-lashed by your
housekeeper.'

'Our friendship is at an end,' said Langford,
turning livid, and his dark bushy brows met
across his forehead.  'Never shall you set foot
in Langford now.'

'Never!  It will come to my Larry, and
I'll drink your burying ale there yet.'

'Larry shall never have it.'

'You can't keep him out,' exclaimed
Hillary.

'Do not be so sure of that,' said Taverner.

'I am sure.  I have seen the parchments.'

'I know them better than you,' laughed
Langford.  Then he went to the stile to leave
the field.

'I'll have the law of you,' shouted Hillary;
'you are trespassing on my land.'

'I trespassing!' mocked Langford; 'this is
a stile leading to Swaddledown.'

'There is no right of way here.  This is a
private stile leading only to the Look-out Stone.
I will have the law of you, I swear.'

Thus it was that the friendship of twenty-two
years was broken, and the brothers-in-law
became declared and deadly enemies.  The
friendship was broken irremediably by an
insect almost microscopic—a little scarlet
spider no larger than a mustard-seed, invested
by popular superstition with the power of
spinning money in the pocket of him who
secures it.





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.. _`WELLON'S CAIRN`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   WELLON'S CAIRN.

.. vspace:: 2

Whilst Hillary Nanspian and Taverner Langford
were falling out over a minute red spider,
Hillary junior, or Larry as he was called by
his intimates, was talking to Honor Luxmore
in a nook of the rubble of Wellon's Cairn.

Wellon's Cairn is a great barrow, or
tumulus on Broadbury, not far from
Langworthy.  Its original name has been lost.
Since a certain Wellon was hung in chains on a
gallows set up on this mound for the murder
of three women it has borne his name.

The barrow was piled up of stones and
black peat earth, and was covered with gorse,
so that the old British warrior who lay beneath
may indeed be said to have made his bed in
glory.  The gorse brake not only blazed as
fire, but streamed forth perfume like a censer.
Only on the summit was a bare space, where
the gallows had stood, and Wellon had dropped
piecemeal, and been trodden by the sheep into
the black soil.

On the south-west side, facing the sun, was
a hollow.  Treasure-seekers had dug into the
mound.  Tradition said that therein lay a hero
in harness of gold.  The panoply that wrapped
him round was indeed of gold, but it was the
gold of the ever-blooming gorse.  Having
found nothing but a few flint flakes and broken
sherds, the seekers had abandoned the cairn,
without filling up the cavity.  This had fallen
in, and was lined with moss and short grass,
and fringed about with blushing heath and
blazing gorse.

In this bright and fragrant hollow,
from the world, and sheltered from the wind
that wafted down on her the honey breath of
the furze, and exposed to the warmth of the
declining sun, sat Honor Luxmore; and near
her, not seated, but leaning against the side of
the excavation, stood Hillary junior talking to
her.

Hillary was like his father, well built,
fair-haired, and flushed with life.  His eyes were
blue, quick and honest, sparkling with fun;
and his bearing was that of the heir of
Chimsworthy and Langford.  There was
unmistakable self-reliance in his face, making
up, in measure, for lack of superior intelligence.

Honor Luxmore demands a fuller account
than young Hillary.

Some way down the lane from Wellon's
Cairn stood a cottage.  This cottage was
constructed on the bank or hedge above the
roadway, so that the door was reached by a
flight of steps, partly cut in the rock, partly
constructed of stone.  A handrail assisted
ascent and descent.  The cottage seemed to
have taken refuge up the side of the bank to
escape from the water in the lane.  Actually
the roadway was cut through shale to some
depth, leaving the cottage on the true surface
of the land.  The road had no doubt in part
been artificially cut, but certainly it had been
also scooped in part by the water, which,
issuing from the joints of the shale, converted
it into a watercourse.  The sides of the road
were rich with moss and fern, and the moss
and fern were spangled with drops that oozed
out of the rock.  Below the steps was a spring,
in a hole scooped in the side of the loose,
shaley rock.

The cottage itself was of cob, whitewashed,
with a thatched roof, brown and soft as the fur
of a mole.  The windows were small and low,
In this cottage lived Oliver Luxmore, a man
poor in everything but children, and of these
he possessed more than he knew how to provide
for.  The cottage was like a hive.
Flaxen-haired boys and girls of all ages might be seen
pouring out on their way to school, or
swarming home in the evening.  They were all
pretty children, with dazzling blue eyes and
clear complexions and fair hair, from the
youngest, a little maid of three, upwards; and
what was better than beauty, they were
patterns of neatness and cleanliness.  According
to the proverb, cleanliness comes next to
goodliness, but these little Luxmores were both
cleanly and goodly.  The goodliness they drew
from their parents, but the cleanliness was due
to Honor, the eldest daughter of Oliver
Luxmore, who stood to her brothers and sisters in
the place of mother, for the wife of Luxmore
had died three years ago, just after the birth
of her youngest.

The father was a carrier, who drove a van
on Fridays to Tavistock, and on Saturdays to
Okehampton, the market-days at these respective
places.  On the other week-days he
worked for the farmers, doing odd jobs, and so
earning money for the sustenance of his many
children.

Oliver Luxmore was a quiet, dreamy,
unenergetic man, who was hampered by a belief
that he was the right heir to a good property,
which would certainly be his if only he were
able to find the necessary registers, but what
these registers were, whether of marriage or
birth, he was uncertain.  At the extreme limits
of the parish, in a pretty situation, lay a good
house of Queen Anne's reign, with some fine
trees, and traces of gardens, and a fishpond,
called Coombe Park, which had belonged to the
Luxmoores or Luxmores.  But this property
had been sold, and Oliver maintained that if
he had had but one hundred pounds wherewith
to find the registers, Coombe Park could not
have been sold, and he would be a squire
there, with a good fortune.  He had visited a
lawyer in Okehampton, and another at Tavistock,
to ask them to take up his on speculation,
but Oliver's ideas were so hazy as to his
pedigree, never resolving themselves into
definite statements of fact, that both one and the
other declined to touch his claim unless they
were given some certain ground on which to
work.

Then he went to the Rector of Bratton, and
with his help extracted all the entries of births,
marriages, and deaths of the Luxmores—pages
of them, showing that from the beginning of the
sixteenth century the name had abounded there,
and belonged to or was assumed by persons of
all ranks and conditions.  Then Oliver took
this list to the Okehampton lawyer.

'Look here,' said he, 'my eldest daughter
is called Honor, and in 1662 John Luxmore,
gentleman, and Temperance, his wife, had a
daughter baptised called Honor.  That's proof,
is it not?'

'Why was your daughter christened by
this name?'

'Well, you see my wife was Honor, and so
we called our first girl after her.'

This may be taken as a specimen that will
suffice of Oliver's evidences, and as a justification
of the solicitors declining to take up his
claim.

'It is one hundred pounds that is wanted
to do it,' said Oliver Luxmore.  'If I had that
to spend on the registers, it would come right
enough.  I always heard my father say that
if we had our rights we shouldn't be in the
cottage in Water Lane.'

Oliver spent money and wasted time over
his ineffectual attempts to prove his descent
and establish his rights, but he had not the
slightest idea what to search for and how to
search.  He did not even know his grandfather's
Christian-name, but believed it began
with a J, for he had an old linen shirt that
was marked in the tail with J. L., and was
so strong and sound that he wore it still.
J. might stand for John, or James, or Joseph,
or Jeremiah.  But then he was not *quite* sure
the shirt had belonged to his grandfather, but
he had heard his mother say she believed it
had.

On days when he might have been earning
money he would wander away to Coombe
Park, prowl round the estate estimating its
value, or go into the house to drink cyder
with the yeoman who now owned and occupied
it, to tell him that his claim might yet
be established, and to assure him that he
would deal honourably and liberally with him
when he turned him out.  The yeoman and
his wife regarded him as something of a
nuisance, but nevertheless treated him with
respect.  There was no knowing, they said,
but that he might prove in the end to be the
heir, and then where would they be?  Oliver
would have liked to see the title-deeds, but of
these he was not allowed a glimpse, though he
could not have read them had he seen them, or
made his claim the clearer if he had been able
to read them.

We have said that Oliver Luxmore worked
for the farmers on the days of the week on
which he was not carrying between Bratton
and Tavistock and Okehampton; but
Thursdays and Mondays were broken days.  On
Thursdays he went about soliciting orders,
and on Mondays he went about distributing
parcels.  Thus he had only two clear days for
jobbing.  The work of a carrier is desultory,
and unfits him for manual labour and for
persevering work.  He gets into idle, gossiping
ways.  When he picks up a parcel or a
passenger he has to spend a quarter of an hour
discussing what has to be done with the parcel,
and has to settle the passenger comfortably
among the parcels, without the passenger
impinging on the parcels, or the parcels
incommoding the passenger.

Oliver was an obliging, amiable man.  In
the front of his van was a seat, the top
of which could be raised on hinges, and in
which he deposited watches that went to be
cleaned, books of the Reading Club that
travelled between subscribers, medicine bottles
and boxes of pills, ribbons, brooches, and other
delicate goods.  The lid of this box was sat
on and kept secure by Oliver.  He was devoid
of humour.  To every commission, to every
joke, to every reprimand, he had but one
answer, 'Certainly, certainly, very true.'

'Oliver,' said Nanspian one day, 'I can
suggest to you a means of increasing your
income.  Put a sitting of eggs under you when
you go to market, and sell the young chickens
when you get there.'

'Certainly, certainly, sir, very true,' was his
civil reply, without a muscle of his face moving.

'Oh, Mr. Luxmore!' exclaimed Mrs. Robbins,
the rectoress, 'this is the same book
you brought me last month from the parsonage
at Maristowe.  I have had it and returned it,
and now you bring it me again.  Mind it
goes back on Friday; and you shall not be
paid for your trouble, as I cannot be expected
to read the same book over twice.'

'Certainly, certainly, ma'am, very true.'

'Oh, Mr. Luxmore,' said Mrs. Veale, 'you
are to mind and match me the silk, cut on the
cross, and if the shade be out, I won't take it,
you must return it, and pay for it from your
own pocket.'

'Certainly, certainly, ma'am.'

'The Vivid,' as Mr. Luxmore's van was
called, belied its name.  There was no vividity
(pass the word) about it.  It went slowly up
hill, because the horse had so much to draw.
It went slower down hill, because it had to
back against such a prodigious weight, descending
by natural velocity.  There was not a mile—not
half a mile—of level road between
Bratton Clovelly and the market-towns.

The carrier's horse was a rough creature,
brown, with a long tail, thick mane, and coarse
hair about the fetlocks, of the colour of tow.
It lived in a precarious manner; the children
cut grass in the hedges for it, and it was
sometimes turned out on Broadbury, with
hobbles on its feet.  It ate the refuse of
Luxmore's vegetable garden, the turnip-tops,
the potato parings, the maggot-nibbled outer
cabbage leaves, and the decayed apples from
his trees.  Once, when the horse had knocked
his nose, and Luxmore had put a linseed
poultice over it, in a bit of sacking tied round
the head with four stout tapes, when his back
was turned the horse curled his tongue out of
his mouth, detached the poultice, and ate it,
linseed, sacking, and tapes, to the last grain
and thread.  There was nothing but stones
that horse would not eat.  He bit away great
pieces from his manger.  He took a bite out
of Luxmore's trousers, he gnawed the bark off
the cherry-tree by his gate, he gobbled up
nettles, thistles, furze, as though his appetite
were as vitiated as an East Indian's.

Oliver Luxmore had to put up with a good
many bad debts: his business did not bring
him in much money; he was never able to
lay by a penny: how could he with so many
mouths to feed at home?  Honor would have
been unable to make both ends meet unless
she had been a manager.  The family would
have been better off if Charles, the eldest son,
two years the senior of Honor, had fulfilled
his duty to his own.  But Charles, having
reached the full wage-earning age, had
enlisted, and was away on foreign service.  His
father and sister did not even know where he
was, for he had not troubled himself to write
since his departure.  Charles had always been
a wild and headstrong boy who needed a
firm hand over him to direct him right.  But
Oliver Luxmore's hand was weak, and the
mother, a shrewd, painstaking woman of
decided character, had made the boy obstinate
and sulky, by exerting over him the authority
which should have been exercised by his
father.

After the death of his wife, Oliver remained
as weak as during her life, very good-natured,
and so pliant as to bend to the wills of his
children, even to that of his youngest,
Temperance, aged three.  The family would
indisputably have run wild, and his affairs gone to
ruin, had not Honor assumed her mother's
place, and ruled the little house with energy
and decision.  Her rule was firm but loving,
and few of the children ventured to disobey
her, not even the thirteen-year-old Joseph, or
her next sister, Kate, aged seventeen; no, not
even her father, Oliver; indeed he was the
least difficult to manage of all.  There were
nine children in all.  Charles, Honor, Kate,
Joseph, have already been mentioned, so has
little Temperance the baby.  Between Joseph
and Temperance came Pattie, that is Patience,
Willy, Martha, and Charity.  The children
were all pretty and well-conducted.  Charles
was no longer a child.  He was away.  He
therefore is not reckoned among those who
were pretty and well-conducted.

Honor was tall; her bearing very erect;
her well-knit, vigorous frame, the glance of her
clear hazel eyes, her firm mouth, all combined
to inspire respect and insure submission.  The
respectability of her father, the honesty of her
brothers and sisters were due to Honor, and to
Honor alone.  But for her presence in the
house everything would have gone wrong.
Kate was too lively and careless to manage it,
the others too young, her father helpless.  Had
she not been there to keep home orderly, and
the children neat, Oliver would have drifted to
the tavern to bury his troubles in the ale-can,
and the little ones would have sunk into squalor
and strife, and struggled out of childhood into
misery, beggary, and vice.

The children had inherited from their
father blue eyes and very fair hair; they had
lovely complexions, and clear, bright colour;
some of them had certainly derived from him
also an inertness of character which left them
and their futures at the mercy of the persons
and the chances that should surround or fall in
their way.  This was not the case with Kate,
who had character of her own, though very
diverse from that of her eldest sister.  Kate
promised to be the beauty of the family.  Her
blue eyes twinkled with mirth and mischief,
like summer seas.  She had a roguish dimple
in her cheeks, and an expression of consciousness
of her good looks on her face.

Honor was different in appearance, as in
character, from the rest.  She hardly seemed to
belong to the family.  She had hair the colour
of barley-sugar, and hazel-brown eyes.  She
looked every one whom she addressed straight
in the face, and was absolutely void of vanity;
she asked no admiration like Kate.  She was
contemptuously indifferent to her looks, and
yet she was never untidy.  All the rest were
better dressed than herself.  She never gave
herself new clothes; she had an old store of
her mother's to draw from for her own
clothing; but though her gown was antiquated
and often patched, it was never ragged,
never had tape and thread ends hanging from
it.  She had inherited her grandmother's scarlet
cloak, and was the last person in that
neighbourhood to wear such a garment.  This she
only wore on Sundays, but she wore it on
every Sunday, summer as well as winter, when
she went to church.  She also wore red
stockings, and as she was taller than her mother,
and her mother's gowns could not be lengthened,
a good deal of red stocking showed.
She wore these stockings simply because they
were her mother's and had to be worn out,
and because Kate objected to them for her own
feet.  Perhaps it was the shortness of the
skirts that gave to Honor a look of length of
red limb below the scarlet cloak a little
grotesque, that occasioned the boys of Bratton to
nickname her 'the Red Spider.'

The mischievous Kate teased her by asserting
that she got her name from her hair; but
Honor's hair was not red, it was not even
chestnut brown, it was golden brown, like
beech-leaves in autumn—a very rare, but a
beautiful colour.  It was all one to Honor what
hair she had, all one to her what the boys
styled her.  No girl could be jealous of her;
she had no eyes for the lads, her whole heart,
her every thought was centred in home.  As the
chapter-house of a cathedral is built in a circle
and leans on one central pillar, and as the fall of
that pillar would insure the ruin of the house,
so was it with the cottage of the Luxmores—on
her it rested.  This she knew, and the little
self-consciousness she possessed was the
consciousness that on her all leaned for support,
and to her owed their uprightness.

'What a lot of socks and stockings you have
got on the furze bushes about you,' said Hillary.

'Yes—like to have.  There are so many
little feet at home that tread holes.'

'You must be glad that they are two-footed,
not four-footed animals, those brothers and
sisters of yours.'

'I am, or I could not darn their stockings,
much less knit them.'

Hillary thought a moment; then he said,
looking at a pair of very much darned red
stockings hung over a branch of heather,
'You know they call you the Red Spider, and
they say true.  The Red Spider brings luck
wherever she goes.  I am sure you are the
money-spinner in your house.'

'I!' exclaimed the girl, who coloured slightly,
and looked up; 'I—I spin, but never money.'

'Well, you bring luck.'

'I keep out ill-luck,' she answered with
confidence; 'I can do no more, but that is
something, and that takes me all my time.  I have
hardly leisure to sleep.'

'Why have you brought all these stockings
out on the Down?  Are you going to convert
Wellon's Cairn into a second-hand mercer's
shop?'

'Larry, in spite of proverb to the contrary,
I am forced to do two things at a time.  I have
Diamond to watch as well as stockings to darn.
The poor beast is not well, and I have brought
him from the stable.  The little ones are at
school, except of course Temperance, and Kate
is with her cutting grass in the lane for Diamond.'

'What would you do if you lost Diamond?'
asked young Hillary.

'O Larry, don't even suggest such an evil.
If you whistle you call up wind, and if you
whisper the name of the devil he looks in at
the door.  We got into debt buying Diamond,
and it took us three years to work our way out.
Now we are clear, and it would be too
dreadful to get into debt again.  You know, Larry,
what the mothers do with children who have
the thrush.  They pass them under a bramble
that grows with a loop into the ground.  Like
enough the little creatures lose the thrush, but
they carry away scratches.  Debt, to my thinking,
is like treatment; you get rid of one evil by
sticking yourself full of thorns.  So take my
advice, and never get into debt.'

'I'm not like to,' laughed the young man,
'with Chimsworthy behind me and Langford
before me.'

'Never reckon on what you've not got,'
said Honor.  'That's like buying the hogshead
before the apples have set, or killing a pig
without having the pickle-tub.  Langford
is not yours, any more than Coombe Park is
ours.'

'Langford must come to us Nanspians
some day, you know, Honor.  Not that I
reckon on it.  God forbid.  May Uncle Taverner
live for ever.  But it gives a chap confidence
to know that a large estate will come to
him in the end.'

'Don't reckon on that,' said Honor.

'It can't fail.  It stands so in the deeds.'

'But Mr. Langford might marry.'

Hillary would have burst into a hearty
laugh at the idea, had not Honor laid her hand
on his arm to arrest him, and raised the
forefinger of the other to impose silence.

Sitting up on its hind legs, in a begging
posture, at the mouth of the excavation, was a
*white hare*.  It looked at the young people for
a moment, doubtingly, inquiringly.  Then
Hillary stirred, and with a flash it was gone.

Hillary exclaimed, 'O Honor! is it not the
picture of Mrs. Veale?'





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.. _`THE WHITE HARE`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WHITE HARE.

.. vspace:: 2

'I have seen the white hare before, several
times,' said Honor Luxmore.

'You have?  Do you know what folks say?'

'They say that it is unlucky to see a white
hare; but I think nothing of that.'

'I do not mean that,' said Hillary, laughing.
'But they say that when a witch goes
on her errands she takes this shape.  Perhaps,
Honor,' he went on with roguery in his twinkling
eyes, 'Mrs. Veale is off over the Down in
quest of her master.  He has gone to the
Look-out Stone to have a talk to my father.'

'Nonsense, Larry.  I put no credit in those
tales of witches; besides, I never heard that
Mrs. Veale was one—not properly.'

'She is white with pink eyes, and so is
the hare,' argued Hillary, 'and spiteful she is,
certainly.  I hope, if that were her, she won't
be bringing mischief to you or to me.  We
shall see.  If that were her, Uncle Taverner
will be coming home directly.  Folks say that
he is afraid of her tongue, and that is the only
thing in heaven or hell he is afraid of.'

Honor uttered an exclamation of surprise
and alarm.  A black ungainly figure stood
before them, black against the glowing western
sky.  She recovered herself at once and rose
respectfully.  Hillary turned and recognised
his uncle.

'Well, Uncle Taverner!' he exclaimed,
'you have come on us suddenly.  We were
just talking about you.'

'Ah' answered Langford, leaning on his
stick and lowering at him, 'leave me out
of your talk and your calculations altogether.
I dare say you have been reckoning on my
shoes, and how well they would fit your young
feet.  No, no! no feet of yours shall ever be
thrust into them.'  Then seeing that Hillary
was disconcerted, he laughed a harsh, bitter
laugh.  'Your father and I have parted for
ever.  We have quarrelled; I will not speak
to him more.  To you I speak now for the
last time also.  As Nanspian has split with
Langford, Chimsworthy and Langford will
not splice.  Remember that.  Go to work,
young man, go to work, instead of standing
idling here.  Your father is in my debt, and
you must help him to earn the money to pay
me off.'  Then he turned to Honor, and said,
'Why are you here, instead of watching your
horse?  Diamond is down in the gravel-pit, on
his side, dead or dying.'

Honor sprang up with a cry.

'The white hare,' said Hillary, 'has brought
the ill-luck—to both of us at once.'

Neither of the young people gave another
thought to Taverner Langford.  Honor was
in distress about the horse, and Hillary was
desirous of assisting her.  He accompanied
her to the spot, a hole dug in the surface of the
moor for rubble wherewith to mend the road.
Diamond had either made his way into it by
the cart road, or had fallen over the edge.
He lay on his side panting.

'Poor fellow,' said Hillary gravely, 'Diamond
is done for.'

'Oh, I ought not to have let him from my
sight,' cried Honor, stung with self-reproach.

'You could do nothing for him,' said the
young man.  'He is not dying from your
neglect.  Look here, Honor, do you see that
hoof-print?  He walked in, he did not fall over
the edge.  Every beast when it feels death
approach tries to hide itself, as though it were
ashamed—as though death were a crime.  It
is so, Honor.'

'O Larry!  What can I do?  What can I
do for poor Diamond?'

'You can do nothing but pat him and let
him go out of the world with a word of love.'

'I will do that.  I will indeed!'  Then
she caressed the old horse, and stroked its
cheek and nose, and spoke to it tenderly.
Diamond raised his head, snuffed, rubbed his
head against his young mistress, then laid it
down again on the stones and died.

Honor's tears flowed, but she was not one
to make a demonstration of distress.  She said:
'I must go home, Larry, and get supper ready
for the children.  I can do nothing here now.'

'I am very sorry for you,' said Hillary,
showing more emotion than she; 'I am indeed,
Honor.  I know what a terrible loss this will
be to your father, and he is too proud a man
to go round with a brief.  Put your hand to
mine, Honor; we shall always be good friends,
and I will do what I can for you; but it
cannot be much now that Uncle Taverner is
across with us, and about to exact his money.
I will tell you what.  I will get my father to
lend you our horse Derby for awhile, till we
can scheme what is to be done.  I wish I'd got
a quarter of an acre of land of my own, and I
would sell it and give you the money wherewith
to buy another horse.  I would, in truth
and sincerity, Honor.'

'I am sure of that,' answered the girl; 'I
know I can always trust to your good-will and
kind offices.  Good-bye!  I must go.'

Then Hillary went slowly homewards.  The
sun had gone down in the west, and the sky was
full of after glory.  A few level bars, steps of
vivid fire, were drawn against the sky, and
there was, as it were, a pavement of sapphire
strewn with the down from a flamingo.  The
moor stood with every furze-bush on its margin
and two small cairns on the edge blotted black
against the blaze.  As Hillary descended from
the moor he got into the Chimsworthy Lane,
shadowed by a plantation of Scottish pines his
father had made twenty years ago, and which
stood up high enough to intercept the light.

'Poor Honor!' mused Hillary.  'Whatever
will she and her father and all those little uns
do without the horse?  A carrier without a
horse is a helpless animal.  I don't like to ask
my father too much for the Luxmores, and
seem hot about them, or he will be thinking
I am in love with Honor, which I am not.
Some chaps think a young fellow cannot speak
to a girl, or even look at her, without being in
love with her.  I like Honor well enough, as a
friend, but no more.'

The road was very rough, he could not
descend fast because of the loose stones.  In
rainy weather the way was a watercourse, and
the water broke up the shale rock that formed
the floor and scattered it in angular fragments
over the road.

'What a ridiculous notion, that I should be
in love with a carrier's daughter!  I a Nanspian
of Chimsworthy, and heir——' he stopped.
'No—that part is not to be, though how Uncle
Taverner will do us out of Langford is more
than I can imagine.  That he should marry
and have a family is clean too ridiculous!
Confound that stone!  It nigh turned and
broke my ankle.  If Honor's father had
Coombe Park it would be another matter.
Then, possibly, I might think of her in a
different way; but—a cottage girl!—a carrier's
daughter!  Luxmore is not a bad name.  But
then they have the name and nothing else.
I'll cut myself a stick, or I shall be down on
my nose.  I should not care for Honor to see
me to-morrow with a broken nose.  These
pines may be a shelter, but they cast a very
black shadow, and the rabbits breed in the
plantation like midges in a duck-pond.'

He cut himself a stick and went on.  'If
Honor were here, I should be forced to lend
her a hand, and then if father or any one were
to meet us, there'd be laughter and jokes.
I'm mighty glad Honor is not here.'

Presently he got beyond the pines.

The hedges were high, the way still dark.

'Good heavens!' he exclaimed, 'the white
hare again!'

As he cried out, a white animal ran up the
lane, passed him and disappeared.

'Confound it,' said Hillary.  'I wish I
had not seen that.  Why——what have we
here?'

He ran forward.  In the lane, across it,
where the stile to the Look-out Stone allowed a
streak of western light to stream across the
road, lay Hillary Nanspian senior, insensible,
on his face, with the broken cyder jug in his
hand.

'Father! what ails you?  Speak!' cried
Hillary junior.  He tried to lift the old man;
he could raise but not carry him.  The anger
aroused by his contention with Langford had
brought on a fit.





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.. _`'TIMEO DANAOS ET DONA FERENTES'`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   'TIMEO DANAOS ET DONA FERENTES.'

.. vspace:: 2

Honor Luxmore sat near the window, weaving
a hamper out of willow twigs.  Her sister
Kate was similarly engaged.  By the fire sat
Oliver, smoking and watching the smouldering
peat on the hearth.  The sisters earned money
by making baskets.  Down in the bottoms, in
the marshy land, grew willow-bushes; and they
were allowed by the farmers to cut as much as
they needed free of charge.  Towards Christmas,
indeed from the 1st of October, there was
a demand for 'maunds,' in which to send away
as presents.  Honor, Kate, and even
some of the younger children could plait
withies into hampers, which their father took
into Launceston and Tavistock on market-days
and sold.  Little figures make up long sums,
and so the small proceeds of the basket-weaving
formed no inconsiderable profit in the year,
out of which Honor was able to clothe her
sister Kate and one of the other children.

Silence had lasted some time in the room;
Oliver leaned forward with his elbows on his
knees, dreamily watching the fire.  At last he
said, 'Whatever I am to do for a horse I
cannot tell.  I've sold the carcase to Squire Impey
to feed the hounds with for a half-sovereign,
and the skin for another ten shillings.  That is
all I got for Diamond.  I suppose I shall have
to give up carrying and go on the land.  To
think of that, I that should be in Coombe Park
riding about in a gilded coach with four cream
horses and long tails and a powdered coachman
on the box—that I should become a day
labourer for lack of a horse!'

'Never mind about Coombe Park, father.
It is of no use looking down a well for a lost
shilling.  Young Mr. Larry Nanspian will lend
you a horse for a while.'

'What will that avail?' asked Oliver
disconsolately.  'It is like sucking eggs when
you've got the consumption.  It puts off the
dying a few days, but it don't cure.'

'The last horse was paid for.  You are not
in debt.'

'Ah! but then I had not so many little
ones growing up.  I could be trusted to pay.
But now they consume every penny I earn.'

'They cost more as they grow up, but they
also earn something.  I've a mind to do this,
father.  You know I've been asked by several
gentlefolk to go to their houses and reseat their
cane-bottomed chairs, but I've never liked to
go because of the distance, and because I
wouldn't leave the house and the children.
But now Kate is old enough to take my place
and do such little matters as are needed here
during the day, I will go about and do the
chairs.

Oliver Luxmore laughed.  'You'll never
buy a horse with cane bottoms.  No, that
won't do.  I'll give up carrying and go work
on the roads.  You don't know what grand
new macadamised roads are being laid out; they
are carrying them round slopes, where before
they went straight up.  They are filling in
bottoms, and slicing into hills.  Thousands
upon thousands of pounds are being spent, and
there are whole gangs of men engaged upon
them.'

'No, father, you are too old for that work.
Besides, those who go to the road-making are
the rough and riotous young fellows who want
high wages, and who spend their money in
drink.  No, such society is not for you.'

'I don't see that,' said the father.  'As
you say, the wages are very high; I am not so
old that I cannot work.'

'You are unaccustomed to the kind of work.'

'I should get into the way of it, and I am
no drunkard to waste my money.'

'But you are a Luxmore.'

Oliver held up his head.  That last was
an unanswerable argument.  He considered
for a while, and then he said, 'I cannot borrow
the money of Mr. Nanspian, he is ill.  It is, of
course, useless my asking Mr. Langford, he is
not a lending, but a taking man.'

'If we worked out the first debt, we can
work out the second,' said Honor.  'I know
that you can get nothing from Chimsworthy,
and I do not suppose you can get anything
from Langford, nevertheless you might try.
Mr. Langford knows you to be an industrious
and a conscientious man.  He has but to look
in your face, father, to be sure that you would
rather be cheated than cheat any one.  Try
Mr. Taverner Langford to-morrow.'

'It is no good,' sighed Oliver.  'Only
wear out shoe leather for nothing.  You go if
you think anything of the chance.  Folks say,
walk with Hope, or you are walking backwards.'

'I—I go to Mr. Langford!'

'No need for that, when I have come to
you,' answered a voice at the open window.

Honor started, looked up, and saw Taverner
Langford there, looking at her, and then at
Oliver.

'Won't you step in and take a chair, sir?'
asked Honor, rising and moving towards the
door.

'No, I am well where I am,' answered
Taverner, leaning his elbows on the bottom
of the window and peering in.  He wore a
broad-brimmed hat, that shadowed the upper
part of his face, but out of this shadow shone
his eyes with phosphoric light.

'Father!' exclaimed Honor, 'here is Mr. Langford.'

Oliver had risen and stood with his pipe
in one hand leaning against one jamb of the
chimney, looking wonderingly at the visitor.
Langford had ascended the steps from the lane,
and thus had appeared suddenly before the
Luxmores.

From the window no one that passed was
visible unless he were seated on the top of a
load of hay carted along the lane from the
harvest-field.

Oliver Luxmore went to the window, and,
like his daughter, asked, 'Will you step inside,
sir?'

'No, thank you,' answered Langford, 'I can
talk very comfortably standing where I am.
I know you to be a sensible man, Luxmore, and
to have your eyes about you, and your ears
open.  There is no man goes about the country
so much as you.  They say that in a town the
barber knows all the news, and in the country
the carrier.  Now I'll tell you what I want,
Luxmore, and perhaps you'll do me the favour
to help me to what I want.  I'm short of
hands, and I want a trusty fellow who can act
as cattle-driver for me.  I won't have a boy.
Boys over-drive and hurt the cattle.  I must
have a man.  Do you know of one who will
suit?'

Oliver shook his head.  'I don't know that
I do, and I don't know that I don't.'

'You are talking riddles, Luxmore.  What
do you mean?'

'Well, sir,' answered the carrier with a
sigh, 'my meaning is this.  Poor Diamond is
dead, and I am thinking of giving up the carrying
trade.'

'Giving up the "Vivid"!  You are not in
your senses, man.'

'Ah, sir, how am I to buy a new horse?
The price is up and money is scarce—leastways
with me.  Horses ain't to be bought on
promises no more than they are to be reared
on wind.'

'Want a horse, do you?  Of course the
"Vivid" won't go by herself except down hill,
and that is what every one and every thing
can do unassisted.  It is the getting up hill that
costs a strain.  Ah, Luxmore, I could show you
two men, one going up and the other down,
going down as fast as the laden van on Rexhill,
without a horse to back against it.  You've
only to look to Chimsworthy to see that.  I
need not say in which direction to turn your
eyes to see the contrary.'

He pushed up his hat and looked at the
carrier, then at Honor.  He did not deign to
cast a passing glance at Kate.

'Then, sir,' said Oliver, 'if the worst came
to the worst—I mean, sir, begging your pardon,
and no offence intended, if I could not get
another horse, and where it is to come from
the Lord Almighty only knows—I'd have to
work for my living some other way, and I
might be glad to take service with you.  I was
even thinking on going to the roads that be
making, but Honor won't hear of that, so I
reckon it can't be.'

'No,' answered Taverner, with his eyes
resting on Honor, 'no, she is quite right.
Your proper place is at home with the family.
The men on the roads are a wild lot.'

'So she said,' the carrier put in humbly,
'and of course Honor knows.'

'Now look you here, Luxmore,' said Taverner,
'I'm not a man to squander and give away,
as every one in Bratton knows, but I'm not as
hard as they are pleased to say, and where a
worthy man is in need, and no great risk is
seen by myself, and I'm not out of pocket,
I don't mind helping him.  I do not say but
what I'll let you have my grey for keep.
She's not an infant.  There's not much gambol
about her, but there is a deal of work.  You
shall have her for awhile; and pay me ten
shillings a week, as hire.  That is a favourable
offer, is it not?'

The carrier stood silent with astonishment.
Honor's cheeks flushed with pleasure and
surprise, so did those of Kate.

'Your grey!' exclaimed Luxmore.  'I know
her well.  She's worth five-and-twenty pounds.'

'She may be.  I do not know.  I will not
consider that.  I do not want her just now, and
shall be glad to lend her for her keep and a
trifle.  You are an honest man.  Your family
is like mine—come down in the world.'

'Ah!' exclaimed the carrier, raising his
head proudly, 'I reckon Coombe Park is where
I should be, and all I want wherewith to get it
is a hundred pounds and a register.'

'That may be,' said Taverner; 'there were
Luxmores in Bratton as long as there have been
Langfords, and that goes back hundreds of
years.  I do not want to see you fall to the
ground.  I am ready to lend you a helping
hand.  You may fetch away the grey when
you like.  You will have to sign an
acknowledgment, and promise to return her in good
and sound condition.  Always safest to have a
contract properly executed and signed, then
there can be no starting up of a
misunderstanding afterwards.'

'I am to have your grey!'  Oliver
Luxmore could not believe in his good fortune, and
this good fortune coming to him from such an
unexpected quarter.  'There now!  Honor
said I was to go up to Langford and see you.
She thought you might help, and 'twas no use
in the world asking at Chimsworthy.'

'Honor said that!' exclaimed Taverner,
and he looked at the girl and nodded approvingly.

Then Luxmore, who had been sitting in his
shirt-sleeves, took his coat and put it on, went
to the nail and unhooked his hat.

'I don't mind if I go and look at the grey,'
he said.  He had sufficient prudence not to
accept till he had seen.

Whilst Oliver Luxmore was assuming his
coat, Langford, leaning on his arms in the
window, watched the active fingers of Honor,
engaged in weaving a basket.  Her feet were
thrust forward, with the red stockings encasing
them.

'Ah!' said Taverner, half aloud, half to
himself; 'I know a red spider that brings luck.
Well for him who secures her.'

Just then voices were audible, bright and
clear, coming from the lane; and in a few
minutes up the steps trooped the younger
children of the carrier, returning from school.
Each, even the boy of thirteen, went at once
to Honor, stood before her, and showed face
and hands and clothes.

'Please, Honor,' said one little girl, 'I've
got a tear in my pinafore.  I couldn't help it.
There was a nail in the desk.'

'Well, Pattie, bring me my workbox.'

How clean, orderly, happy the children
were!  Each before going to school was
examined to insure that it was scrupulously
neat; and each on returning was submitted to
examination again, to show that it had kept its
clothes tidy whilst at school, and its face and
hands clean.

Regardless of the presence and observations
of Langford, Honor mended Pattie's pinafore.
She was accustomed to do at once what she
observed must be done.  She never put off
what had to be done to a future time.  Perhaps
this was one of the secrets of her getting
through so much work.

When each child had thus reported itself to
Honor, she dismissed it with a kiss, and sent it
to salute the father.

'You will find, each of you, a piece of
bread-and-butter and a mug of milk in the
back kitchen,' she said.  Then the children
filed out of the room to where their simple
meal was laid out for them.

'Busy, systematic, thrifty,' said Taverner
Langford, looking approvingly at Honor.  'The
three feet that stay Honour.'  Whether he
made this remark in reference to her name
the girl could not make out; she looked up
suddenly at him, but his face was inscrutable,
as he stood with his back to the light in the
window, with his broad-brimmed hat drawn
over his eyes.

Her father was ready to depart with Langford.
As the latter turned to go, he nodded
to the girl in an approving and friendly way,
and then turning to her father, as he prepared
to descend the steps, said, 'What a maid that
eldest daughter of yours is!  Everything in
your house is clean, everything in place, even
the children.  The sphere is not big enough
for her, she has talents for managing a farm.'

'Ah!' groaned Luxmore, 'if we had our
rights, and Coombe Park came to us——'  The
sisters heard no more.  Their father had
reached the foot of the steps.

When both he and Langford had disappeared,
Kate burst out laughing.

'O Honor!' she said, 'that screw,
Mr. Langford! how his voice creaked.  I thought
all the time he was speaking of a screw driven
into father, creak, creak, creak!'

'For shame, Kate!  Mr. Taverner Langford
has done us a great kindness.  He must not
be ridiculed.'

'I do not believe in his kindness,' answered
the lively Kate.  'The grey has got the
glanders, or is spavined, that is why he wants
to lend her.  Unless father is very keen,
Mr. Langford will overreach him.'  Then she
threw aside the basket she had been weaving.
'There, Honor, that is done, and my fingers
are sore.  I will do no more.  No—not even
to buy the grey with my earnings.  I am sure
that grey is coming to bring us ill-luck.  I
turned my thumb in all the time that
Mr. Langford was here, I thought he had the evil
eye, and—Honor—his wicked eye was on you.'





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.. _`THE PROGRESS OF STRIFE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PROGRESS OF STRIFE.

.. vspace:: 2

So it fell out that two worthy men, land-owners,
brothers-in-law, in the parish of Bratton
Clovelly, each a churchwarden, each a pillar
of religion, Jakim and Booz, one of the Temple,
the other of the Tabernacle, were at variance.
About what?  About nothing, a little red spider,
so minute that many a man could not see it
without his spectacles.

The money-spinner had provoked the calling
of names, the flying forth of fury, the rush of
blood to the head of Hillary Nanspian, and
a fit.  It was leading to a good deal more, it
was about to involve others beside the principals.

But the money-spinner was really only the
red speck at the meeting-point of rivalries,
and brooding discontents and growing grievances.
Nanspian had long chafed at the superiority
assumed by Langford, had been angry at
his own ill-success, and envious of the
prosperity of his brother-in-law.  And Langford
had fretted over the thriftlessness of Nanspian,
and the prospect of his own gains being
dissipated by his nephew.

Hillary was a boastful and violent man.
Taverner was suspicious and morose.  But
Nanspian was good-natured at bottom; his
anger, if boisterous, soon blew away.  Langford's
temper was bitter; he was not malevolent, but
he harboured his wrongs, and made a sort of
duty of revenging them.

The love of saving had become so much a
part of Taverner's soul, that it caused him real
agony of mind to think that all he had laid
by might be wasted by young Hillary, who,
brought up in his father's improvident ways,
was sure to turn out a like wastrel.  Moreover,
he did not like young Larry.  He bore him
that curious aversion which old men sometimes
manifest for the young.  Taverner had been
an ungainly youth, without ease of manner or
social warmth.  He had never made himself
friends of either sex; always solitary, he had
been driven in on himself.  Now that he was
in the decline of life he resented the presence
in others of those qualities he had never
himself possessed.  The buoyant spirits, the
self-confidence, the good humour, the pleasant
looks, the swinging walk of young Larry were
all annoyances to Langford, who would have
taken a liking to the lad had he been shy and
uncouth.

Formerly, scarcely a day had passed without
the brothers-in-law meeting.  Sometimes
they encountered accidentally on Broadbury,
or in the lanes, at other times they met by
appointment at the Look-out Stone.  They
discussed together the weather, the crops, the
cattle, the markets.  Hillary was a shrewd
man, and had seen more of the world than
Taverner, who had, however, read more books
than the other.  Langford had respect for the
worldly experience of his brother-in-law, and
Nanspian venerated the book learning in the
other.  The Chimsworthy brother could see
various ways in which money might be made,
and had even made suggestions by which he of
Langford had reaped a pecuniary profit, but
he was too lazy a man to undertake new
ventures himself, too lazy even to properly
cultivate in the old way the land on which he
lived.

Hillary was conscious that he was falling in
the estimation of his brother-in-law.  He was
chafed by the sense of his indebtedness to him.
He saw no way of escape from the debt he
owed save by Taverner's death, and he began
to have a lurking hope of release in that way.
He was not stimulated to activity.  'What is
the advantage of making a labour of life,' he
asked—not of his brother-in-law—'when a
man has a comfortable property, and another in
reversion?'

The great day of all, on which the kindly
relations of the brothers-in-law were brought
forward and paraded before the parish, was on
the feast day of Coryndon's Charity.  Then
Hillary Nanspian arrived arm-in-arm with
Taverner Langford, Hillary in his badger-skin
waistcoat with red lappets, Taverner in dark
homespun, with black cravat and high collar.
As they walked down the village every man
touched his hat and every woman curtsied.
When they came to a puddle, and puddles are
common in the roads of Bratton Clovelly, then
Hillary Nanspian would say, 'Take care,
Taverner, lest you splash your polished boots and
dark breeches.'  Thereupon the brothers-in-law
unlinked, walked round the puddle, and
hooked together on the further side.  At the
dinner, which was attended by the Rector, who
sat at the head and carved, the waywarden
and the overseer, the landlord of the 'Ring of
Bells,' where the dinner was held, and several
of the principal farmers, ex-feoffees, or feoffees
in prospective, speeches were made.  Hillary,
with a glass of rum-and-water and a spoon in
it, stood up and spoke of his fellow-churchwarden
and feoffee and brother-in-law in such a
rich and warm speech, that, under the united
influence of hot strong rum, and weak maudlin
Christianity, and sound general good-fellowship,
and goose and suet pudding, the tears
rose into the eyes of the hearers, and their
moral feelings were as elevated as if they had
heard a sermon of Mr. Romaine.

After that, Taverner proposed the health of
his co-feoffee and churchwarden in a nervous,
hesitating speech, during which he shuffled
with his feet on the floor, and his hands on the
table, and became hot and moist, and almost
cried—not with tender emotion, but with the
sense of humiliation at his own inability to
speak with fluency.  But, of course, all present
thought this agitation was due to the great
affection he bore to his brother-in-law.

When Parson Robbins, the Rector, heard of
the quarrel, he was like one thunderstruck.
He could not believe it.  'Whatever shall I
do?  I shall have to take a side.  Mercy on us,
what times we live in, when I am forced to
take a side!'

As to the farmers generally, they chuckled.
Now at last there was a chance of one of them
getting into Coryndon's Charity and getting a
lease of the poor's lands.

Hillary Nanspian recovered from his fit,
but the breach between the brothers-in-law
was not healed.  When he again appeared at
market he was greatly changed.  The apoplectic
stroke, the blood-letting, the call in of
the money owed to Langford, had combined to
alter him.  He was not as florid, as upright, as
imperious as before.  His face was mottled, the
badger-skin waistcoat no longer fitted him as a
glove, it fell into wrinkles, and the hair began
to look as though the moth had got into it.
A slight stoop appeared in his gait.  He
became querulous and touchy.  Hitherto, when
offended, he had discharged a big,
mouth-filling oath, as a mortar throws a shell;
now he fumed, and swore, and grumbled.
There was no appeasing him.  He was like
the mitrailleuse that was to be, but was not
then.  Hitherto, he had sat on his settle,
smoking, and eating his bread and cheese,
and had allowed the fowls to come in and
pick up the crumbs at his feet.  Now he
threw sticks at them and drove them out of
the kitchen.

Encounters between the brothers-in-law
were unavoidable, but when they met they
pretended not to see each other.  They
made circuits to avoid meeting.  When they
passed in the lane, they looked over opposite
hedges.

The quarrel might, perhaps, have been
patched up, had it not been for the tongue
of Mrs. Veale.  Taverner Langford disliked
this pasty-faced, bleached woman greatly, but
he was afraid of dismissing her, because he
doubted whether it would be possible for him
to provide himself with as good a manager in
his house and about the cattle.  Though he
disliked her, he was greatly influenced by her,
and she found that her best mode of ingratiating
herself with him was by setting him
against others.  She had a venomous dislike
for the Nanspians.  'If anything were to
happen to the master, those Nanspians would
take all, and where should I be?' she reasoned.
She thought her best chance of remaining at
Langford and of insuring that something was
left to her by the master in consideration for
her faithful services was to make him suspect
and dislike all who surrounded him.  He
listened to her, and though he discounted all she
said, yet the repetition of her hints and
suggestions, and retailed stories, told on him more
than he allowed himself to believe.  Through
her he heard of the boasts of his brother-in-law,
and his attention was called to fresh
instances of mismanagement at Chimsworthy.  At
one time Mrs. Veale had audaciously hoped
to become mistress of the place.  Langford
was a lone shy man, how could he resist the
ambuscades and snares of a designing woman?
But Mrs. Veale in time learned that her
ambition in this direction was doomed to
disappointment, and that efforts made to secure
the master would effect her own expulsion.
She therefore changed her tactics, dared to
lecture and give him the rough of her tongue.
Langford endured this, because it showed him
she had no designs on him, and convinced him
that she was severe and faithful.  And she
made herself indispensable to him in becoming
the medium of communication between himself
and those with whom he was offended.  He
had sufficient of the gentleman in him to
shrink from reprimanding his servants and
haggling with a dealer; he was miserly, but
too much of a gentleman to show it openly.
He made Mrs. Veale cut down expenses,
watch against waste, and economise in small
matters.

How is it that women are able to lay hold
of and lead men by their noses as easily as they
take up and turn about a teapot by its handle?
Is it that their hands are fashioned for the
purpose, and men's noses are fitted by Nature for
their hands?  Although the nose of Taverner
Langford was Roman, and expressive of
character and individuality, Mrs. Veale held him
by it; and he followed with the docility of a
colt caught and led by the forelock.

It was a cause of great disappointment to
Hillary that Taverner was in a position to give
him annoyance, whereas he was unable to
retaliate.  Langford had called in the money he
had advanced to his brother-in-law; it must be
repaid within three months.  Langford had
threatened the father and son with disinheritance.
On the other side, he was powerless to
punish Langford.  The consciousness of this
was a distress to Nanspian, and occasioned the
irritability of temper we have mentioned.
Unable to endure the humiliation of being
hurt without being able to return the blow,
he went into the office of the lawyer Physick,
at Okehampton.

'Mr. Physick,' said he, 'I want to be thundering
disagreeable.'

'By all means, Mr. Nanspian.  Very right
and proper.'

'I'm going to be very offensive.'

'To be sure.  You have occasion, no question.'

'I want a summons made out against Mrs. Veale,
that is, the housekeeper of Taverner
Langford.'

'The deuce you do!' exclaimed the lawyer,
starting into an erect position on his seat.
'The housekeeper of your brother-in-law!'

'The same.  I want to hit him through her.'

'Why, Lord bless me!  What has come to
pass?  I thought you and Mr. Langford were
on the best of terms.'

'Then, sir, you thought wrong.  We are
no longer friends; we do not speak.'

'What has occasioned this?'

Nanspian looked down.  He was ashamed
to mention the red spider; so he made no
reply.

'Well! and what is the summons to be
made out for?'

'For giving me a stroke of the apoplexy.'

'I do not understand.'

'You must know,' said Hillary, lowering
his voice, 'that I have a notion Mrs. Veale is
a witch; and when Langford and I fell out
she came meddling with her witchcraft.  She
came as a White Hare.'

'As a what?'

'As a White Hare,' answered Hillary, drawing
forth a kerchief and blowing his nose, and
in the act of blowing fixing the lawyer over
the top of it with his eyes, and saying through
it, 'My Larry saw her.'

Mr. Physick uttered a sigh of disappointment,
and said ironically, 'This is not a case
for me.  You must consult the White Witch
in Exeter.'

'Can you do nothing?'

'Certainly not.  If that is all you have
come about, you have come on a fool's errand.'

But this was not all.  Nanspian wanted to
raise the money for paying his brother-in-law.
Mr. Physick was better able to accommodate
him in this.  'There is another matter I want
to know,' said Nanspian.  'Taverner Langford
threatens to disinherit me and my Larry.  Can
he do it?  I reckon not.  You have the
settlements.  The threat is idle and vain as the
wind, is it not?'

'Langford is settled property in tail male,'
answered the solicitor.  'Should Mr. Langford
die unmarried and without male issue, it will
fall to you, and if you predecease, to your son.'

'There!' exclaimed Hillary, drawing a
long breath, 'I knew as much; Larry and I
are as sure of Langford as if we had our
feet on it now.  He cannot take it from us.
We could, if we chose, raise money on it.'

'Not so fast, Mr. Nanspian.  What aged
man is your brother-in-law?'

'Oh, between fifty-eight and sixty.'

'He may marry.'

'Taverner marry!' exclaimed Hillary; he
put his hands on his knees and laughed till he
shook.  'Bless me! whom could Taverner
marry but Mrs. Veale?—and he won't take her.
He is not such a fool as to turn a servant under
him into a mistress over him.  But let him.  I
give him Mrs. Veale, and welcome.  May I be
at the wedding.  Why, she will not see this
side of forty, and there is no fear of a family.'

'He may take some one else.'

'She would not let him.  She holds him
under her thumb.  Besides, there are none
suitable about our neighbourhood.  At
Swaddledown are only children.  Farmer Yelland's
sister at Breazle is in a consumption, and at
the rectory Miss Robbins is old.  No, Mr. Physick,
there is absolutely no one suitable for him.'

'Then he may take some one unsuitable.'





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.. _`CORYNDON'S CHARITY`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


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   CORYNDON'S CHARITY.

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The opinion gained ground in Bratton Clovelly
that it was a pity two such good friends and
worthy brothers-in-law should quarrel and be
drawn on into acts of violence and vengeance,
as seemed probable.  As the Coryndon feoffee
dinner drew on, expression was given to their
opinion pretty freely, and the question was
debated.  What would happen at the dinner?
Would the enemies refuse to meet each other?
In that case, which would cede to the other?
Perhaps, under the circumstance, the dinner
would not take place, and the profits, not being
consumed, would be given to the widows.  That
might establish a dangerous precedent.  Widows
in future years might quote this; and resist the
reintroduction of the dinner.  Fortunately
widows, though often violent and noisy, are
not dangerous animals, and may be
browbeaten with impunity.

Nevertheless a general consensus of opinion
existed among the overseers, and way-wardens,
acting, ex-, and prospective, that the dinner must
not be allowed to fall through even for one
year.  Englishmen, with their habitual caution,
are very much afraid of establishing a precedent.

Hillary Nanspian was spoken to on the
subject, and he opined that the dinner must
be held.  'If Taverner Langford is ashamed to
meet me, let him stay away.  I shall pay him
every penny I owed, and can look him in the
face.  We shall be merrier without him.'

Notice of the dinner was sent to Langford;
he made no reply, but from his manner it was
concluded that he would not attend.

The day of the Trust dinner arrived.
Geese had been killed.  Whiff! they could be
smelt all down the village to leeward of the
inn, and widows came out and sniffed up all
they were likely to receive of Coryndon's
Charity.  Beef was being roasted.  Hah!
The eye that peeped into the kitchen saw it
turning and browning before the great wood
fire, and when the landlord's wife was not
talking, the ear heard the frizzle of the fat and
the drop, drop into the pan beneath.

What was that clinking?  Men's hearts
danced at the sound.  A row of tumblers was
placed on the dresser, and spoons set in them.
In the dairy a maid was taking cream, golden
as the buttercup, off the pans to be
eaten—believe it, non-Devonians, if you can, gnash
your teeth with envy and tear your hair—to be
eaten with plum-pudding.  See! yonder stands
a glass vessel containing nutty-white celery in
it, the leaves at the top not unfolded, not
green, but of the colour of pale butter.  Hard
by is a plate with squares of cheese on it, hard
by indeed, for, oh—what a falling off is
there!—the Devon cheese is like board.

About the door of the 'Ring of Bells' was
assembled a knot of men in their Sunday best,
with glossy, soaped faces.  They were
discussing the quarrel between the brothers-in-law
when the Rector arrived.  He was a bland
man, with a face like a suet-pudding; he shook
hands cordially with every one.

'We've been talking, Parson, about the
two who have got across.  'Tis a pity now,
is it not?'

Parson Robbins looked from one to another,
to gather the prevailing opinion, before he
committed himself.  Then, seeing one shake
his head, and hearing another say, 'It's a bad
job,' he ventured to say, 'Well, it may be so
considered.'  He was too cautious a man to
say 'I consider it so;' he could always edge
out of an 'It may be so considered.'  Parson
Robbins was the most inoffensive of men.  He
never, in the pulpit, insisted on a duty lest he
should offend a Churchman, nor on a doctrine
lest he should shock a Dissenter.  It was his
highest ambition to stand well with all men,
and he endeavoured to gain his point by
disagreeing with nobody and insisting on
nothing.

'I hear,' said Farmer Yelland, 'that the
two never meet each other and never speak.
They are waiting a chance of flying at each
other's throats.'

'Ah!' observed the Rector, 'so it has been
reported in the parish.'  He was too careful to
say 'reported to *me*.'

'Why, pity on us!' said a little cattle-jobber
with a squint; 'when folks who look
straight before them fall across, how am I to
keep straight with my eyes askew?'

Every one laughed at these words.  Harry
Piper, the speaker, was a general favourite,
because his jokes were level with their
comprehension, and he did not scruple to make a
butt of himself.  The sexton, a solemn man,
with such command over his features that not
a muscle twitched when a fly walked on his
nose, even he unbent, and creases formed
about his mouth.

'Now look here,' said Piper, 'if we don't
take the matter in hand these two churchwardens
will be doing each other a mischief.
Let us reconcile them.  A better day than this
for the purpose cannot be found.'

'Mr. Piper's sentiments are eminently
Christian,' said the Rector, looking round;
then qualifying his statement with, 'that is,
as far as I can judge without going further
into the matter.'

'Will Master Nanspian be here?' asked one.

'I know that he will,' answered the cattle-jobber,
'but not the other, unless he be fetched.'

'Well, let him be fetched.'

'That is,' said the Parson, 'if he will come.'

There was then, leaning against the inn
door, a ragged fellow with a wooden leg, and
a stump of an arm into which a hook was
screwed—a fellow with a roguish eye, a bald
head, and a black full beard.  Tom Crout
lived on any little odd jobs given him by the
farmers to keep him off the parish.  He had
lost his leg and arm through the explosion
of a gun when out poaching.  Now he drove
bullocks to pasture, cows to be milked, sheep
to the common, and wired rabbits.  This was
the proper man to send after Taverner Langford.

'You may ride my pony,' said the cattle-jobber,
'and so be quicker on your way.'

'And,' said the guardian of the poor, 'you
shall dine on the leavings and drink the heel-taps
for your trouble.'

As he went on his way, Crout turned over
in his mind how he was to induce Taverner
Langford to come to the dinner.  Crout was
unable to comprehend how any man needed
persuasion to draw him to goose, beef, and
plum-pudding.

On his way he passed Hillary Nanspian,
in his badger-skin waistcoat with red lappets,
riding his strawberry mare.  He was on his
way to the 'Ring of Bells.'

'Whither away, Crout?' shouted Hillary.

'Out to Broadbury, after Farmer Burneby's
sheep that have broken.'

Then he rode on.

When he reached the gate of Langford,
he descended.  At once the black Newfoundland
house-dog became furious, and flew at
him, and with true instinct snapped at the calf
of flesh, not the leg of wood.  Tom Crout
yelled and swore, and made the best of his
way to the door, where Taverner and
Mrs. Veale appeared to call off the dog.

'It is a shame to keep dogs like that,
vicious brutes ready to tear a Christian to
tatters.'

'I didn't suppose you was a Christian,
hearing your heathenish oaths,' said Mrs. Veale;
'and as to the tatters, they were there before
the dog touched you.'

'The parson has sent me,' said Crout, 'and
he would not send me if I were not a Christian.
As for my tatters, if you will give me an old
coat, I'll leave them behind.  Please, Mr. Langford,
the feoffees and guests are at the "Ring
of Bells," and cannot begin without you.  The
beef is getting cold, and the goose is becoming
burnt.'

'Let them fall to.  The dinner is sure to
be good.'

'How can they, master, without you or
Mr. Nanspian?'

'Is he not there?'

'Not a speck of his fur waistcoat visible,
not a glimmer of his blue eye to be seen.
Ah, Mr. Langford, such a dinner!  Such goose,
with onion stuffing, and sage, and mint, and
marjoram!  I heard the butcher tell our landlord
he'd never cut such a sirloin in all his life
as that roasting for to-day; smells like a
beanfield, and brown as a chestnut!  As for the
plum-pudding, it is bursting with raisins!'

'That will suffice,' said Taverner, unmoved
by the description.  'I do not intend to go.'

'Not intend to go!  Very well, then, I
shall have to go to Chimsworthy and bring
Mr. Nanspian.  I'll tell him you haven't the
heart to meet folks.  You prefer to hide your
head here, as if you had committed something
of which you are ashamed.  Very well.  When
he hears that you durstn't show, he will go
and swagger at the "Ring of Bells" without
you.'

'I do not choose to meet him.  He may be
there after all.'

'Not a bit.  When I left all were
assembled, and he was not there.  May I be
struck dead if he was there!  The parson said
to the rest, "Whatever shall we do without
Master Langford, my own churchwarden, so to
speak—my right hand, and the representative
of the oldest and grandest family in the place.
That is a come-down of greatness if he don't
turn up at the feoffees' dinner."  May I die on
the doorstep if these were not his very words!
Then he went on, "I did reckon on Master
Langford to be here to keep me in
countenance.  Now here I lay down my knife and
fork, and not a bite will I eat, nor a cut will I
make into that bubbling, frizzling, savoury
goose, unless Taverner Langford be here.  So
go along, Crout, and fetch him."'

'Is that true?' asked Langford, flattered.

'May my remaining leg and arm wither if
it be not!  Then Farmer Burneby up and
said, "He durstn't come, he's mortally afraid
of meeting Hillary Nanspian."'

'Did he say that?' asked Taverner, flushing.

'Strike me blind if he did not!'

'I'll come.  Go on, I will follow.'

When Crout returned to the 'Ring of Bells,'
he found Nanspian there, large and red.  The
cripple slipped up to Piper and whispered,
'He'll be here, leave a place opposite the
other, and fall to at the beef.'

'The fly,' observed the parson to a couple
of farmers—'the fly is the great enemy of the
turnip.  It attacks the seed-leaves when they
appear.'

'That is true.'

'Now, what you want with turnips is a
good shower after the seed has been sown,
and warmth to precipitate the growth at the
critical period.  At least, so I have been
informed.'

'It is so, Parson.'

'In wet weather the fly does not appear, or
the plant grows with sufficient rapidity to
outstrip the ravages of the fly.'

'To be sure, you are quite right, sir.'

This fact of the turnip-fly was one of the
few scraps of agricultural information Parson
Robbins had picked up, and he retailed it at
tithe, club, and feoffee dinners.

Then the landlord appeared at the inn
door, and announced, 'All ready,
gentlemen! sorry you have been kept waiting!'

At the moment that Nanspian and the
parson entered, Langford arrived and went
after them, without seeing the former, down
the passage to the long room.  The passage
was narrow, tortuous, and dark.  'Wait a bit,
gentlemen,' said the host, 'one at a time
through the door; his Reverence won't say
grace till all are seated.'

'Here is a place, Master Langford,' said
Piper, 'on the right hand of the parson, with
your back to the window.  Go round his
chair to get at it.'

Taverner took the place indicated.  Then
the Rector rapped on the table, and all rose for
grace.

As Langford rose he looked in front of him,
and saw the face of Nanspian, who sat on the
Rector's left.  Hillary had not observed him
before, he was looking at the goose.  When he
raised his eyes and met the stare of Taverner,
his face became mottled, whereas that of his
brother-in-law turned white.  Neither spoke,
but sank into his place, and during dinner
looked neither to right, nor left, nor in front.
Only once did Taverner slyly peep at Hillary,
and in that glimpse he noted his altered
appearance.  Hillary was oldened, fallen
away, changed altogether for the worse.
Then he drew forth his blue cotton
pocket-handkerchief and cleared his nose.  Neither
relished his dinner.  The goose was burnt and
flavourless, the beef raw and tough, the
potatoes under-boiled, the apple-tart lacked
cloves, the plum-pudding was over-spiced, the
cheese was tough, and the celery gritty.  So,
at least, they seemed to these two, but to these
two alone.  When the spirits were produced
all eyes were turned on Hillary Nanspian, but
he neither rose nor spoke.  Taverner Langford
was also mute.  'Propose the health of the
chairman,' whispered Piper into Hillary's ear.

'I am people's churchwarden,' answered
he sullenly.

'Propose the health of the chairman,' said
his right hand neighbour to Langford.

'I am a Dissenter,' he replied.

Then the Rector stood up and gave the
health of the King, which was drunk with all
honours.

'Shall we adjourn to the fire?' asked he;
'each take his glass and pipe.'

Then up rose the Rector once again, and
said, 'Ahem!  Fill your glasses, gentlemen.
Mr. Langford, I insist.  No shirking this toast.
You, Mr. Nanspian, need no persuasion.  Ahem!'

Piper came round and poured spirits into
Langford's glass, then hot water.

'Ahem!' said the Rector.  'I have been
in your midst, I may say, as your spiritual
pastor, set—set—ahem!—under you these forty
years, and, I thank heaven, never has there
been a single discord—ahem!—between me
and my parishioners.  If I have not always
been able to agree with them—ahem!—I
have taken care not to disagree with them!
I mean—I mean, if they have had their
opinions, I have not always seen my way to
accepting them, because I have studiously
avoided having any opinions at all.
Now—ahem!—I see a slight jar between my nearest
and dearest neighbours,' he looked at
Langford and Nanspian.  'And I long to see it
ended.'  ('Hear, hear, hear!')  'I express the
unanimous opinion of the entire parish.  On
this one point, after forty opinionless years,
I venture—ahem!—to have an opinion, a
decided opinion, an emphatic opinion'—(immense
applause)—'I call upon you all, my
Christian brethren, to unite with me in healing
this unseemly quarrel—I mean this quarrel:
the unseemliness is in the quarrel, not in the
quarrellers.'

Langford drank his gin-and-water not knowing
what he did, and his hand shook.  Nanspian
emptied his glass.  Both looked at the door:
there was no escape that way, the back of
burly Farmer Brendon filled it.  All eyes
were on them.

'Come now,' said Piper, 'what is the sense
of this quarrel?  Are you women to behave in
this unreasonable manner?  You, both of you,
look the worse for the squabble.  What is it
all about?'

'Upon my word, I do not know,' said
Nanspian.  'I never did Langford a hurt in my
life.  Why did he insult me?'

'I insult him!' repeated Taverner.  'Heaven
knows I bore him no ill-will, but when he
dared to address me as——'

'I swear by——' burst in Hillary.

'Do not swear!' said Langford, hastily.
'Let your yea be yea.'  The ice was broken
between them.  One had addressed the other.
Now they looked each other full in the face.
Hillary's eyes moistened.  Taverner's mouth
twitched.

'Why did you employ offensive language
towards me?' asked Hillary.

'I!' exclaimed Taverner; 'no, it was you
who addressed me in words I could not
endure.'

The critical moment had arrived.  In
another moment they would clasp hands, and
be reconciled for life.  No one spoke, all
watched the two men eagerly.

'Well, Taverner,' said Hillary, 'you know
I am a hot man, and my words fly from my
tongue before I have cooled them.'

'I dare say I may have said what I never
meant.  Most certainly what I did say was not
to be taken seriously.'

'But,' put in Parson Robbins, 'what *was* said?'

'Judge all,' exclaimed Taverner.  'I was
angry, and I called Hillary Nanspian a
long-tailed Cornish ourang-outang.'

The moment the words were uttered, he
was aware that he had made a mistake.  The
insult was repeated in the most public possible
manner.  If the words spoken in private had
exasperated Hillary, how much more so now!

Nanspian no sooner heard the offensive
words than he roared forth, 'And I—I said
then, and I repeat now, that you are nose-led,
tongue-lashed by your housekeeper,
Mrs. Veale.'  Then he dashed his scalding
rum-and-water in the face of his brother-in-law.





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.. _`A MALINGERER`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   A MALINGERER.

.. vspace:: 2

The time taken by the 'Vivid' over the journey
to and from the market towns was something
to be wondered at.  A good man is merciful to
his beast.  Certainly Oliver Luxmore was a
good man, and he showed it by his solicitude for
the welfare of the grey.  On Friday he drove
to Tavistock market at a snail's pace, to spare
the horse, because it had to make a journey on
the morrow to Launceston or Okehampton.
On Saturday he drove to market at a slug's
pace, because the grey had done such hard
work on the preceding day.  The road, as has
been said, was all up and down hill, and the
hills are as steep as house roofs.  Consequently
the travellers by the 'Vivid' were expected to
walk up the hills to ease the load, and to walk
down the hills lest the weight of the 'Vivid'
should carry the van over the grey.  The fare
one way was a shilling, the return journey
could be made for sixpence.  All goods, except
what might be carried on the lap, were paid for
extra.  As the man said who was conveyed
in a sedan-chair from which the bottom had
fallen out, but for the honour of the thing, he
might as well have walked.  Passengers by the
'Vivid' started at half-past six in the morning,
and reached the market town about half-past
eleven.  They took provisions with them, and
ate two meals on the way.  They also talked
their very lungs out; but the recuperative
power of their lungs was so great that they
were fresh to talk all the way home.  The van
left the town at four and reached Bratton at or
about nine.

A carrier must naturally be endowed with
great patience.  Oliver Luxmore was by
nature thus qualified.  He was easy-going,
gentle, apathetic.  Nothing excited him except
the mention of Coombe Park.  His business
tended to make him more easy-going and
patient than he was naturally.  He allowed
himself to be imposed upon, he resented nothing,
he gave way before every man who had a
rough, and every woman who had a sharp,
tongue.  He was cheerful and kindly.  Every
one liked him, and laughed at him.

One Saturday night, after his return from
Okehampton, Oliver was taking his supper.
The younger children were in bed, but Kate
was up, she had been to market that day with
her father.  Kate was a very pretty girl, sharp
eyed, sharp witted—with fair hair, a beautiful
complexion, and eyes blue and sparkling—turquoises
with the flash of the opal in them.
She was seventeen.  Her father rather spoiled
her.  He bought her ribbons and brooches
when the money was needed for necessaries.

'I brought Larry Nanspian back part of
the way with me,' said Oliver.  'His father
drove him into town, but the old man stayed
to drink, and Larry preferred to come on with me.'

'That was well of him,' said Honor, looking
up with a smile.

'We talked of the grey,' continued the
carrier.  'Larry was on the box with me.  I
put Kate inside, among the clucking,
clacking old women.  Larry asked me about the
grey, and I told him how that we had got her.
He shook his head, and he said, "Take care of
yourself, Luxmore, lest in running out of the
rain you get under the drip.  I don't believe
that Uncle Taverner is the man to do favours
for nothing."'

'Did he say that?' asked Honor.  'He
meant nothing by it—he was joking.'

'Of course he was joking.  We joke a good
deal together about one thing or another.  He
is grown a fine fellow.  He came swinging
up to me with his thumbs in his armholes and
said, "Mr. Luxmore, Honor won't be able to
withstand me in this waistcoat.  She'll fall
down and worship."'

'Did he say that?' asked Honor, and her
brow flushed.

'Tush! you must not take his words as
seriously meant.  He had got a fine satin
waistcoat to-day, figured with flowers.  He
pulled his coat open to show it me.  I suppose
he thought the satin waistcoat would draw
you as a scarlet rag will attract rabbits.'

Honor turned the subject.

'What more did he say about Mr. Langford?'

'Oh, nothing particular.  He told me he
was sorry that his father could not spare us a
horse, to keep us out of the clutches of his
uncle Taverner.  Then he laughed and said
you had warned him not to run into debt, and
yet had led the way yourself.'

'Run into debt, how?'

Oliver evaded an answer.  'In going up
the hills, Kate and he walked together.  He
got impatient at last, and walked on by himself,
and we never caught him up again.'

Honor did not look up from her work.
She was mending some clothes of one of the
children.

'He asked me a great deal about you,'
said Kate.  'He said it was a shame that you
should stick at home and never go to market,
and see life.'

'How can I, with the house to look after?
When you are a little more reliable, Kate, I
may go.  I cannot now.'  Suddenly they
heard a loud, deep voice at the door.

'Halloo! what a climb to the cock-loft.'

They looked startled to the door, and saw
a man standing in it, with military trousers on
his legs, and his hands in his pockets, watching
them, with a laugh on his face.

'You have some supper!  That's well.
I'm cussed hungry.  Walked from Tavistock.
Why weren't you there to-day, father?'

'It is Charles!' exclaimed Luxmore, springing
to his feet, and upsetting the table as he
did so—that the cyder jug fell and was broken,
and spilt its contents, and some plates went to
pieces on the floor.

'Charlie, welcome home!  Who would
have expected to see you?  Where have you
been?  What have you done?  Have you
served your time?  Have you got your
discharge?  Lord, how glad I am to see you!'

Charles Luxmore, who entered the cottage,
was a tall man, he looked ragged and wretched.
His shoes were worn out, and his feet, stockingless,
showed through the holes.  His military
trousers were sun-scorched, worn, badly
patched, and in tatters about the ankles.  His
coat was split down the back, brown where
exposed to the brunt of the weather.  His
whole appearance was such, that one who met
him in a lonely lane would be sensible of
relief when he had passed him, and found
himself unmolested.

'Halloo! there,' said he, drawing near to
the fallen table, picking up the broken jug, and
swearing, because the last drops of cyder were
out of it.  'What are you staring at me for, as
if I were a wild beast escaped from a caravan?
Curse me, body and bones, don't you know me?'

'Charles!' exclaimed Honor, 'you home,
and in this condition?'

'Dash it! is that you, Honor?  How you
have shot up.  And this you, Kate?  Thunder! what
a pair of pretty girls you are.  Where are
the rest of the panpipes?  Let me see them, and
get my greeting over.  Lug them out of bed
that I may see them.  Curse it, I forget how
many of them there are.'

'Seven, beside our two selves,' said Honor.
'Nine in all.'

'Let me see them.  Confound it!  It must
be got over.'

'The rest are in bed,' said Honor.  'They
must not be disturbed out of their sleep.'

'Never mind.  Where is the old woman?'

'I do not know whom you mean, Charles.'

'Mother.  Where is she?'

'Dead, Charles.'

He was silent for a moment.  Then he
said, 'Fetch the little devils, I want to see
them.'

'Charles, for shame!' exclaimed Honor,
reddening and frowning, and her brown eyes
flashed an angry light.

'Tut, tut! soldier's talk.  You won't find
my tongue wear kid gloves.  I meant no harm.'

'You shall not speak of the children in
such terms,' said Honor, firmly.

'Halloo!  Do you think I will stand being
hectored by you?'

'There, there,' threw in Oliver Luxmore,
'the boy meant nothing by it.  He has got
into a careless way of expressing himself.  That
is all.'

'That is all,' laughed Charles, 'and now I
have a true soldier's thirst, and I am not a dog
to lap up the spilt liquor off the floor.  What
is it, beer?  Is there any brandy in the
house?'

'You can have a drop of cyder,' said Honor,
with frowning brows.  'Or, if that does not
please you, water from the spring.  The cyder
is middling, but the water is good.'

'No water for me.  Fetch me the cyder.'

'There is a hogshead in the cellar under
the stairs in the back kitchen,' said Honor.
'Fill yourself a mug of it.'

'You can fetch it for me.'

'I can do so, but I will not,' answered
Honor.  'Charles, I will not stir hand or foot
for a man who will speak of his innocent little
brothers and sisters as you have done.'

'Take care of yourself!' exclaimed Charles,
looking at her threateningly.

She was not overawed by his look.  Her
cheeks glowed with inner agitation.  'I am
not afraid of you,' she said, and reseated
herself at her work.

'I will fetch the cyder,' offered the
good-natured Kate, springing into the back
kitchen.

'That is a good, dear girl,' said Charles;
'you and I will be friends, and stand out
against that dragon.'

He took the mug.  'Pshaw! this is not
sufficient.  I am thirsty as desert sand.  Fetch
me a jugful.'

'There is not another jug in the house,'
said Kate.  'I will fill the mug again.'

Just then at the kitchen door appeared a
white figure.

'Whom have we here?' exclaimed Charles.

'Joe! what has brought you down?  Go
to bed again,' said Honor.

'Not a bit; come here.  I am the eldest
in the house.  I take the command by virtue
of seniority,' shouted Charles, and springing
from the chair, he caught the little white
figure, brought the child in, and seated him on
his knee.  'I am your brother,' said Charles.
'Mind this.  From henceforth you obey me,
and don't heed what Honor says.'

Honor looked at her father.  Would he
allow this?  Oliver made no remark.

'What is your name, young jack-a-napes?'
asked Charles, 'and what brings you
here?'

'I am Joseph, that is Joe,' answered the
little boy.  'I heard your voice, and something
said about soldiers, and I crawled downstairs to
see who you were.'

'Let the child go to bed,' asked the father.
'He will catch a chill in his nightshirt.'

'Not he,' replied Charles.  'The kid wants
to hear what I have to say, and you are all on
pins, I know.'

'Well, that is true,' said Oliver Luxmore.
'I shall be glad to learn what brings you
home.  You have not served your full time.
You have not bought yourself out.  If you
were on leave, you would be in uniform.'

'Oh, I'm out of the service,' answered
Charles.  'Look here.'  He held out his right
hand.  The forefinger was gone.  'I cut it off
myself, because I was sick of serving his
Majesty, tired of war and its hardships.  I felt
such an inextinguishable longing for home,
that I cut off my trigger finger to obtain my
discharge.'

'For shame, Charles, for shame!' exclaimed Honor.

'Oh? you are again rebuking me!  You
have missed your proper place.  You should
be army chaplain.  I've been in India, and
I've fought the Afghans.  Ah!  I've been
with General Pollock, and stormed and looted
Cabul.'

'You have been in battle!' exclaimed little Joe.

'I have, and shot men, and run my bayonet
into a dozen naked Afghans.'  He laughed
boisterously.  'It is like sticking a pig.  That
sack of Cabul was high fun.  No quarter given.
We blew up the great bazaar,
crack! boom! high into the air, but not till we had cleared
away all the loot we could.  And, will you
believe it? we marched away in triumph,
carrying off the cedar doors of Somnath, as
Samson with the gates of Gaza.  Lord
Ellenborough ordered it, and we did it.  But they
were not the original gates after all, but copies.
Then, damn it, I thought——'

'Silence,' said Honor indignantly.  'With
the child on your knee will you curse and
swear?'

'An oath will do no harm, will it, Joe?'
asked the soldier, addressing the little boy, who
sat staring in his face with wonder and
admiration.  'A good oath clears the heart, as a
cough relieves a choking throat, is it not so,
Joe? or as a discharge of guns breaks a
waterspout, eh?'  The little boy looked from
his brother to his sister.  It was characteristic
of the condition of affairs in the house that he
did not look to his father.

'I don't know, brother Charles,' answered
he.  'Honor would not allow it, she says it is
wicked.'

'Oh, she!' mocked the soldier.  'I suppose
you are under petticoat government still, or
have been.  Never mind, Joe.  Now that I am
come home you shall take orders from me, and
not from her.'

'Joe,' said Honor sternly, 'go at once
to bed.'

'He shall stay and hear the rest of the
story.  He shall hear how I lost my finger.'

The child hesitated.

Then Honor said gravely, 'Joe, you will do
that which you know to be right.'

At once the little boy slipped from his
brother's knee, ran to Honor, threw his arms
round her neck, kissed her on both cheeks, and
ran away, upstairs.

'So, so,' said Charles, 'open war between
us!  Well, sister, you have begun early.  We
shall see who will obtain the victory.'

'I don't think Honor need fear a soldier
who cuts off his finger to escape fighting,' said
Kate.

'What, you also in arms against me?' exclaimed
Charles, turning on the younger sister.

'You asked Joe if he were under petticoat
government, and sneered at him for it; but you
seem to be valiant only when fighting
petticoats,' retorted Kate.

'I'm in a wasp's nest here,' laughed Charles.

'Never mind Kate,' said Oliver, 'she has
a sharp tongue.  Tell us further about your
finger.'

'I lost more than my finger—I lost prize
money and a pension.  As I told you, I was
weary of the service, and wanted to get home.
I thought I should do well with all the loot
and prize-money, and if I were wounded also
and incapacitated for service, I should have a
pension as well; so I took off my finger with an
axe, and tried to make believe I was hurt in
action.  But the surgeon would not allow it.
I got into trouble and was discharged with the
loss of my prize-money as a malingerer.'

'You are not ashamed to tell us this?'
exclaimed Honor.

'It was a mistake,' said Charles.

'We are ashamed to sit and listen to you,'
said Honor, with an indignant flash of her eyes,
and with set brows.  'Come, Kate, let us to
bed and leave him.'

'Good night, malingerer,' said Kate.





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.. _`CHARLES LUXMORE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CHARLES LUXMORE.

.. vspace:: 2

The next day was Sunday.  Charles lay in bed,
and did not appear to breakfast.  Oliver
Luxmore, Kate, and the younger children were
dressed for church.  Honor remained at home
alternately with Kate on Sunday mornings to
take care of Tempie, the youngest, and to cook
the dinner.  This was Honor's morning at home.

Oliver Luxmore stood in doubt, one
moment taking his Sunday hat, then putting
it back in its card box, then again changing
his mind.

Before they started, Charles swaggered into
the kitchen, and asked for something to eat.

'Where are you all going to, you crabs, as
gay as if fresh scalded?' asked Charles.

'This is Sunday,' answered his father, 'and
I was thinking of taking them to church; but if
you wish it, I will remain at home.'

'Suit yourself,' said Charles, contemptuously,
'only don't ask me to go with you.  I should
hardly do you credit in these rags, and the
parson would hardly do me good.  In India
there were four or five religions, and where
there is such a choice one learns to shift without
any.'

'What had I better do?' asked Oliver
turning to Honor.

'Go to church with the children, father.  I
will remain with Charles.'

'I am to have your society, am I?' asked the
soldier.  'An hour and a half of curry, piping
hot!  Well, I can endure it.  I can give as well
as take.  Let me have a look at you, Kate.  A
tidy wench, who will soon be turning the heads
of the boys, spinning them like tee-totums.
Let me see your tongue.'  Kate put out her
tongue, then he chucked her under the chin and
made her bite her tongue.  The tears came
into her eyes.

'Charles! you have hurt me.  You have
hurt me very much.'

'Glad to hear it,' he said, contemptuously.
'I intended to do it.  The tongue is too long,
and too sharp, and demands clipping and
blunting.  I have chastised you for your
impertinence last night.'

'I suppose I had better go,' said Oliver.

'Certainly, father,' answered Honor.

Then, still hesitating at every step from the
cottage to the lane, Oliver went forth followed
by seven children.

Charles drew a short black pipe from his
pocket, stuffed it with tobacco, which he carried
loose about him, and after lighting it at the fire
on the hearth, seated himself in his father's
chair, and began to smoke.  Presently he drew
the pipe out of his mouth, and looking askance
at his sister, said 'Am I to forage for myself
this morning?'

Honor came quietly up to him, and standing
before him, said, 'I spoke harshly to you,
Charles, last night.  I was angry, when you
talked of the dear little ones offensively.  But
I dare say you meant no harm.  It is a bad
sign when the words come faster from the lips
than the thoughts form in the heart.  You shall
have your breakfast.  I will lay it for you on the
table.  I am afraid, Charles, that your service
in the army has taught you all the vices and
none of the virtues of the soldier.  A soldier is
tidy and trim, and you are dirty and ragged.
I am sorry for you; you are my brother, and I
have always loved you.'

'Blazes and fury!' exclaimed Charles;
'this is a new-fangled fashion of showing love.
I have been from home five years, and this is
the way in which I am welcomed home!  I
have come home with a ragged coat, and therefore
I am served with cold comfort.  If I had
returned with gold guineas I should have been
overwhelmed with affection.'

'Not so,' said Honor gravely.  'If you had
returned with a sound character we would
respect the rags; but what makes my heart
ache is to see, not the tattered jacket, but the
conscience all to pieces.  How long is it since
you landed?'

'Five or six months ago.'

'Where have you been since your return?'

'Where I could spend my money.  I did
bring something with me, and I lived on it
whilst it lasted.  It is not all gone yet.  Look
here.'  He plunged his hand into his trousers
pocket and jingled his coins carelessly in it.

'There!' said he, 'you will feel more
respect for me, and your love wake up, when
you see I have money still, not much, but still,
some.  Curse it, I was a fool not to buy you
a ribbon or a kerchief, and then you would
have received me with smiles instead of frowns.'

Honor looked him steadily in the face, out
of her clear hazel eyes.  'No, Charles, I want
no presents from you.  Why did not you
return to us at once?'

'Because I had no wish to be buried alive
in Bratton Clovelly.  Are you satisfied?  Here
I am at last.'

'Yes,' she repeated, 'here you are at last.
What are you going to do now you are here?'

'I don't know,' answered her brother with a
shrug.  Then he folded his arms, threw out his
legs, and leaned back in the chair.  'A fellow
like me, who has seen the world, can always
pick up a living.'

Honor sighed.  What had he learned?
For what was he fitted?

'Charles,' she said, 'this is your father's
house, and here you were born.  You have as
true a right to shelter in it as I.  You are
heartily welcome, you may believe that.  But
look about you.  We are not in Coombe Park.
Including you we make up twelve in this
cottage.  What we live on is what your father
earns by his carrying; but he is in debt, and
we have no money to spare, we cannot afford
to maintain idlers.'

'Take my money,' said Charles, emptying
his pocket oh the table.

'No,' answered Honor.  'For a week we
will feed you for nothing.  That money must be
spent in dressing you respectably.  By next
week you will have found work.'

'Maybe,' said the soldier.  'It is not every
sort of work that will suit me.  Any one want
a gamekeeper about here?'

'No, Charles, there is only Squire Impey in
this parish; besides, without your forefinger,
who would take you as a gamekeeper?'

'The devil take me.  I forgot that.'

'Curses again,' said Honor.  'You must
refrain your mouth before the children.'

'I have not gone to church,' said Charles
sullenly, 'because I didn't want to be preached
to; spare me a sermon at home.'

'Charles,' said Honor, 'I have hard work
to make both ends meet, and to keep the
children in order.  You must not make my work
harder—perhaps impossible.  If you remain
here, you will need my help to make you
comfortable and to put your clothes in order.
You will throw an additional burden on me,
already heavily weighted.  I do not grudge you
that.  But remember that extra work for an
additional member means less time for earning
money at basket-weaving.  We must come to
an understanding.  I do not grudge you the
time or the trouble, but I will only give them
to you on condition that you do not interfere
with my management of the children, and
that you refrain your tongue from oaths and
unseemly speech.'

Charles stood up, went to her, took her by
both ears, and kissed her.  'There, corporal,
that is settled.'

Honor resented the impertinence of laying
hold of her by both ears, but she swallowed
her annoyance, and accepted the reconciliation.

'I have a good heart,' said Charles, 'but it
has been rolled in the mud.'

'Give us the goodness, and wash off the
soil,' answered Honor.  Then she brought him
some bread-and-butter and milk.  'Charles,'
she said, 'I will see if I cannot find some of
father's clothes that will fit you.  I cannot
endure to see you in this condition.'

'Not suitable to the heir of Coombe Park,
is it?' laughed Charles.  'Is the governor as
mad on that now as of old?'

'Say nothing to him about Coombe Park, I
pray you,' urged Honor.  'It takes the nerve
out of his arms and the marrow from his
bones.  It may be that we have gentle blood
in us, or it may not.  I have heard tell that in
old times servants in a house took the names
of their masters.'

'I have always boasted I was a gentleman,
till I came to believe it,' said the soldier.
'You'd have laughed to hear me talk of
Coombe Park, and the deer there, and the
coaches and horses, and father as Justice of
Peace, and Deputy-Lieutenant, and all that sort
of thing, and his wrath at my enlisting as a
private.'

'I should not have laughed.  I should have cried.'

'And, Honor, I reckon it is the gentle
blood in my veins which has made a wastrel
of me.  I could never keep my money, I threw
it away like a lord.'

Honor sighed.  The myth of descent from
the Luxmores of Coombe Park had marred
her father's moral strength, and depraved her
brother's character.

'There they come, the little devils!'
shouted Charles, springing up and knocking
the ashes out of his pipe, which he put away
in his waistcoat pocket.

'Charles!' again remonstrated Honor, but
in vain.  Her elder brother was unaccustomed
to control his tongue.  There was a
certain amount of good nature in him, inherited
from his father, and this Honor thankfully
recognised; but he was like his father run to
seed.  Luxmore would have become the same
but for the strong sustaining character of his
daughter.

Charley went to the door, and stood at the
head of the steps.  Along the lane came Oliver
Luxmore with his children, Hillary junior and
Kate bringing up the rear.

'Now then, you kids, big and little!' shouted
Charles, 'see what I have got.  A handful of
halfpence.  Scramble for them.  Who gets
most buys most sweeties.'  Then he threw the
coppers down among the children.  The little
ones held up their hands, jumped, tumbled
over each other, quarrelled, tore and dirtied
their Sunday clothes, whilst Charles stood
above laughing and applauding.  Oliver
Luxmore said nothing.

'Come in, come in at once!' cried Honor,
rushing to the door with angry face.  'Charles,
is this the way you keep your promises?'

'I must give the children something, and
amuse myself as well,' said the soldier.

Honor looked down the road and saw Kate
with young Hillary Nanspian.  They were
laughing together.

'There now,' said Kate, as she reached the
foot of the steps, 'Honor, see the young fellow
who boasts he will make you fall down and
worship his waistcoat.'

'It was a joke,' said Larry, turning red.
He poked his hat up from his right, then from
his left ear, he was overcome with shame.

Honor's colour slightly changed at the
words of her sister, but she rapidly recovered
herself.

'So,' continued the mischievous Kate, 'you
have come round all this way to blaze your
new waistcoat in the eyes of Honor, because she
could not come to church to worship it?'

Young Nanspian looked up furtively at
Honor, ashamed to say a word in self-exculpation.

'Talk of girls giving themselves airs over
their fine clothes!' said Kate, 'men are as
proud as peacocks when they put on spring
plumage.'

'It serves you right, Mr. Larry,' said Honor,
'that Kate torments you.  Vanity must be
humbled.'

'I spoke in jest,' explained Hillary.  'All
the parish knows that when I joke I do not
mean what I say.  When a word comes to my
lips, out it flies, good or bad.  All the world
knows that.'

'All the world knows that,' she repeated.
'It is bad to wear no drag on the tongue, but
let it run down hill to a smash.  Instead of
boasting of this you should be ashamed of it.'

'I am not boasting,' he said, with a little
irritation.

'Then I misunderstood you.  When a man
has a fault, let him master it, and not excuse
himself with the miserable reason, that his fault
is known to all the world.'

'Come, Honor, do not be cross with me,'
he said, running up the steps, and holding out
his hand.

'I am not cross with you,' she answered,
but she did not give him her hand.

'How can I know that, if you will not
shake hands?'

'Because all the world knows I tell no lies,'
she answered coldly, and turned away.





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.. _`ON THE STEPS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE STEPS.

.. vspace:: 2

For a week Charles Luxmore made a pretence
of looking for work.  Work of various kind
was offered him, but none was sufficiently to
his taste for him to accept it.  He had still
money in his pocket.  He did not renew his
offer of it to Honor.  She had fitted him in a
suit of his father's clothes, and he looked
respectable.  He was often in the 'Ring of Bells,'
or at a public-house in a neighbouring parish.
He was an amusing companion to the young
men who met in the tavern to drink.  He had
plenty to say for himself, had seen a great
deal of life, and had been to the other side of
the world.  Thus he associated with the least
respectable, both old and young, the drunkards
and the disorderly.

He was not afflicted with bashfulness, nor
nice about truth, and over his ale he boasted of
what he had seen and done in India.  He said
no more about his self-inflicted wound; and
was loud in his declamation against the injustice
of his officers, and the ingratitude of his
country which cast him adrift, a maimed man,
without compensation and pension.  When he
had drunk he was noisy and quarrelsome;
and those who sat with him about the tavern
table were cautious not to fall into dispute
with him.  There was a fire in his eye which
led them to shirk a quarrel.

About a mile from the church in a new
house lived a certain Squire Impey, a
gentleman who had bought a property there, but
who did not belong to those parts.  No one
knew exactly whence he came.  He was a
jovial man, who kept hounds, hunted and
drank.  Charles went to him, and he was the
only man for whom he condescended to do
some work, and from whom to take pay; but
the work was occasional, Charles was an
amusing man to talk to, and Impey liked to
have a chat with him.  Then he rambled away
to Coombe Park, where he made himself so
disagreeable by his insolence, that he was
ordered off the premises.  His father and
brothers and sisters did not see much of him;
he returned home occasionally to sleep, and
when the mind took him to go to market, he
went in the van with his father.

Much was said in the place of the conduct
of Charles Luxmore—more, a great deal, than
came to the ears of Honor.  Oliver heard
everything, for in the van the parish was
discussed on the journey to market, and those
who sat within did not consider whether the
driver on the box heard what they said.  Oliver
never repeated these things to his eldest
daughter, but Honor knew quite enough of the
proceedings of Charles without this.  She spoke
to Charles himself, rebuked him, remonstrated
with him, entreated him with tears in her eyes
to be more steady; but she only made matters
worse; she angered him the more because he
knew that she was right.  He scoffed at her
anxiety about himself; he swore and burst
into paroxysms of fury when she reprimanded him.

'Do not you suppose,' said he, 'that I am
going to be brought under your thumb, like
father and the rest.'

Possibly she might have been more successful
had she gone to work more gently.  But
with her clear understanding she supposed that
every one else could be governed by reason,
and she appealed to his sense, not to his heart.
He must see, she argued, to what end this
disorderly life would lead, if she put it before
him nakedly.  She supposed she could prove
to him her sisterly affection in no truer way
than by rebuke and advice.

Although Honor's heart was full of womanly
tenderness, there was something masculine in
her character.  There could not fail to be.
Since her mother's death she had been the
strength of the house, to her all had held.
Circumstances had given her a hardness which
was not natural to her.

Charles vowed after each fresh contest
with Honor that he could not go near the
cottage again.  He would go elsewhere, out of
range of her guns; but he did not keep his
vow.  It was forgotten on the morrow.  Honor
was not a scold.  She had too good judgment to
go on rebuking and grumbling, but she spoke
her mind once, and acted with decision.  She
withstood Charles whenever his inconsiderate
good nature or his disorderly conduct threatened
to disturb the clocklike working of the
house, to upset the confidence the children had
in her, and to mar their simplicity.  She
encountered his violence with fearlessness.  She
never became angry, and returned words for
words, but she held to her decision with
toughness.  Her father was afraid of Charles, and
counselled his daughter to yield.  Opposition,
he argued, was unavailing, and would aggravate
unpleasantnesses.

Honor suffered more than transpired.  Her
brother's disrepute rankled in her heart.  She
was a proud girl, and though she placed no
store on her father's dreams of Coombe Park,
she had a strong sense of family dignity, and
she was cut to the quick when Charles's conduct
became the talk of the neighbourhood.  Never
a talker, she grew more than ever reserved.
When she went to or returned from church on
Sunday, she shunned acquaintances; she would
not linger for a gossip in the churchyard, or
join company with a neighbour in the lane.
She took a child by each hand, and with set
face, and brows sternly contracted, looking
neither right nor left, she went her way.
Brightness had faded from her face.  She was
too proud to show the humiliation she felt at
heart.  'Oh my,' said the urchins, 'bain't
Red Spider mighty stuck up!  Too proud to
speak to nobody, now, seeming.'

Honor saw little of young Larry.  Once or
twice he made as though he would walk home
with her from church, but she gave him no
encouragement; she held little Charity's hand, and
made Charity hold that of Martha, and kept
Charity and Martha between her and the young
man, breaking all familiar converse.  She had
not the heart to talk to him.

'You need not take on about Charles,' said
her father one day.  'Every one knows that you
are a good girl, and makes allowances for a
soldier.'

'Disorderly ways,' answered Honor, 'are
like infectious diseases.  When one has an
attack, it runs through the house.'

'Why do you not encourage folk to be
friendly?  You hold yourself aloof from all.'

Honor sighed.

'I cannot forget Charles, and the shame he
is bringing on us.  For me it matters little, but
it matters much to the rest.  The children will
lose sense of fear at bad language, lies and
bragging.  Kate is a pretty girl, and some decent lad
may take a fancy to her; but who would make a
maid his wife who had such a brother?'

'Oh! as for that, young Larry Nanspian is
after her.  You should see how they go on
together, tormenting and joking each other.'

Honor coloured and turned her face aside.
She said nothing for a minute, then with
composed voice and manner she went on.

'See the bad example set to Joe.  He tries his
wings to fly away from me, as is natural; boys
resist being controlled by the apron.  He sees
his elder brother, he hears him, he copies him,
and he will follow him down the road to
destruction.  We must get Joe away into service
unless we can make Charles go, which would
be the better plan of the two.'

'Charles has been away for some years.
We must not drive him out of the house now
we have him home again.'

'Father, I wish you would be firm with him.'

'I—I!' he shook his head, 'I cannot
be hard with the boy.  Remember what he has
gone through in India, in the wars.  Look at his
poor hand.  Home is a place to which a child
returns when no other house is open to it.'

Honor looked sadly at the carrier.  No
help was to be had from him.

'I suppose, father,' she said, 'that there
are rights all round.  If Charles comes home
claiming the shelter of our roof and a place at
our table, he is bound in some way.  He has
no right to dishonour the roof and disturb
the table.  I grudge him no pains to make
him comfortable, but I do expect he will not
make it impossible for me to keep the home
decent.'

'Of course, of course, Honor,' said the
carrier, rubbing his palms slowly between his
knees, and looking vacantly into the fire.
'That is reasonable.'

'And right,' Honor.  'And, father, you
should make a stand.  Now, all the
responsibility falls on me.'

'Oh, yes.  I will make a stand; certainly,
certainly,' said Luxmore.  'Now let us change
the subject.'

'No,' the girl.  'I cannot, and I
will not.  Charles must be made to conduct
himself properly.  I will not allow the little
ones to hear his profane talk, see his
devil-may-care ways.  Mother committed them to
me, and I will stand between them and evil.
If it comes to a fight, we shall fight.  All I
wish is that the fight not to be between
brother and sister.'  Her voice became hard,
her brows contracted, her face became pale
with intensity of feeling.

'There, there!' groaned Oliver Luxmore,
'don't make out matters worse they are.
A sheep looks as big as a cow in a fog.  You
see ghosts where I see thorn-trees.  Be gentler
with Charles, not so peremptory.  Men
will not be ordered about by women.  Charles
is not a bad boy.  There is meat on a trout as
well as bones.  All will come right in the end.'

Honor said no more.  Her eyes filled; she
stooped over her needlework to conceal them;
her hand moved quickly, but the stitches were
uneven.

'I will do something, I will indeed,' said
Luxmore, rising.  He took his hat and went
out, but returned quickly a few minutes later,
agitated, and went through the room, saying
hastily, 'Honor! he is coming, and—I think—drunk.'

Then he escaped into the back kitchen
and out into the paddock in the rear where he
kept his horse.  That was all the help Honor
was likely to get from him—to be forewarned.

Next moment two of the children flew up
the steps frightened and heated.

'O, Honor!  Charlie is tight!'

Honor stood up, folded her needlework,
put it aside, and went to the door.

'Children,' she said, 'go behind into the
field to father.'  Then she went to the head of
the steps and looked down the lane.

She saw her brother, coming on with a
lurching walk, holding a stick, followed by a
swarm of school-children, recently dismissed,
who jeered, pelted him, and when he turned
to threaten, dispersed to gather again and
continue tormenting.  Charles was not thoroughly
drunk, but he was not sober.  Honor's
brow became blood-red for a moment, and
her hand trembled on the rail; but the colour
left her forehead again, and her hand was firm
as she descended the steps.

At the sight of Honor Luxmore the children
fell back, and ceased from their molestations.

'Halloa, Honor!' shouted Charles, staggering
to the foot of the steps.  'A parcel of
gadflies, all buzz and sting!  I'll teach 'em to
touch a soldier!  Let me pass, Honor, and
get away from the creatures.'

'No, Charles,' answered his sister, 'you do
not pass.'

'Why not?'

'Because I will not let you—drunk.'

'I am not drunk, not at all.  It is
you who are in liquor.  Let me pass.'  He
put his hand on the rail, and took a step up.

'You shall not pass!' she spoke coolly,
resolutely.

'Curse you for a pig-headed fool,' said
Charles, 'I'm not going to be stopped by such
as you.'

'Such as I shall stop you,' answered Honor.
'Shame on you to dishonour the steps by which
our mother went down to her burial!  Verily,
I saw her in my dreams, putting her hands
over her face in her grave to hide the sight of
her son.'

'Stand aside.'

'I will not budge!'

'I was a fool to come home,' muttered
Charles, 'to be pickled in vinegar like walnuts.
I wish I'd stayed away.'

'I wish you had, Charles, till you had
learned to conduct yourself with decency.'

'I will not be preached to,' he growled;
then becoming lachrymose, he said, 'I come
home after having been away, a wanderer, for
many years.  I come home from bloody wars,
covered with wounds, and find all against me.
This is a heartless world.  I did expect to find
love at home, and pity from my sister.'

'I love and pity you,' said Honor, 'but I
can only respect him who is respectable.'

'Let me pass!

'I will not, Charles.'

Then he laid hold of her, and tried to pull
her off the steps; but she had a firm grip of
the rail, and she was strong.

The children in the lane, seeing the scuffle,
drew near and watched with mischievous
delight.  Charles was not so tipsy that he did
not know what he was about, not so far gone
as to be easily shaken off.  Honor was obliged
to hold with both hands to the rail.  He
caught her round the waist, and slung her
from side to side, whilst oaths poured from his
lips.  In the struggle her hair broke loose, and
fell about her shoulders.

She set her teeth and her eyes glittered.
Fire flamed in her cheeks.  She was resolved
at all costs not to let him go by.  She had
threatened that she would fight him, and now,
before she had expected it, the fight was forced
upon her.

Finding himself foiled, unable to dislodge
her, and unable to pass her, Charles let go,
went down the steps, and kicked and thrust
at the support of the handrail, till he broke
it down.  Then, with a laugh of defiance,
he sprang up the steps brandishing the post.
But, when the rail gave way, Honor seized it,
and ascending before him, facing him, stepping
backward, she planted herself against the
cottage door, with the rail athwart it, behind
her, held with both hands, blocking the
entrance.

Charles was forced to stay himself with
the broken post he held, as he ascended the
steps.

'Honor!' he shouted, 'get out of the way
at once, I am dangerous when opposed.'

'Not to me,' she answered; 'I am not afraid
of you, drunk or sober.  You shall not cross
this doorstep.'

He stood eyeing her, with the post half
raised, threateningly.  She met his unsteady
gaze without flinching.  Was there no one to
see her there but the tipsy Charles and the
frightened children?  A pity if there was
not.  She was erect, dignified, with bosom
expanded, as her bare arms were behind her.
Her cheeks were brilliant with colour, her
fallen hair, raining about her shoulders, blazed
with the reel evening sun on it, her large hazel
eyes were also full of fire.  Her bosom heaved
as she breathed fast and hard.  She wore a
pale, faded print dress, and a white apron.
Below, her red ankles and feet were planted
firm as iron on the sacred doorstep of Home,
that she protected.

As Charles stood irresolute, opposite her,
the children in the lane, thinking he was about
to strike her, began to scream.

In a moment Hillary Nanspian appeared,
sprang up the steps, caught Charles by the
shoulder, struck the post out of his hand, and
dragging him down the steps, flung him his
length in the road.

'Lie there, you drunken blackguard!' he
said; 'you shall not stand up till you have
begged your sister's pardon, and asked
permission to sleep off your drink in the stable.'





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE LINNEY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN THE LINNEY.

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning, when Charles Luxmore awoke,
he found himself lying on the hay in the little
'linney,' or lean-to shed, of his father.  The
door was open and the sun streamed in,
intense and glaring.  In the doorway, on a bundle
of straw, sat his sister Honor, knitting.  The
sun was shining in and through her golden
hair, and the strong, fiery light shone through
her hands, and nose, and lips, crimson—or
seemed to do so.  Charles watched her for
some time out of his half-closed eyes, and
confessed to himself that she was a fine,
noble-looking girl, a girl for a brother to be proud of.
Her profile was to the light, the nose straight,
the lips sharp-cut, now expanded, then closed
tight, as moved by her thoughts, and her hair
shone like the morning clouds above the rising
sun.

'What! sentinel, keeping guard?' shouted
Charles, stretching his limbs and sitting up.
'In custody, am I?  Eh?'

'I have brought you your breakfast, Charles,'
answered Honor.  'There is a bowl of bread
and milk at your elbow.'

He was hungry, so he took the bowl.  His
hair was ruffled, and full of strands of hay; he
passed his hand over his face.

'I've had many a sleep in a barn before
now,' he said; 'there are worse bedrooms,
but there is one drawback.  You can't smoke
a pipe in one, or you run the chance of setting
fire to bed and house.  I did that once, and
had a near scratch to escape before the flames
roasted me.  Best was, I managed to escape
before any one was on the spot, so I was not
taken up; suspicion fell on a labourer who had
been dismissed a fortnight before.'

'And you said nothing?'

'Certainly not.  Do you take me for a fool?'

Honor's lips contracted, so did her brow.

Charles put the spoon into the bread and
milk, then, as he was setting it to his mouth,
burst out laughing, and spilt the sop over his
clothes.

'It was enough to make a fellow laugh,' he
explained.  'To see last night how scared
the kids were—Martha and Charity—and how
they cut along when they saw me coming home.'

'This is not a cause for laughter.  If you
had a heart you would weep.'

'I thought I caught sight of father.'

'You did, but he also turned and left you.
He could not face you as you were.  You
should be ashamed of yourself, Charles.'

'There, there!' he exclaimed impatiently,
'I will listen to no rebukes.  I was not drunk,
only a bit fresh.'

'Drunk or fresh matters little, you were
not in a fit condition to come home; and what
is more, I will not allow you to live in this
cottage longer.'

'You will not?'

'No, I will not.'

'Who is to prevent me?'

'I will.'

'You!—and what if I force you out of the
way, and go in and brave you?'

'You may go in, but I leave and take with
me all the little ones.  I have made up my
mind what to do; I can work and earn
enough to support the children, but I will
not—no, I will not let them see you and hear you
more.'

He looked at her.  Her face was resolute.
She was the girl to carry out her threat.

'I curse the day I came back to see your
wry face,' he muttered, and rolled over on his
side, away from her.

She made no reply.  Her lips quivered.
He did not see it, as he was no longer looking
at the door.

'Home is home,' he said, 'and go where
one will there are threads that draw one back
to it.'

Honor was softened.  'I am glad, Charles,
that you love home.  If you love it, respect
it.'

'Don't fancy that I came home out of love
for you.'

Honor sighed.

'I came home to see how father fared
about Coombe Park, and how mother was
flourishing.'

'Well, Charles, I am glad you thought of
father and mother.  You must have a right
heart, at ground.  Mother is dead, but I know
she shames over your bad conduct, and would
rejoice were you to mend.'

'How do you know that?  There is no
postal communication with the other world,
that I am aware of.'

'Never mind how I know it, but I do.'

'I was a fool to return.  There is no
kindness left in the world.  If there were I
should find a pinch at home, and pity from
you.'

'Charles, if I have been harsh with you,
it has been through your own fault.  God,
who reads all hearts, knows that I love you.
But then, I love all the rest of my brothers
and sisters, and now that mother is not here to
see after them, whom have they got but myself
to protect them?  I defend them as a cat
defends her kittens from a dog.  Charles, I am
sorry if I have been rough and unkind, and
unsisterly to you, but indeed, indeed I cannot
help myself.  Mother laid the duty on me
when she was dying.  She caught my hand—so,'
she grasped his wrist, and looking earnestly
in his face, said, 'and laid it on me to be
father and mother to the little ones.  I bent
over her and kissed her, and promised I would,
and she died with her hand still holding my
wrist.  I feel her grip there to this day,
whenever danger threatens the children.  When
you first came into the house, on your return,
I felt her fingers close as tight on me as when
she died.  She is always with me, keeping me
up to my duty.  I cannot help myself, Charles;
I must do what I know I ought, and I am
sure it is wrong for me to allow you to remain
with us longer.  Consider, Charles, what the life
is that you are now leading.'

'The life is all right,' said he moodily.  'I
can pay my way.  I have more brains than
any of these clodhoppers round, and can always
earn my livelihood.'

'Begin about it,' urged Honor.

'Time enough for that when the last
copper is gone wherewith to stop a pipe and
fill a can of ale.'

'O Charles!  Charles!' exclaimed his sister,
'your own coppers are spent long ago.  Now
you are smoking the clothes off your little
brothers' and sisters' backs, and drinking and
squandering the little money I have for feeding
them.  For shame!' the blood rushed into
her cheeks with sudden anger, as the injustice
of his conduct presented itself before her
vividly.  'Your father works that you may
idle!  It is a shame!  It is a sin.'

'Hold your tongue!'

'I will not hold my tongue,' she answered
hotly.  'You know how good, and gentle, and
forbearing father is, how ready he is to give
everything to his children, how unwilling to
say to any one a harsh word, and you take
advantage of his good nature; you, that should
be building up the house, are tearing it down
on the heads of all of us, father, Kate, Patience,
Joe, Willy—down to little Temperance, all, all!'

'That is right, Honor, comb his head with
a rake and the locks will lie smooth.'

Both Honor and Charles looked up.  Hillary
stood before them in the doorway.  The girl
had turned her face to her brother, and had
not observed his approach.  She was ill-pleased
at his arrival.  She wished no stranger to
inter-meddle with her family troubles.

'You here?' exclaimed Charles, starting to
one knee.  'Mr. Larry Nanspian, I owe you
something, and I shall repay it when the
occasion comes.  Not now, though I have a mind
to it, because I have a headache.  But I can
order you off the premises.  Get along, or I'll
kick you.'

Larry gave a contemptuous shrug with his
shoulders, and looked to Honor.

'Well, Honor, have you a good-morning for me?'

'I have ordered you off the premises,' shouted
Charles.

'Shall I pitch him into the road again?'
asked Larry of the girl.

Then Honor said, 'I did not ask your help
yesterday, and I do not seek your interference
now.'

Charles burst into a rude laugh.  'You
have your answer, Mr. Larry,' he said; 'about
face and away with you, and learn that there
is one girl in the place whose head you have
not turned.'

'If I am not wanted, of course I go,' said
Hillary, annoyed.

Then he walked away, whistling, with his
hands in his pockets.  'There are more cherries
on the tree than that on the topmost twig,' he
said to himself in a tone of dissatisfaction.  'If
Honor can't be pleasant others are not so particular.'

Larry Nanspian was a spoiled lad.  The
girls of Bratton made much of him.  He was a
fine young man, and he was heir to a good
estate.  The girls not only did not go out of
their way to avoid him, but they threw themselves,
unblushingly, ostentatiously in his path;
and their efforts to catch him were supported
by their mothers.  The girls hung about the
lanes after church hoping to have a word with
him, and sighed and cast him languishing
glances during Divine worship.  Their mothers
flattered him.  This was enough to make the
lad conceited.  Only Honor kept away from him.
She scarcely looked at him, and held him at a
distance.  The other girls accepted his most
impudent sallies without offence; he did not
venture a jest with Honor.  Her refusal of the
homage which he had come to regard as his
due piqued him, and forced him to think of
Honor more often than of any other girl in the
place.  He did not know his own mind about
her, whether he liked or whether he disliked
her, but he knew that he was chagrined at her
indifference.

Sulky, he sauntered on to Broadbury, towards
Wellon's Cairn.  The moor was stretched
around, unbroken by a hedge, or wall, or tree.
Before him rose the Tumulus.  'Hah!' he
said to himself, 'she was ready to talk to
me here; we were to have been good friends,
but that cursed White Hare brought us all ill-luck.'

As he spoke to his surprise he saw
something white emerge from the cutting in the
side.  He stood still, and in a moment Mrs. Veale
leaped out of the hollow, went over the
side, and disappeared down a dyke that ran in
the direction of Langford.

The apparition and disappearance were so
sudden, the sight of the woman so surprising,
that Hillary was hardly sure he was in his
senses, and not the prey to a hallucination.
He was made very uncomfortable by what he
had seen, and instead of going on towards the
mound, he turned and walked away.

'This is wonderful,' he said.  'Whatever
could take Mrs. Veale to Wellon's Cairn?  If it
were she—and I'd not take my oath on it—I'm
too bewildered to guess her purpose.'

He halted and mused.  'I always said she
was a witch, and now I believe it.  She's been
there after her devilries, to get some bones or
dust of the gibbeted man, or a link of his
chain, to work some further wickedness with.
I'll see Honor again, I will, for all the airs she
gives herself, and warn her not to sit on
Wellon's mount.  It's not safe.'





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LANGFORD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   LANGFORD.

.. vspace:: 2

Honor put on her hat and threw a kerchief
over her shoulders, and took her little brother
Willy by the hand.

'Whither are you going, Honor?' asked
Kate.

'I am going to find a place for Charles,
as he will not seek one for himself.  I have
turned him out of this house, and must secure
him shelter elsewhere.'

'Who will have him?' asked Kate
contemptuously.  She was less forbearing with
Charles than Honor.  Honor did not answer
immediately.

'Try Chimsworthy,' suggested Kate; 'Larry
would put in a word for us.'

Honor slightly coloured.  She put on her
red cloak.

'I cannot, Kate.  Larry and Charles have
quarrelled.'

'Larry bears no grudges.  I will answer
for him.'

'I do not wish to ask a favour of the
Nanspians.'

'Why not?'

Honor made no reply.  She clasped the
child's hand tightly and closed her lips.  Then,
without another word, she left the cottage.
Kate shrugged her shoulders.

Honor went slowly up the lane to Broadbury;
she did not speak to her little brother
her head was slightly bowed, she was deep in
thought, and hectic spots of colour tinged her
cheeks.

'What!  Honor, in your scarlet!' exclaimed
Larry.  She looked up in surprise.  He had
come up to Broadbury the second time
that day, drawn there irresistibly by desire to
see Honor.  He thought it probable, as the
day was fine, that she would go there with her
knitting.

'What has brought you to Broadbury in
this array, Honor?' asked Hillary, standing
before her, and intercepting her path.

'I am on my road to Langford,' answered
the girl with composure.

'Take care, Honor, take care where you
go.  There is a witch there, Mrs. Veale; if you
get in her bad books you will rue it.  I have
seen her to-day at Wellon's Cairn gathering
the dead man's dust, out of which to mix some
hell-potion.'

Honor shook her head.

'It is true,' said Hillary earnestly; 'she
jumped and ran—and her ways were those of
that white hare we saw at the mound.
Nothing will now persuade me that she was not
that hare.  Do not go on, Honor; leave
Langford alone.  No luck awaits you there.'

'Nonsense, Larry, you cannot have seen
Mrs. Veale up here.'

'I tell you that I did.  I saw something
white hopping and running, and I am sure it
was she in the hole scooped by the
treasure-seekers.'

'What can she have wanted there?'

'What but the dust of old Wellon?  And
what good can she do with that?  None—she
needs it only for some devilry.  Do not go
near her, Honor; I have come here on purpose
to warn you that the woman is dangerous.'

'I must go on,' said Honor.  'It is kind of
you, Larry, but I have business which I must
do at Langford.  I have never harmed
Mrs. Veale, and she will not want to hurt me,
But now, Larry, let me say that I am sorry
if I offended you this morning.  I spoke
rather rough, because I was afraid of a quarrel
and a fight between you and Charles.  Do
not take it amiss.  Now do not stay me, I must
go forward.'

'I will let you go on one promise—that
you will not cross Mrs. Veale.'  He caught her
hand.

'How can I give offence to her?  She is
nothing to me, nor I to her.  You must really
make way, Larry.'

He shook his head.  'I don't like it,' he
said; but he could not further stay her.

Langford lies under the brow of Broadbury,
looking over the tossing sea-like expanse
of hill and dale.  It lies at a very considerable
elevation, nearly a thousand feet above the sea,
and to protect it from the weather is covered
with slate, as though mail-clad.  Few trees
stand about it affording shelter.  Honor walked
through the yard to the door and thrice knocked.
Very tardy was the reply.  Mrs. Veale opened
the door, and stood holding it with one hand,
barring the entrance with her body and the
other hand.  She was in a light cotton dress,
from which the colours had been washed.  Her
face, her eyes, her hair had the same bleached
appearance.  Her eyelashes were white,
overhanging faded eyes, to which they gave a
blinking uncertain look.

'What do you want?' asked the housekeeper,
looking at her with surprise and with
flickering eyes.

'I have come to see Mr. Langford,'
answered Honor; 'is your master at home?'

'My *master*, oh yes!' with a sneer, 'my
master is at home—my mistress not yet.  Oh
no! not yet.'

'I want to see him.'

'You do?  Come, this is sharp, quick work.
You follow one on another as April on March.'

Honor did not understand her.  She
thought the woman was out of her mind.  She
made no reply, but looking firmly at her, said,
'I will go into the kitchen and sit down till your
master is disengaged.  Is he in the house now?'

'You know he is, and you know who is
with him.'

Honor drew her brother after her, and
entered.  She was too proud to give the
woman words.

'What do you want?  Where are you
going?' asked the housekeeper, standing aside
to let Honor pass, but casting at her a look so
full of malevolence, that Honor turned down
her thumb in her palm instinctively to counteract
the evil eye.  Honor took a kitchen chair
and seated herself.  'I will wait here,' she
said, 'till Mr. Langford can see me.'

Mrs. Veale stood, still holding the door,
looking at her, her white face quivering, her
eyes flickering.  The child, startled, crept close
to his sister, and clung to her.

Mrs. Veale came forward, without removing
her eyes from the girl.  'Take care!'
she said in a husky voice.  'Take care! you are
not here yet.'

Then Honor laughed.

'Not here, Mrs. Veale?  What do you
mean?  I am here.'

Before the housekeeper could speak again
men's voices were audible in the passage, and,
to her astonishment, Honor recognised that of
her father.  She rose at once, and confronted
him and Taverner Langford as they entered the
kitchen.

'What—you here?' exclaimed Oliver Luxmore
with undisguised astonishment.  'Why,
Honor, what in the world has drawn you to
Langford?  I did not know that you and
Mrs. Veale were friends.'

'I have come to speak to Mr. Langford,'
was her reply, spoken quietly; 'but I am
glad, father, that you are here, as I should
prefer to speak before you.  May we go into the
parlour?'

She looked at Mrs. Veale, as much as to say
that she did not care to speak before witnesses.

'Mrs. Veale,' said Langford, with a sharp
tone, 'I heard steps from the parlour door two
minutes ago.  I object to listeners at key-holes.
Do you understand?'

He did not wait for an answer, but turned
and led the way down the passage he and
Luxmore had just emerged from.

Little Willy uttered a cry.  'Don't leave
me with the old woman, please, please, Honor!'

'You shall come with me,' answered the
girl, and she drew the child with her into the
parlour.

'Here we are,' said Taverner, shutting the
door.  'Take a seat, take a seat!  The little
boy can find a stool at the window.'

'Thank you, Mr. Langford, I will not
detain you five minutes.  I prefer to stand.  I
am glad my father is here.  Doubtless he has
come on the same matter as myself.'

The two men exchanged glances.

'I have come to ask you to try Charles,' she
continued.  'Some little while ago you told
father that you wanted a man to act as drover
for you.  I have not heard that you have met
with such a servant.  Try my brother Charles.
He is doing no work now, and Satan sets
snares in the way of the idle.  If you will
please to give him a chance, you will confer on
us a great favour, and be doing a good work as
well, for which the Lord will reward you.'

'That is what has brought you here?'
asked the yeoman.

'Yes, sir.'

'Have you heard it said throughout the
country that I am not a man to grant
favours?'

'I do not heed what folks say.  Besides,
I know that this is not so.  You have already
acted very kindly to us.  You lent father a
very good horse.'

'Why have you not applied elsewhere? at
Chimsworthy, for instance.'

'Because I do not wish to be beholden to
the Nanspians, sir,' answered Honor.

'You do not approve of your sister keeping
company with that Merry Andrew,' said
Taverner approvingly.

'She does not keep company with him,'
answered the girl gravely.

At any rate she lets him dance after her,
draws him on.  Well, well! it is natural,
perhaps.  But don't advise her to be too eager.
Young Larry is not so great a catch as some
suppose, and as he and his father give out.
Look at Chimsworthy—a wilderness of thistles,
and rushes springing where grass grew to my
recollection.  There is no saying, some day you
may be seated at Coombe Park, and then the
Nanspians will be below you.'

'Coombe Park!' echoed Honor, looking at
her father, then at old Langford.  'Surely, sir,
you think nothing of that!  Do not encourage
father in that fancy; we never were and never
will be at Coombe Park.'

'Honor!' exclaimed Oliver Luxmore,
working his feet uneasily under the table,
'there you are wrong.  The Luxmores have
had it for many generations.  You have only
to look in the registers to see that.'

'Yes, father, some Luxmores have been
there, but not our Luxmores as far as we know.
I wish you would not trouble your head about
Coombe Park.  We shall never get it.  I doubt
if we have a thread of a right to it.  If we
have, I never saw it.'

'We shall see, we shall see,' said the carrier.
'Girls haven't got lawyers' minds, and don't
follow evidence.'

'I have undertaken to go with your father
to Lawyer Physick at Okehampton,' said
Taverner Langford, 'and to help him to have
his right examined.'

'Nothing can come of it but heart-breakings,'
sighed Honor; 'father will slip certainties
to seize shadows.'

'I have nothing to lose,' said Oliver, 'and
much to gain.'

Honor knew it was in vain to attempt to
disabuse him of his cherished delusion.  She
so far shared his views as to believe that the
family had gentle blood in their veins, and
were descended somehow, in some vague,
undefined manner, from the Luxmores of Coombe
Park, through, perhaps, some younger son of
a junior branch, and she liked to suppose that
the beauty and superiority of manner in her
brothers and sisters were due to this, but she
did not share in her father's expectations of
recovering the property.  Her understanding
was too clear to harbour this.

'I will go back to what I asked of
Mr. Langford,' she said, after a pause.  'Will you
take my brother Charles into your service,
sir?  He wants a firm hand over him.  He
is not bad at heart, but he is infirm of purpose,
easily led astray.  If he were here with you,
he would be far from the "Ring of Bells," and
his work would sever him from idle companions.'

'So, you don't want him to be at Chimsworthy?'

'I do not desire to be under obligation there.'

'You have no objection to placing yourself
under obligation to me?'

Honor did not like the tone.  She did not
understand his returning to the same point;
she turned uneasily to her father, and asked
him to put in a word for poor Charles.

'Mr. Langford is more likely to grant a
boon to you than to me,' answered Oliver
evasively.

'Sit down, Honor,' he said.  'You have
remained standing the whole time you have
been here.'

'I have been making a request,' she answered.

'The request is granted.  Sit down.'

She was reluctant, yet unwilling to disoblige.

Oliver signed to her to take a place.  She
obeyed.  She was uncomfortable.  There was
an indefinable something in the way in which
the old yeoman looked at and addressed her,
something equally indefinable in her father's
manner, that combined to disturb her.

Mrs. Veale came in on some excuse, to ask
her master a question, with her white eyelashes
quivering.  She cast a sidelong glance
at Honor full of malice, as she entered.  When
she left the room she did not shut the door,
and the girl saw her white face and flickering
eyes turned towards her, watching her out of
the darkness of the passage.  She was for a
moment spellbound, but recovered herself
when Taverner Longford, with an impatient
exclamation, slammed the door.

'I shall be glad to be rid of the old prying
cat,' he said.

'Is Mrs. Veale going to leave you?' asked
Honor.  Then she caught her father and
Langford exchange glances, and her brow became
hot—she hardly knew wherefore.

'I am thinking of a change,' said the yeoman.

'I hope you are going to have as good a
housekeeper,' said Honor; 'a better you cannot
have.'

'Oh!' he laughed, 'a better, certainly,
and—what is quite as certain—a prettier one.  If
I had not been sure of that, I would not
have——'  He checked himself and nodded to
the carrier, who laughed.

Honor looked from one to the other inquiringly,
then asked somewhat sternly, 'You
would not have—what, Mr. Langford?'

'Humph!  I would not have taken Charles.'

'What is the connection?' asked the girl.

'More things are connected than sleeve-links,'
answered Langford.  'I would not have
let your father have the horse if you were
thriftless at home.  I would not take Charles
into service, unless I thought to find in him
some of the qualities of the sister.'

'Put my qualities, such as they are, on one
side,' said Honor roughly.

'That,' said Langford, looking across at
Luxmore, 'that is not to be thought of.'

Then the carrier laughed nervously, and
with a side glance at his daughter.

Honor coloured.  She was offended, but
unable to say at what.  She put her hand on
her little brother's head and stroked it nervously.

Then the yeoman began to talk to the
carrier about his estate, the quality of the land,
his cows and horses, his woods, his pastures,
the money he was able to put away every year,
and contrasted his style of farming with that
of the Nanspians at Chimsworthy.  As he
spoke he fixed his eyes on Honor, to see if his
wealth impressed her.  But her face expressed
no concern.  It was clouded; she was thinking,
not listening.

All at once the insinuations of Mrs. Veale
rushed into her mind.  She saw her meaning.
She connected that with the looks of the two
men.  Blood rushed to her face.  She sprang
to her feet.  The room swam before her eyes.

'I must go,' she said.  'I am wanted at home.'





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE REVEL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE REVEL.

.. vspace:: 2

If to Sally in our alley and the apprentice who
loved her, 'Of all the days within the week
there was no day but one day,' so to all the
maids and all the lads in country villages, in
olden times, there was no day in all the year
that might compare with the day of the village
Revel.

The Revel is now a thing of the past, or
lingers on, a limp and faded semblance of the
robust festival that fifty years ago was looked
forward to through half the year, and looked
back on through the other half, and formed the
topic of conversation for the entire twelve
months.

On Revel day horse-races were run, got
up by the village taverner, for a plated mug or
a punch ladle; wrestling matches were played
for a champion belt, booths were set up in
streets of canvas and board for the sale of
brooches, ribbons, toys, sweetstuff, and
saffron-cakes.  There were merry-go-rounds,
peep-shows, menageries, and waxworks.  The
cheap-jack was never wanting, the focus of
merriment.

In and about 1849 the commons were enclosed
on which the races had been run, and the
tents pitched, and gipsies had encamped.
Magistrates, squires, parsons, and police conspired
against Revels, routed them out of the field,
and supplied their places with other
attractions,—cottage-garden shows, harvest thanksgivings,
and school teas.

Possibly there were objectionable features
in those old Revels which made their abolition
advisable, but the writer remembers none of
these.  He saw them through the eyes of a
child, and recalls the childish delight they
afforded.

The day was clear and sunny.  People
streamed into Bratton Clovelly from the country
round, many on foot, others in gigs and carts,
all in gayest apparel.  Honor had dressed the
children neatly, had assumed her scarlet cloak,
and stood at the cottage door turning the key
ready to depart with the little eager company,
when the tramp of a horse's hoof was heard,
and Larry Nanspian drew up before the house.
He was driving his dappled cob in the shafts
of a two-wheeled tax-cart.

'What, Larry!' exclaimed Kate, 'mounted
on high to display the flowery waistcoat?
Lost your legs that you cannot walk a
mile?'

'Not a bit, sharp-tongue,' answered the
young man, good-naturedly.  'I have come
round for Honor and you and the little
ones.'

'We have feet, sixteen among us.'

'But the tiny feet will be tired with trotting
all day.  You will have fairings moreover to
bring home.'

'Thank you for the kind thought, Larry,'
said Honor, softened by his consideration and
by the pleasant smile that attended his words.
'Kate and I will walk, but we accept your
offer for the children.'

'I cannot take them without you,' said the
young man.  'I hold the whip with one hand
and the reins with the other.  I have not a
third wherewith to control a load of wriggling
worms.'

'Jump in, Honor,' said Kate; 'sit between
me and the driver, to keep the peace.'

The eldest sister packed the children in
behind and before, then, without more ado,
ascended the seat by Larry, and was followed
by Kate, with elastic spring.

'Heigho!' exclaimed the young man, 'I
reckon no showman at the Revel has half so
fine wares as myself to exhibit.'

'What, the waistcoat?' asked Kate, leaning
forward to look in his face.

'No, not the waistcoat,' answered he;
'cutlery, keen and bright.'

'Your wit must have gone through much
sharpening.'

'I do not allude to my wit.  I mean the
pretty wares beside me.'

'But, driver, the wares are not and never
will be yours.'

As they drew near Bratton they heard a
shout from behind, and turning saw Taverner
Langford driving in, with Mrs. Veale beside
him, at a rattling pace.  Larry drew aside to
let them pass; as they went by Taverner looked
keenly at Honor, and Mrs. Veale cast her a
spiteful glance, then turned to her master and
whispered something.

'Upon my word!' exclaimed Larry, 'I've a
mind to play a lark.  Say nothing, girls, but
don't be surprised if we give Uncle Langford a
hare-hunt.'

He drew rein and went slow through the
street of the 'church town.'  The street and
the open space before the church gate were
full of people.  It was, moreover, enlivened
with booths.  Larry was well content to appear
in state at the fair, driving instead of walking
like a common labourer, and driving with two
such pretty girls as Honor and Kate at his side.
He contrasted his company to that of his uncle.
'I wonder my uncle don't get rid of that
Mrs. Veale.  No wonder he has turned sour with
her face always before him.'  He shouted to
those who stood in the road to clear the way;
he cracked his whip, and when some paid no
attention brought the lash across their shoulders.
Then they started aside, whether angry or
good-humoured mattered nothing to the thoughtless
lad.

He drew up before the 'Ring of Bells,' cast
the reins to the ostler, jumped out, and helped
the sisters to descend, then lifted the children
down with a cheerful word to each.

The little party strolled through the fair.
Honor holding Charity by her left and
Temperance by her right hand; but the crowd was
too great for the youngest to see anything.
Honor stooped and took the little girl on her
right arm, but immediately Larry lifted the
child from her to his shoulder.

'See!' whispered Joe, holding a coin under
Kate's eyes, 'Larry Nanspian gived me this.'

'And I have something; too from him,' said
Pattie.

'And so have I,' whispered Willy.

Honor pretended not to hear, but she was
touched, and looked with kindly eyes at the
young man.  He had his faults, his foolish
vanity; but there was good in him, or he would
not trouble himself about the little ones.  She
had not been able to give the children more
than a penny each for fairing.  The village was
thronged.  The noise was great.  The cheap-jack
shouted in a voice made hoarse by professional
exercise.  The ringers had got to the
bells in the church tower.  At a stall was a
man with a gun, a target, and a tray of nuts,
calling 'Only a halfpenny a shot!'  There was
Charles there trying the gun, and his failures to
hit the bull's-eye elicited shouts of laughter,
which became more boisterous as he lost his
temper.  The barrel was purposely bent to
prevent a level shot reaching the mark.  A boy
paraded gaudy paper-mills on sticks that whirled
in the wind—only one penny each.  A barrel
organ ground forth, 'The flaxen-headed
Plowboy,' and a miserable blinking monkey on it
held out a tin for coppers.  Honor was so
fully engrossed in the children, watching that
they did not stray, get knocked over or crushed,
that she had not attention to give to the sights
of the fair; but Kate was all excitement and
delight.  Larry kept near the sisters, but could
not say much to them: the noise was deafening
and little Temperance exacting.

Presently the party drew up before a table
behind which stood a man selling rat poison.
A stick was attached to the table, and to this
stick was affixed a board, above the heads of
the people, on which was a pictorial representation
of rats and mice expiring in attitudes of
mortal agony.  The man vended also small
hones.  He took a knife, drew the edge of the
blade over his thumb to show that it was blunt,
then swept it once, twice, thrice, this way, that
way, on the bit of stone, and see! he plucked
a hair from his beard, and cut, and the blade
severed it.  Fourpence for a small stone,
six-pence, a shilling, according to sizes.  The coins
were tossed on the table, and the hones carried
away.

'What is it, ma'am.—a hone?' asked the dealer.

'No, the poison.'

A white arm was thrust between those who
lined the table.  Hillary turned, and saw
Mrs. Veale.

'Keep it locked up, ma'am.  There's
enough in that packet to poison a regiment.'

Whether a regiment of soldiers or of rats
he did not explain.

At the crockery stall Larry halted, and
passed Temperance over to Honor.  Now his
reason for driving in the spring-cart became
apparent.  He had been commissioned to
purchase a supply of pots, and mugs, and dishes,
and plates, for home use.  Honor also made
purchases at this stall, and the young man
carried them for her to his cart, as well as his
own supply.  Then she lingered at a drapery
stall, and bought some strong material for frocks
for the youngest sisters.  Whilst she was thus
engaged, Larry went to a stall of sweetstuff,
presided over by a man in white apron, with
copper scales, and bought some twisted red
and white barbers' poles of peppermint.
Immediately the atmosphere about the little party
was impregnated with the fragrance of peppermint.

A few steps beyond was a menagerie.  A
painted canvas before the enclosure of vans
represented Noah's ark, with the animals
ascending a plank and entering it by a door in
the side.  In another compartment was a picture
of a boa-constrictor catching a negro, and
opening his jaws to swallow him.  Over this
picture was inscribed, 'Twine, gentle evergreen,'
and the serpent was painted emerald.  In
another compartment, again, was a polar scene,
with icebergs and white bears, seals and whales.

'Oh, we must see the wild beasts!' exclaimed Kate.

A consultation ensued.  Larry wished to
treat the whole party, but to this Honor would
not agree.  Finally, it was decided that Kate,
Joe, and Pattie should enter, and that Honor
should remain without with the children.
Accordingly the three went in with Larry, and
presently returned disappointed and laughing.
The menagerie had resolved itself into a few
moulting parrots, a torpid snake in a blanket,
two unsavoury monkeys, and an ass painted
with stripes to pass as a zebra.

Adjoining the menagerie was another
exhibition, even more pretentious.  Three men
appeared before it on a platform, one with a
trumpet, another with cymbals, the third with a
drum.  Then forth leaped clown, harlequin
and columbine, and danced, cut jokes, and
went head over heels.  The clown balanced a
knife on his nose; then bang! toot,
toot! clash! bang, bang, bang! from
the three instruments, working the children into the wildest
speculation.  Honor had spent the money laid
aside for amusement, and could not afford to
take her party in, and she would accept no
further favours from Larry.

Just then up came Charles.

'Halloo, mates! you all here!' he shouted,
elbowing his way to them.  'That is prime.  I
will treat you; I've a yellow boy,' he spun
a half-sovereign in the air and caught it
between both palms.  'Come along, kids.  I'm
going to treat half a dozen young chaps as well.
Shall I stand for you, Larry?' he asked
contemptuously, 'or have the thistles and rushes
sold so well you can afford to treat yourself?'

Larry frowned.  'I see my father yonder
signing to me,' he said.  'I must go to him.'

Then Hillary worked his way to the rear,
offended at the insolence of Charles, red in
face, and vowing he would not do another
kindness to the family.

Old Nanspian was in the long-room of the
'King of Bells,' at the window.  He had caught
sight of his son, whose flowered satin waistcoat
was conspicuous, and was beckoning to him
with his clay pipe; he wanted to know whether
he had bought the crockery—*vulgo* 'cloam'—as
desired, and what he had paid for it.

'Come on, you fellows!' called Charles to
some of his companions.  'How many are you?
Six, and myself, and the two girls, that makes
nine sixpences, and the little tins at half-price
makes five threepences.  Temperance is a baby
and don't count.  That is all, five-and-nine;
shovel out the change, old girl, four-and-three.'

He threw down the gold coin on the table,
where a gorgeous woman in red and blue
and spangles, wearing a gilt foil crown and
huge earrings, was taking money and giving
greasy admission tickets.  The circus was small.
The seats were one row deep, deal planks
laid on trestles.  Only at one end were
reserved places covered with red baize for the
nobility, gentry, and clergy, who, as a bill
informed the public, greedily patronised the
show.  On this occasion these benches were
conspicuously empty.  The performers
appeared in faded fleshings, very soiled at the
elbows and knees; the paint on the faces was
laid on coarsely; the sawdust in the ring was
damp and smelt sour.

The clown cut his jests with the conductor,
carried off his cap, and received a crack of the
whip.  He leaped high in the air, turned a
somersault, and ran round the arena on hands
and feet, peering between his legs.

A dappled horse was led out, and the
columbine mounted and galloped round the
ring.  Every now and then the hoofs struck
the enclosing boards, and the children shrank
against Honor and Kate in terror.  Then a
spray of sawdust was showered over the lads,
who roared with laughter, thinking it a joke.

A second horse was led out to be ridden
by the harlequin, but the clown insisted on
mounting it, and was kicked off.  Then the
harlequin ran across the area, whilst the horse
was in full career, and leaped upon its back,
held the columbine's hand, and round and
round they went together.  All was wretchedly
poor.  The jokes of the clown were as threadbare
as the silks, and as dull as the spangles on
the equestrians.  Poverty and squalor peered
through the tawdry show.  But an audience of
country folk is uncritical and easily pleased.
The jests were relished, the costumes admired,
and the somersaults applauded.  All at once a
commotion ensued.  The queen in red and
blue, who had sold the tickets of admission,
appeared in a state of loud and hot excitement,
calling for the manager and gesticulating
vehemently.  The performance was interrupted.
The horses of harlequin and columbine were
restrained, and were walked leisurely round
the arena, whilst the lady in gauze (very
crumpled) seated herself on the flat saddle and
looked at the spectators, who curiously
scrutinised her features and compared opinions as
to her beauty.  Presently the clown ran to the
scene of commotion.  The queen was in very
unregal excitement, shaking her head, with her
pendant earrings flapping, very loud and vulgar
in voice; some of the audience crowded about
the speakers.

Then Honor was aware that faces and
fingers were pointed towards the bench
which she and her party occupied, and in
another moment the manager, the crowned
lady-manageress, the clown, now joined by the
harlequin, who had given his horse to a boy,
and a throng of inquisitive spectators, came
down—some across the arena, others stumbling
over the deal benches—towards the little party.

'That's he!' shouted the lady in crimson
and blue, shaking her black curls, puffing with
anger, and indicating with a fat and dirty hand,
'That's the blackguard who has cheated us.'  She
pointed at Charles.

The columbine drew rein and stood her
horse before the group, looking down on it.
She had holes in her stockings, and the cherry
silk of her bodice was frayed.  Kate saw that.

'Look here, you rascal!  What do you
mean by trying to cheat us poor artists, with
horses and babies to feed, and all our
wardrobe to keep in trim, eh?  What do you
mean by it?'

Then the clown in broad cockney, 'What
do you mean by it, eh?  Some one run for
the constable, will you?  Though we be
travelling showmen we're true-born Britons,
and the law is made to protect all alike.'

'What is the matter?' asked Honor, rising,
with the frightened Temperance in her arms
clinging to her neck and screaming, and
Charity and Martha holding her skirts,
wrapping themselves in her red cloak and
sobbing.

'Ah, you may well ask what is the
matter!' exclaimed the queen.  'If that
young chap belongs to you in any way, more's
the pity.'

'It is an indictable offence,' put in the
manager.  'It is cheating honest folk; that is
what it is.'

Charles burst out laughing.

'I've a right to pay you in your own coin,
eh?' he said contemptuously, thrusting his
hands into his pockets, and planting a foot
on the barrier.

'What do you mean by our own coin?'
asked the angry manageress, planting her arms
akimbo.

'Giving false for false,' mocked Charles.

'It is insulting of us he is!' exclaimed
the columbine, from her vantage post.  'And
he calls himself a gentleman.'

'Pray what right have you to invite the
public to such a spectacle as this?' asked
Charles.  'You have only a couple of screws for
horses, and an old girl of forty for columbine,
a harlequin with the lumbago, and a clown
without wit—and you don't call this cheating?'

'Turn him out!' cried the lady in
crumpled muslin, 'it's but twenty-three I
am.'

'What is this all about?' asked Honor,
vainly endeavouring to gather the cause of the
quarrel and compose the frightened children
at the same time.  The bystanders, indignant
at the disparagement of the performance,
hissed.  All those on the further side of the
arena, losing their awe of the sawdust, came
over it, crowding round the gauzy columbine
and her horse, asking what the row was about,
and getting no answer.

The columbine was obliged to use her whip
lightly to keep them off.  Boys were picking
spangles off the saddle-cloth, and pulling hairs
out of the mane of the horse.

'How many was it?  Fourteen persons let
in?' asked the manager.

'And I gave him back change, four-and-three,'
added the manageress.

'You shall have your cursed change,' said
Charles.  'Get along with you all.  Go on with
your wretched performance.  Here are four
shillings, the boys shall scramble for the pence
when I find them.'  He held out some silver.

'No, I won't take it.  You shall pay for
all the tickets,' said the woman.  'You ain't
a-going to defraud us nohows if I can help It.
Let's see, how many was you?  Four-and-three
from ten makes five-and-nine.'

'I can't do it,' said Charles, becoming
sulky.  'If you were the fool to accept a brass
token you must pay for the lesson, and be
sharper next time.  I have no more money.'

'Cheat! cheat!  Passing bad money!' the
bystanders groaned, hissed, hooted.  Charles
waxed angry and blazed red.  He cursed those
who made such a noise, he swore he would
not pay a halfpenny, he had no money.  They
might search his pockets.  They might squeeze
him.  They would get nothing out of him.
They might keep the brass token, and
welcome, he had nothing else to give them.  He
turned his pockets out to show they were
empty.

The whole assembly, performers in tights,
muslin, velvets, ochre and whitening, the
spectators—country lads with their lasses,
farmers and their wives—were crushed in a
dense mass about the scene of altercation.
Many of the lads disliked Charles for his
swagger and superiority, and were glad to
vent their envy in groans and hisses.  The
elder men thought it incumbent on them to
see that justice was done; they called out that
the money must be paid.

Charles, becoming heated, cast his words
about, regardless whom he hurt.  The manager
stared, the queen screamed, the clown swore,
and columbine, who held a hoop, tried to throw
it over the head of the offender, and pull him
down over the barrier.  By a sudden
movement the young man wrenched the whip from
the hand of the manager, and raising it over his
head threatened to clear a way with the lash.
The people started back.  Then into the space
Honor advanced.

'What has he done?  I am his sister.
Show me the piece of money.'

'Look at that—and turn yeller,' exclaimed
the manager's wife.  'Darn it now, if I ain't
a-gone and broke one o' them pearl drops in my
ear.  Look at the coin,' she put the token into
the girl's hand.  'What do yer say to that?'  Then
she whisked her head of curls about as if
to overtake her ear and see the wreck of
pearl-drop—silvered glass which had been crushed in
the press.  'And this also, young man, comes
of yer wickedness.  What am I to do with one
pendant?  Can't wear it in my nose like an
Injun.  Now then, young woman in scarlet,
what do yer call that?'

Honor turned the coin over in her palm,

'This is a brass tradesman's token,' she
said, 'it is not money.  We stand in your
debt five-and-ninepence.  I have nothing by
me.  You must trust me; you shall be
paid.'

'No, no! we won't trust none of you,'
said the angry woman.  'We ain't a-going to
let you out without the money.  Pay or to
prison you walk.  Someone run for the
constable, and I'll give him a ticket gratis for this
evening's entertainment.'

Then many voices were raised to deprecate
her wrath.  'This is Honor.'  'Trust Honor
as you'd trust granite.'  'Honor in name and
Honor in truth.'  'Honor never wronged a
fly.'  'Red spider is a lucky insect.'  'Why don't
the red spider spin money now?'

'Leave her alone, she's good as gold.  She
can't help if the brother is a rascal.'

But though many voices were raised in her
favour, no hands were thrust into pockets to
produce the requisite money.

Honor looked about.  She was hot, and her
brow moist; her lips quivered; a streak of sun
was on her scarlet cloak and sent a red
reflection over her face.

'We will not be beholden to you, madam,'
she said, with as much composure as she could
muster.  Then she unloosed her cloak from
her neck and from the encircling arms of
Temperance.  'There,' she said, 'take this;
the cloth is good.  It is worth more money
than what we owe you.  Keep it till I come or
send to redeem it.'

She put the scarlet cloak into the woman's
hands, then turned, gathered the children
about her, and looking at those who stood in
front, said with dignity, 'I will trouble you to
make way.  We will interrupt the performance
no longer.'

Then, gravely, with set lips and erect head,
she went out, drawing her little party after her,
Kate following, flushed and crying, and Charles,
with a swagger and a laugh and jest to those
he passed, behind Kate.

When they came outside, however, Charles
slunk away.  The six young men whom Charles
had treated remained.  They had worked their
way along the benches to dissociate themselves
from the party of the Luxmores, and put on a
look as if they had paid for their own seats.
'We needn't go, for sure,' whispered one to
another.  'We be paid for now out of Miss
Honor's red cloak.'





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.. _`THE LAMB-KILLER`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   THE LAMB-KILLER.

.. vspace:: 2

Honor could not recover herself at once.  Her
heart beat fast and her breathing was quick.
Her hands that clasped the children twitched
convulsively.  She looked round at Charles
before he slipped away, and their eyes met.
His expression rapidly changed, his colour
went, his eyes fell before those of his sister.
He drew his cap over his face, and elbowed
his way through the crowd out of sight.

Honor felt keenly what had occurred; she
was the sister of a rogue; the honourable name
of Luxmore was tarnished.  How would her
father bear this?  This, the family honour,
was the one thing on which he prided himself.
And what about Charles?  Would not he be
forced to leave the place she had found for
him?  Would Taverner Langford keep in his
employ a man who cheated?

But Honor took a more serious view of the
occurrence than the general public.  Popular
opinion was not as censorious as her
conscience.  Those whom Charles had attempted
to defraud were strangers—vagrants belonging
to no parish, and without the pale, fair game
for a sharp man to overreach.  If the public
virtue had protested loudly in the show, it was
not in the interests of fair dealing, but as an
opportunity of annoying a braggart.

Honor, wounded and ashamed, shrank from
contact with her acquaintances, and with Kate
worked her way out of the throng, away from
the fair, and home, without seeing more of
Larry.

Kate took Charles's misconduct to heart in a
different way from Honor; she was angry,
disappointed because her pleasure was spoiled, and
fretted.  But the children, as they trotted
homewards, were not weary of talking of the
wonders they had seen and the enjoyment
they had had.

In the evening Hillary drove up with his
spring-cart, and called the girls out to take
their fairings from his trap, some crocks, a roll
of drapery, and some other small matters.
Hillary was cheerful and full of fun.  He
repeated the jokes of the cheap-jack, and told of
the neighbours that had been taken in.  He
mentioned whom he had met, and what he had
seen.  He allowed the dappled horse to stand
in the road, with the reins on the ground,
whilst, with one foot planted on the steps, he
lingered chatting with the girls before their door.
He was so bright and amusing that Kate forgot
her vexation and laughed.  Even the grave
Honor was unable to forbear a smile.  Of the
disturbance in the circus caused by Charles he
said nothing, and Honor felt grateful for his tact.
He remained talking for half an hour.  He
carried the girls' parcels into the cottage for
them, and insisted on a kiss from the tiny ones.
It almost seemed as if he were tarrying for
something—an opportunity which did not offer;
but this did not occur to the girls.  They felt
his kindness in halting to cheer them.  Their
father was not yet returned from the fair.  They
were not likely to see Charles again that day.

'By the way, Honor,' said Larry, 'you
have some lambs, have you not?'

'Yes, five.'

'Can you fasten them and the ewes in at night?'

'No—we have no place.  But why?  They
will not take hurt at this time of the year.'

'Don't reckon on that,' said the young
man; 'I've heard tell there is a lamb-killer
about.  Farmer Hegadon lost three, and one
went from Swaddledown last night.  Have you
not heard?  Watches must be set.  None can
tell whose dog has taken to lamb-killing till it
is seen in the act.'

'A bad business for us if we lose our lambs,'
said Honor.  'We reckon on selling them and
the ewes in the fall, to meet our debt to
Mr. Langford for the horse.'

'Then forewarned is forearmed.  Lock them up.'

'It can't be done, Larry.  You can't pocket
your watch when you're without a pocket.'

'In that case I hope the lamb-killer will
look elsewhere.  That is all.  Good-night.
But before I go mind this.  If you have trouble
about your lambs, call on me.  I'll watch for
you now you have not Charles at your command.
We're neighbours and must be neighbourly.'

'Thank you heartily, Larry.  I will do so.'

Then the lad went away, whistling in his
cart, but as he went he turned and waved his
hand to the sisters.

The children were tired and put to bed.
Kate was weary and soon left.  Honor had
to sit up for her father, whose van was in
request that day to convey people and their
purchases from the fair to their distant homes.
After Oliver had come in and had his supper,
Honor put away the plates, brushed up the
crumbs, set the chairs straight, and went to
bed.  Kate and the children were sound asleep.
Honor's brain was excited, and she kept awake.
She was unobserved now, and could let her
tears flow.  She had borne up bravely all day;
the relaxation was necessary for her now.
Before her family and the world Honor was
reserved and restrained.  She was forced to
assume a coldness that was not natural to her
heart.  There was not one person in the house
who could be relied on.  Her father was devoid
of moral backbone.  He remembered the
commissions of his customers, but his memory failed
respecting his duties to his children and the
obligations of home.  Kate had too sharp a
tongue and a humour too capricious to
exercise authority.  She set the children by
the ears.  As for the little ones, they were too
young to be supposed to think.  So Honor had
to consider for her father and the other seven
inmates of the cottage, also of late for
Charles—to have a head to think for nine creatures who
did not think for themselves.  There was not
one of the nine who stood firm, who was
not shiftless.  There are few occupations
more trying to the temper than the setting
up of nine-pins on a skittle-floor.  Honor
did not become querulous, as is the manner of
most women who have more duties to discharge
than their strength allows.  She was overtaxed,
but she sheltered herself under an assumption
of coldness.  Some thought her proud, others
unfeeling.  Kate could not fathom her.  Oliver
took all she did as a matter of course.  He
neither spared her nor applauded her.  Perhaps
no one in the parish was so blind to her
excellence as her father.  Kate was his favourite
daughter.

Honor dried her tears on the pillow.
What would the end be?  Kate was at her
side fast asleep.  Honor leaned on her elbow
and looked at her sleeping sister.  The moon
was shining.  A muslin blind was drawn across
the window, but a patch of light was on the
whitewashed wall, and was brilliant enough to
irradiate the whole chamber.  Kate's light
silky hair was ruffled about her head.  She lay
with one arm out, and the hand under her
head; her delicate arm was bare.  Honor
looked long at her; her lips quivered, she
stooped over Kate and kissed her, and her
lips quivered no more.  'How pretty she is,'
she said to her own heart; 'no wonder he went
away whistling "Kathleen Mavourneen."'

All at once Honor started, as though
electrified.  She heard the sheep in the
paddock making an unwonted noise, and recalled
what Larry had said.  In a moment she was
out of bed, and had drawn aside the
window-blind.  The sheep and lambs were running
wildly about.  Some leaped at the hedge,
trying to scramble up and over; others huddled
against the gate leading to the lane.  Honor
opened the casement and put forth her head.
Then she saw a dark shadow sweep across the
field, before which the clustered sheep scattered.

Honor slipped on a few garments, descended
the stair, opened the kitchen door, and went
forth armed with a stick.  The lamb-killer was
in the paddock, chasing down one of the flock
that he had managed to separate from the rest.
Honor called, but her voice was unheeded or
unheard, owing to the bleating of the frightened
sheep.  She ran through the dewy grass, but
her pace was as nothing to that of the dog.
The frightened lamb fled from side to side, and
up and down, till its powers were exhausted;
and then it stood piteously bleating, paralysed
with terror, and the dog was at its throat and
had torn it before Honor could reach the spot.

When she approached the dog leaped the
hedge and disappeared through a gap in the
bushes at the top.  The girl went about the
field pacifying the sheep, calling them, and
counting them.  They came about her skirts,
pressing one on another, bleating, entreating
protection, interfering with her movements.
Two of the lambs were gone.  One she had
seen killed; a second was missing.  She
searched and found it; it had been overrun
and had got jammed between two rails.  In its
efforts to escape, it had become injured.  Its
life was spent with exhaustion and fear, but it
was not quite dead.  It still panted.  She
disengaged the little creature, and carried it in her
arms into the house, followed by the agitated
ewes, whom she could hardly drive back from
the garden gate.

Honor did not expect the dog to return
that night, but she sat up watching for a couple
of hours, and then returned to her bedroom,
though not to sleep.

Here was a fresh trouble come upon the
family.  The loss of two lambs, in their state
of poverty, was a serious loss, and she could
not be sure that this was the end.  The dog
might return another night and kill more, and
that was a crushing loss to poor people.

Next morning, when Kate and the children
heard the news, their distress was great.  Many
tears were shed over the dead lambs.  Kate
was loud in her indignation against those who
let their dogs rove at night.  She was sure it
was done on purpose, out of malice.  It was
impossible to suppose that the owner of a
lamb-killer was ignorant of the proclivities of his
dog.  If they could only find out whose dog
it was they would make him pay for the mischief.

'I suppose, father, you will sit up to-night
and watch for the brute?'

'I—I!' answered the carrier.  'What will
that avail?  I never shot anything in my life
but one sparrow, and that I blew to pieces.  I
rested my gun-barrel on the shiver (bar) of a
gate, and waited till a sparrow came to some
crumbs I had scattered.  Then I fired, and a
splash of blood and some feathers were all that
remained of the sparrow.  No, I am no shot.
The noise close to my ear unnerves me.
Besides, I am short-sighted.  No; if the dog
takes the lambs, let him, I cannot prevent it.'

'But you must sit up, father.'

'What can I do?  If I saw the dog I
should not know whose 't was.  Honor saw it,
she can say whose it was.'

'I do not know.  It struck me as like
Mr. Langford's Rover, but I cannot be sure; the
ash-trees were between the moon and the
meadow, and flickered.'

'Oh! if it be Rover we are right.'

'How so, father?'

'Langford will pay if his dog has done the
damage.'

'He must be made to pay,' said Kate.  'He
won't do it if he can scrape out.'

'I cannot be sure it was Rover,' said Honor.
'I saw a dark beast, but the ash flickered in
the wind, and the flakes of moonlight ran over
the grass like lambs, and the shadows like
black dogs.  I was not near enough to make
sure.  Unless we can swear to Rover, we must
be content to lose.'

'Mr. Langford will not dispute about a
lamb or two,' said Oliver, rubbing his ear.

'Then he will be different in this to what
he is in everything else,' said Kate.

'He won't be hard on us,' said her father.
Honor was accustomed to see him take his
troubles easily, but he was unwontedly,
perplexingly indifferent now, and the loss was
grave and might be graver.

'I will watch with you to-night, Honor,'
said Kate.  'And what is more, I will swear to
Rover, if I see the end of his tail.  Then we
can charge the lambs at a pound a-piece to old
Langford.'

'As for that,' said the father, with a
side-glance at his eldest daughter, 'Mr. Langford—don't
call him old Langford any more, Kate,
it's not respectful—Mr. Langford won't press
for the horse.  It lies with you whether we
have him for nothing or have to return him.'

He spoke looking at Honor, but he had
addressed Kate just before.  The latter did
not heed his words.  Honor had been crossing
the room with a bowl in her hands.  She
stood still and looked at him.  A question as
to his meaning rose to her lips, but she did not
allow it to pass over them.  She saw that a
knowing smile lurked at her father's
mouth-corners, and that he was rubbing his hands
nervously.  The subject was not one to be
prosecuted in the presence of her brothers and
sisters.  She considered a moment, then went
into the back kitchen with the bowl.  She would
make her father explain himself when they
were together alone.

Dark and shapeless thoughts passed through
her mind, like the shadows of the ash foliage in
the moonlight.  She was full of undefined
apprehension of coming trouble.  But Honor had
no time to give way to her fears.  There was
no leisure for an explanation.  The dead lambs
had to be skinned and their meat disposed of.

Honor was busily engaged the whole morning.
She was forced to concentrate her mind
on her task, but unable to escape the apprehension
which clouded her.  It did not escape her
that her father's manner changed, as soon as
the children were despatched to school and
Kate had gone forth.  He became perceptibly
nervous.  He was shy of being in the room
with Honor, and started when she spoke to him.
He pretended to look for means of fastening up
the flock for the night, but he went about it
listlessly.  His playful humour had evaporated;
he seemed to expect to be taken to task for his
words, and to dread the explanation.  His
troubled face cleared when he saw Hillary
Nanspian appear at the top of the hedge that
divided the Chimsworthy property from the
carrier's paddock.  The young man swung
himself up by a bough, and stood on the hedge
parting some hazel-bushes.

'What is this I hear?  The lamb-killer been
to you last night?'

'Yes, Larry, and I am trying to find how
we may pen the sheep in out of reach.  I've
only the linhay, and that is full.'

'Are you going to sit up?'

'No, Larry, I am not a shot, and like a
beetle at night.'

'I'll do it.  Where are Kate and Honor?
I promised them I would do it, and I keep my
word.  Little Joe tells me Honor thinks the
dog was Rover.  What a game if I shoot Uncle
Taverner's dog!  I hope I may have that luck.
Expect me.  I will bring my gun to-night.'





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.. _`A BOLT FROM THE BLUE`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

.. vspace:: 2

Honor's kitchen work was done.  She came to
her father after Larry Nanspian had departed,
and said, 'Now, father, I want to know your
meaning, when you said that it lay with me
whether you should keep the horse or not?'

Then she seated herself near the door, with
a gown of little Pattie's she was turning.

'It was so to speak rigmarole,' answered
Oliver colouring, and pretending to plait a lash
for his whip.

She shook her head.  'You did not speak
the words without purpose.'

'We lead a hard life,' said Oliver evasively.
'That you can't deny and keep an honest
tongue.'

'I do not attempt to deny it,' she said,
threading a needle at the light that streamed
in through the open door.  The carrier looked
at her appealingly.  Behind her, seen through
the door, was a bank of bushes and pink
foxgloves, 'flopadocks' is the local name.  He
looked at the sunlit picture with dreamy eyes.

'I shouldn't wonder,' he said, 'if there
was a hundred flowers on that there tallest
flopadock.'

'I should not either,' said Honor without
looking off her work.  Then ensued another
pause.

Presently the carrier sighed and said, 'It
be main difficult to make both ends meet.
The children are growing up.  Their appetites
increase.  Their clothes get more expensive.
The carrying business don't prosper as it ought.
Kate, I reckon, will have to go into service, we
can't keep her at home; but I don't like the
notion—she a Luxmore of Coombe Park.'

'We are not Luxmores of Coombe Park,
but Luxmores out of it,' said Honor.

'Coombe Park should be ours by right,
and it rests with you whether we get our
rights.'

'How so?  This is the second hint you
have given that much depends on me.  What
have I to do with the recovery of Coombe
Park?  How does the debt for the horse rest
with me?'

'It is a hard matter to be kept out of our
rights,' said Oliver.  'A beautiful property, a fine
house and a fishpond—only a hundred pounds
wanted to search the registers to get it.'

'No hundred pounds will come to us,' said
Honor.  'The clouds drop thunderbolts, not
nuggets.  So as well make up our minds to be
where we are.'

'No, I can't do that,' said the carrier,
plaiting vigorously.  'You haven't got a bit
of green silk, have you, to finish the lash
with?'

'Whether from wishing or from working,
no hundred pounds will come,' continued the
girl.

'And see what a rain of troubles has come
on us,' said the carrier.  'First comes your poor
mother's death, then the horse, now the lambs,
and on top of all poor Charles.'

'More the reason why we should put aside
all thought of a hundred pounds.'

'Providence never deserts the deserving,'
said Luxmore.  'I'm sure I've done my duty in
that state o' life in which I am.  It is darkest
before dawn.'

'I see no daylight breaking.'

'Larry Nanspian makes great count of
Kate,' mused Luxmore, and then abruptly,
'confound it!  I've plaited the lash wrong, and
must unravel it again.'

'What will come of Larry's liking for
Kate?  Will that bring us a hundred pounds
and Coombe Park?' asked Honor bluntly.

'I can't quite say that.  But I reckon it
would be a rare thing to have her settled at
Chimsworthy.'

'No,' said Honor, 'not unless Larry alters.
Chimsworthy grows weeds.  The old man is
more given to boasting than to work.  Larry
cares more to be flattered than to mind the
plough.'

'I won't have a Luxmore of mine marry
out of her station.  We must hold up our
heads.'

'Of course we must,' said Honor.  'What
am I doing all day, thinking of all night, but
how we may keep our heads upright?'

'What a mercy it would be not to be
always fretting over ha'pence!  If you and
Kate were well married, what a satisfaction
it would be to me and what a comfort all
round.'

'Do not reckon on me,' said Honor; 'I
shall not marry, I have the children to care
for.  You do not want to drive me out of the
house, do y', father?'

'No, certainly not.  But I should like to
see you and Kate well married, Kate to Larry
Nanspian and Chimsworthy, and you—well,
you equally well placed.  Then you might
combine to help me to my own.  Consider
this, Honor!  If we had Coombe Park, all
our troubles would clear like clouds before a
setting sun.  Charles would no longer be a
trouble to us.  He shows his gentle blood by
dislike for work.  If he were not forced to
labour he would make a proper gentleman.
Why then, Honor, what a satisfaction to you
to have been the saving, the making of your
brother!'

'*Then* won't stand on the feet of *If*,' said
Honor.

'It depends on you.'

'How on me?' she rested her hands on her
lap, and looked steadily at her father.  He
unravelled his lash with nervous hands.  Honor
saw that they shook.  Then without turning
his eyes from his plaiting, he said timidly, 'I
only thought how well it would be for us if
you were at Langford.'

'How can I be at Langford?  Mrs. Veale
is the housekeeper, and I do not wish for her
place.'

'Oh no, not her place—not her place by
any means,' said her father.

'What other place then?' she was resolved
to force him to speak out, though she guessed
his meaning.

He did not answer her immediately.  He
looked at the 'flopadocks' through the front
door, then he looked to see if there was a way
of escape open by the back.

'I—I thought—that is to say—I hoped—you
might fancy to become Mrs. Langford.'

Honor rose proudly from her seat, and
placed her needlework in the chair.  She stood
in the doorway, with the illumined hedge
behind her.  If Oliver had looked at her face
he could not have seen it; he would have seen
only the dark head set on a long and upright
neck, with a haze of golden brown about it.
But he did not look up; he drew a long
breath.  The worst was over.  He had spoken,
and Honor knew all.

In the morning the carrier had flattered
himself it would be easy to tell Honor, but
when he prepared to come to the point he
found it difficult.  He knew that the proposal
would offend his daughter, that it would not
appear to her in the light in which he saw it.
He was afraid of her, as an inferior nature
fears one that is greater, purer than itself.
Now he felt like a schoolboy who has been
caught cribbing, and expects the cane.

'You see, Honor,' said he in an apologetic
tone, 'Taverner Langford is a rich man, and of
very good family.  It would be no disgrace to
him to marry you, and you cannot reckon to
look higher.  I don't know but that his family
and ours date back to Adam.  He has kept
his acres, and we have lost ours.  However,
with your help, I hope we may recover Coombe
Park and our proper position.  What a fine
thing, Honor, to be able to restore a fallen
family, and to be the means of saving a
brother!  Taverner Langford is proud, and
would like to see his wife's relations among
the landed gentry.  He would help us with a
hundred pounds.  Indeed, he has almost
promised the money.  As to the horse, we
need not concern ourselves about that, and
the lambs need trouble you no more.  There
is a special blessing pronounced on the
peace-makers, Honor, and that would be yours if you
married Taverner, and Kate took Hillary, for
then Langford must make up his quarrel with
the Nanspians.'

Honor reseated herself, and put her work
back on her lap.  Oliver had not the courage
to look at her face, or he would have seen
that she was with difficulty controlling the
strong emotion that nigh choked her.  He sat
with averted eyes, and maundered on upon the
advantages of the connection.

'So,' exclaimed Honor at length, 'Taverner
Langford has asked for me to be his wife!  But,
father, he asked before he knew of that affair
yesterday.  That alters the look.  He will back
out when he hears of Charles's conduct.'

'Not at all.  I saw him yesterday evening,
and he laughed at the story.  He took
it as a practical joke played on the circus
folk—and what harm?  Everyone likes his
jokes, and the Revel is the time for playing
them.'

'He has not dismissed Charles?'

'Certainly not.'

'I would have done so, had he been my
servant.'

Then she leaned her head on her hand and
gazed before her, full of gloomy thought.  Her
father watched her, when he saw she was not
looking at him.

'The advantage for Charles would be so
great,' he said.

'Yes,' she exclaimed, with a tone of
impatience.  'But there are some sacrifices it is
not fair to expect of a sister.'

'Consider that, instead of being a servant
in the house, Charles would regard himself as
at home at Langford.  He is not a bad
fellow, his blood is against his doing menial
work.  When he mounts to his proper place
you will see he will be a credit to us all.  You
don't take razors to cut cabbages.  I, also, will
no longer be forced to earn my livelihood
by carrying.  If your mind be healthy, Honor,
you will see how unbecoming it is for a
Luxmore to be a common carrier.  Lord bless me!
When I am at Coombe Park, you at Langford,
and Kate at Chimsworthy, what a
power we shall be in the place.  Why, I may
even become a feoffee of Coryndon's Charity!
Langford is rich.  He has a good estate.  He
has spent nothing on himself for many years.
There must be a lot of money laid by somewhere.
He cannot have saved less than three
hundred pounds a year, and I should not stare
to hear he had put by five.  Say this has been
going on for twenty years.  That amounts to
ten thousand pounds at the lowest reckoning.
Ten thousand pounds!  Think of that, Honor.
Then remember that old Hillary Nanspian is
in debt to Taverner Langford, and pressed to
raise the money, as the debt has been called
up.  You must persuade Taverner to let the
money lie where it is, and so you will bring
peace to Chimsworthy.'

Honor shook her head.

'It cannot be, father,' she said, in a low tone.

'I feared you would raise difficulties,' he
said, in an altered, disappointed voice.  'Of course
he is too old for you.  That is what you girls
think most about.'

She shook her head.

'Perhaps you have fancied someone else,'
he went on; 'well, we can't have plum cake
every day.  It is true enough that Taverner
Langford is not a yellow gosling; but then he
has ten thousand pounds, and they say that a
young man's slave is an old man's darling.  He
won't live for ever, and then you know——'

Honor's cheeks flushed; she raised her
head, passed her hand over her brow, and
looking at her father with dim eyes, said,
'That is not it—no, that is not it.'  Then with
an access of energy, 'I will tell you the real
truth.  I cannot marry whom I do not love,
and I cannot love whom I do not respect.
Mr. Langford is a hard man.  He has been hard
on his kinsman, Mr. Nanspian, and though the
old man had a stroke, Mr. Langford never went
near him, never sent to ask how he was, and
remained his enemy.  About what?  I've heard
tell about a little red spider.  Mr. Langford
may be rich, but he loves his money more than
his flesh and blood, and such an one I cannot
respect.'

The carrier forced a laugh.  'Is not this
pot falling foul of kettle?' he asked.  'Who is
hard if you are not?  Have you shown
gentleness to Charles, who is your very brother?
Whereas Nanspian is but a brother-in-law.'

'I have not been hard with Charles.  I
must protect the children from him.  He is my
brother, and I love him.  But I love the others
also.  I will do all I can for him, but I will
not have the others spoiled for his amusement.'

'We don't all see ourselves as others see
us,' said Oliver sulkily.  Honor was stung by
his injustice, but she made no reply.  She took
up her sewing again, but she could not see to
make stitches.  She laid her work again on
her lap, and mused, looking out of the door at
the fox-gloves, and the honeysuckle and wild
rose in the hedge.  The scent of the
honeysuckle was wafted into the room.

'Why should Mr. Langford want me as his
wife?' she asked dreamily; 'surely Mrs. Veale
will suit him better.  She is near his age, and
accustomed to his ways.  Besides,' she paused,
then resumed, 'there have been queer tales
about him and her.'

'Pshaw, Honor! a pack of lies.'

'I have no doubt of that,' she said; 'still—I
cannot see why he wants me.'

'Honor, my child,' said her father slowly
and with his face turned from her; 'he and
Nanspian of Chimsworthy don't hit it off
together, and the property is so left that if he
hasn't children it will pass to his sister's son,
young Larry.  The old man can't bear to think
of that, and on their reckoning on his dead
shoes, and he'd draw a trump from his pack
against those Nanspians.'

Honor flamed crimson and her eyes flashed.
'And so—so this is it!  I am to help to widen
the split!  I am to stand between Larry and his
rights!  Father, dear father, how can you
urge me?  How can you hope this?  No,
never, never will I consent.  Let him look
elsewhere.  There are plenty of maidens in
Bratton less nice than me.  No, never, never
will I have him.'

Oliver Luxmore stood up, troubled and
ashamed.

'You put everything upside down,' he said;
'I thought you would be a peace-maker.'

'You yourself tell me that I am chosen out
of spite to make the strife hotter.  Now you
have told me the why, the matter is made
worse.  Such an offer is an outrage.  Never,
father, no, never, never,' she stamped, so
strong, so intense was her disgust.  'I will
hear no more.  I grieve that you have spoken,
father.  I grieve more that you have thought
such a thing possible.  I grieve most of all
that you have wished it.'

'Turn the offer over in your mind, Honor,'
he said sauntering to the door, from which she
had withdrawn.  She was leaning against the
wall between the door and the window, with
her hands over her face.  'Milk runs through
the fingers when first you dip 'em, but by
turning and turning you turn out butter.  So,
I dare be bound, the whole thing will look
different if you turn it over.'

'I will put it away from me, out of my
thought,' she said hotly.  She was hurt and
angry.

'If you refuse him we shall have to buy a
horse.'

'Well, we must buy.  I will work the flesh
from my fingers till I earn it, and get out of
obligation.  But I never, never, never will
consent to be Taverner Langford's wife, not for
your sake, father, nor for that of Charles.'

'Well,' said the carrier; 'some folks don't
know what is good for 'em.  I reckon there's a
hundred bells on that there flopadock.  I'll go
and count 'em.'





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`KEEPING WATCH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   KEEPING WATCH.

.. vspace:: 2

In the evening Hillary the younger arrived,
according to promise, with his gun.  Oliver
Luxmore feebly protested against troubling
him.  'It is very good of you, Larry, but I
don't think I ought to accept it.'

'It is pleasure, not trouble,' answered Larry.

'If the dog does not come to-night, I will
keep guard on the morrow,' said the carrier.
'I may not be able to shoot the dog, but I can
scare him away with a bang.'

'I hope to kill him,' said Hillary.  'Have
you not heard that a guinea is offered for his
carcase?  Several farmers have clubbed and
offered the reward.'

'Have your lambs suffered, Larry?'

'Ours are all right; driven under cover.'

The young man supped with the Luxmores.
He was full of mirth.  Kate did not spare her
tongue; she attacked and he retaliated, but all
good-humouredly.  'They make a pair, do
they not?' whispered Oliver to his eldest
daughter.  'Better spar before marriage and
kiss after, than kiss first and squabble
later.'

'Larry,' said Honor, 'I will keep the fire
up with a mote (tree-stump).  You may be
cold during the night, and like to run in and
warm yourself.'

'Ay, Honor,' said her father.  'Have a
cider posset on the hob to furnish inner
comfort.'

'Let no one sit up for me; I shall want
nothing,' answered Hillary, 'unless one of you
girls will give me an hour of your company to
break the back of the watch.'

'Your zeal is oozing out at your elbows,'
said Kate.  'Honor or I, or even little Joe,
could manage to drive away the dog.'

'But not shoot it,' retorted Hillary.  'Lock
your door and leave me without.  I shall be
content if I earn the guinea.'

'I will remain below,' said Honor quietly.
'We must not let all the burden rest on you.
And if you are kind enough, Larry, to look
after our lambs, we are bound to look after
you.'

'If one of you remains astir, let it be
Honor,' said the young man.  'Kate and I
would quarrel, and the uproar would keep the
dog away.'

'I do not offer to sit up to-night,' said the
carrier, 'as my turn comes on the morrow,
and I have had heavy work to-day that has
tired me.'

Then he rose, held out his hand to Larry,
kissed his daughters, and went upstairs to his
room.  Kate followed him speedily.  Larry
took up his gun and went out, and walked
round the field.  Then he came to the kitchen
and said, 'All is quiet, not a sign to be seen of
the enemy.  I hope he will not disappoint me.
You must have your red cloak again.'

'My red cloak?' repeated Honor.

'Ay, your red cloak that you parted with
to the woman at the circus.  I heard about it.
If I shoot the dog, half the prize money goes
to you.'

'Not so, Larry.  It is, or will be, all your
own.'

'But you first saw the dog, you share the
watch, you keep up the fire, and brew me a
posset.  How was it with David's soldiers?
What was his decision?  They that tarried
with the stuff should share with those that went
to war.  You have Scripture against you,
Honor, and will have to take ten-and-six.'

'Don't reckon and divide before the dog is shot.'

'If he comes this way he shall sup off lead,
never doubt.  Then you shall have your red
cloak again.'

Honor sighed.  'No, Larry, I shall never
see it more.  The fair is over, the circus gone,
whither I know no more than what has become
of yesterday.'

'Charles behaved very badly.  Of course
I did not mention it before, but we are alone
together now, and I may say it.'

'He did not act rightly—he meant it as a joke.'

'I can't forgive him for robbing you of
your pretty red cloak.  Here, Honor, take
it.  I have it.'

Then he pulled out a closely folded bundle
and extended it to her.  The girl was
surprised and pleased.  This was considerate and
kind of Larry.  She had noticed him carrying
this bundle, but had given no thought as to
what it was.  Her eyes filled.

'Oh Larry!  God bless you for your kindness.'

'I was tempted to hang it round my neck
till I gave it back, I should have looked quite
military in it.'

'It was my mother's cloak,' she answered
quickly.  'You might have worn it and it
would have done you good.  My mother will
bless you out of paradise for your consideration.
Oh my dear, dear mother! she was so wise,
and thoughtful, and good.'  Honor spread the
cloak over the young man's head.  'There,'
she said, 'take that as if she had touched you.
You have lost your mother.'

'Yes, but I do not remember her.'

'Oh! it is a bad thing for you to be
without your mother, Larry.'  She paused, then
held out her hand to him, and her honest eyes
met his slowing with gratitude, swimming
with feeling.

'All right,' he said.  'No thanks.  We
are neighbours and good friends.  If I help
you to-day you will stand by me to-morrow.
That is so, is it not, dear Honor?'

He threw his gun over his shoulder and
went out into the meadow.  He was glad to
escape the pressure of her hand; the look of
her eyes had made his heart beat with
unwonted emotion.  She had never given him
such a look before.  She was not as cold as he
supposed.  He was aware that he had acted
well in the matter of the cloak.  He had gone
to the manageress of the circus directly he
heard what had taken place, and had made an
offer for the garment.  The woman, seeing his
eagerness to secure it, refused to surrender it
under a sum more than its value.  He had
bought it with the sacrifice of the rest of his
pocket-money.  That was one reason why he
hoped to kill the dog.  He would replenish his
empty purse.  In this matter he had acted
as his heart dictated, but he was quite aware
that he had done a fine thing.  Honor paid
him his due, and that raised Honor in his
estimation.  'She has heart,' he said, 'though
she don't often show it.  A girl must have
heart to do as she did for that worthless
brother.'

Whilst Larry stood without waiting for the
dog, Honor was within, sitting by the fire, a
prey to distressing thoughts.  She was not
thinking of Larry or of Charles; she was
thinking of what had passed between her and her
father.

She occupied a low stool on the hearth,
rested her head in her lap, folded her hands
round her knees.  The red glow of the
smouldering fire made her head like copper,
and gave to her faded red stockings a brilliancy
they lacked by day.

She had dimly suspected that something
was plotted against her on the occasion of her
visit to Langford, when she had found her
father with Langford.  What she had dreaded
had come to pass.  Her father had consented
to sell her so as to extricate himself from a
petty debt, but, above all, that he might be
given means of prosecuting his imaginary
claims.  Coombe Park was a curse to them.
It had blighted Charles, it had spoiled her
father's energies, it was doomed to make a
breach between her and her father.  She had
never herself thought of Coombe Park; she
had treated its acquisition as an impossible
dream, only not to be put aside as absurd
because harboured by her father.  She was
conscious now of a slight stirring of reproach
in her heart against him, but she battled
it and beat it down.  Strong in her
sense of filial respect, she would not allow
herself to entertain a thought that her father
was unjust.  She apologised to herself for his
conduct.  She explained his motives.  He had
supposed that the prospect of being mistress of
a large house, over wide acres, would fill her
ambition.  He meant well, but men do not
understand the cravings of the hearts of women.
But, explain away his conduct as she would,
she was unable to dissipate the sense of wrong
inflicted, to salve the wound caused by his
apparent eagerness to get rid of her out of the
house.  The back door was opened softly.

'Honor! still awake?'

'Yes, Larry.'

'Will you give me a drop of hot cider?
I am chilled.  Have you a potato sack I
can cast over my shoulders?  The dew falls
heavily.'

'No sign of the dog yet?'

'None at all.  The sheep are browsing at
ease.  It is dull work standing at a gate
watching them.  I wish the dog would come.'

'Let us change places, Larry.  You come
by the fire and I will watch at the gate.  The
moment that I see him I will give warning.'

'And scare him away!  No, Honor, I want
the prize-money.'

'Then I will come out and keep you
company.  Here are two potato sacks, one for
your shoulders, the other for mine.  If we
talk in a low tone we shall not warn off the
dog.'

'That is well, Honor.  So we shall make
the hours spin.  The moon is shining brightly.
There have been clouds, and then the dew did
not fall as cold and chill.  I have been hearkening
to the owls, what a screeching and a hooting
they make, and there is one in the apple-tree
snoring like my father.'

'Have you been standing all the while, Larry?'

'Yes, Honor, leaning against the gate.  If
there had been anything to sit on I should
have seated myself.  My fingers are numb.  I
must thaw them at your coals.'

He went to the fire and held his hands in
the glow.  'Honor!' he said, 'you have been
crying.  I see the glitter of the tears on your
cheeks.'

'Yes, I have been crying—not much.'

'What made you cry?'

'Girl's troubles,' she answered.

'Girl's troubles!  What are they?'

'Little matters to those they do not concern.
Here is a low stool on which the children sit
by the heart.  I will take it out and set it
under the hedge.  We can sit on it and talk
together awaiting the dog.'

'What is the time, Honor?  Is the clock
right?  Eleven!  I will wait till after
midnight and then go.  He will not come to-night
if he does not come before that.  He will have
gone hunting elsewhere.  Perhaps he remembers
that you scared him last night.'  Honor carried
out a low bench, and placed it near the gate
under the hedge where a thorn tree overhung.

'We shall do well here,' said Hillary.
'The dog will not see us, and we shall know
he is in the field by the fright of the sheep.'

He seated himself on the bench and
Honor did the same, at a distance from him—as
far away as the bench permitted.  She had
thrown the potato sack over her head, and
wore it as a hood; it covered her shoulders as
well, and shaded her face.  The dew was
falling heavily, the meadow in the moon was
white with it, as though frosted, and through
the white sprinkled grass went dark tracks, as
furrows, where the sheep had trodden and
dispersed the sparkling drops.

'Do you hear the owls?' asked Larry.
'I've heard there are three which are seen
every night fleeting over Wellon's Cairn, and
that they are the souls of the three women
Wellon killed.  I've never been there at night,
have you, Honor?'

'No, I do not go about at night.'

'I should not like to be on Broadbury
after dark, not near the old gibbet hill,
anyhow.  Listen to the old fellow snoring in the
apple-tree.  I thought owls slept by day and
waked by night, but this fellow is dead asleep,
judging by the noise he makes.'

After silence of a few moments, during
which they listened to the owls, 'I wonder,
Honor,' said the young man, 'that you liked
to sit on the mound where Wellon was hung.
It's a queer, whisht (uncanny) place.'

'I only sit there by day, and that only now
and then when I can get out a bit.  I have
not been there for some time.'

Then ensued another pause.

'I wish you would tell me one thing,' said
the girl, 'yet it is what I have no right to
ask.  Do you owe Mr. Langford a great deal
of money?'

'Oh yes,' answered Hillary carelessly, 'a
great deal.  He has called it in, and we shall
have to pay in a month or two.'

'Can you do so out of your savings?'

'We have no savings.  We shall go to
Mr. Physick—father and I—and get a
mortgage made on the property.  It is easily
done.  I am of age.  Father couldn't have
done it by himself, but I can join and let
him.'  He held up his head.  He was proud
of the consequence gained by consenting to a
mortgage.

'The first thing you have to do with the
property is to burden it,' said Honor.

Hillary screwed up his mouth.

'You may put it so if you like.'  Instead of
looking round at him admiring his consequence,
she reproached him.

'That is something to be ashamed of, I
think,' she said.

'Not at all.  If I did not, Uncle Taverner
could come down on us and have a sale of
our cattle and waggons and what not.  But,
maybe, that would suit your ideas better?'

'No,' said Honor gravely, 'not at all.
No doubt you are right; but you are old
enough not to have let it come to this.  Your
service on the farm ought to have been worth
fifty pounds a year for the last four years.  I
doubt if it has been worth as many shillings.'

He clicked his tongue in the side of his
mouth, and threw out his right leg impatiently.

'Mr. Langford has saved thousands of
pounds.  He puts by several hundreds every
year, and his land is no better than yours.'

'Uncle Taverner is a screw.'  Then, jauntily,
'we Nanspians are open-handed, we can't
screw.'

'But you can save, Larry.'

'If Uncle Taverner puts away hundreds, I
wonder where he puts them away?'

'That, of course, I cannot say.'

'I wonder if Mrs. Veale knows?'  Then he
chuckled, and said, 'Honor, some of the chaps
be talking of giving him a hare-hunt.  We
think he ought to be shamed out of letting that
woman tongue-lash him as she does?'

'Larry!' exclaimed Honor, turning sharply
on him and clutching his arm, 'for God's sake
do not be mixed up in such an affair.  He is
your uncle, and you may be very unjust.'  He
shrugged his shoulders.

'I'm not over sweet on Uncle Taverner,'
he said.  'It is mean of him calling in that
money, and he deserves to be touched up on
the raw.'

'Larry, you warned me against Mrs. Veale.
Now I warn you to have no hand in this save
to hold it back.  It must not be; and for you
to share in it will be scandalous.'

'How the owls are hooting!  To-whoo!
Whoo!  Whoo!  I wonder what sort of voice
the old white owl has.  He goes about noiseless,
like a bit of cotton grass blown by the wind.'

Then Honor went back to what she was
speaking of before.  'It goes to my heart to
see good land neglected.  Your nettle-seeds
sow our land, and thistle-heads blow over our
hedge.  Now that your father is not what he
was, you should grasp the plough-handle firmly.
Larry, you know the knack of the plough.
Throw your weight on the handles.  If you do
not, what happens?'

'The plough throws you.'

'Yes, flings you up and falls over.  It is
so with the farm.  Throw your whole weight
on it, through your arms, or it will throw
you.'

'That old snorer is waking,' said Hillary.

'You love pleasure, and do not care for
work,' pursued Honor.  'You are good-natured,
and are everyone's friend and your own enemy.
You shut your eyes to your proper interest and
open your purse to the parish.  The bee and
the wasp both build combs, both fly over the
same flowers and enjoy the same summer, but
one gathers honey and the other emptiness.
Larry, do not be offended with me if I speak
the truth.  The girls flirt with you and flatter
you, and the elder folk call you a Merry
Andrew, and say you have no mischief in you,
and it is a pity you have not brains.  That is
not true.  You have brains, but you do not
use them.  Larry, you have no sister and no
mother to speak openly to you.  Let me speak
to you as if I were your sister, and take it well,
as it is meant.'

So she talked to him.  Her voice was soft
and low, her tone tremulous.  She was afraid
to hurt him, and yet desirous to let him know
his duty.

She was stirred to the depth of her heart
by the events of the day.

Larry was unaccustomed to rebuke.  He
knew that she spoke the truth, but it wounded
his vanity, as well as flattered it, to be taken to
task by her.  It wounded him, because it
showed him he was no hero in her eyes; it
flattered him, because he saw that she took a
strong interest in his welfare.  He tried to
vindicate himself.  She listened patiently; his
excuses were lame.  She beat them aside with
a few direct words.  'Do not be offended with
me,' she pleaded, turning her face to him,
and then the moonlight fell over her noble
features; the potato sack had slipped back.
'I think of you, dear Larry, as a brother,
as a kind brother who has done many a good
turn to us, and I feel for you as an elder
sister.'

'But, Honor, you are younger than I am by
eighteen months.'

'I am older in experience, Larry; in that
I am very, very old.  You are not angry with
me?'

'No, Honor, but I am not as bad as you
make out.'

'Bad!  Oh Larry, I never, never thought, I
never said you were bad.  Far otherwise.  I
know that your heart is rich and deep and good.
It is like the soil of your best meadows.  But
then, Larry, the best soil will grow the strongest
weeds.  Sometimes when I look through the
gates of Chimsworthy I long to be within, with
a hook reaping down and rooting up.  And
now I am peering through the gates of your
honest eyes, and the same longing comes over me.'

He could see by the earnest expression of
her face, by the twinkle of tears on her lashes,
that she spoke out of the fulness of her heart.
She was not praising him, she was rebuking
him, yet he was not angry.  He looked intently
at her pure, beautiful face.  She could not bear
his gaze, he saw her weakness.  He put his
finger to her eyelashes.  'The dew is falling
heavily, and has dropped some diamonds here,'
he said.

She stood up.

'Hark!' she said, and turned her head.
'The cuckoo clock in the kitchen is calling
midnight.  We need remain here no longer.'

'I should like to remain till day,' said
Larry.

'What, to be scolded?'

'To be told the truth, dear Honor.'

'Do not forget what I have said.  I spoke
because I care for you.  The sheep will not be
disturbed to-night.  Will you have some posset
and go home?'

'Your father will keep guard to-morrow
night, but the night after that I will be here
again.  Oh Honor, you will sit up with me, will
you not?'  He took her hand.  'How much
better I had been, how the Chimsworthy coomb
would have flowed with honey, had God given
me such a sister as you.'

'Well, begin to weed yourself and Chimsworthy,'
she said with a smile.

'Will you not give me a word of praise as
well as of blame?'

'When you deserve it.'

She pressed his hand, then withdrew it,
entered the cottage, and fastened, the door.

Hillary walked away with his gun over
his shoulder, musing as he had not mused
before.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MRS. VEALE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MRS. VEALE.

.. vspace:: 2

Charles Luxmore had left the Revel shortly
after the departure of his sisters.  He returned
to Langford covered with shame and full of
anger.  He was not ashamed of his rascality.
He thought himself justified in playing a trick
on tricksters.  But he was ashamed at being
conquered by his sister, and he was unable to
disguise to himself that he cut an ignoble figure
beside her.  At the circus there had been a
general recognition of her worth, and as general
a disparagement of himself.  Why had she
interfered?  He had courted a 'row' in which
he might have held his own against the
equestrians, sure of support from the young
Brattonians.  That would have been sport, better
than tumbling in the sawdust and skipping
through hoops.  If he could only have excited
a fight, the occasion would have been forgotten
in the results; he would have come out in
flaming colours as a gallant fellow.  Now,
because Honor had interfered and put him in
the wrong, he had been dismissed as a rogue.

He knew well enough the red cloak Honor
had given away.  He knew that it had belonged
to her mother, and that Honor prized it highly,
and that it was very necessary to her.

Let him excuse himself as he would, a
sense of degradation oppressed him which he
was unable to shake off.

The behaviour of his comrades had changed
towards him, and this galled him.  After leaving
the circus he had essayed swagger, but it had
not availed.  His companions withdrew from
him as if ashamed to be seen in his society.
The popular feeling was roused in behalf of
Honor, who was universally esteemed, rather
than offended at the fraud played on the
equestrians.  It was well known that he,
Charles, had not behaved towards her with
consideration, that he had increased the burden
she bore so bravely.  This last act was the
climax of his wrong-doing.  Charles's inordinate
vanity had been hurt, and he was angry with
everyone but himself.

He returned to the farmhouse, where he
had been taken in, cursing the stupidity of the
villagers, the meddlesomeness of his sisters,
the cowardice of his companions, and his own
generosity.

He was without money now, and with no
prospect of getting any till his wage was paid.

He turned out his pockets; there was
nothing in them, not even the brass token.
He too proud to borrow of his boon
companions; he questioned whether, if he
asked, they would lend him any.  He doubted
if the innkeeper would let him drink upon
trust.  How intolerable for him to be without
money!  To have to lounge his evenings away
in the settle before the fire at Langford, or
loafing about the lanes!  'I know well enough,'
he muttered, 'why the louts keep away from
me.  'Tis because they know I'm cleaned out.
It's not along of that cursed token, not a
bit.  If I'd my pockets full they'd be round
me again as thick as flies on a cow's nose.'

He had only been a few days in the service
of Taverner Langford.  He had entered the
service rather surlily, only because forced to
do so, as Honor refused to allow him to sleep
and have meals at home.  'It'll keep me in
meat for a bit, and I'll look about me,' he said;
'but it is not the sort o' place for a
gentleman—a Luxmore.'

He had not asked leave to take a holiday
on the occasion of the Revel.  He had taken it
as a matter of course.  The Revel was a holiday,
of course; so is Sunday.  'I don't ask old
Langford whether I'm to keep the Sabbath by
doing nothing: I do nothing.  I don't ask him
if I'm to enjoy myself Revel day: I enjoy
myself.  These are understood things.'  He
curled his lip contemptuously.  'What a
shabby wage I get, or am to get!' he
muttered.  'No pay, no work; short pay, short
work.  That stands to reason—like buttering
parsnips.'

He sauntered into the Langford kitchen
and threw himself into the settle, with his hat
on, and his legs outstretched, and his hands in
his pockets.  Disappointment, humiliation,
impecuniosity combined to chafe his temper, and
give him a dejected, hang-dog appearance.

Mrs. Veale passed and repassed without
speaking.  She observed him without allowing
him to perceive that she observed him.
Indeed, he hardly noticed her, and he was
startled by her voice when she said, as he bent
over the fire, 'Charles Luxmore, what do y'
think of the Revel now?  I've a-been there,
and to my reckoning it were grand, but,
Lord! you've been over the world, and seen so many
fine things that our poor Revel is nought in
your eyes, I reckon.'

'Bah! poor stuff, indeed.  You should see
Bombay, or the bazaar at Candahar!  Bratton
Clovelly!  Bah!  Punjab, Cawbul, Delhi,
Peshawur!  Ghuznee!  Hyderabad!'  The
utterance of these names, which he knew would
convey no idea whatever to the mind of
Mrs. Veale, afforded him relief.  It morally
elevated him.  It showed him that he knew more
of the world than Mrs. Veale.  'You don't
happen to know Dost Mahommed?'

'Oh, dear, no!'

'Nor ever heard tell of him?'

'No, Mr. Luxmore.'

'He's an Ameer.'

'Is he now?'

'I've fought him.  Leastways his son, Akbar Khan.'

'You wasn't hard on him, I hope?'

'No, I wasn't that.  I merely carried off the
doors of his mosque.'

'Did that hurt him much?'

'His feelings, Mrs. Veale, awful.'

'Lord bless me!' exclaimed the woman,
looking at him over her shoulder as she stirred
a pot on the fire, with her queer blinking eyes
studying his expression but expressing nothing
themselves.

'I do wonder you be home from the Revel
so early.  A soldier like you, and a fine young
chap, ought to have stayed and enjoyed yourself.
The best of the fun, I've heard tell, is in
the evening.'

'How can I stay at the Revel when I
haven't a copper to spend there?' asked Charles
surlily.

'I don't like to see a grand young fellow
like you sitting at home, like an old man with
the rheumatics.  We will be friends, Charles.
I will give you a crown to buy your good-will.'  She
took the money from her pocket and
handed it him.

'I thank you,' he said grandly—she had
called him a grand young man—'but I can't
go to the Revel now.'  Nevertheless he pocketed
the crown.  'I've seen enough of it, and got
sick of it.  Wretched stalls where nothing is
for sale worth buying, wretched shows where
nothing is seen worth seeing.  I came away
because the Revel wearied me.'

'You'll find it dull here,' said the housekeeper.
'We poor ignorant creatures think the
Revel and all in it mighty fine things, because
we know no better and haven't seen the world.
It seems to me, Mr. Luxmore, you're in the
wrong place, as the elephant said to the
stickleback that had got into the ark.'

'I should just about think I was,' said
Charles, kicking out with both his heels.
Mrs. Veale was a plain, not to say unpleasant-looking
woman, much older than himself; he would
not have given her a thought had she not called
him 'Mr. Luxmore,' and so recognised that he
was a superior being to the Dicks and Toms on
the farm.

'Peshawur!  Jelalabad!  Cawbul! that's how
they come,' said Charles.  Mrs. Veale stood with
hand on the handle of the pan, an iron spoon
uplifted in the other, waiting to drink in
further information.  'Through the Khyber
Pass,' he added, drawing his brows together
and screwing up his mouth.

'No doubt about it,' said Mrs. Veale.  'It
must be so, if you sez it.  And Solomon in all
his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'  She
stirred the pot; then, thinking she had not
made herself intelligible, she explained, 'I
mean that Solomon, though the wisest of men,
didn't know that, I reckon.'

'How could he,' asked Charles, 'never
having been there?'

'I do wonder, now, if you'll excuse the
remark,' said the housekeeper, 'that you didn't
bring the silver belt here and hang it up over
the mantel-shelf.'

'Silver belt?  What silver belt?'

'Oh! you know.  The champion wrestler's
belt that is to be tried for this afternoon.  I
suppose you didn't go in for it because you
thought it wouldn't be fair on the young chaps
here to take from them everything.'

'I did not consider it worth my while
trying for it,' said Charles, with a kick at
the hearth with his toes—not an irritated
kick, but a flattered, self-satisfied, pleased
kick.  'Of course I could have had it if I had
tried.'

'Of course you might, you who've been a
soldier in the wars, and fought them
blood-thirsty Afghans, Lord!  I reckon they was like
Goliaths of Gath, the weight of whose spear
was as a weaver's beam.'

Charles jerked his head knowingly.

'Afghanistan was a hard nut to crack.'

'Ah!' acquiesced Mrs. Veale.  'So said old
Goodie as she mumbled pebbles.'  Then she
stood up and looked at him.  'I know a fine
man when I see him,' she said, 'able to hold
himself like the best gentleman, and walking
with his head in the air as if the country
belonged to him.'

'Ah!' said Charles, taking off his hat
and sitting erect, 'if all men had their rights
Coombe Park would be ours.'

'Don't I know that?' asked the housekeeper.
'Everyone knows that.  Nobody can
look at you without seeing you're a gentleman
born.  And I say it is a shame and a sin that
you should be kicked out of your proper nest,
and it the habitation of strangers, cuckoos who
never built it, but have turned out the rightful
owners.  I reckon it made me turn scarlet
as your sister's cloak to see her come crawling
here t'other day on bended knees to ask the
master to take you in.  She's no lady, not got
a drop of blue blood in her veins, or she'd not
ha' done that.  I'll tell you what it is,
Mr. Charles.  All the gentle blood has run one
way and all the vulgar blood the other, as in our
barton field the sweet water comes out at the
well, and the riddam (ferruginous red water) at
the alders.'  She spoke with such acrimony,
and with a look so spiteful, that Charles asked,
'What has Honor done to offend you?'

'Oh nothing, nothing at all!  I don't stoop
to take offence at her.'  Then, observing that
the young man resented this disparagement of
his sister, she added hastily, 'There, enough of
her.  She's good enough to wash and comb
the little uns and patch their clothes.  We will
talk about yourself, as the fox said to the
goose, when she axed him if duck weren't more
tasty.  Why have you come from the Revel?
There be some better reason than an empty
pocket.'

'I have been insulted.'

'Of course you have,' said Mrs. Veale,
'and I know the reason.  The young men
here can't abide you.  For why?  Because
you're too much of a gentleman, you're too
high for 'em.  As the churchyard cross said to
the cross on the spire, "Us can't talk wi'out
shouting."  Do you know what the poacher as
was convicted said to the justice o' peace?
"I'm not in a position, your worship, to punch
your head, but I can spit on your shadow."'

'Without any boasting, I may admit that I
and these young clodhopping louts ain't of the
same sort,' said Charles proudly.

'That's just what the urchin (hedgehog)
said to the little rabbits when he curled up in
their nest.'

'Ah!' laughed Charles, 'but the urchin had
quills and could turn the rabbits out, and I
have not.'

'You've been in the army, and that gives
a man bearing, and you've been half over
the world, and that gives knowledge; and
nature have favoured you with good looks.
The lads are jealous of you.'

'They do not appreciate me, certainly,' said
Charles, swelling with self-importance.

'This is a wicked world,' said Mrs. Veale.
Then she produced a bottle of gin and a glass,
and put them at Charles's elbow.  'Take a drop
of comfort,' she said persuasively, 'though
for such as you it should be old crusted port
and not the Plymouth liquor, as folks say is
distilled from turnips.'

Young Luxmore needed no pressing; he
helped himself.

'I reckon,' pursued Mrs. Veale, 'you were
done out of Coombe Park by those who didn't
scruple to swear it away.  Money and law
together will turn the best rights topsy-turvy.'

'No doubt about that, ma'am,' said Charles.
'I've heard my father say, many a time, that
with a hundred pounds he could win Coombe
Park back.'

'Then why do you not lay out the hundred
pounds?'

'Because I haven't got 'em,' answered Charles.

'Oh! they're to be got,' said the housekeeper,
'as the gipsy said to his wife when she
told 'n she were partial to chickens.'

'It seems to me,' said the young man, 'that
it is a hard world for them that is straight.
The crooked ones have the best of it.'

'Not at all,' answered the housekeeper.
'The crooked ones can't go through a straight
hole.  It is they who can bend about like the
ferret as gets on best, straight or crooked as
suits the occasion.'

Charles stood up, drank off his glass, and
paced the room.  The housekeeper filled his
glass again.  The young man observed her
actions and returned to his seat.  As he
flung himself into the settle again he said, 'I
don't know what the devil makes you take such
an interest in my affairs.'

Mrs. Veale looked hard at him, and
answered, 'A woman can't be indifferent to a
goodlooking man.'  Charles tossed off his glass
to hide his confusion.  So this bleached creature
had fallen in love with him!—a woman his
senior by some fifteen years.  He was flattered,
but felt that the situation was unpleasant.

'This is a bad world,' he said, 'and I wish
I had the re-making of it.  The good luck goes
to the undeserving.'

'That is only true because those who have
wits want readiness.  A screw will go in and
hold where a nail would split.  Coombe Park
is yours by right; it has been taken from you
by wrong.  I should get it back again were
I you, and not be too nice about the
means.'  Charles sighed and shook his head.

'What a life you would lead as young
squire,' said Mrs. Veale.  'The maidens now
run after Larry Nanspian, because he is heir to
Chimsworthy, and don't give much attention to
you, because you've nothing in present and
nothing in prospect.  But if you were at Coombe
Park they'd come round you thick as damsels
in Shushan to be seen of Ahasuerus, and Larry
Nanspian would be nowhere in their thoughts.'  She
laughed scornfully.  'And the fellows that
turn up their noses at you now, because you
eat Langford's bread crusts and earn ninepence,
how they would cringe to you and call you
sir, and run errands for you, and be thankful
for a nod or a word!  Then the farmers who
now call you a good-for-naught would pipe
another note, and be proud to shake hands.  And
Parson Robbins would wait with his white gown
on, and not venture to say, "When the wicked
man," till he saw you in the Coombe Park pew.
And the landlord's door at the "King of Bells"
would be ever open to you, and his best seat
by the fire would be yours.  And I—poor
I—would be proud to think I'd poured out a glass
of Plymouth spirit to the young squire, and
that he'd listened to my foolish words.'

Charles tossed his head, and threw up and
turned over the crown in his trousers pocket.
Then, unsolicited, he poured himself out another
glass and tossed it off.  That would be a grand
day when he was squire and all Bratton was
at his feet.

Mrs. Veale stood erect before him with
flickering eyes.  'Do y' know the stone steps
beside the door?' she asked.

'Yes!'

'What be they put there for?'

'They are stepping-stones to help to mount
into the saddle.'

'What stones be they?'

'I'm sure I can't say,'

'Right; no more does he know or care
who uses them.  Well, I'm naught, but I can
help you into the saddle of Coombe Park.'





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.. _`TREASURE TROVE`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII.


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   TREASURE TROVE.

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Charles Luxmore was not able to sleep much
that night.  It was not that his conscience
troubled him.  He gave hardly a thought to
the affair at the circus.  His imagination was
excited; that delusive faculty, which,
according to Paley, is the parent of so much error
and evil.  The idea of Coombe Park recurred
incessantly to his mind and kept him awake.
But it was not the acquisition of wealth and
position that made the prospect so alluring;
it was the hope of crowing over all those who
had despised him, of exciting the envy of those
who now looked down on him.

The 'Ring of Bells' was on the Coombe
estate.  How he could swagger there as the
landlord's overlord!  The Nanspians, Taverner
Langford, had but a few hundred acres, and
the Coombe Park property was nigh on two
thousand.

Squire Impey and he would be the two
great men of the place, and as the squire at
Culm Court was a hunting man, he, Charles
Luxmore, would be hand in glove with him.

It would be worth much to ride in scarlet
after the hounds, with his top boots and a
black velvet cap, and the hand holding a whip
curled on the thigh so, and to jog past old
Langford, and cast him a ''Do, Taverner, this
morning?  Middling, eh?' and to crack the
whip at Hillary Nanspian and shout, 'Out o'
the way, you cub, or I'll ride you down.'  He
sat up in bed and flapped his arms, holding
the blanket as reins, and clicked with his tongue,
and imagined himself galloping over the field
after the hounds at full cry.  Right along
Broadbury, over the fences of Langford,
across Taverner's land, tearing, breaking
through the hedges of Chimsworthy, tally-ho!
With a kick, Charles sent the bedclothes
flying on to the floor.

'By George!' he said.  'We shall have
a meet in front of Coombe Park, and Honor
and Kate shall serve out cherry-brandy to
the huntsmen.'  Then he scrambled about the
floor collecting his bed-clothes and rearranging
them.  'I'll go to Coombe Park to-morrow,
and look where the kennels are to be.  I'll
give an eye also to the pond.  I don't believe
it has been properly cleaned out and fit for
trout since the place left our hands.  I'm
afraid Honor will never rise to her situation—always
keep a maid-of-all-work mind.  Confound
these bed-clothes, I've got them all askew.'

So possessed was Charles with the idea that
it did not forsake him when morning came.
It clung to him all the day.  'There's only a
hundred pounds wanted,' he said, 'for us to
establish our claim.'

Then he paused in the work on which he
was engaged.  'How am I to reach a hundred
pounds on ninepence a day, I'd like to know?
Ninepence a day is four-and-six a week, and
that makes eleven guineas or thereabouts per
annum.  I must have something to spend on
clothing and amusement.  Say I put away
seven guineas in the year, why it would take
me thirteen to fourteen years to earn a hundred
pounds—going straight as a nail, not as a
screw, nor as a ferret.'

In the evening Charles wandered away to
Coombe Park.  The owner, a yeoman named
Pengelly, who, however, owned only the home
farm, not the entire property, had been
accustomed to the visits of Oliver Luxmore,
which had been regarded as a sort of necessary
nuisance.  He was by no means disposed to
have his place haunted by the young man
also, of whose conduct he had received a bad
report from all sides.  He therefore treated
Charles with scant courtesy, and when young
Luxmore tried bluster and brag, he ordered
him off the premises.

Charles returned to Langford foaming with
rage.  Mrs. Veale awaited him.

'The master is not home,' she said; 'where
have you been?'

'Been to see my proper home,' he answered,
'and been threatened with the constable if I
did not clear away.  What do you mean by
giving me all sorts of ideas and expectations,
and subjecting me to insult, eh? answer me
that.'

'Don't you fly out in flaming fury, Mr. Charles.'

'I'm like to when treated as I have been.
So would you.  So will you, if what I hear is
like to come about.  There's talk of a hare-hunt.'

'A what?'

'A hare-hunt.'

'Where?'  Mrs. Veale stood before him
growing deadlier white every moment, and
quivering in all her members and in every
fibre of her pale dress, in every hair of her
blinking eyelids.

'Why here—at Langford.'

She caught his arm and shook him.  'You
will not suffer it!  You will stay it!'

'Should they try it on, trust me,' said
Charles mockingly.  'Specially if Larry
Nanspian be in it.  I've a grudge against him
must be paid off.'

Mrs. Veale passed her hand over her
brow.  'To think they should dare! should
dare!' she muttered.  'But you'll not suffer
it.  A hare-hunt! what do they take me for?'

Charles Luxmore uttered a short ironical
laugh.  'Dear blood!'[1] she muttered, and
her sharp fingers nipped and played on his
arm as though she were fingering a flute.
'You'll revenge me if they do!  Trust
me! when I'm deadly wronged I can hurt, and
hurt I will, and when one does me good I
repay it—to a hundred pounds.'

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[1] A Devonshire expression, meaning 'Dear fellow.'

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She laughed bitterly.  There was something
painful in her laugh.  It was devoid of
mirth, and provoked no laughter.  Although
she said many odd things, invented quaint
similes, or used those which were traditional,
they hardly ever awoke a smile, her tone was
so cheerless, husky and unpleasant.

'So Farmer Pengelly insulted you!  Ha! it
would be a most laughable conceit to prove
that he had no title, and had thrown away his
thousands.'

'On Coombe Park?'

'On what else?  What did he say to you?'

'Never mind what he said.  What he said
hurt me.  He called me a vagabond and
empty pocket, and said I might go pack to
the devil.'

'And when you have established your
right, and shown that he bought without a
proper title, then you'd stand on the doorsteps,
stick in hand, and say, Pengelly! who has the
empty pocket?  Who is the vagabond without
a house?  Go pack to the devil.  What be
you to stye in a gentleman's mansion?  Whom
God Almighty made an ass bides an ass.  And
cats as ain't got manners must keep off Turkey
carpets.'

Then, still holding his arm, she said,
'Come here!  I've never shown you over this
house; not that Langford is fit to compare
with Coombe Park.  Yet this were a gentleman's
house once.  But what were the Langfords
as compared with the Luxmores?  You'll
see a Luxmore monument at the very altar-steps
o' the chancel in Bratton Church, but that
of a Langford is half-way down the nave,
which shows how different they were estimated.'  After
a short silence, Charles felt a spasmodic
quiver pass over her, like the thrill of a peacock
when spreading its tail.  'They would have a
hare-hunt, would they, and put me to a public
shame?'

'No, no, Mrs. Veale,' said Charles caressingly,
'I'll put a stop to that; and if they
venture I'll break the necks of those that have
to do with it.'

'Come with me,' said the woman hoarsely,
'I'll show you all.  Here,' she flung open
the sitting-room door, 'here is the parlour
where your sister went down on her knees to
the master.  If he'd ha' axed her to lick his
boots she'd ha' done it—no proper pride in
her—and all for ninepence a day.'

Charles became very red in the face.

'This is the desk at which the master
writes and does his accounts.  In it, I reckon,
be his books.  I've never seed them, and I
doubt if I could make much out of 'em if I
did.  Them things don't agree wi' my faculties,
as the cherub said of the armchair.'

'Does old Langford always sit in this room?'

'Oh yes! too proud to sit in the kitchen wi'
such as me—not even in winter.  Then I
must make his fire here every day, and have
the worry of keeping it in.  There is one thing
don't suit him now he is cut wi' the Nanspians.
Formerly he got all his fuel from their wood.
There are no plantations on Langford, and the
old trees are cut down.  When he got his
fuel at Chimsworthy he hadn't to pay, and
now he must get a rick of firing elsewhere.'  She
pointed to an old-fashioned cupboard in
the wall.  'There he keeps his sugar and his
tea and his currants.  He keeps all under
key, lest I or the maidens should steal them.
Now you look at me, and I'll show you
something.'  She opened an empty place under the
cupboard and knocked upwards thrice with
her fist, and the glass doors of the repository
of the groceries flew open.  She laughed
huskily.  'There! if I strike I shoot up the bolt,
and the lock won't hold the doors together.
When I press them together and shut back,
down falls the bolt.'

'That is ingenious, Mrs. Veale—stay, don't
shut yet.  I have a sweet tooth, and see some
raisins in the bag there.'

'Now leave them alone.  I've something
better to show you.  Men reckon themselves
clever, but women beat them in cleverness.
Go to the fire-place.  Kneel at it, and put
your hand up on the left side, thrust in your
arm full length and turn the hand round.'

'I shall dirty myself.  I shall get a black
hand.'

'Of course you will.  That is how I found
it out.  Don't be afraid of a little soot.  There
is a sort of oven at the side.  This room were
not always a parlour, I reckon; there were a
large open fire-place in it, and when the grate
was put in it left the space behind not at all,
or only half, filled in—leastways, the road to
the oven door was not blocked.  Have you
found it?'

'Yes,' answered Charles.  'I have my hand
in something.'

'And something in your hand, eh?'

'Yes, a box, a largish box.'

He drew forth a tin ease, very heavy, with
a handle at the top.  It was locked with a
letter padlock.

'Into that box the master puts all his
savings.  I reckon there be hundreds of pounds
stowed away there, may be thousands.  The
master himself don't know how much.  He's
too afeared of being seen or heard counting it.
When he has money he takes out the box,
opens it, and puts in the gold, only gold and
paper, no silver.  Banks break.  He will have
none of them, but this old cloam oven he thinks
is secure.  He may be mistaken.'

'How did you find this out?'

'By his black hand.  Whenever he had
sold bullocks or sheep, and I knew he had
received money, so sure was he to come in here
with a white hand and come out with one that
was black, that is how I found it.  I know more.
I know the word that will open the box.'

'How did you find that out?'

'The master was himself afraid of forgetting
it, and I chanced to see in the first leaf of his
Bible here in pencil the reference Gen. xxxvi. 23.
One day I chanced to look out the passage,
and it was this: "The children of Shobal were
these: Alvan, and Manahath, and Ebal, Shepho,
and Onam."  I thought a man must have a bad
conscience to find comfort in such a passage as
that.  And what do y' think?  I found the
same reference in his pocket-book.  Then I
knew it must mean something I didn't see
the end of.  And one day I were full o' light,
like a lantern.  I saw it all.  Do y' see, this new
padlock makes only four letter words, and in
that verse there are two words of four letters,
and I found as how the master changed about.
One year he took Ebal and next year Onam.
It be the turn o' Ebal now.'

Charles felt the weight of the case and
turned the padlock towards him.

'Lord!' exclaimed Mrs. Veale, 'what if the
master have got his thousand or two there!
It's nothing to what might be yours if you had
Coombe Park.'

Suddenly both started.  Langford's voice
was heard outside.  Charles hastily replaced the
case where he had found it, and slipped out of
the room with Mrs. Veale, who held him and
drew him after her, her nervous fingers playing
on his arm-bone as on a pipe.

'Come here,' she whispered, 'let me wash
your hand.  It is black.  Here, at the sink.'  She
chuckled as she soaped his hand and wrist.
'And here the master have washed his, and
thought I did not consider it.'  Then she
quivered through her whole body and her eyes
blinked.  She put up her shaking finger, and
whispered 'Ebal!'

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