Milly kept silent a bit, but he knew by her calm breathing that she weren't going to throw the house out of windows over it, or make a scene. In fact, she'd never been known to make a scene in all her life and weren't likely to begin now.

She spoke at last.

"There's some women would be a good bit put about to hear these things, Jo," she said, and he granted the truth of it.

"I can't call home one but yourself as wouldn't," he said, "but you are the top flower in the basket of women at Thorpe-Michael, and have got intellects and the wit to see 'twas nothing but my great passion for you as led me into this mess. And though business is business and no man can ever say I drew back in a bargain, yet I've got a good bit enraged with William lately, and I feel 'tis more'n time this here compounded interest come to an end."

"How much have he had?" asked Milly, and Jonas gave her the figures, which was branded in letters of fire on his mind, so to say.

"Five hundred and seventy-eight," he said, "and still he's got the front to swear I owe him near two more hundred."

"I've puzzled sometimes where your money was going," she told him, "but, knowing you, I well understood 'twas safe."

"Thank God you came to the task with your usual high courage and sense," he answered. "And thank God, also, that you think none the worse of me. And don't you imagine I grudge the money itself. On the low level of cash you was worth the Mint of England ten times over; but the question afore me is, looking at my deal with William as a money bargain between man and man, whether he ain't going a bit over and beyond doing me in the eye."

"I reckon he is," said Milly. "Five hundred and seventy-eight's enough, Jo, and I'm proud, in a manner of speaking, you could rise it. I'm very fortunate in having you for a husband, because the man wasn't born to suit me better; and I should never have neighboured with William so fine as what I have done with you. But you was fortunate, too, in finding a chap as would take cash for what you was so willing to buy."

"I was," he granted. "Providence never done any member of my family such a turn as it done me when it sent you to my roof; but, outside that, touching William Bird, I be growing to feel—However, if you say 'Go on paying, William,' I'll do so very well content; but if, on the other hand, you reckon that the man's Jewing me and did ought to be spoke to, then I'll be still better content."

"He shall be spoke to," she answered, "and I'll speak to him. We are very good friends and I'm sorry for him, because he's drawn a blank; and I've noticed, now and again, he's looked at me as if he was a good bit vexed we ever parted. And no doubt he's had queer thoughts and weighed his money against me and wondered whether it has served him better than what I should."

"Damn queer thoughts, I'll lay my life," said Jonas. "And I'm sorry for him, also as a Christian man, because he's quite clever enough to know what he's lost, and the bitterness no doubt runs into my compound interest."

"Go to sleep now," she said, "and fret no more. You can leave the rest to me."

So he blessed her for the wonder she was, and, with the load lifted from his heart, soon slept like a child.

Milly Bird took an early chance to see William, and what passed between them would have been very exciting to know and perchance an interesting side-glance on human nature; but none ever heard it save their Maker; and not Jonas himself, though he was cruel inquisitive, ever larned no details.

"'Tis no matter," said Milly to her husband. "We had a tell about it, and William's all right and won't want no more money. He's a very clever chap and ain't wishful for nobody to hear tell of his doings in the past, least of all poor Daisy. So that's that. And there shan't be no ill blood and there shan't be no more cash, and all friends notwithstanding."

Which fell out just as the remarkable woman ordained it should.



No. X

THE AMBER HEART

The Lord chooses queer tools to do His purpose and we know that the stone the builders rejected was took by Him to be head of the corner; but in the case of the amber heart, it might be too much to say that the way that particular object worked for good was His almighty idea, for the reason, there was something a bit devious about the whole matter, and you'd be inclined to think a woman's craft rather than the Everlasting Will was at the bottom of the business.

And amber ain't a stone, anyhow, for while some people say 'tis sea-gulls' tears petrified by sea water, and others, equally clever, tell me it comes out of a whale, yet in either case you couldn't call it a mineral substance; and let that be as it will, what sea-gulls have got to cry about is a subject hidden from human understanding, though doubtless they've got their troubles like all mortal flesh.

Well, there was four of 'em—two maidens and two young men—and James White, the farmer at Hartland and Mary Jane White his sister, were two, and Cora Dene, who lived along with her old widow aunt, Mrs. Sarah Dene, was the third of the bunch, and Nicholas Gaunter, who worked as cowman at Hartland Farm, came fourth.

And at the beginning of the curious tale James White was tokened to Mrs. Dene's niece, while his cowman had got engaged to Mary Jane. Folk said none of 'em was particular well suited, but the thing had fallen out as such matters will, and there weren't no base of real love behind the engagements, except in the case of White's sister.

There's no doubt James White loved Cora Dene for her cooking, as well he might, because she was a wonder in that art. She was also a very pretty woman, with a headpiece well furnished within as well as beautiful without, and when she first took James, Cora honestly believed she loved him and liked the thought of reigning at Hartland. But more than the love of the couple had gone to the match, because Mrs. Dene, Cora's aunt, was very wishful for it to happen on the girl's account and meant to make other arrangements for her own comfort.

She liked Cora very well, you understand, and knew she'd miss her cooking, if not her pretty face and her commonsense; but she had a great feeling for a man round her house, which was lonely, and on the moor-edge by the river, half a mile from Little Silver village, and her ambition was to engage a married couple who could tend home and garden, poultry and pigs; because Mrs. Dene, though fairly well to do, was an energetic creature and liked to be busy and add to her income in a small way.

So when she learned through his sister that James White wanted Cora, she done her best to help on the match and found the girl not unwilling. In fact, Cora accepted Jimmy before she knew quite enough about him to do so; and then, after she got to understand his nature and found he was merciless about money and cruel close, and grudged a sovereign for a bit of fun, her heart sank. Because she didn't know that love can't stem a ruling passion, and ain't very often the ruling passion itself in a male, and she found, as many other maidens have afore her, that a man's love affairs don't stand between him and life, or change his character and bent of mind.

So when she discovered that James was a miser, Cora began to see other things, because, once there's a spot for doubt to work, the tarnish soon spreads. James would not buy her a ring, but put five pounds in the bank for her, which didn't interest Cora much; and that's how it stood with them; while as to the other pair, the friction was a bit different.

You see, Nicholas Caunter, the cowman, only got interested in his master's sister when he found she was terrible interested in him. He was very good looking and a simple, charming sort of a man unconscious of his fine appearance; and there's no doubt that Mary Jane fell in love with him a week after he came to Hartland. And, when he found that out, being heartwhole at the time and poor as a mouse, he couldn't but see that to wed Mary Jane would be a pretty useful step; because she had her own money and was a nice enough woman, though not very good-looking.

However, she was healthy and hearty and there was a lot of her, so Nick told himself it all looked very promising and proper and he started making love to her, and foxed himself presently that it was the genuine article and there weren't nobody for him on earth but Mary Jane.

Then, a week after he'd offered for her and she'd wasted no time saying "Yes," but was in his arms almost afore the words had got out of his mouth, the young woman brought Nicholas acquainted with Cora Dene, because she said it was well he should know her brother's future bride.

So there they was—Cora betrothed to James White and Mary Jane White fixed up with Nicholas Gaunter, though he'd only been at Hartland a month. And then the trouble began. First, Cora slowly discovered that James was close as a shut knife; and if she'd been clever enough to read a man's mouth and eyes, she'd have seen his character stamped upon 'em. But that was the first secret disturbance; and then Nicholas, he got a painful jar and found out there was only one girl on earth for him and that was Cora.

He'd never been properly in love till then, and if poor Mary Jane was a shadow before he met t'other girl, she sank to be less than nothing at all so soon as Nicky had seen James White's sweetheart the second time.

In a fortnight, from being an easy-going creature, very fond of cows, and with just an ordinary eye to the main chance, Nicholas Caunter found himself alive and tingling to the soles of his feet with a passionate desire for Cora. Everything else in life sank out of sight, and he cussed Providence good and hard for playing him such a cruel trick, not seeing it was his own desire for the line of least resistance that had landed him plighted to Mary Jane.

So you see James and his sister both well content, and reckoning in a dim way at the back of their minds that each was going to be boss in the married state, because the money and position was with them. And James had reached the point when he saw himself married in another six months, after he'd done the autumn work on his farm and could afford three days' holiday. He reckoned such a lapse would be largely waste of time, for money-making was his god; but a honeymoon appeared to be counted upon by Cora, and he'd yielded reluctantly in that particular. Then Mary Jane, she hoped to be wedded along with her brother, and counted on a very fine holiday with Nicholas after, and even thought of going so far as London for it.

So that's how they stood; and meantime, though Nicholas managed still to hide his misery from Mary Jane, because they'd only been tokened a fortnight, his heart, in truth, was long since gone to Cora. As for her, she stood in perplexity because she liked her close lover less and less and saw his smallness of vision and lust for the pence with growing hatred and clearness; while, worse still, she couldn't but see that 'twas all bunkum about Nicholas caring a straw for Mary Jane.

And far deeper than that she saw, because not only did the maiden discover that Caunter was thinking a million times more about her than the other girl; but to her undying amazement she found that Nicholas was working on her heart very fierce indeed and that, though he played the game to the best of his powers and respected her engagement and stood up for James White and said he was a good man, though mean as an east wind and so on, yet she very well knew what had happened to the pair of 'em, and being a brave woman and much the cleverest of the four, she faced the situation in secret and put it to herself in plain English.

Meantime, Cora's aunt was casting about for her own comfort, after the girl should wed with White, and planning her arrangements without a thought that clouds were in the sky.

And then came the amber heart into the affair, and to Cora's immense astonishment James gave her a gift.

Him and his sister had talked on the subject of presents and she'd told him that 'twas rather a surprise to her that Nicholas hadn't produced no tokening ring as yet, and James had supported Nicholas in that matter, and said money was money, and his cowman hadn't got much at best and far too little anyway to waste ten shillings in sentiment.

"Let him keep his money for the wedding-ring," said James. "That you must have, though even that's a silly waste in my opinion."

But Mary Jane weren't with him there, and was casting about to give Nicholas a present herself and so lift him to give her one back; when James White, down to Ashburton after a very successful sale, happed to look in a window and see the amber heart.

'Twas just a honey-coloured thing carved to the familiar pattern and a bit bigger than your thumbnail, and with a thin little silver chain hung to it. And fired to a rash deed, he thought on Cora and went in the shop and asked the price.

A hopeful jeweller said he could have it for ten bob, so James took a chair and cheapened it. He sat there haggling for half an hour; and finally he got the trinket for six shillings and six pence, and returned to his hoss and rode home, thinking small beer of himself for a silly piece of work.

He was a secretive sort of man and didn't whisper his purchase to nobody; but the next Sunday, when Cora came to Hartland to tea and for a walk on the moor and a bit of love-making after, James fetched out the prize when they were alone. It had grown to be high summer time just then, and James was amazed to see the crop of whortleberries lying ripe for the picking. They made him forget all about Cora and the amber heart for a bit.

"If us have the childer out here, there's pounds and pounds of the fruit to be picked and they run a shilling a pint at market," he said. "Pay 'em twopence a pint for picking, and there's a five pound note for me afore the summer's over."

Then he was pleased to see his honey bees hard at work in the heather.

"I respect a bee more than most any creature," James told Cora, "because the insect rises above holidays and works seven days a week all its life till it drops."

Then he minded the amber heart, and said he doubted not 'twas going to be an heirloom in the White family, to be handed down from mother to daughter for generations. And he warned her to take a lot of care of it, and look cruel sharp that no misfortune ever befell the trash.

Cora thanked him very gratefully and put it on, and he said it looked very fine and became her well; but he bade her only to wear it on great occasions, and watch over it very close and jealous.

"There's money there," said James, and she wondered how much, but knew exceedingly well he hadn't put no great strain on a fat purse when he bought it.

He ordered her to keep the thing a secret for the present, and she promised to do so; and then came on the next queer scene of the play, for meeting with Nicholas down in Little Silver a week later, the man unfolded his feelings a bit and give Cora a glimpse of his heart. But such were her own feelings by then that what he hinted at didn't surprise her. In fact, he told her what a hundred things had told her already. He dwelt on Mary Jane first, however, and said he was a lot put about in that quarter and shamed of himself and wishful to give her a bit of a gift for the sake of peace.

"Such things must be done gradual and decent," he said. "'Tis clear as light I can't marry her now, because I moved like a blind man and made a shocking mistake; but I've only been tokened to the woman a month, though it seems like eternity, and afore I cut loose, I must carry on a bit longer and let the shock come gradual."

"I know very well how it is with you, Nick," she answered. "Such things will happen and 'tis very ill-convenient; but, I'm tolerable understanding, the more so because I'm finding myself in much the same sort of a mess as you."

They skated on thin ice, of course, and Nicholas found silence the safest when along with Cora; but they opened out bit by bit, and they both knew very well by now that they was meant for each other and no other parties whatsoever.

Then began the craft of Cora, and such was the amazing cleverness of the woman, doubtless quickened by love, that she worked single-handed, and whereas a lesser female might have taken Nicholas into her confidence, she did not, but struck a far-reaching stroke for them both, all unknown by him. She hoped it might happen as she'd planned for it to do, and reckoned no great harm would result if it failed; but her arts and her knowledge of Caunter's habit of mind carried her through and advanced the tricky and parlous affair a pretty good stage.

Cora knew two or three things now and she fitted 'em together. She knew the holiday people was apt to picnic round about on famous spots beside the river, and she knew sometimes they would leave odds and ends behind 'em worth the picking up.

She also knew that Nicholas Caunter would smoke his pipe by the river of an evening, when he could escape from his sweetheart, and she knew that poor Mary Jane was worrying a bit about a token of affection from Nicholas, which he weren't in any great hurry to produce. For, since the crash, the cowman soon felt less and less disposed to carry on his pretence, or do aught to encourage the false hopes of Mary Jane.

So, fortified by all these facts, Cora watched out for Nicholas one evening, saw him coming, and dropped her amber heart in the way where it would lie under his nose as he came along.

Her only fear was that he'd miss it, and she hid, so close as a hare in its form, to watch how it might go. But since Nicky's eyes were on the ground and the sunset light glittered very brave upon the toy, miss it he did not.

She saw him pick it up with a good bit of interest and then his eyes roamed about; but there was nought in sight of him but the river and some fragments of paper and a burned-out fire, where holiday folk had took their tea. So away he went with the amber heart in his trouser pocket, and after he was gone Cora came forth well pleased with the adventure; because she knew all was tolerable safe now, and reckoned the next stage would happen next day as she had foretold to herself. Which it did do.

She met Nicky after work hours and he was full of his find and very wishful for Cora to take it. But that weren't her purpose by no means.

"No, Nick," she said. "This fix we be in wants a power of careful thought and management, and we've got to go slow. You ain't a very downy man and can't see much beyond the point of your beautiful nose; but I can, and I'll ask you to go on as you are going for a bit and leave the future to me."

"I'd trust you with my life," he said, and then she told him what he was to do.

"You give this thing to Mary Jane," directed the devious woman. "You needn't be telling you picked it up and that 'tis no more than a come-by-chance, because then she'd set no store upon it. But just say 'tis a gift for her, and she'll be pleased and axe no questions."

Of course Nicholas couldn't see the point; but Cora just told him to trust her and do what she said.

"You leave the future to me," she told him. "I know a lot more about this than what you do, and if there's one thing above all else it is for you to trust me. You'll do a mighty sight more than you think you're doing when you give that rubbish to Mary Jane."

Well, he felt with a woman like Cora Dene, his strong suit was to obey and not argue, for he understood now, by a sure instinct, that such a creature was a tower of strength if she loved a man, and had best be let alone to work out her plans in her own way. And he presented the amber heart to Mary Jane and endured her joy and her kisses, though his heart sank under 'em and he puzzled all night to know how such a stroke was going to work for good. And if he'd known the proper tempest that had to rage afore there was peace, doubtless his pluck would have quailed under it.

And the very next morning, so proud as punch, Mary Jane came to breakfast with her amber heart flashing under her chin, and when James sat down to his meal, the first thing he catched sight of was his gift to Cora on his sister's bosom.

His eyeballs jingled no doubt and he put down his knife and fork and stared as if he'd seen a spectrum instead of the homely shape of Mary Jane behind the teapot.

"What—what in thunder be that hanging round your neck?" he asked.

"A little momentum from Nick," she answered lightly. "He gave it to me yesterday and was wishful for me to let him see me wear it."

"Caunter gave you that?" he said. "Let me look at it."

Well, she was a bit surprised, of course, to see James tighten up and set his jaws as he was wont to do before ugly news; but she put it down to astonishment and no more and handed the heart and the chain to James. She knew nought about his gift to Cora, and so when he dropped it, after squinting close at it, and said: "My God in heaven, 'tis the same!" then Mary Jane felt proper amazement.

"The same what?" she asked.

"The same treasure that I gave Cora for a heirloom," he answered, his jaws like a rat-trap.

"You gave Cora!" gasped Mary Jane. "What stuff are you telling?"

And then the woman in her conquered, because she knew the value of things as well as another.

"And a treasure it ain't any way," went on Mary Jane, "because a few shillings would buy it. But Nicholas is poor and 'tis the thought behind that I value."

"Damn the thought behind!" thundered out James. "It weren't his to give, you silly owl. This was my gift to Cora Dene, and not a month ago, neither."

"Nonsense!" she answered. "There might be fifty like it."

But he knew better, because he'd marked the thing very close when he bought it, and there was a stain in the amber which had knocked off two bob.

He said no more but ate his poached eggs and cleaned up the plate after with a piece of bread, according to his habit. Then he drank his tea, and ten minutes later he was off on his pony to old Mrs. Dene's house to have a tell with his sweetheart. And nobody ever went to the woman of his choice in such a foaming passion as Jimmy White that fine morning.

There was another outlet for Cora's remorseless and far-reaching activities at this time besides James, for the woman had an uncanny power of looking far ahead and, while she'd planned the affair of the amber heart outside her home, she was also working very hard within it. Her purpose there was to please her aunt as never she'd pleased her until that time; and for two reasons.

Cora well knew that there was going to come a fearful strain on Mrs. Dene's goodwill, and was anxious to plan her own life after the crash had fallen, because she little doubted Mrs. Dene would cast her out. Indeed, she reckoned on it. But over and beyond that was the time to come, and Cora had so behaved of late that she meant the old woman should feel the gap when she was gone. Because a sudden upheaval and parting will oft be the only adventure to bring a thing home to anybody, and it isn't until the even, pleasant everyday life comes to an end and a thousand hateful problems call to be solved, that some people know their luck and realise their good time was in the present, though they were always waiting for the good time to come in the future.

And Cora had been giving her aunt a very fine time indeed, which is easy if anybody makes a god of their food and you happen to be a peerless cook. She was a heaven-born hand at food, was Cora, and Mrs. Dene, loving her food next to her hope of salvation, revelled in her niece's kitchen art. In fact, Cora went from strength to strength in that particular; and a thousand other things she'd done during the last month to endear herself to her aunt.

Her craft was to plant in old Sarah Dene's mind the picture of a helpmate very much out of the common; and she done so, and on the night before James White came along, Cora's aunt had gone so far as to admit it would be a dark day for her when the girl was wed and had took her many gifts to Hartland.

So that's how it stood when Jimmy lighted off his pony, and two minutes later he was holding the amber heart under his sweetheart's astonished eyes.

"Good morning, James," she said. "You'm early."

"What's this?" he asked, wasting no words in politeness.

She was a play-actor to the roots of her being, Cora was, and she started and stared.

"Not another, my dear man, surely?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "Not another. But what I'd like to know is, where be yours?"

"In your hand, thank God," she answered, and put out her fingers to take it; but he wasn't giving it back to her no more.

He commanded her to tell him how it come about that his gift to her—a sacred heirloom evermore—come to be on his sister's neck that morning, and she marvelled at a tale so strange and wondered what the world was coming to.

"I'll tell you the truth," she said—suspicious words in Jimmy's ear, because, to market or elsewhere, he'd often noted that when a fellow creature begins a tale like that, truth be often the one thing lacking. But Cora's story sounded as if there weren't much wrong, and perhaps another sort of man might have believed her.

"I broke my word and I own it," she told him. "I was so proud of the necklace that I couldn't but wear it, James, for I wanted the holiday people to see it round my neck, and the other girls to see it too. And, coming home from gathering whortles for a pie for my aunt—which she dearly loves—I found to my undying grief as I'd dropped the precious trophy somewhere. And back along I went and hunted till dusk and dewfall, and drowned myself with tears; and for two whole days I couldn't gather pluck to tell you the fearful news. I've lost pounds of solid flesh fretting and be so weak as a goose-chick about it; but I was coming to confess my sins to-day. And now you rise up, like the sun over a cloud, and turn my sorrow into joy, I'm sure."

"You needn't think so," he said, "because there's a lot more in this than meets the eye, and I doubt you're lying."

She stared at that.

"I should hope all's well that ends well, James," she answered him, "and no call for no such insult as that. What was lost be found, such as it is, and I'm very wishful to know where Mary Jane picked it up."

"She didn't pick it up at all," he answered. "'Twas Nicholas Caunter—his gift to her."

"What a world!" exclaimed Cora. "So Nicholas found it! Or, since you think I'm lying, perhaps you'll say 'twas me gave it to him, because your sister thought 'twas more than time she had a present off him?"

"How he came by it I've yet to find out," answered the man, "and if that's true and you thought to hoodwink Mary Jane and me also by a trick like that, then you're a bad lot and not worth your keep to any man. But all that matters to me be this: you disobeyed me on your own showing and risked a valuable jewel, messing about on the moor for vanity, or some worse reason. And them that be careless of a lover's wishes before marriage won't care a cuss for 'em after. In a word, I've done with you. This is the last of a lot of pin-pricks you've given me lately, and I've caught ideas and opinions from you during the past month that made me ask myself some difficult questions. It's off, you understand."

'Twas true she'd been saying things to shake up James pretty frequent; but this was better than her highest hopes, of course. She hid her joy, however, and put her apron up to her eyes and shook her slim shoulders a bit; then, as he was going, she told him a thing that astonished him.

"Whether or no," said Cora, "the amber heart, trash though it is, be mine, not yours, James, and I'll thank you to return it to the lawful owner. Since you be going to say 'good-bye,' we'll part friends, but thicky necklace is mine, whatever your godless intentions."

He glared at her, stuffed the toy in his pocket and went back to his pony without a word. But she followed him down the pathway and smiled at him as he mounted, and even dared to rub the pony's nose, for she'd often been suffered to ride the creature herself.

"If you won't give me the amber heart, Jimmy, I'll have you up for breach," she said. And then he let fall a few crooked words and drove his heels into the beast and galloped off in a proper fury of rage, cussing the whole sex to hell and Cora Dene in particular.

With that she went in and told her aunt the tale; but now she was all shame and grief, and after she'd given the details and said how James White had cast her off, she vowed that her last day on earth had dawned.

"I'd call on the hills to cover me if they would do so," sobbed Cora. "But as they will not, I'll call on the river, and I'll go and drown myself to-night, for I can't face Little Silver no more after this downfall."

And Mrs. Dene, who had always thought a lot of James White and been proud of the match, weren't particular helpful, nor yet comforting. In fact, she was very disappointed about it and lost her temper with Cora. So the bedraggled maiden went out of her sight and looked as never she'd looked before. And on the evening of that day, under cover of darkness, she met Nick Caunter and heard his news.

"'Tis in a nutshell and all very shameful, but very convenient," said Nicholas. "White faced me about the amber heart after dinner, and axed me where I'd bought it, and, took unawares, I said at Moreton. Then he told me I was a liar and could clear out of Hartland at the end of my month. And then I owned up that I'd found the blessed thing on the moor and thought it would sound better in Mary Jane's ear if I said I'd bought it. Then he flattened me out by telling me 'twas his gift to you, and the whole trick had been planned by us both, as an insult to him and his sister. Then I looked at Mary Jane and found, to my great thankfulness, she was in a mood to believe James; and then I went out of their sight that instant moment, before she had time to relent. I packed my bag and I cleared, and I ain't going back again, neither."

She was very pleased indeed, Cora was.

"You couldn't have done no better," she said. "You couldn't have carried on cleverer than that if I'd advised you. 'Tis a very sad affair for everybody, I'm sure, but better be troubled for a week than for a lifetime. Now you go to Moreton and put up the banns and leave the rest to me, if you please."

"What a day!" he said. "If I didn't know you, I should reckon you was going mad along of so much plotting. How can I put up the banns—me out of work and not a job in sight? And where will you stand with Mrs. Dene when she hears that White have thrown you over?"

"Don't waste your time axing questions," she answered. "I want your address in Moreton and that's all there is to it for a fortnight till after we be wed. You've got enough money to carry on, because you can draw out your twenty-five pounds from the Post Office Savings Bank; and I can draw out my fifteen, and that's forty. And don't you look for no work, unless it's jobbing work, but leave the future in my keeping till we meet again."

With that they praised the Lord for all His mercies and the man went on his way, to tramp to Moreton and Cora returned home. But the river ran at the bottom of her aunt's garden and she popped down and dipped in it, clothes and all, before she returned to Mrs. Dene.

The old woman was sitting up in a bit of a stew, because the hour grew late and she minded what her niece had threatened. In fact, she was half-inclined to go down to the police-station when the girl came in, soaking from head to heel, and told her story.

"I flinged myself in, as I ordained to do," she said, "and by the wisdom of God a man was passing and heard the splash and saved me. 'Twas Nicholas Caunter, the cowman at Hartland, who fought for my life, and he made me promise faithful I wouldn't go in no more. So I've got to live after all, Aunt Sarah."

"In that case, you'd best to unray and get out of them clothes and go to bed," said the old woman, hiding her relief, "else you'll very likely die in earnest—and no great loss if you did."

So Cora went to her chamber after a busy day; but she was one of them terrible clear-minded women who work when they work and sleep when they sleep, and she never had a better night's rest.

Two days later came news of where Nicholas was stopping; and there also arrived for Cora a little box left by a farm-hand from Hartland. There wasn't no letter with it, but Cora found herself disappointed in a way, because she rather liked the thought of fetching James White up for breach if it could be done; and the fact that he had so far shunned the prospect of the law as to send her back the trinket showed that he was fearful too. Because James White had a proper dread of lawyers.

And then came the last fine act but one of her make-believe, and when Mrs. Dene had swallowed the pill and begun to see that, but for the shame, she'd be a lot better with Cora than without, and set to work to make her niece bide along with her and live it down, the girl vowed that such a thought was beyond belief and she couldn't face Little Silver as a forlorn woman passed over and disgraced.

"I'll go to Moreton," she said, "and find honest work; and as the world's crying out for cooks, with a hand like mine, no doubt I'll struggle in somewhere and make new friends; but to stop here all forlorn without a man's courage and strength to defend me, be asking too much. And I never shall forget your goodness and loving-kindness, Aunt Sarah; and the Lord won't forget 'em either. I'll always pray for you in my prayers, and I'll always pray for that poor chap, Nicholas Caunter, as saved me alive, because when it got to Mr. White's ears as he'd done so and kept me from a watery death, him and his sister turned against poor Nicholas and threw him over, and he's a wanderer on the face of the earth this minute, though such a clever, big-hearted soul as him be sure to find a warm welcome somewhere, I hope."

Well, Mrs. Dene, who was broke down by now and terrible wishful for Cora to stay, pleaded with her in vain to do so; but the girl went on cooking to a marvel, and excelling in surprises, and being a proper angel in the house for a fortnight; and then crying oceans of tears, she packed her belongings, and Farmer Maitland, the widower, carried her off to Moreton in his market cart on market day.

'Tis said he offered her marriage before they were halfway up Merripit Hill and out of sight of her native village; but he was unsuccessful, and afore noon Cora found herself in the arms of Nicholas Caunter. Two days after, the day being Sunday, him and her were married and off to Ashburton for a bit of a honeymoon. And then, when their united money was down to ten pounds, Cora struck her last stroke.

She waited and watched the Moreton Trumpet, the paper her aunt took up, and then come the expected advertisement telling how Mrs. Sarah Dene of Little Silver was wishful to employ a man and his wife; and on the day after it appeared, off she went along with Nicholas in a hired trap and drove into the village so bold as need be.

Then Cora left her husband at the 'Three Travellers' and walked down to Mrs. Dene, and found her aunt sitting helpless afore a score of letters from married folk all very wishful to join her.

Cora told her news and how she'd found and married Nicholas; and then she brought peace and order and hope into her aunt's heart, according to her custom; and the sight of her awakened a great hope in Mrs. Dene, though it sank again when she grasped that Cora was no more a free creature, but given over to the keeping of a man.

And then, of course, the old woman said exactly what her niece knew she would say. Cora had looked through the applications and didn't feel too hopeful about any of 'em.

"The first thing is the cooking," she declared. "A bad cook's going to shorten your life, Aunt Sarah, and my mind always sinks when I think of it. You're thinner than when I saw you last, for that matter, and I'm going to make one of my mutton pies for you this day before I say 'good-bye.'"

And then—a world of anxiety in her eyes—Mrs. Dene wondered if 'twas in the power of possibility that Nicholas Caunter would see his way to come to her if all she'd got was left to Cora in the hereafter, under her will.

And the young woman stared with amazement, and declared no such thought as that had ever crossed her mind.

"Wonders never cease with me," she said, "but Nicky's all for foreign parts, I'm afraid, and a State-aided passage to Canada. I've begged him to think twice, I may tell you, because the sea between you and me is a very cruel thought; but since you want a man and his wife, which was always your ambition, and since I should certainly lengthen your days if I was to bide along with you, and be happier far than I should be anywhere else on earth, I'll strive with my husband about it and try my bestest to change his plans."

So she went for Nicholas and he came along. Of course, he couldn't play-act like his wife; but she'd schooled him pretty well, and he came out with flying colours and sacrificed his hopes of Canada so that Cora and her aunt shouldn't be parted.

It worked very well indeed, and the old woman had five more happy years afore a tremendous Christmas dinner finished her.

And then Cora came by the house and three hundred a year.

You'd think, in your worldly wisdom, that such a woman as her might have been rather doubtful as a wife, and was like to trade on her fatal cleverness when up against the changes and chances of married life; but no such thing was ever reported against Cora Caunter. She loved Nick and ran straight in double harness, and brought the man four very fine childer. And the eldest girl wears the amber heart to chapel on Sundays; because, as Cora told Nicholas, 'tis no use having a heirloom if you don't let the people see it.

As for James White, one dose of romantics was enough for him and he never went courting no more; but Mary Jane found a very good husband and left Hartland along with him after marriage. She quarrelled with James about the wedding-breakfast because she wanted for him to pay, but he would not.



No. XI

THE WISE WOMAN OF WALNA

I

When farmer Badge died, his widow kept on at Walna, and some people thought the world of her, same as I always did, but some was a bit frightened, because of her great gifts. Charity Badge certainly did know a terrible lot more than every-day folk, which was natural in the daughter of a white witch; but she weren't no witch herself—neither black nor white—and, as she often said to me: "'Tis only my way of putting two and two together that makes the difference between me and the other women round about these parts."

Walna was a poor little bit of a place up the Wallabrook Valley, and when Charity died it all went to pieces, for there was none to take it again. Tramps slept there till the roof fell in, and then the hawks and owls took it over; but fifty years agone she flourished and did pretty well there, one way and another, though 'twas more by the people that visited her for her wisdom than anything she made out of the tumble-down farm. More'n a cow or two she never had no cattle, and the last sheep to Walna went to pay for farmer Badge's coffin.

I was a maiden then and worked for Mrs. Badge, so I comed to see a lot about her and marked her manner of life. Half the things she did was thought to be miracles by the Postbridge people, yet if you saw the workings of 'em from inside, you found that, after all, they was only built on common sense. Still, I'll grant you that common sense itself is a miracle. 'Tis only one in a million ever shows it; and that one's pretty near sure to be a woman.

Charity was a thin, brown creature—birdlike in her ways, with quick movements, quick hands, and quick eyes. She never had no childer, and never wanted none. In fact, she was pretty well alone in the world after her husband died. There was a lot of Badges, of course, and still are; but she never had no use for them, nor them for her.

And now I'll tell the story of Sarah White and Mary Tuckett and Peter Hacker, the master of Bellaford.

Sarah was a lone creature up fifty year old, and she come along to Mrs. Badge one fine day with a proper peck of troubles. She crept down the path to Walna from Merripit Hill, like a snail with a backache, and weren't in no case at all for merriment; yet the first thing she heard as she come in was laughter; and the first thing she seed was pretty Mary Tuckett sitting on Mrs. Badge's kitchen table, swinging her legs, and eating bits of raw rhubarb out of a pie as my mistress was trying to make.

Mary was a beauty, and a bit too fond of No. 1, like most of that sort.

"'Tis too bad," she said to the new-comer, "ban't it too bad, Mrs. White? Here's Charity, well known for the cleverest woman 'pon Dartymoor, won't tell me my fortune or look in her crystal for me, though I be offering her a two-shilling piece to do so."

"You go along," said Charity. "Don't you waste no more of my time, and let your fortune take care of itself. It don't want a wise woman to tell the fortune of such a lazy, good-for-nought as you."

Then Mary went off laughing, and poor Mrs. White began her woes.

"I could have told that woman something as would have changed her laughter to tears," she began. "But time enough for that. Can you list to me for an hour, Charity? I'm in cruel trouble, look where I will, and if there's any way out, I'll be very glad to pay good money to know it."

"Let me put the paste 'pon this here pie, then I'll hear what you've got to grumble at," answers the wise woman; and five minutes later she sat down and folded her hands and shut her eyes and heard what Sarah had got to tell.

"When my husband was alive, he worked for Peter Hacker's father at Bellaford, and lived in a little cottage on a newtake field a mile from Bellaford Farm. Old Hacker often said to my husband that when he'd paid rent for fifty year for the cottage, he'd let him have it for his own. 'Twas common knowledge that he intended to do it. But now, with my husband dead in his grave—and he died just six months after he'd paid his fiftieth year of rent, poor soul!—Peter Hacker have told me that the cottage ban't to be mine at all, and that 'tis all rubbish, and not a contract. I tell him that the ghost of my poor Thomas will turn his hair grey for such wickedness; but you know Peter Hacker. Hard as the nether millstone, and cruel as winter—with women. Very different, though, if a brave man beards him. Now he's dunning me for two years' rent, and even when I told him all that hangs on my keeping the cottage, he won't change or hold to the solemn promise his father made my husband. In fact, he'll turn me out at midsummer."

"And what do hang on your keeping the house?" asked Charity.

Mrs. White sniffed and cooled her tearful eyes with her handkercher.

"Johnny French hangs on it," she said, "We'm keeping it close till next autumn, but he wants for to marry me, and we'm both lonely souls, and we've both lost a good partner; and so it falls out very suent and convenient like that we should wed. But now he hears tell as I ban't to have the cottage, he's off it. He won't hear of marrying if there's no cottage. So the fag end of my life's like to be ruined one way or another."

"Let's see," says Charity, in her slow, quiet way. "Firstly, Peter Hacker's dunning you for two years' rent and will turn you out if you don't pay it; and secondly, he refuses to be bound by what his father promised your Thomas long years afore you married; and thirdly, you'm tokened to old Johnny French; but he won't take you if you're not to have the cottage free gratis and for ever."

"That's how 'tis; and, as if all this misfortune wasn't enough I've just heard of the death of my only brother, Nathan Coaker, in Ireland."

"That terrible handsome man, as had all the girls by the ears in Postbridge afore he went off?"

"Yes—only thirty-five—killed steeple-chasing. He was a huntsman, you know, and a great breaker of hosses. And now one's broke him. Dead and buried, and nought for me but his watch and chain and a bill from his undertaker. It happened in Ireland three weeks ago; and I've only heard tell to-day; and I thought if Mary Tuckett knowed, 'twould soon have turned her laughter into tears, for she was cruel fond of him, and wept an ocean when he went. In fact, they was tokened on the quiet unknown to her father, and Nathan hoped to marry her some day and little knew she'd forgot all about her solemn promise."

"I'm very sorry for you. I'll think about this. It don't look hopeful, for Peter Hacker's very hard all through where women are concerned. There's no milk of human kindness in him, and he don't like me. He thinks—poor fool—that I overlooked his prize bullock, that died three days afore 'twas to start to the cattle show."

"He might be tenderer, for he's only human, after all," said Mrs. White. "He's courting that very girl that was here a minute agone. In fact, they be plighted, I believe. It do make me bitter when I think upon it, for my poor Nathan's sake. She had sworn to marry my brother, remember, for Nathan told me so, and, no doubt, he counted upon it to the end of his days. But out of sight out of mind with her sort. Peter's riches have made her forget Nathan's beautiful face. And now he's in his grave."

"Stop!" says Charity. "You'm running on too fast. Let me think a minute. There's a lot here wants sifting. Let's come to business, my dear, and stick to the point. You want your cottage and you want Johnny French. What will you give me if I get your cottage for 'e out of Peter?"

Mrs. White was known to have saved a little bit, or, rather, her late husband had for her. He was a lot older than her, and had thought the world of her.

"I'll give 'e a five-pound note," she said at last.

"And what if I get Johnny French up to the scratch also?"

"If you do one, you'll do t'other," said Sarah. "He depends on the cottage, and won't take me without it, but be very willing to have both together. Still, I'll meet you gladly if there's anything you can do, and the day I'm wed I'll give you another five-pound note, Charity. And well you'll have earned it, I'm sure."

"So much for that then. And now, what like was your brother? Let's talk of him," said Mrs. Badge. "I'm awful sorry for you—'tis a great loss and a great shock. Horsemanship do often end that way."

Sarah was a thought surprised that t'other should shift the conversation so sudden; but she felt pretty full of her dead brother and was very well content to talk about him.

"A flaxen, curly man, with a terrible straight back, and a fighting nose and blue eyes. He hunted the North Dartmoor Hounds and every girl in these parts—good-looking and otherwise—was daft about him. They ran after him like sheep. There was a terrible dashing style to him, and he knowed the way to get round a female so well as you do the way to get round a corner. They worshipped him. Just a thought bowed in the legs along of living on hosses. A wonder on hossback, and very clever over any country. Great at steeple-chasing also, but too heavy for the flat—else he'd been a jockey and nothing else. And he would have married Mary Tuckett years ago if her father had let him. But old Tuckett hated Nathan worse than sin and dared Mary to speak with him or lift her eyes to him if they met. So away he went to Ireland; but not before that girl promised to wait for ever, if need be."

They talked a bit longer; then Mrs. Badge said a deep thing.

"Look here: don't tell nobody that your brother be dead for the minute. Keep it close, and if you must tell about it, come up here and tell me. I'll listen. But not a word to anybody else until I give the word."

"Mayn't I tell Johnny French?"

"Not even him," declared Mrs. Badge. "Not a single soul. I've got a reason for what I say. And now be off, Sarah, and let me think a bit."

With that Mrs. White started; but she hadn't reached the tumble-down gate of Walna—in fact, 'twas the head of an old iron bedstead stuck there and not a gate at all—when Charity called after her.

"Go brisk and catch up that girl Mary Tuckett," she said. "Tell her, on second thoughts—for her good and not for mine—that I'll do what she wants. Go clever and brisk, and you'll over-get her afore she's home again."

So Mrs. White trotted off, and very soon found Mary looking over a hedge and helping a young man to waste his time, according to her usual custom when there was a coat about.

But Sarah gave her message, and fifteen minutes later Mary was back along with Mrs. Badge.

II

"I've changed my mind about 'e, Mary," said the wise woman. "I'm terrible unwilling to tell young people concerning the future as a rule—for why? Because the future of most people be cruel miserable, and it knocks the heart out of the young to hear of what's coming; but you'm a sensible girl, and don't want to go through life blind. And another thing is this: 'tis half the battle to be fore-warned; and a brave man or woman can often beat the cards themselves, and alter their own fate—if they only know it in time."

After all this rigmarole Charity Badge bade Mary take a seat at the table. Then she drawed the blind, and lighted a lamp; and then she fetched out a pack of cards and her seeing-crystal. 'Twas all done awful solemn, and Mary Tuckett without a doubt felt terrible skeered even afore t'other began. Then Mrs. Badge poured a drop of ink into her crystal—some said 'twas only the broken bottom of an old drinking glass; but I don't know nothing about that. Next she dealt out the cards, and fastened on the Jack o' hearts and the Jack o' oaks,[1] and made great play with 'em. And, after that, she sat and gazed upon the crystal with all her might, and didn't take her eyes off of it for full five minutes.

[1] Oaks—Clubs.

"Now list to me, Mary Tuckett," she says, "and try to put a bold face on what be coming, for there's trouble brewing for 'e—how much only you yourself can tell."

With that she read out the fortune.

"There's a dark, rich man after you, Mary. He's fierce as a tiger, and the folk don't like him, but he's good at bottom, and he'll make you a proper husband. But there's another chap who have more right to you according to the cards, and I see him in the crystal very plain. He's flaxen curled with a straight back and a fighting nose, and blue eyes. Very great at horsemanship seemingly, and he'll have you for a wife, so sure as death, unless something happens to prevent it. He's on the way to you this minute. He's the Jack o' hearts; and t'other man's Jack o' oaks. Now hold your breath a bit while I look in the crystal and see what happens.

"Good powers!" cried the girl, creaming with terror down her spine. "'Tis Nathan Coaker as you be seeing! I thought he'd forgot me a year agone!"

"Hush! Don't be talking. No, he ain't forgot you by the looks of it. Quite the contrary."

Mary went white as curds, and sat with her hands forced over her heart to hear what the wise woman would see next.

"Them men will meet!" she said, presently. "There! They crash together and fight like dragons! There'll be murder done, but which beats t'other I can't tell yet. The picture's all ruffled with waves. That means the future's to be hid—even from me. But one thing is only too clear; there'll be a gashly upstore and blood spilled when Jack o' oaks meets Jack o' hearts; and the end of it so far as you be concerned is that you'll have no husband at all, I'm afeared—poor girl."

So that was the end of the fortune-telling, and Mary wept buckets, and Mrs. Badge reminded her of the florin but wouldn't take it.

"No," she said, "money like that be nought in such a fix as you find yourself. The thing is to help you if I can. I don't want to know no names. 'Tis better I should not; but 'tis clear there's a fair, poor man coming here to marry you; and there's a dark, rich man also wants to do so. Now maybe I can help. Which of 'em is it you want to take? Don't tell me no names. Just say dark or pale."

"The d-d-d-dark one," sobs out Mary. "I thought 'twas all off with the pale one years ago, and I wouldn't marry him for anything n-n-n-now—specially if he's so poor as when he went."

"And what'll you do for me if I can save you from him? I don't say I can, for 'tis a pretty stiff job; but I might do so if I took a cruel lot of trouble."

"I'll give you everything I've got, Charity—everything!" cries the girl.

"I'm afraid that ban't enough, my dear. Will you give me ten pound the day you'm married to the dark one? That's a fair offer; and if I don't succeed, I'll ax for nothing."

The girl jumped at that, and said she thankfully would do so; and Mrs. Badge bade her keep her mouth close shut—knowing she would not—and let her go. Poor Mary went off expecting to meet Nathan Coaker at every step o' the road, and little knowing that the poor blid was sleeping his last sleep in a grave in foreign parts to Ireland.

The very same evening she met Peter Hacker himself; and though he was a chap without much use for religion, yet, like a good few other godless men, he believed in a good bit more than he could understand, and hated to spill salt, or see a single pie, and wouldn't have cut his nails on a Friday for a king's ransom.

She told him that her old sweetheart, Nathan Coaker, was coming back, and that blood would be spilled, and that the wise woman didn't know for certain whether 'twas his blood or Nathan's. She wept a lot, and told him about Coaker, and what a strong, hard chap he was, and how he had the trick to ride over a woman's heart and win 'em even against their wills. And altogether she worked upon the mind of Peter Hacker so terrible, that he got into a proper sweat of fear and anger—but chiefly fear. And the next day—unknown to Mary—he rode up along to Walna, and had a tell with Charity Badge on his own account.

Peter began in his usual way with women. He blustered a lot, and talked very loud and stamped his foot and beat his leg with his riding-whip.

"What's all this here tomfoolery you've been telling my girl?" he says. "I wonder at you, Mrs. Badge, a lowering yourself for to do it—frightening an innocent female into fits. You ought to know better."

Of course Charity did know better, and she knowed Peter and his character inside out as well.

She looked at him, calm as calm, and smiled.

"I wish 'twas tomfoolery, Mr. Hacker. I wish from my heart that the things I see didn't happen; but they always do, if the parties ban't warned in time; though now and again, when a sensible creature comes to me and hears what's going to overtake 'em, they can often escape it—as we can escape a storm if we look up in the sky and know the signs of thunder and lightning soon enough."

"'Tis all stuff and rubbish, I tell you," he said, "and I won't have it! Fortune-telling be forbidden by law, and if I hear any more about you and your cards and your crystal, I'll inform against you."

"You'd better be quick and do it, then, master," she answers him, still mild and gentle, "for I'm very sorry to say there's that be going to happen to you, as will spoil your usefulness for a month of Sundays or longer; and that afore a fortnight's out. Of course, if you don't believe what I know too well to be the truth, then you'll go your rash way and meet it; but so sure as Christmas Day be Quarter Day, I'm right, and you'll do far wiser to look after your own affairs than to trouble about mine. And now I'll wish you good evening."

She made to go in, for Hacker was sitting on his horse at her very door; but that weren't enough for him. His cowardly heart was shaking a'ready.

"Don't you go," he said. "I'll onlight and hear more of this."

He dismounted and came in the house; and Charity Badge bade me go out of the kitchen, where I was to work, and leave 'em together, but I catched what came after through the keyhole.

"Now," he said. "It lies in a nutshell. My Mary was tokened in a sort of childish way to a man called Nathan Coaker—a horse-stealer or little better, and a devil of a rogue, anyway. But it seems you looked in your bit of glass and pretended to see—"

"Stop!" cried Charity, putting on her grand manner and making her eyes flash like forked lightning at the man. "How do you dare to talk about 'pretending' to me? Begone, you wretched creature! I'll neither list to you, nor help you now. Go to your death—and a good riddance. You to talk about 'pretending' to me!"

He caved in at that, and grumbled and growled, but she'd hear nought more from him till he'd said he was sorry, and that so humbly as he knowed how.

"Now you can go on again," she said, "but be civil, or I'll not lift a finger to aid you."

"'Tis like this," he went on. "It do look as if that man, Nathan Coaker, was coming back."

"That's so. I never seed the fellow myself, but his name certainly was Nathan Coaker, and Mary called him home in a minute from my picture in the crystal. They was certainly tokened, and if she's forgot it, he haven't; and such is the report I hear of him, that 'tis sure he'll overmaster such a man as you by force of arms. No woman can resist him. I guess he's made his fortune and be coming in triumph to marry her."

"She's going to marry me, however."

"So you think."

The man began to grow more and more cowed afore her cold, steady eyes, and the scorn in her voice.

"The strongest will win," he said.

"Yes," she answered him, "that's true without a doubt—so the cards showed."

"And what's stronger than money?" he axed.

"A man in a righteous rage," she replied; "and a charge of heavy shot with gunpowder behind 'em."

"Lord save us! You don't mean he'd lie in a hedge for me?"

"He'd do anything where his own promised woman was concerned," she said. "But 'tis more likely, from what I hear, that he'd meet you face to face in the open street, and hammer you to death for coming between him and her."

"She's my side."

"Now she may be, but wait till she sets eyes on him again. He's well knowed to be so handsome as Apollyon."

Peter Hacker got singing smaller and smaller then.

"'Tis a thousand pities the wretched fellow can't be kept away."

"For your sake it is, without a doubt—a thousand pities," admitted Charity. "She loves you very well, and a good wife she'll make—and a thrifty—but she won't trust herself if that man's curly hair and blue eyes turn up here again."

"Is it to be done—can we keep him off—pay him off—bribe him—anything?"

"Now you talk sense. There's very few things can't be done in this world, Mr. Hacker, if you get a determined man and a determined woman pulling the same way. Man's strength and woman's wit together—what's ever been known to stand against 'em?"

"Help me, then," he said.

"Me! You want me to help—with my 'tomfoolery'?"

She roasted him proper for a bit, then came to business.

"I can't work for nought, and since 'tis the whole of your future life that depends upon it, I reckon you'll be generous. If I succeed I shall look to you for thirty pound, Peter Hacker; if I fail, I'll ax for nothing. Still, I do believe I may be able to get you out of this, though 'twill call for oceans of trouble."

He tried to haggle, but she'd none of that—wouldn't bate her offer by a shilling. So he came to it.

"Thirty pound I must have the day you marry Mary," she said. "And now tell me all you know about this rash, savage man, Nathan Coaker. The more I understand the better chance shall I have of keeping him off your throat."

With that Peter explained how t'other fellow was the young brother of Mrs. Sarah White; and he went on to say that Sarah was one of his tenants; but he didn't mention the row about Sarah's cottage.

Mrs. Badge then took up the story, and made it look as clear as daylight.

"My gracious!" she said, "why now you can see how the crash be coming! 'Tis a terrible poor look-out for you every way. Sarah's writ to him, of course, to say as you won't let her have the cottage your father faithfully promised to her husband, and Coaker's coming over with threatenings and slaughters about that job. And then, as if that weren't enough, he'll find what a crow he's got to pluck with you on his own account about Mary."

"The more comes out, the more it looks as if he'd better be kept away," said Mr. Hacker.

"And the harder it looks to do it," added Charity. "You lie low, anyway. The next step is for me. I'll see Sarah and tell her that you've changed your mind about the cottage—to call it a cottage, for 'tis no better than a pig's lew house. You'll give it her, of course, for her life and the life of that man French, as she wants to marry. That's the first step."

"Why should I?"

"What a fool you are! Why, for two reasons I should think. Firstly, because your father promised her husband; secondly, because 'tis half the way to keeping Nathan Coaker in Ireland. If she lets him know as you be going to do the rightful thing, he'll have no more quarrel with you, since he don't know about you and Mary. Then, what you've got to do is to hurry on the match with her; and when you'm once married, 'tis all safe. Very like you'll not have to offer the man a penny after all."

"You'd best see Mrs. White to-morrow then," said Peter.

"I'll see her this very night," answered the wise woman. "In kicklish matters of this kind an hour may make all the difference for good or evil. To-night I'll tell her that the house is hers on condition that her brother Nathan don't come from Ireland this side o' Christmas; and she'll bless your name and do her best to keep him away altogether. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she succeeded, and it might even happen that when he comes to know of your marriage and hears that 'tis over and done, that he'll give up the thought of coming at all, and you'll get out of it with credit and a whole skin."

Peter thanked her a lot, and she was as good as her word, and went to see Widow White that very same evening.

She didn't put it to Sarah quite like she'd promised; but she explained that Mr. Hacker was quite a reasonable man in some ways, even where females were concerned, and that he had undertaken to let Sarah keep her house so long as she and Mr. French should live. Which, of course, was all that Mrs. White or her Johnny cared about.

"Hacker naturally thinks that your brother is still living," explained Charity. "And mind you take mighty good care not to tell him 'tisn't so. The longer he supposes that Nathan is alive, the better for us all. And what you've got to say presently be this—that so soon as you told Nathan 'twas all right about the cottage, he changed his mind about coming to Postbridge for the present."

"'Twill be a lie," said Mrs. White.

"'Twill be a white lie, however," answered Charity; "and 'twill help a good many people out of a hobble and do harm to none; so I advise you to tell it."

And Sarah did tell it—with wonderful, far-reaching results, I'm sure; for it meant that she had her cottage for life; and that she had Johnny French for life also; and it meant that Mary married Peter Hacker afore the next Christmas and went honeymooning to London town for a week with the man; and it meant that, unbeknownst each to t'others, Sarah and Mary and Peter gived my mistress the money they promised her. So Charity Badge came out of the maze with flying colours, you might say, not to mention fifty golden pounds, all made out of her own head.

And many such like things she did, though never did they fetch such a dollop of money again.



No. XII

THE TORCH

In my opinion there's hardly an acre of Dartmoor as wouldn't set forth a good tale, if us could only go back along into time and get hold of it. Anyway, there's a 'mazing fine thing to be told about Vitifer Farm; and you don't want to go back far, neither, for it all happened but ten year ago.

Vitifer is one of the "tenement" farms and don't belong to the Duchy; and Furze Hill farm, which adjoins Vitifer, be likewise land handed down from father to son from generations forgot. The "tenements" are scattered over Dartmoor, mostly in the valleys of East and West Dart; but Vitifer and Furze Hill stood together half a mile distant from the famous Vitifer tin mine that lies in the wild ground west of Hameldon. And Joe Gregory farmed Vitifer when this fearful thing fell out, and his brother Amos Gregory was master at Furze Hill.

The Duchy had long desired the land, for 'tis Duchy's rule to snap up the tenement farms as they fall in the market, and indeed few will soon remain in private possession; but for the minute the two brothers—middle-aged bachelors both—held on where their forefathers had worked before them time out of mind, and it looked almost as though they was going to be the last of the ancient name to resist the over-lord of Dartmoor; for men come and men go; but Duchy lasts for ever and, no doubt, will have all it wants to the last rood afore many years be past.

One of the next generation, however, still stood for the Gregory race, and he was a nephew to Joe and Amos. A third brother they had, but him and his wife were dead, and their only son lived with Joe and was thought to be his heir. Ernest Gregory he was called, and few thought he'd make old bones, for the young man was pigeon-breasted and high-coloured and coughed a good bit when first he came up from the "in country" to the Moor.

Along with his uncle, however, he put on flesh and promised better. Fair and gentle he was—a quiet, timid sort of chap, who kept pretty much to himself and didn't neighbour with the young men and maidens. He was said to be vain behind his silence and to reckon himself a good deal cleverer than us Merripit people; but I never found him anything but well behaved and civil spoken to his elders, and I went so far sometimes as to ask his Uncle Amos why for he didn't like the man. Because the master of Furze Hill never did care about Ernest, though Joe Gregory, with whom the young fellow lived at Vitifer, thought very highly of him indeed.

And Amos confessed he hadn't got no deep cause to dislike his nephew.

"To be plain, 'tis a woman's reason and no more," admitted Amos. "Ernest have got a glide in his eye, poor chap, and God knows that's not a fault, and yet I never can abide that affliction and it would put me off an angel from heaven if the holy creature squinted."

It was a silly prejudice of the man, and in time I think he got it under and granted that you did ought to judge a person by their acts and not by their eyes; but human nature has its ingrained likes and dislikes, and I for one couldn't question Amos, because I hate a hunchback, and I wouldn't trust one of they humped people—man or woman—with anything that belonged to me. The broadest-minded of us have got a weak spot like that somewhere and hate some harmless thing if 'tis only a spider.

But, after he'd been along at Vitifer five years, I don't think a living soul felt anything but kindly to Ernest, and when it was rumoured that he'd got brave enough to go courting Sarah White from Postbridge, everybody wished him luck, including his uncles—especially Amos himself; for Joe's younger brother was very friendly to the Postbridge Whites, and them who thought they knew, always said how he'd offered for Jenny White twenty-five years before and might very like have won her if she hadn't loved the water-keeper on East Dart better and married him instead.

Then happened the wondrous mystery of Joe Gregory. 'Twas just before Christmas—rough stormy weather and not much doing on the high ground—when Joe set out early one morning for Exeter to see his lawyers. He'd done very well that year—better than Amos—and he was taking a matter of one hundred and fifty pounds in cash to Exeter for his man of business to invest for him. And Ernest drove him in to Ashburton, at cocklight of a stormy day, and was going in again that evening to meet his uncle and fetch him home.

All went well, and at the appointed time Joe's nephew set out once more with a light trap and a clever horse, after dark, to meet the evening train. And no more was heard till somewhere about ten o'clock of that night. Then Amos Gregory, just finishing his nightcap and knocking out his pipe to go to bed, much to his astonishment heard somebody banging on the front door of Furze Hill. Guessing it was some night-foundered tramp, he cussed the wanderer to hell; but cussing was only an ornament in his speech, for a tenderer creature really never lived, and he wouldn't have turned a stray cat from his door that fierce night, let alone a human.

It weren't no tramp, however; it proved to be his nephew Ernest, and the young man was clad in his oilskins and dripping with the storm rain and so frightened as a rabbit.

In a word, he'd been to Ashburton and waited for the appointed train, only to find his uncle hadn't come back by it. And so he bided, till the last train of all, and still Joe hadn't turned up. So Ernest drove home, hoping to find a telegram had come meanwhile and been brought up from Merripit post office. But there weren't no telegram; and now he was properly feared and had come over to Amos to know what did ought to be done.

First thing to do, in the opinion of Amos, was to pour a good dollop of gin down Ernest's neck; then, when the shaking chap had got a bit of fight in him, he explained that till the morn they were powerless to take action.

"I know his lawyer, because Cousins and Slark be my lawyers also," said Amos; "and they always was the family men of business, so if us hear nought when the post office opens to-morrow, we'll send off a telegram to them; and if they've got nothing to say, then we must tell the police."

Ernest was a good bit down-daunted and said he felt cruel sure evil had over-got his uncle, and Amos didn't like it neither, for a more orderly man than Joe Gregory and one more steadfast in doing what he promised couldn't easily be found. However, they had to suffer till morning, and Ernest went back to Vitifer, which stood not quarter of a mile away.

Morning brought no letter nor yet telegram, so Amos went down to Merripit post office and sent a wire off to the Exeter lawyers axing for news of his brother; and he waited till an answer came down. It ran like this:

Mr. Gregory spent an hour with us yesterday and left at four o'clock to catch down train.

Cousins and Slark.

Well, that showed there was something wrong, and Amos felt he was up against it. He never let the grass grow under his feet, and in twenty minutes he was riding to Ashburton, to catch a train for Exeter. And afore he went, he directed Ernest to tell the police that his uncle was missing. So hue and cry began from that morning, and the centre of search was Exeter, because from there came the last sure news of the man. The lawyers made it clear that Joe was all right when he left them. He'd handed over his money to be invested, and he'd put a codicil to his will, which, of course, the lawyers didn't divulge to Amos. Then he'd gone off very cheerful and hearty to buy a few things afore he catched his train. But from that moment not a whisper of Joe Gregory could be heard. He wasn't a noticeable sort of chap, being small with an everyday old face and everyday grey whiskers; and nobody to the railway stations at Exeter or Totnes, where he would change for the Ashburton line, had seen him to their knowledge. Yet in the course of the next few days, when his disappearance had got in the papers, three separate people testified as they'd met Joe that evening, and Ernest Gregory was able to prove they must have seen right. The first was a tobacconist's assistant at Exeter, who came forward and said a little, countrified man had bought two wooden pipes from him and a two-ounce packet of shag tobacco; and he said the little man wore a billycock hat with a jay's blue wing feather in it. And a barmaid at Newton Abbot testified that she'd served just such a man at the station after the train from Exeter had come in, about five-thirty, and afore it went out. She minded the jay's feather in his hat, because she'd asked the customer what it was, and he'd told her. And lastly a porter up at Moretonhampstead said that a small chap answering to the description had got out of the Newton train to Moreton, which arrived at Moreton at fifteen minutes after six. But he'd marked no jay's feather in the man's hat and only just noticed him, being a stranger, as went out of the station with half a dozen other travellers and gave up his ticket with the rest. The tickets was checked, and sure enough, there were two from Exeter to Moreton; but while Ernest could prove the jay's feather to be in his uncle's hat, neither he nor anybody else could give any reason why Joe should have gone to Moreton instead of coming home. He might have left the train for a drink at Newton, where there was time for him to do so; but he would have gone back to it no doubt in the ordinary course. Asked if he came in alone for his drink, the barmaid said he did so and was prepared to swear that nobody spoke to him in the bar but herself. And he'd gone again afore the down train left. But at Totnes, where Joe was known by sight and where he ought to have changed for Ashburton, none had seen him.

The police followed the Moreton clue, but nobody there reported sight of Joe on the night he disappeared. He'd got a friend or two at Moreton; but not one had fallen in with him since the autumn ram fair, when he was over there with his nephew for the day.

The law done all in its power; the down lines were searched from Newton, and Amos Gregory offered a reward of fifty pounds for any news of his lost brother; but not a speck, or sign, of Joe came to light. A month passed and the nine days' wonder began to die down a bit.

I met Amos about then, and we was both on horseback riding to Ashburton, and he told me that he was bound for the lawyers, to make inquiry of how the law stood in the matter and what he ought to do about Vitifer Farm.

"My nephew Ernest, is carrying on there," he told me, "and he's a good farmer enough and can be trusted to do all that's right; but there's no money to be touched and I must find out if they'll tell me what have got to be done and how the law stands."

He was a lot cut up, for him and his brother had always been very good friends; and he was troubled for his nephew also, because Ernest had lost his nerve a good deal over the tragedy.

"He's taking on very bad and can't get over it," said Amos to me. "The natural weakness of his character have come out under this shock, and the poor chap be like a fowl running about with its head off. He never had more wits than please God he should have, and this great disaster finds him unmanned. He will have it his uncle's alive. He's heard of men losing their memory and getting into wrong trains and so on. But I tell him that with all the noise that's been made over the country, if Joe was living, though he might be as mad as a hatter, 'tis certain by now we should have wind of him."

"Certain sure," I said. "He's a goner without a doubt, and 'twill take a miracle ever to get to the bottom of this."

I was reminded of them words a fortnight later, for it did take a miracle to find the shocking truth. In fact you may say it took two. And one without the other might just as well not have happened. And 'tis no good saying the days of miracles be passed, because they ban't.

I heard later that the lawyers let Amos read his brother's will and got a power of attorney for him to act and carry on. And the will left Vitifer Farm to Amos, on the condition that he would keep on his nephew Ernest. It was four year old; and the codicil, that Joe wrote the day he disappeared, ordained that when Amos died, Vitifer shouldn't be sold to Duchy, but handed down to the next generation of the Gregorys in the shape of Ernest.

Well, Amos had no quarrel with that, and when he went home, he asked his nephew if he'd known about the codicil, and he said he had not. And when he learned of his uncle's kind thought for him, he broke down and wept like a child, till Amos had to speak rough and tell him to keep a stiff upper lip and bear himself more manly.

"If you be going to behave like a girl over this fearful loss, I shan't have no use for you at Vitifer," Amos warned the young chap. "You must face this very sad and terrible come-along-of-it same as I be doing. And you must show me what you're good for, else I may do something you won't like. This tragedy reminds me, Ernest," he said, "that I haven't made my own will yet, and as you be my next-of-kin, if your poor uncle have gone home, that means you'll inherit Furze Hill also in course of time and be able to run a ring fence round both places. But that remains to be seen; and if you are going to show that you haven't got manhood enough to face the ups and downs of life, then I shall turn elsewhere for one to follow me and young Adam White, my godson, may hap to be the man."

He gave his nephew a bit more advice and told him he'd best to go on courting the maiden, Sarah White, to distract his mind.

"For you're the sort," said Amos, "that be better with a strong-willed woman at your elbow in my opinion, and if Sally takes you, I shall be glad of it."

So Ernest bucked up a bit from that day forth, and no doubt the fact that he was to have Vitifer in the course of nature, decided Sarah, for she agreed to wed the young man ten days afterwards, and Amos was pleased, and decided that the wedding should fall out next Easter.

Ernest Gregory, as we all marked, was a changed man from that hour; for though he was built to feel trouble very keen, he hadn't the intellects to feel it very deep, and in the glory of winning Sarah, he beamed forth again like the sun from a cloud. And nobody blamed him, because, whether your heart be large or small, a dead uncle, however good he was, can't be expected to come between a man and the joy of a live sweetheart, who has said "Yes" to him.

II

Then came a night of stars, and once again Amos Gregory was shook up to his heels by somebody running in hot haste with news just as the farmer was about to go to bed. And once more it was his nephew, Ernest, who brought the tale.

"I've found a wondrous pit in the rough ground beyond Four Acre Field," he said. "I came upon it this afternoon, rabbiting, and but for the blessing of God, should have falled in, for the top's worn away and some big stones have fallen in. 'Tis just off the path in that clitter of stone beside the stile."

The young man was panting and so excited that his words tripped each other; but his uncle didn't see for the minute why he should be, and spoke according.

"My father always thought there was a shaft hole there," answered Amos, "and very likely there may be, and time have worn it to the light, for Vitifer Mine used to run out into a lot of passages that be deserted now, and there's the famous adit in Smallcumbe Goyle, half a mile away, to the west, long deserted now; and when I was a child, me and my brothers often played in the mouth of it. The place was blocked years ago by a fall from the roof. But why for you want to run to me with this story at such an hour, Ernest, I can't well say. Us ought to be abed, and Sarah will soon larn you to keep better hours, I reckon. You're a lot too excitable and I could wish it altered."

But the man's nephew explained. "That ain't all, Uncle Amos," he went on, "for I found Uncle Joe's hat alongside the place! There it lies still and little the worse—blue jay feather and all. But I dursn't touch it for fear of the law, and seeing it just after I'd found the hole, filled me with fear and terror. Because it looks cruel as if Uncle had pretty near got home that fatal night, and coming across by the field path in the dark, got in the rough and went down the pit."

Well, Amos had reached for his boots you may be sure before Ernest was to the end of his tale, and in five minutes he'd put on his coat and gone out with Ernest to see the spot.

Their eyes soon got used to the starlight, and by the time they reached the field called Four Acre, Amos was seeing pretty clear. In one corner where a field path ran from a stile down the side, was a stony hillock dotted with blackthorns and briars and all overgrown with nettles, and in the midst of it, sure enough, time and weather had broke open a hole as went down into the bowels of the earth beneath. And beside this hole, little the worse for five weeks in the open, lay Joe Gregory's billycock hat.

Amos fetched a box of matches out of his pocket, struck one and looked at the hat. Then he peered down into the black pit alongside, and, as he did so, he felt a heavy push from behind, and he was gone—falling down into darkness and death afore he knew what had happened. And in that awful moment, such a terrible strange thing be man's mind, it weren't fear of death and judgment, nor yet horror of the smash that must happen when he got to the bottom, that gripped Gregory's brain: it was just a feeling of wild anger against himself, that he'd ever been such a fool as to trust a man with a glide in his eye!

In the fraction of time as passed, while he was falling, his wits moved like lightning, and he saw, not only what had happened, but why it had happened. He saw that Ernest Gregory knew all about Joe and had probably done him in five weeks ago; and he saw likewise that now it was his turn to be murdered. Then Vitifer and Furze Hill would both belong to the young man. All this Amos saw; and he felt also a dreadful, conquering desire to tell the people what had happened and be revenged; and he told himself that his ghost should come to Merripit if he had to break out of hell to come, and give his friends no rest till they was laid upon the track of his nephew.

All that worked through his brain in an instant moment, like things happen in a dream, and then he was brought up sudden and fell so light that he knew he weren't dead yet, but heard something crack at the same moment. And then Amos discovered he was on a rotten landing-stage of old timber, with the shaft hole above him and a head, outlined against the stars, looking down, and another hole extending below. He was, in fact, catched half-way to his doom and hung there with the devil above and the unknown deep below and hung up on the mouldering wood. He heard Ernest laugh then, and the sound was such as none had ever heard from him before—more like a beast's noise than a man's. Then his head disappeared and Amos was just wondering what next, when his nephew came to the hole again and dropped a great stone. It shot past the wretched chap where he hung, just touching his elbow, and then Amos, seeing he was to be stoned to make sure, called upon God to save him alive. He pressed back against the pit side, while the crumbling timber gave under him and threatened to let him down any moment, but the action saved his life, for the time being, for as he moved, down came another stone and then another. Where the joists of the stage went in, however, was a bit of cover for the unfortunate chap—just enough to keep him clear of the danger from above, and there he stuck, pressed to the rock like a lichen, with great stones going by so close that they curled his hair. All was black as pitch and the young devil up over had no thought that his poor uncle was still alive. Amos uttered no sound, and presently, his work done as he thought, Ernest began the next job and Gregory heard him making all snug overhead. Soon the ray of starlight was blotted out and the pit mouth blocked up with timber first and stones afterwards; and Amos doubted not that his young relation had made the spot look as usual and blocked it so as nothing less than the trump of Doom would ever unseal it again.

And even if that weren't so, he knew he could never climb up the five and twenty feet or more he'd fallen. Indeed, at that moment the poor chap heartily wished he was at the bottom so dead as a hammer and battered to pulp and out of his misery. For what remained? Nought but a hideous end long drawn out. In fact he felt exceeding sorry for himself, as well he might; but then his nature came to the rescue, and he told himself that where there was life there was hope; and he turned over the situation with his usual pluck and judgment and axed himself if there was anything left that he might do, to put up a fight against such cruel odds.

And he found there was but one thing alone. He couldn't go up and he felt only too sure the only part of him as would ever get out of that living grave was his immortal soul, when the end came; but he reckoned it might be possible to get down. The only other course was to bide where he was, wait till morning, and then lift his voice and bawl in hope some fellow creature might hear and succour. But as the only fellow being like to hear him was his nephew, there didn't seem much promise to that. He waited another half hour till he knew his murderer was certainly gone home; then he lighted matches and with the aid of the last two left in his box scanned the sides of the pit under him. They were rough hewn, and given light he reckoned he could go down by 'em with a bit of luck and the Lord to guide his feet. Then he considered how far it might be to the bottom, and dropped a piece of stone or two, and was a good bit heartened to find the distance weren't so very tremendous. In fact he judged himself to be about half-way down and reckoned that another thirty feet or thereabout would get him to the end. He took off his coat then and flung it down; and next he started, with his heart in his mouth, to do or die.

Amos Gregory promised himself that nought but death waited for him down beneath, and he was right enough for that matter. How he got down without breaking his neck he never could tell, but the pit sloped outward from below and he managed to find foothold and fingerhold as he sank gingerly lower and lower. A thousand times he thought he was gone. Then he did fall in good truth, for a wedge of granite came out in his hand; but to his great thankfulness, he hadn't got to slither and struggle for more than a matter of another dozen feet, and then he came down on his own coat what he'd dropped before him. So there he was, only scratched and torn a bit, and like a toad in a hole, he sat for a bit on his coat and panted and breathed foul air. 'Twas dark as a wolf's mouth, of course, and he didn't know from Adam what dangers lay around him; but he couldn't bide still long and so rose up and began to grope with feet and hands. He kicked a few of the big stones that Ernest Gregory had thrown down, as he thought atop of him; and then he found the bottom of the hole was bigger than he guessed. And then he kicked a soft object and a great wonder happened. Kneeling to see what it might be, he put forth his hand, touched a clay-cold, sodden lump of something, and found a sudden, steady blaze of light flash out of it. He drew back and the light went out. Then he touched again and the light answered.

By this time Amos had catched another light in his brain-pan and knowed too bitter well what he'd found. He groped into the garments of that poor clay and found the light that he'd set going was hid in a dead man's breast pocket. Then he got hold of it, drew out an electric torch and turned it on the withered corpse of his elder brother. There lay Joe and the small dried-up carcase of him weren't much the worse seemingly in that cold, dry place; but Amos shivered and went goose-flesh down his spine, for half the poor little man's face was eat away by some unknown beast.

Joe's brother sat down then with his brains swimming in his skull, and for a bit he was too horrified to do ought but shiver and sweat; and then his wits steadied down and he saw that what was so awful in itself yet carried in its horror just that ray of hope he wanted now to push him on.

His instinct was always terrible strong for self-preservation, and his thoughts leapt forward; and he saw that if a fox had bit poor dead Joe, the creature must have come from somewheres. Of course a fox can go where a man cannot, yet that foxes homed here meant hope for Amos; and there also was the blessed torch he'd took from his dead brother's breast.