CHAPTER XXII.THE HAYSEL.Hillary became impatient. He made no way with Honor; if any change in his position had taken place, he had gone back. In spite of her entreaty, he went to the cottage down the lane hooting like an owl, but she did not answer the call. Then he plucked up courage and went in on the chance of getting a word with her alone, but he went in vain. Oliver Luxmore was glad to see him, chatted with him, and offered him a place at their supper-board, or a drink of cider. He defended himself against the sallies of Kate. He spoke now and then to Honor, and was answered in friendly tone; but that was all. If by chance he met her during the day in the lane or on the down, and she could not escape him, she would not stay to talk, she pleaded work. Hillary was disappointed, and, what was more, offended. His vanity was hurt, and vanity in a young man is his most sensitive fibre. No other girl in the parish would treat his advances as did Honor. The other girls laid themselves out to catch him, Honor shrank from him. He knew that she liked him, he was angry because she did not love him.Hillary's nature, though sound, was marred by his bringing up. He had been spoiled by flattery and indulgence. His father's boasting, the great expectations held out to him, the consciousness of vigour, health, and good looks, combined to make Larry consider himself the very finest young fellow, not in Bratton only, but in all England. Self-conceit is like mercury, when it touches gold it renders it dull, and a strong fire is needed to expel the alloy and restore the gold to its proper brilliancy.Mortified in his self-consequence, stung by Honor's indifference, after a few attempts and failures Hillary changed his tactics. He resolved to show Honor, if she did not meet him, he could turn elsewhere. Unfortunately, Kate was at hand to serve his purpose. Kate did not particularly care for Larry. She had a fancy for Samuel Voaden, the farmer's son at Swaddledown; but of this Honor neither knew nor suspected anything. Kate was pleased to see Hillary whenever he came, as she was glad to have a butt for her jokes, and with feminine ingenuity used him to throw dust in the eyes of her father, sister, and companions to obscure their perception of her attachment for Sam Voaden.At first Hillary was in a bad temper, disinclined for conversation, and unable to retaliate upon Kate; but by degrees his old cheerfulness returned, and he received and replied to her banter with what readiness he possessed.One day he came into the cottage with a hay-fork over his shoulder. 'You maidens,' he said, 'come along to the hay-field. We want help badly. Bring the little ones and let them romp and eat cake. Whilst the sun shines we must make hay.'Honor, without a word, rose and folded her work.'If you can toss hay as you can toss chaff,' said the young man addressing Kate, 'you will be useful indeed.''Larry, it is reported that your uncle Langford will not save hay till it has been rained on well. "If it be too good," he argues, "the cows will eat too much of it." Your wit is ricked like Langford's hay; it is weak and washed out. A little goes a long way with those who taste it.'A happy and merry party in the hay field, women and girls tossing the hay into cocks, and the men with the waggon collecting it and carrying it home. The air was fragrant with the scent. In a corner under a hedge were a barrel of cider, and blue and white musts, and a basketful of saffron-cake. Whoever was thirsty went to the cider cask, whoever was hungry helped himself to the plum loaf. The field rang with laughter, and occasional screams, as a man twisted a cord of hay, cast the loop round a girl's neck, drew her head towards him and kissed her face. That is called 'the making of sweet hay.'Honor worked steadily. No one ventured to make 'sweet hay' with her, and Kate was too much on the alert, though one or two young men slyly crept towards her with twisted bands. The little ones were building themselves nests of hay, and burying one another, and jumping over haycocks, and chasing each other with bands, to catch and kiss, in imitation of their elders. Hillary turned in his work and looked at Honor and Kate, hoping that the former would commend his diligence, and that the latter would give him occasion for a joke. But Honor was too much engrossed in her raking, and had too little idea of necessary work being lauded as a virtue; and the latter was looking at Samuel Voaden, who had come over from Swaddledown to help his neighbour—the haysel at home being over.When the half-laden waggon drew up near where Honor was raking, Hillary said to her in a low tone, 'I have been working ever since the dew was off the grass.''I suppose so, Larry,''I have been working very hard.''Of course you have, Larry.''And I am very hot.''I do not doubt it.''How cool you are, Honor!''I—cool!' she looked at him with surprise. 'On the contrary, I am very warm.' She had no perception that he pleaded for praise.'Larry,' said Kate, 'you were right to press us into service. It will rain to-morrow.''How do you know that?''Because you are working to-day.'Quick as thought, he threw some hay strands round her head, and kissed both her rosy cheeks.Kate drew herself away, angry at his impudence, especially angry at his kissing her before Samuel Voaden. She threw down her pitchfork ('heable' in the local dialect), and folding her arms, said with a frown and a pout, 'Do the rest yourself. I will work for you no more.''Oh, Kate, do not take offence. I went naturally where was the sweetest hay.'In her anger she looked prettier than when in good humour. She glanced round out of the corners of her eyes, and saw to her satisfaction that Samuel was on the further side of the waggon, unconscious of what had taken place. Hillary was humble, he made ample apology, and offered lavish flattery. Kate maintained, or affected to maintain, her anger for some time, and forced Larry to redouble his efforts to regain her favour. Her fair hair, fine as silk just wound from a cocoon, was ruffled over her brow, and her brow was pearled with heat-drops. She was a slender girl, with a long neck and the prettiest shoulders in the world. She wore a light gown, frilled about the throat and bosom and sleeves, tucked up at the side, showing a blue petticoat and white stockings. She picked up the 'heable' with a sigh, and then stood leaning on it, with the sleeves fallen back, exposing her delicate arms as far as the rosy elbows.It was not possible for Kate to remain long angry with Larry, he was so good-natured, so full of fuss, so coaxing; he paid such pretty compliments, his eyes were so roguish, his face so handsome—besides, Samuel was on the other side of the waggon, seeing, hearing nothing.The dimples formed in her cheeks, the contraction of lips and brows gave way, the angry sparkle disappeared from her blue eyes, and then her clear laugh announced that she was pacified. Hillary, knowing he had conquered, audacious in his pride of conquest, put his arm round her waist, stooped, and kissed the bare arm nearest him that rested on the pitchfork, then he sprang aside as she attempted to box his ears.Honor was hard by and had seen both kisses, and had heard every word that had passed. She continued her work as though unconscious. For a moment, a pang of jealousy contracted her bosom, but she hastily mastered it. She knew that she could not, must not regard Hillary in any other light than as a brother, and yet she was unable to see her sister supplanting her in his affections without some natural qualms. But Honor was unselfish, and she hid her suffering. Kate as little suspected the state of her sister's heart as Honor suspected Kate's liking for Sam Voaden. And now, all at once, an idea shot through Honor's mind which crimsoned her face. How she had misread Hillary's manner when they were together watching for the lamb-killer! She had fancied then that his heart was drawing towards her, and the thought had filled her with unutterable happiness. Now she saw his demeanour in another aspect. He really loved Kate, and his affection for her was only a reflection of his love for the younger sister. He had sought to gain her esteem, to forward his suit with Kate. When this thought occurred to Honor, she hid her face, humbled and distressed at having been deluded by self-conceit. She made it clear to herself now that Hillary had thought only of Kate. Her sister had said nothing to her about Hillary—but was that wonderful, as he had not declared himself? A transient gleam had lightened her soul. It was over. Work was Honor's lot in life, perhaps sorrow, not love.'The last load is carried, and in good order. Where is the dance to be?' asked Samuel Voaden, coming into sight as the waggon moved on.'In the barn,' answered Hillary.'Kate,' said Hillary, 'give me the first dance.''And me the second,' pleaded Samuel.When Combe wrote and Rowlandson illustrated the 'Tour of Doctor Syntax,' a dance was the necessary complement of a harvest whether of corn or hay—especially of the latter, as then the barn was empty. The Reverend Doctor Syntax thought it not derogatory to his office to play the fiddle on such occasions. Moreover, half a century ago, the village fiddler was invited into any cottage, when, at the sound of his instrument, lads and maidens would assemble, dance for a couple of hours and disperse before darkness settled in. The denunciation of dancing as a deadly sin by the Methodists has caused it to fall into desuetude. Morality has not been bettered thereby. The young people who formerly met by daylight on the cottage floor, now meet, after chapel, in the dark, in hedge corners.Hillary and Samuel had engaged Kate. Neither had thought of Honor, though she stood by, raking the fragrant hay.'Up, up!' shouted both young men. 'Kate, you must ride on the last load.'The waggon moved away, with Kate mounted on the sweet contents, and with the young men running at the side. Honor remained alone, looking after them, resting on her rake, and, in spite of her efforts, the tears filled her eyes.But she did not give way to her emotion.Honor called the children, when the last load left the field, and led them home. She was hot and tired, and her heart ached, but she was content with herself. She had conquered the rising movement of jealousy, and was ready to accept Hillary as her sister's acknowledged lover.Kate followed her. An hour later the dance in the barn would begin. The lads and maidens went home to smarten up, and wash off the dust and stain of labour, and the barn had to be decorated with green branches, and the candles lit.Kate went upstairs at once to dress. Honor remained below to hear the children's prayers, and get the youngest ready for bed. Then she went up to the room she shared with Kate, carrying little Temperance in her arms.'Oh, Honor, bundle them all in. What a time you have been! We shall be late; and I have promised to open the dance with Larry.''I am not going, Kate.''Not going! Of course you are going.''No, I am not. Father is not home, and will want his supper. Besides, I cannot leave the house with all the little ones in it unprotected.''There are no ogres hereabouts that eat children,' said Kate, hastily. 'We can manage. This is nonsense; you must come.''I do not care to, Kate. Sit down in that chair, and I will dress your hair. It is tossed like a haycock.'Kate seated herself, and Honor combed and brushed her sister's hair, then put a blue riband through it; and took the kerchief from her box, and drew it over Kate's shoulders, and pinned it in place.'Oh, Honor! What a lovely silk kerchief! Where did you get this? How long have you had it? Why have you not shown it me before?''It is for you, dearest Kate; I am glad you like it.'Kate stood up, looked at herself in the glass, and then threw her arms round her sister and kissed her.'You are a darling,' exclaimed Kate. 'Always thinking of others, never giving yourself anything. Let me remain at home—do you go instead of me.'Honor shook her head. She was pleased to see Kate's delight, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in her soul. She was adorning her sister for Hillary.Kate did not press Honor to go instead of her, though she was sufficiently good-hearted to have taken her sister's place without becoming ill-tempered, had Honor accepted the offer.'Do I look very nice?' asked Kate, with the irresistible dimples coming into her cheeks. 'I wonder what Larry will say when he sees me with this blue ribbon, and this pretty kerchief.''And I—' said Honor slowly, not without effort, 'I also wonder.'CHAPTER XXIII.A BRAWL.When Kate came to the barn, she found it decorated with green boughs. There were no windows, only the great barn door, consequently the sides were dark; but here four lanterns had been hung, diffusing a dull yellow light. The threshing-floor was in the middle, planked; on either side the barn was slated, so that the dancing was to be in the middle. Forms were placed on the slate flooring for those who rested or looked on. On a table sat the fiddler with a jug of cider near him.The season of the year was that of Barnaby bright, when, as the old saw says, there is all day and no night. The sun did not set till past eight, and then left the north-west full of silver light. The hedgerows, as Kate passed between them, streamed forth the fragrance from the honeysuckle which was wreathed about them in masses of flower, apricot-yellow, and pink. Where the incense of the eglantine ceased to fill the air it was burdened with the sweetness of white clover that flowered thickly over the broad green patches of grass by the road-side.Hillary was awaiting Kate to open the dance with her. He had gone to the gate to meet her; he recognised his kerchief at once; he was surprised and hurt. Why was Honor not there? Kate came with her little brother Joe holding her hand, Joe had begged permission to attend the dance. Why had Honor made over Larry's present to her sister? It was a slight, an intentional slight. Larry bit his lips and frowned; his heart beat fast with angry emotion. He approached Kate with an ungracious air, and led her to the dance without a pleasant word.Kate was unquestionably the prettiest girl present. She held her fair head erect, in consciousness of superiority. Her hair was abundant, full of natural wave and curl, and the sky-blue ribbon in it seemed to hold it together, and to be the only restraining power that prevented it breaking loose and enveloping her from head to foot in the most beautiful gloss silk. Her complexion was that of the wild rose, heightened by her rapid walk and by excitement; her eyes were blue as the forget-me-not.The evening sun shone in at the barn door, as yellow, but purer and brighter than the lantern light. Had there been a painter present he would have seized the occasion to paint the pretty scene—the old barn with oaken timbers, its great double doors open, from under a penthouse roof leaning forward to cover the laden wains as they were being unpacked of their corn-sheaves; the depths of the barn dark as night, illumined feebly by the pendent lanterns; and the midst, the threshing floor, crowded with dancers, who flickered in the saffron glow of the setting sun.Kate noticed that Hillary, whilst he danced with her, observed the kerchief intently.'Is it not pretty?' she asked innocently. 'Honor gave it me. She had kept it for me in her box ever since the Revel, and not told me that she had it; nor did I see her buy it then. Honor is so good, so kind.'Hillary said nothing in reply, but his humour was not improved. His mind wandered from his partner.'When is Honor coming?' he asked abruptly.'She is not coming at all.''Why not?''Father is not home, and will want his supper when he does return.''Honor must do all the drudging whilst others dance,' he said peevishly.'I offered to stay and let her come, but she would not hear of it.'Hillary danced badly; he lost step. He excused himself; but Kate was dissatisfied with her partner, he was dull, and she was displeased to see that Sam Voaden was dancing and laughing and enjoying himself with some one else.'You are a clumsy partner,' she said, 'and dance like old Diamond when backing against a load going down hill.''Honor gave you that kerchief? What did she say when she gave it you?''Nothing.'He said no more, and led her to a bench in the side of the barn.'What! tired already, Larry? I am not.''I am,' he answered sulkily.Directly, Sam Voaden came to her, and was received with smiles.'Larry Nanspian came left leg foremost out of bed this morning,' she said. 'He is as out of tune as Piper's fiddle.'Kate was in great request that evening. The lads pressed about her, proud to circle round the floor with the graceful pretty girl; but she gave the preference to Samuel Voaden. Hillary asked her to dance with him in 'The Triumph,' but she told him sharply she would reserve her hand for him in the Dumps, and he did not ask her again.The girls present looked at Kate with envy. They were unable to dispute her beauty; but her charm of manner and lively wit made her even more acceptable to the lads than her good looks. She was perfectly conscious of the envy and admiration she excited, and as much gratified with one as with the other.Samuel Voaden was infatuated. He pressed his attentions, and Kate received them with pleasure. As she danced past Larry she cast him glances of contemptuous pity.Hillary was angry with Honor, angry with Kate, angry with himself. The spoiled prince was cast aside by two girls—a common carrier's daughters. He was as irritated against Kate now as he was previously against Honor. When he heard Kate laugh, he winced, suspecting that she was joking about him. His eyes followed the kerchief, and his heart grew bitter within him. He made no attempt to be amusing. He had nothing to say to any one. He let the dances go on without seeking partners. He stood lounging against the barn door, with a sprig of honeysuckle in his mouth, and his hands behind his back.The sun was set, a cool grey light suffused the meadow, the stackyard, the barn, the groups who stood about, and the dancers within.A dog ventured in at the door, and he kicked it out.The dog snarled and barked, and he nearly quarrelled with young Voaden because the latter objected to his dog being kicked.Then, all at once, his mood changed. It occurred to him that very probably Honor stayed away just for the purpose of showing him she did not care for him. If that were so, he would let her know that he was not to be put out of heart by her slights. He would not afford her the gratification of hearing through her sister that he was dispirited and unhappy. Then he dashed into the midst of the girls, snatched a partner, and thenceforth danced and laughed and was uproariously merry.At ten o'clock the dancing was over. Country folk kept early hours then; the cider barrel was run out, the basket of cakes emptied, and the tallow lights in the lanterns burnt down to a flicker in a flood of melted grease.The young men prepared to escort their partners home.Hillary saw that Samuel was going with Kate. He was exasperated to the last degree. He did not care particularly for Kate, but he did care that it should not be talked of in the village that Sam Voaden had plucked her away from under his very nose. Gossip gave her to him as a sweetheart, and gossip would make merry over his discomfiture. Besides, he wanted an excuse for going to the cottage and having an explanation with Honor about the kerchief.As Voaden's dog passed in front of him at a call from his master, Larry kicked it.'Leave my dog alone, will you!' shouted Samuel. 'That is the second time you have kicked Punch. The dog don't hurt you, why should you hurt him?''I shall kick the brute if I choose,' said Hillary. 'It has no right here in the barn.''What harm has Punch done? And now, what is against his leaving?''You had no right to bring the dog here. It has been in the plantation after young game.''Punch is wrong whether in the barn or out of it. The guinea you got for shooting Rover has given you a set against dogs seemingly,' said young Voaden.'The dog took your lambs at Swaddledown, and you were too much a lie-a-bed to stop it,' sneered Hillary.'Some folk,' answered Samuel, 'have everything in such first-rate order at home they can spare time to help their neighbours.''No more!' exclaimed Kate; 'you shall not quarrel.'Hillary looked round. Near him were two women who had been in the van when he returned from Tavistock with the kerchief. They, no doubt, recognised it over Kate's shoulders. They made sure it was his love-token to her, and, wearing it, she was about to affront him in their eyes. His wounded vanity made him blind to what he said or did.'Here, Kate,' he said, thrusting himself forward, 'I am going to take you home. You cannot go with Samuel. His cursed Punch is an ill-conditioned brute, and will kill your chickens.''Nonsense,' laughed Kate, 'our chickens are all under cover.''I'll fight you,' said Hillary, turning to Samuel. 'Kate was engaged to me for the Tank,[1] and you carried her off without asking leave. I will not be insulted by you on my father's land, and under my own roof. If you are a man you will fight me.'[1] An old country dance.'Nonsense, Larry,' answered Samuel, good-humouredly, 'I'll not quarrel with you. It takes two to make a quarrel, as it takes two to kiss.''You are afraid, that is why.''I am not afraid of you, Larry,' said Samuel. 'You are as touchy this evening as if whipped with nettles.''Come with me, Kate,' exclaimed Hillary. 'You have known me longer than Voaden. If he chooses to take you, he must fight me first.''I will not fight you, Larry,' answered the young Swaddledown farmer; 'but I don't object to a fling with you, if you will wrestle.''Very well; throw off your coat.'The young men removed their jackets, waistcoats, and the handkerchiefs from their throats. They were both fine fellows—well-built and strong. Those who had been dancing surrounded them in a ring, men and maids.'Cornish fashion, not Devon,' said Samuel.'Ay, ay!' shouted the bystanders, 'Cornish wrestle now.''Right—Cornish,' answered Hillary.The difference between Devon and Cornish wrestling consists in this, that in a Devon wrestle kicking is admissible; but then, as a protection to their shins, the antagonists have their legs wreathed with haybands (vulgoskillibegs). As the legs were on this occasion unprotected, Devon wrestling was inadmissible. Both fashions were in vogue near the Tamar, and every young man would wrestle one way or the other as decided beforehand.The opponents fixed each other with their eyes, and stood breathless, and every voice was hushed. Instantaneously, as moved by one impulse, they sprang at each other, and were writhing, tossing, coiling in each other's embrace. Neither could make the other budge from his ground, or throw him, exerting his utmost strength and skill. The haymakers stood silent, looking on appreciatively—the girls a little frightened, the men relishingly, relishing it more than the dance. Not one of the lads at that moment had a thought to cast at his partner. Their hands twitched, their feet moved, they bent, threw themselves back, swung aside, responsive to the movements of the wrestlers.The antagonists gasped, snorted, as with set teeth and closed lips they drew long inspirations through their nostrils. Their sweat poured in streams from their brows.Simultaneously, moved by one impulse, they let go their hold, and stood quivering and wiping their brows, with labouring breasts; then, with a shout, closed again.'Ho!' a general exclamation. In the first grapple Hillary had slipped, and gone down on one knee. Immediately Samuel let go.'There!' said he, holding out his hand. 'We have had enough. Strike palms, old boy.''No,' gasped Hillary, blazing with anger and shame. 'I was not flung. I slipped on the dockleaf there. I will not allow myself beaten. Come on again.''I will not do so,' answered Samuel. 'If you have not had enough, I have.''You shall go on. You are a coward to sneak out now when an accident gave you advantage.''Very well, then,' said Samuel; 'but you have lost your temper, and I'll have no more than this round with you.'The young men were very equally matched. They grappled once more, twisted, doubled, gasped; the ground was torn up under their feet. As the feet twirled and flew, it was hard to say how many were on the ground at once, and whose they were.Samuel suddenly caught his antagonist over the arms, and pushed them to his side.'He'll have Larry down! he will, by George!' shouted several. 'Well done, Samuel! Go it, Samuel Voaden!''Ha!' shouted Sam, starting back. 'Who goes against rules? You kicked.''You lie! I did not,''You did! you did, Larry,' shouted three or four of the spectators. It was true; in his excitement Larry had forgotten that he and his opponent were without skillibegs and wrestling in Cornish fashion, and he had kicked; but in good faith he had denied doing it, for he was unconscious of his actions, so blinded and bemuzzed was he with anger, disappointment, and shame.'I'll not wrestle any more,' said Samuel, 'if you don't wrestle fair. No—I won't at all. You are in a white fury. So—if it's unfair in you to kick, it is unfair in me to take advantage of your temper.''It is not done. One or other must go down.'Then Kate pushed forward. 'Neither of you shall attend me home,' she said; 'I am going with little Joe only.'Whether this would have ended the affray is doubtful. Another interruption was more successful. Suddenly a loud blast of a horn, then a yelping as of dogs, then another blast—and through the yard before the barn, breaking the ring, sweeping between the combatants, passed a strange figure—a man wearing a black bull's hide, with long brown paper ears on his head; the hide was fastened about his waist, and the tail trailed behind. He was followed by a dozen boys barking, baying, yelping, and after them hobbled Tom Crout blowing aorn.'It's no good,' said the lame fellow, halting in the broken ring; 'I can't follow the hare, Mr. Larry Nanspian; the hunt is waiting for you. On wi' a green coat, and mount your piebald, and take my horn. I wish I could follow; but it's un-possible. Whew! you hare! Heigh! Piper, stay, will you, and start fair.''I'll have nothing to do with it,' said Hillary, still panting.'That is right, Larry,' said Kate in his ear, 'You oughtn't. Honor said as much, and that she hoped you would keep out of it.''Did she!' said Hillary, angrily; 'then I'll go in for it.''Larry, old chap,' exclaimed Voaden, patting him on the shoulder, 'I wasn't the better man, nor was you. You slipped on the dockleaf, and that don't reckon as a fall. We'll have another bout some other day, if you wish it. Now let us have the lark of the Hare Hunt.'Hillary considered a moment, and wiped his face. He had fallen in the general estimation. He had been sulky, he had provoked Sam, and the wrestle had not turned to his credit. Here was a chance offered of taking the lead once more. If he did not act the huntsman, Sam would.'All right, Crout,' said he, 'give me the horn; I'll have my horse round directly, and the green coat on.''Do not, do not, Larry,' entreated Kate.'Tell Honor I'm not pinned to her apron,' answered the young man, and ran into the house.CHAPTER XXIV.THE HAND OF GLORY.The reader may have been puzzled by the hints made by Larry to Honor, and by Charles to Mrs. Veale, of a threatened hare hunt, and he may have wondered why such a threat should have disturbed Honor and angered the housekeeper. There are plenty of hares on Broadbury Moor; there have been hare hunts there as long as men could remember; frequently, all through the winter. An ordinary hare hunt would not have stirred much feeling in women's bosoms. The menaced hare hunt was something very different. A stag and a hare hunt are the rude means employed by a village community for maintaining either its standard of morals or expressing its disapprobation of petticoat rule. The stag hunt is by no means an institution of the past, it flourishes to the present day; and where the magistrates have interfered, this interference has stimulated it to larger proportions. The hare hunt, now extinct, was intended to ridicule the man who submitted to a rough woman's tongue.The stag hunt takes place either on the wedding-night of a man who has married a girl of light character, or when a wife is suspected of having played her husband false. The hare hunt more properly satirised the relations between Taverner Langford and Mrs. Veale. In not a few cases, especially with a stag hunt, there is gross injustice done. It cannot be otherwise: the Vehm-Gericht is self-constituted, sits in the tavern, and passes its sentence without summons and hearing of the accused. There is no defence and no appeal from the court. The infliction of the sentence confers an indelible stain, and generally drives those who have been thus branded out of the neighbourhood. Petty spite and private grudges are sometimes so revenged; and a marriage in a well-conducted family, which has held itself above the rest in a parish, is made an occasion for one of these outrages, whereby the envy of the unsuccessful and disreputable finds a vent.There probably would have been no hare hunt near Langford had not the quarrel between Langford and Nanspian agitated the whole parish, and given occasion for a frolic which would not have been adventured had the brothers-in-law been combined.'Well, Mr. Charles,' said Mrs. Veale, 'what have you done with the five-pound note I let you have? Is it all spent?''I gave it to my father and sister,' answered Charles. 'I've occasioned them some expense, and I thought I'd make it up to them whilst I could.''That was mighty liberal of you,' sneered Mrs. Veale.'I am liberal, pretty free-handed with my money. It comes of my blood.''Ah!' said the housekeeper, 'and I reckon now you'll be wanting more.''I could do with more,' replied young Luxmore, 'but I will not trouble you.''Oh! it's no trouble,' said Mrs. Veale, 'I know very well that lending to you is safe as putting into the Bank of England. You must have your own some day, and when you're squire you won't see me want.''Rely on me, I will deal most generously with you. I shall not forget your kindness, Mrs. Veale.''But,' said the woman slyly, eyeing him, 'I can't find you as much as you require. You can't spin more out of me than my own weight, as the silkworm said. I've put aside my little savings. But as you see, the master don't pay freely. He gives you only ninepence, and me——' she shrugged her shoulders.'If I were in your place,' she went on, after a pause, 'I should be tempted to borrow a hundred or so, and go to Physick the lawyer with it, and say, help me to Coombe Park, and when I've that, I'll give you a hundred more.''Who'd lend me the money? You have not so much.''No, I have not so much.''What other person would trust me?''The money might be had.''Others don't see my prospects as you do.''I'd be inclined to borrow wi'out asking,' said the housekeeper cautiously. She was as one feeling her way; she kept her eyes on Charles as she talked. Charles started. He knew her meaning.'How dare you suggest such a thing!' he said in a low tone, looking at her uneasily. 'Curse you! Don't wink at me with your white lashes that way, you make me uneasy.''I only suggested it,' said Mrs. Veale, turning her head aside. 'I reckon no harm would be done. The master don't know how much he has in his box. We had it out t'other day between us, and counted. There be over a thousand pounds there. Do y' think he counts it every week? Not he. Who'd know? The money would be put back, and wi' interest, six, seven, ten per cent., if you liked, when you'd got Coombe Park.''Have done,' said Luxmore with nervous irritation; 'I'm no thief, and never could become one.''Who asked you to be one? Not I. I said as how you might become his banker for a hundred pounds. The bank gives but three per cent., and you would give nine. Who'd be the loser? Not master. He'd gain nine pounds without knowing it—and wouldn't he crow!'Charles Luxmore caught his hat and stood up.'Where be you going to?' asked Mrs. Veale.'I cannot stand this,' he said in an agitated voice. 'You torment me. You put notions into me that won't let me sleep, that make me miserable. I shall go.''Whither? To the Ring o' Bells. There be no one there to-night, all be away to Chimsworthy at the Haysel. You sit down again, and I will give you some cherry cordial.'He obeyed sulkily.'You can't go to dance at Chimsworthy, because you be here at Langford, and there's no dancing and merry-making here. But wait till you're at Coombe Park, and then you'll have junketings and harvest-homes and dances when you will. That'll be a rare life.'He said nothing, but thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked moodily before him.'Shall I tell you now who'll find you the money?'He did not speak.'Wellon will.''What?' he looked up in surprise.'Ay! old Wellon as was gibbeted, he will.'Charles laughed contemptuously. 'You are talking folly. I always thought you mad.''Did you ever hear of the Hand of Glory?''No, never.''I wonder what became of Wellon's hand—the hand that throttled Mary Rundle, and stuck the knife into the heart of Jane, and brought down their aunt wi' a blow of the fist. That hand was a mighty hand.''Wellon was hung in chains, and fell to dust.''But not the hand. Such a hand as that was too precious. Did you never hear it was cut off, and the body swung for years without it?''No, I did not.''It was so.''What good was it to anyone?''It was worth pounds and pounds.''As a curiosity?''No, as a Hand of Glory. It were washed in mother's milk to a child base-born, and smoked in the reek of gallows-wood, and then laid with tamarisk from the sea, and vervain, and rue, and bog-bean.''Well, what then?''Why, then, sure it's a Hand of Glory.' She paused, then struck her hand across her forehead, 'and grass off the graves of them as it killed—I forgot to say that was added.''What can such a hand do?''Everything. If I had it here and set it up on the mantelshelf, and set a light to the fingers, all would flame blue, and then every soul in the house would sleep except us two, and we might ransack the whole place and none would stir or hinder or see. And if we let the hand flame on, they would lie asleep till we were far away beyond their reach.''If you had this Hand of Glory, I wouldn't help you to use it,' said Charles, writhing on his seat.'That is not all,' Mrs. Veale went on, standing by a little tea-table with her hand on it, the other against her side. 'That hand has wonderful powers of itself. It is as a thing alive, though dead and dry as leather. If you say certain words it begins to run about on its fingers like a rat. Maybe you're sitting over the fire of nights, and hear something stirring, and see a brown thing scuttling over the floor and you think it is a rat. It is not. It is the dead man's hand. Perhaps you hear a scratching on the wall, and look round, and see a great black spider—a monstrous spider going about, running over and over the wainscot, and touching and twitching at the bell wires. It is not a spider, it is the murderer's hand. It hasn't eyes, it goes by the feel, till it comes to gold, and then, at the touch the dark skin becomes light and shines as the tail of a glowworm, and it picks and gathers by its own light. I reckon, if that hand o' Wellon's were in the oven behind the parlour-grate, it would make such a light that you'd see what was on every guinea, whether the man and horse or the spade, and you could read every note as well as if you had the daylight. Then the ring-finger and the little finger close over what money the hand has been bidden fetch, and it runs away on the thumb and other two—and then, if you will, it's spiderlike with a bag behind.''I don't believe a word of it,' said Charles, but his words were more confident than his tone.'You see,' Mrs. Veale went on, 'there is this about it, you tell the hand to go and fetch the money, but you don't say whither it is to go, and you do not know. You get the money and can swear you have robbed no one. I reckon, mostly the money is found by the hand in old cairns and ruins. I've been told there's a table of gold in Broadbury Castle that only comes to the top on Midsummer night for an hour, and then sinks again. Folks far away see a great light on Broadbury, and say we be swaling (burning gorse) up here; but it is no such thing; it is the gold table coming up, and shining like fire, and the clouds above reflecting its light.''Pity the hand don't break off bits of the gold table,' said Charles sarcastically; but his face was mottled with fear; Mrs. Veale's stories frightened him.'Yes, 'tis a pity,' she said. 'Maybe it will some day.''Pray what do you say to the hand to make it run your errands?''Ah!' she continued, without answering his question. 'There be other things the Hand of Glory can do. It will go if you send it to some person—bolts and locks will not keep it out, and it will catch the end of the bedclothes, and scramble up, and pass itself over the eyes of the sleeper, and make him sleep like a dead man, and it will dive under the clothes and lay its fingers on the heart; then there will come aches and spasms there, or it will creep down the thighs and pinch and pat, and that brings rheumatic pains. I've heard of one hand thus sent as went down under the bedclothes to the bottom of the sleeper's foot, and there it closed up all the fingers but one, and with that it bored and bored, working itself about like a gimblet, and then gangrene set in, and the man touched thus was dead in three days.''It is a mighty fortunate thing you've not the hand of old Wellon,' growled Charles.'I have got it,' answered Mrs. Veale.Charles looked at her with staring eyes.'You shall see it,' she said.'I do not want to. I will not!' he exclaimed, shuddering.'Wellon's hand will fetch you a hundred pounds, and we will not ask whence it comes,' said Mrs. Veale.'I will not have it, I will not touch it!' He spoke in a hoarse, horrified whisper.'You shall come with me, and I will show you where I keep it, and perhaps you will find the hand closed; and when I say, Hand of Glory! open! Hand of Glory! give up! then you will see the fingers unclose, and the glittering gold coins will be in the brown palm.''I will not touch them.''No harm in your looking at them. Come with me.'She stood before him with her firm mouth set, and her blinking eyes on him. He tried to resist. He settled himself more comfortably into his seat. But his efforts to oppose her will were in vain. He uttered a curse, drew his hands out of his pocket, put his hat on his head.'Go on,' he said surlily; 'but I tell y' I won't go without the lantern. Where is it?''In Wellon's Cairn.''I will not go,' said Charles, drawing back, and all colour leaving his cheek.'Then I'll send the hand after you. Come.''I'll take the lantern.''As you like, but hide the light till we get to the hill. There it don't matter if folks see a flame dancing about the mound. They will keep their distance—Come on, after me.'
CHAPTER XXII.
THE HAYSEL.
Hillary became impatient. He made no way with Honor; if any change in his position had taken place, he had gone back. In spite of her entreaty, he went to the cottage down the lane hooting like an owl, but she did not answer the call. Then he plucked up courage and went in on the chance of getting a word with her alone, but he went in vain. Oliver Luxmore was glad to see him, chatted with him, and offered him a place at their supper-board, or a drink of cider. He defended himself against the sallies of Kate. He spoke now and then to Honor, and was answered in friendly tone; but that was all. If by chance he met her during the day in the lane or on the down, and she could not escape him, she would not stay to talk, she pleaded work. Hillary was disappointed, and, what was more, offended. His vanity was hurt, and vanity in a young man is his most sensitive fibre. No other girl in the parish would treat his advances as did Honor. The other girls laid themselves out to catch him, Honor shrank from him. He knew that she liked him, he was angry because she did not love him.
Hillary's nature, though sound, was marred by his bringing up. He had been spoiled by flattery and indulgence. His father's boasting, the great expectations held out to him, the consciousness of vigour, health, and good looks, combined to make Larry consider himself the very finest young fellow, not in Bratton only, but in all England. Self-conceit is like mercury, when it touches gold it renders it dull, and a strong fire is needed to expel the alloy and restore the gold to its proper brilliancy.
Mortified in his self-consequence, stung by Honor's indifference, after a few attempts and failures Hillary changed his tactics. He resolved to show Honor, if she did not meet him, he could turn elsewhere. Unfortunately, Kate was at hand to serve his purpose. Kate did not particularly care for Larry. She had a fancy for Samuel Voaden, the farmer's son at Swaddledown; but of this Honor neither knew nor suspected anything. Kate was pleased to see Hillary whenever he came, as she was glad to have a butt for her jokes, and with feminine ingenuity used him to throw dust in the eyes of her father, sister, and companions to obscure their perception of her attachment for Sam Voaden.
At first Hillary was in a bad temper, disinclined for conversation, and unable to retaliate upon Kate; but by degrees his old cheerfulness returned, and he received and replied to her banter with what readiness he possessed.
One day he came into the cottage with a hay-fork over his shoulder. 'You maidens,' he said, 'come along to the hay-field. We want help badly. Bring the little ones and let them romp and eat cake. Whilst the sun shines we must make hay.'
Honor, without a word, rose and folded her work.
'If you can toss hay as you can toss chaff,' said the young man addressing Kate, 'you will be useful indeed.'
'Larry, it is reported that your uncle Langford will not save hay till it has been rained on well. "If it be too good," he argues, "the cows will eat too much of it." Your wit is ricked like Langford's hay; it is weak and washed out. A little goes a long way with those who taste it.'
A happy and merry party in the hay field, women and girls tossing the hay into cocks, and the men with the waggon collecting it and carrying it home. The air was fragrant with the scent. In a corner under a hedge were a barrel of cider, and blue and white musts, and a basketful of saffron-cake. Whoever was thirsty went to the cider cask, whoever was hungry helped himself to the plum loaf. The field rang with laughter, and occasional screams, as a man twisted a cord of hay, cast the loop round a girl's neck, drew her head towards him and kissed her face. That is called 'the making of sweet hay.'
Honor worked steadily. No one ventured to make 'sweet hay' with her, and Kate was too much on the alert, though one or two young men slyly crept towards her with twisted bands. The little ones were building themselves nests of hay, and burying one another, and jumping over haycocks, and chasing each other with bands, to catch and kiss, in imitation of their elders. Hillary turned in his work and looked at Honor and Kate, hoping that the former would commend his diligence, and that the latter would give him occasion for a joke. But Honor was too much engrossed in her raking, and had too little idea of necessary work being lauded as a virtue; and the latter was looking at Samuel Voaden, who had come over from Swaddledown to help his neighbour—the haysel at home being over.
When the half-laden waggon drew up near where Honor was raking, Hillary said to her in a low tone, 'I have been working ever since the dew was off the grass.'
'I suppose so, Larry,'
'I have been working very hard.'
'Of course you have, Larry.'
'And I am very hot.'
'I do not doubt it.'
'How cool you are, Honor!'
'I—cool!' she looked at him with surprise. 'On the contrary, I am very warm.' She had no perception that he pleaded for praise.
'Larry,' said Kate, 'you were right to press us into service. It will rain to-morrow.'
'How do you know that?'
'Because you are working to-day.'
Quick as thought, he threw some hay strands round her head, and kissed both her rosy cheeks.
Kate drew herself away, angry at his impudence, especially angry at his kissing her before Samuel Voaden. She threw down her pitchfork ('heable' in the local dialect), and folding her arms, said with a frown and a pout, 'Do the rest yourself. I will work for you no more.'
'Oh, Kate, do not take offence. I went naturally where was the sweetest hay.'
In her anger she looked prettier than when in good humour. She glanced round out of the corners of her eyes, and saw to her satisfaction that Samuel was on the further side of the waggon, unconscious of what had taken place. Hillary was humble, he made ample apology, and offered lavish flattery. Kate maintained, or affected to maintain, her anger for some time, and forced Larry to redouble his efforts to regain her favour. Her fair hair, fine as silk just wound from a cocoon, was ruffled over her brow, and her brow was pearled with heat-drops. She was a slender girl, with a long neck and the prettiest shoulders in the world. She wore a light gown, frilled about the throat and bosom and sleeves, tucked up at the side, showing a blue petticoat and white stockings. She picked up the 'heable' with a sigh, and then stood leaning on it, with the sleeves fallen back, exposing her delicate arms as far as the rosy elbows.
It was not possible for Kate to remain long angry with Larry, he was so good-natured, so full of fuss, so coaxing; he paid such pretty compliments, his eyes were so roguish, his face so handsome—besides, Samuel was on the other side of the waggon, seeing, hearing nothing.
The dimples formed in her cheeks, the contraction of lips and brows gave way, the angry sparkle disappeared from her blue eyes, and then her clear laugh announced that she was pacified. Hillary, knowing he had conquered, audacious in his pride of conquest, put his arm round her waist, stooped, and kissed the bare arm nearest him that rested on the pitchfork, then he sprang aside as she attempted to box his ears.
Honor was hard by and had seen both kisses, and had heard every word that had passed. She continued her work as though unconscious. For a moment, a pang of jealousy contracted her bosom, but she hastily mastered it. She knew that she could not, must not regard Hillary in any other light than as a brother, and yet she was unable to see her sister supplanting her in his affections without some natural qualms. But Honor was unselfish, and she hid her suffering. Kate as little suspected the state of her sister's heart as Honor suspected Kate's liking for Sam Voaden. And now, all at once, an idea shot through Honor's mind which crimsoned her face. How she had misread Hillary's manner when they were together watching for the lamb-killer! She had fancied then that his heart was drawing towards her, and the thought had filled her with unutterable happiness. Now she saw his demeanour in another aspect. He really loved Kate, and his affection for her was only a reflection of his love for the younger sister. He had sought to gain her esteem, to forward his suit with Kate. When this thought occurred to Honor, she hid her face, humbled and distressed at having been deluded by self-conceit. She made it clear to herself now that Hillary had thought only of Kate. Her sister had said nothing to her about Hillary—but was that wonderful, as he had not declared himself? A transient gleam had lightened her soul. It was over. Work was Honor's lot in life, perhaps sorrow, not love.
'The last load is carried, and in good order. Where is the dance to be?' asked Samuel Voaden, coming into sight as the waggon moved on.
'In the barn,' answered Hillary.
'Kate,' said Hillary, 'give me the first dance.'
'And me the second,' pleaded Samuel.
When Combe wrote and Rowlandson illustrated the 'Tour of Doctor Syntax,' a dance was the necessary complement of a harvest whether of corn or hay—especially of the latter, as then the barn was empty. The Reverend Doctor Syntax thought it not derogatory to his office to play the fiddle on such occasions. Moreover, half a century ago, the village fiddler was invited into any cottage, when, at the sound of his instrument, lads and maidens would assemble, dance for a couple of hours and disperse before darkness settled in. The denunciation of dancing as a deadly sin by the Methodists has caused it to fall into desuetude. Morality has not been bettered thereby. The young people who formerly met by daylight on the cottage floor, now meet, after chapel, in the dark, in hedge corners.
Hillary and Samuel had engaged Kate. Neither had thought of Honor, though she stood by, raking the fragrant hay.
'Up, up!' shouted both young men. 'Kate, you must ride on the last load.'
The waggon moved away, with Kate mounted on the sweet contents, and with the young men running at the side. Honor remained alone, looking after them, resting on her rake, and, in spite of her efforts, the tears filled her eyes.
But she did not give way to her emotion.
Honor called the children, when the last load left the field, and led them home. She was hot and tired, and her heart ached, but she was content with herself. She had conquered the rising movement of jealousy, and was ready to accept Hillary as her sister's acknowledged lover.
Kate followed her. An hour later the dance in the barn would begin. The lads and maidens went home to smarten up, and wash off the dust and stain of labour, and the barn had to be decorated with green branches, and the candles lit.
Kate went upstairs at once to dress. Honor remained below to hear the children's prayers, and get the youngest ready for bed. Then she went up to the room she shared with Kate, carrying little Temperance in her arms.
'Oh, Honor, bundle them all in. What a time you have been! We shall be late; and I have promised to open the dance with Larry.'
'I am not going, Kate.'
'Not going! Of course you are going.'
'No, I am not. Father is not home, and will want his supper. Besides, I cannot leave the house with all the little ones in it unprotected.'
'There are no ogres hereabouts that eat children,' said Kate, hastily. 'We can manage. This is nonsense; you must come.'
'I do not care to, Kate. Sit down in that chair, and I will dress your hair. It is tossed like a haycock.'
Kate seated herself, and Honor combed and brushed her sister's hair, then put a blue riband through it; and took the kerchief from her box, and drew it over Kate's shoulders, and pinned it in place.
'Oh, Honor! What a lovely silk kerchief! Where did you get this? How long have you had it? Why have you not shown it me before?'
'It is for you, dearest Kate; I am glad you like it.'
Kate stood up, looked at herself in the glass, and then threw her arms round her sister and kissed her.
'You are a darling,' exclaimed Kate. 'Always thinking of others, never giving yourself anything. Let me remain at home—do you go instead of me.'
Honor shook her head. She was pleased to see Kate's delight, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in her soul. She was adorning her sister for Hillary.
Kate did not press Honor to go instead of her, though she was sufficiently good-hearted to have taken her sister's place without becoming ill-tempered, had Honor accepted the offer.
'Do I look very nice?' asked Kate, with the irresistible dimples coming into her cheeks. 'I wonder what Larry will say when he sees me with this blue ribbon, and this pretty kerchief.'
'And I—' said Honor slowly, not without effort, 'I also wonder.'
CHAPTER XXIII.
A BRAWL.
When Kate came to the barn, she found it decorated with green boughs. There were no windows, only the great barn door, consequently the sides were dark; but here four lanterns had been hung, diffusing a dull yellow light. The threshing-floor was in the middle, planked; on either side the barn was slated, so that the dancing was to be in the middle. Forms were placed on the slate flooring for those who rested or looked on. On a table sat the fiddler with a jug of cider near him.
The season of the year was that of Barnaby bright, when, as the old saw says, there is all day and no night. The sun did not set till past eight, and then left the north-west full of silver light. The hedgerows, as Kate passed between them, streamed forth the fragrance from the honeysuckle which was wreathed about them in masses of flower, apricot-yellow, and pink. Where the incense of the eglantine ceased to fill the air it was burdened with the sweetness of white clover that flowered thickly over the broad green patches of grass by the road-side.
Hillary was awaiting Kate to open the dance with her. He had gone to the gate to meet her; he recognised his kerchief at once; he was surprised and hurt. Why was Honor not there? Kate came with her little brother Joe holding her hand, Joe had begged permission to attend the dance. Why had Honor made over Larry's present to her sister? It was a slight, an intentional slight. Larry bit his lips and frowned; his heart beat fast with angry emotion. He approached Kate with an ungracious air, and led her to the dance without a pleasant word.
Kate was unquestionably the prettiest girl present. She held her fair head erect, in consciousness of superiority. Her hair was abundant, full of natural wave and curl, and the sky-blue ribbon in it seemed to hold it together, and to be the only restraining power that prevented it breaking loose and enveloping her from head to foot in the most beautiful gloss silk. Her complexion was that of the wild rose, heightened by her rapid walk and by excitement; her eyes were blue as the forget-me-not.
The evening sun shone in at the barn door, as yellow, but purer and brighter than the lantern light. Had there been a painter present he would have seized the occasion to paint the pretty scene—the old barn with oaken timbers, its great double doors open, from under a penthouse roof leaning forward to cover the laden wains as they were being unpacked of their corn-sheaves; the depths of the barn dark as night, illumined feebly by the pendent lanterns; and the midst, the threshing floor, crowded with dancers, who flickered in the saffron glow of the setting sun.
Kate noticed that Hillary, whilst he danced with her, observed the kerchief intently.
'Is it not pretty?' she asked innocently. 'Honor gave it me. She had kept it for me in her box ever since the Revel, and not told me that she had it; nor did I see her buy it then. Honor is so good, so kind.'
Hillary said nothing in reply, but his humour was not improved. His mind wandered from his partner.
'When is Honor coming?' he asked abruptly.
'She is not coming at all.'
'Why not?'
'Father is not home, and will want his supper when he does return.'
'Honor must do all the drudging whilst others dance,' he said peevishly.
'I offered to stay and let her come, but she would not hear of it.'
Hillary danced badly; he lost step. He excused himself; but Kate was dissatisfied with her partner, he was dull, and she was displeased to see that Sam Voaden was dancing and laughing and enjoying himself with some one else.
'You are a clumsy partner,' she said, 'and dance like old Diamond when backing against a load going down hill.'
'Honor gave you that kerchief? What did she say when she gave it you?'
'Nothing.'
He said no more, and led her to a bench in the side of the barn.
'What! tired already, Larry? I am not.'
'I am,' he answered sulkily.
Directly, Sam Voaden came to her, and was received with smiles.
'Larry Nanspian came left leg foremost out of bed this morning,' she said. 'He is as out of tune as Piper's fiddle.'
Kate was in great request that evening. The lads pressed about her, proud to circle round the floor with the graceful pretty girl; but she gave the preference to Samuel Voaden. Hillary asked her to dance with him in 'The Triumph,' but she told him sharply she would reserve her hand for him in the Dumps, and he did not ask her again.
The girls present looked at Kate with envy. They were unable to dispute her beauty; but her charm of manner and lively wit made her even more acceptable to the lads than her good looks. She was perfectly conscious of the envy and admiration she excited, and as much gratified with one as with the other.
Samuel Voaden was infatuated. He pressed his attentions, and Kate received them with pleasure. As she danced past Larry she cast him glances of contemptuous pity.
Hillary was angry with Honor, angry with Kate, angry with himself. The spoiled prince was cast aside by two girls—a common carrier's daughters. He was as irritated against Kate now as he was previously against Honor. When he heard Kate laugh, he winced, suspecting that she was joking about him. His eyes followed the kerchief, and his heart grew bitter within him. He made no attempt to be amusing. He had nothing to say to any one. He let the dances go on without seeking partners. He stood lounging against the barn door, with a sprig of honeysuckle in his mouth, and his hands behind his back.
The sun was set, a cool grey light suffused the meadow, the stackyard, the barn, the groups who stood about, and the dancers within.
A dog ventured in at the door, and he kicked it out.
The dog snarled and barked, and he nearly quarrelled with young Voaden because the latter objected to his dog being kicked.
Then, all at once, his mood changed. It occurred to him that very probably Honor stayed away just for the purpose of showing him she did not care for him. If that were so, he would let her know that he was not to be put out of heart by her slights. He would not afford her the gratification of hearing through her sister that he was dispirited and unhappy. Then he dashed into the midst of the girls, snatched a partner, and thenceforth danced and laughed and was uproariously merry.
At ten o'clock the dancing was over. Country folk kept early hours then; the cider barrel was run out, the basket of cakes emptied, and the tallow lights in the lanterns burnt down to a flicker in a flood of melted grease.
The young men prepared to escort their partners home.
Hillary saw that Samuel was going with Kate. He was exasperated to the last degree. He did not care particularly for Kate, but he did care that it should not be talked of in the village that Sam Voaden had plucked her away from under his very nose. Gossip gave her to him as a sweetheart, and gossip would make merry over his discomfiture. Besides, he wanted an excuse for going to the cottage and having an explanation with Honor about the kerchief.
As Voaden's dog passed in front of him at a call from his master, Larry kicked it.
'Leave my dog alone, will you!' shouted Samuel. 'That is the second time you have kicked Punch. The dog don't hurt you, why should you hurt him?'
'I shall kick the brute if I choose,' said Hillary. 'It has no right here in the barn.'
'What harm has Punch done? And now, what is against his leaving?'
'You had no right to bring the dog here. It has been in the plantation after young game.'
'Punch is wrong whether in the barn or out of it. The guinea you got for shooting Rover has given you a set against dogs seemingly,' said young Voaden.
'The dog took your lambs at Swaddledown, and you were too much a lie-a-bed to stop it,' sneered Hillary.
'Some folk,' answered Samuel, 'have everything in such first-rate order at home they can spare time to help their neighbours.'
'No more!' exclaimed Kate; 'you shall not quarrel.'
Hillary looked round. Near him were two women who had been in the van when he returned from Tavistock with the kerchief. They, no doubt, recognised it over Kate's shoulders. They made sure it was his love-token to her, and, wearing it, she was about to affront him in their eyes. His wounded vanity made him blind to what he said or did.
'Here, Kate,' he said, thrusting himself forward, 'I am going to take you home. You cannot go with Samuel. His cursed Punch is an ill-conditioned brute, and will kill your chickens.'
'Nonsense,' laughed Kate, 'our chickens are all under cover.'
'I'll fight you,' said Hillary, turning to Samuel. 'Kate was engaged to me for the Tank,[1] and you carried her off without asking leave. I will not be insulted by you on my father's land, and under my own roof. If you are a man you will fight me.'
[1] An old country dance.
'Nonsense, Larry,' answered Samuel, good-humouredly, 'I'll not quarrel with you. It takes two to make a quarrel, as it takes two to kiss.'
'You are afraid, that is why.'
'I am not afraid of you, Larry,' said Samuel. 'You are as touchy this evening as if whipped with nettles.'
'Come with me, Kate,' exclaimed Hillary. 'You have known me longer than Voaden. If he chooses to take you, he must fight me first.'
'I will not fight you, Larry,' answered the young Swaddledown farmer; 'but I don't object to a fling with you, if you will wrestle.'
'Very well; throw off your coat.'
The young men removed their jackets, waistcoats, and the handkerchiefs from their throats. They were both fine fellows—well-built and strong. Those who had been dancing surrounded them in a ring, men and maids.
'Cornish fashion, not Devon,' said Samuel.
'Ay, ay!' shouted the bystanders, 'Cornish wrestle now.'
'Right—Cornish,' answered Hillary.
The difference between Devon and Cornish wrestling consists in this, that in a Devon wrestle kicking is admissible; but then, as a protection to their shins, the antagonists have their legs wreathed with haybands (vulgoskillibegs). As the legs were on this occasion unprotected, Devon wrestling was inadmissible. Both fashions were in vogue near the Tamar, and every young man would wrestle one way or the other as decided beforehand.
The opponents fixed each other with their eyes, and stood breathless, and every voice was hushed. Instantaneously, as moved by one impulse, they sprang at each other, and were writhing, tossing, coiling in each other's embrace. Neither could make the other budge from his ground, or throw him, exerting his utmost strength and skill. The haymakers stood silent, looking on appreciatively—the girls a little frightened, the men relishingly, relishing it more than the dance. Not one of the lads at that moment had a thought to cast at his partner. Their hands twitched, their feet moved, they bent, threw themselves back, swung aside, responsive to the movements of the wrestlers.
The antagonists gasped, snorted, as with set teeth and closed lips they drew long inspirations through their nostrils. Their sweat poured in streams from their brows.
Simultaneously, moved by one impulse, they let go their hold, and stood quivering and wiping their brows, with labouring breasts; then, with a shout, closed again.
'Ho!' a general exclamation. In the first grapple Hillary had slipped, and gone down on one knee. Immediately Samuel let go.
'There!' said he, holding out his hand. 'We have had enough. Strike palms, old boy.'
'No,' gasped Hillary, blazing with anger and shame. 'I was not flung. I slipped on the dockleaf there. I will not allow myself beaten. Come on again.'
'I will not do so,' answered Samuel. 'If you have not had enough, I have.'
'You shall go on. You are a coward to sneak out now when an accident gave you advantage.'
'Very well, then,' said Samuel; 'but you have lost your temper, and I'll have no more than this round with you.'
The young men were very equally matched. They grappled once more, twisted, doubled, gasped; the ground was torn up under their feet. As the feet twirled and flew, it was hard to say how many were on the ground at once, and whose they were.
Samuel suddenly caught his antagonist over the arms, and pushed them to his side.
'He'll have Larry down! he will, by George!' shouted several. 'Well done, Samuel! Go it, Samuel Voaden!'
'Ha!' shouted Sam, starting back. 'Who goes against rules? You kicked.'
'You lie! I did not,'
'You did! you did, Larry,' shouted three or four of the spectators. It was true; in his excitement Larry had forgotten that he and his opponent were without skillibegs and wrestling in Cornish fashion, and he had kicked; but in good faith he had denied doing it, for he was unconscious of his actions, so blinded and bemuzzed was he with anger, disappointment, and shame.
'I'll not wrestle any more,' said Samuel, 'if you don't wrestle fair. No—I won't at all. You are in a white fury. So—if it's unfair in you to kick, it is unfair in me to take advantage of your temper.'
'It is not done. One or other must go down.'
Then Kate pushed forward. 'Neither of you shall attend me home,' she said; 'I am going with little Joe only.'
Whether this would have ended the affray is doubtful. Another interruption was more successful. Suddenly a loud blast of a horn, then a yelping as of dogs, then another blast—and through the yard before the barn, breaking the ring, sweeping between the combatants, passed a strange figure—a man wearing a black bull's hide, with long brown paper ears on his head; the hide was fastened about his waist, and the tail trailed behind. He was followed by a dozen boys barking, baying, yelping, and after them hobbled Tom Crout blowing aorn.
'It's no good,' said the lame fellow, halting in the broken ring; 'I can't follow the hare, Mr. Larry Nanspian; the hunt is waiting for you. On wi' a green coat, and mount your piebald, and take my horn. I wish I could follow; but it's un-possible. Whew! you hare! Heigh! Piper, stay, will you, and start fair.'
'I'll have nothing to do with it,' said Hillary, still panting.
'That is right, Larry,' said Kate in his ear, 'You oughtn't. Honor said as much, and that she hoped you would keep out of it.'
'Did she!' said Hillary, angrily; 'then I'll go in for it.'
'Larry, old chap,' exclaimed Voaden, patting him on the shoulder, 'I wasn't the better man, nor was you. You slipped on the dockleaf, and that don't reckon as a fall. We'll have another bout some other day, if you wish it. Now let us have the lark of the Hare Hunt.'
Hillary considered a moment, and wiped his face. He had fallen in the general estimation. He had been sulky, he had provoked Sam, and the wrestle had not turned to his credit. Here was a chance offered of taking the lead once more. If he did not act the huntsman, Sam would.
'All right, Crout,' said he, 'give me the horn; I'll have my horse round directly, and the green coat on.'
'Do not, do not, Larry,' entreated Kate.
'Tell Honor I'm not pinned to her apron,' answered the young man, and ran into the house.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE HAND OF GLORY.
The reader may have been puzzled by the hints made by Larry to Honor, and by Charles to Mrs. Veale, of a threatened hare hunt, and he may have wondered why such a threat should have disturbed Honor and angered the housekeeper. There are plenty of hares on Broadbury Moor; there have been hare hunts there as long as men could remember; frequently, all through the winter. An ordinary hare hunt would not have stirred much feeling in women's bosoms. The menaced hare hunt was something very different. A stag and a hare hunt are the rude means employed by a village community for maintaining either its standard of morals or expressing its disapprobation of petticoat rule. The stag hunt is by no means an institution of the past, it flourishes to the present day; and where the magistrates have interfered, this interference has stimulated it to larger proportions. The hare hunt, now extinct, was intended to ridicule the man who submitted to a rough woman's tongue.
The stag hunt takes place either on the wedding-night of a man who has married a girl of light character, or when a wife is suspected of having played her husband false. The hare hunt more properly satirised the relations between Taverner Langford and Mrs. Veale. In not a few cases, especially with a stag hunt, there is gross injustice done. It cannot be otherwise: the Vehm-Gericht is self-constituted, sits in the tavern, and passes its sentence without summons and hearing of the accused. There is no defence and no appeal from the court. The infliction of the sentence confers an indelible stain, and generally drives those who have been thus branded out of the neighbourhood. Petty spite and private grudges are sometimes so revenged; and a marriage in a well-conducted family, which has held itself above the rest in a parish, is made an occasion for one of these outrages, whereby the envy of the unsuccessful and disreputable finds a vent.
There probably would have been no hare hunt near Langford had not the quarrel between Langford and Nanspian agitated the whole parish, and given occasion for a frolic which would not have been adventured had the brothers-in-law been combined.
'Well, Mr. Charles,' said Mrs. Veale, 'what have you done with the five-pound note I let you have? Is it all spent?'
'I gave it to my father and sister,' answered Charles. 'I've occasioned them some expense, and I thought I'd make it up to them whilst I could.'
'That was mighty liberal of you,' sneered Mrs. Veale.
'I am liberal, pretty free-handed with my money. It comes of my blood.'
'Ah!' said the housekeeper, 'and I reckon now you'll be wanting more.'
'I could do with more,' replied young Luxmore, 'but I will not trouble you.'
'Oh! it's no trouble,' said Mrs. Veale, 'I know very well that lending to you is safe as putting into the Bank of England. You must have your own some day, and when you're squire you won't see me want.'
'Rely on me, I will deal most generously with you. I shall not forget your kindness, Mrs. Veale.'
'But,' said the woman slyly, eyeing him, 'I can't find you as much as you require. You can't spin more out of me than my own weight, as the silkworm said. I've put aside my little savings. But as you see, the master don't pay freely. He gives you only ninepence, and me——' she shrugged her shoulders.
'If I were in your place,' she went on, after a pause, 'I should be tempted to borrow a hundred or so, and go to Physick the lawyer with it, and say, help me to Coombe Park, and when I've that, I'll give you a hundred more.'
'Who'd lend me the money? You have not so much.'
'No, I have not so much.'
'What other person would trust me?'
'The money might be had.'
'Others don't see my prospects as you do.'
'I'd be inclined to borrow wi'out asking,' said the housekeeper cautiously. She was as one feeling her way; she kept her eyes on Charles as she talked. Charles started. He knew her meaning.
'How dare you suggest such a thing!' he said in a low tone, looking at her uneasily. 'Curse you! Don't wink at me with your white lashes that way, you make me uneasy.'
'I only suggested it,' said Mrs. Veale, turning her head aside. 'I reckon no harm would be done. The master don't know how much he has in his box. We had it out t'other day between us, and counted. There be over a thousand pounds there. Do y' think he counts it every week? Not he. Who'd know? The money would be put back, and wi' interest, six, seven, ten per cent., if you liked, when you'd got Coombe Park.'
'Have done,' said Luxmore with nervous irritation; 'I'm no thief, and never could become one.'
'Who asked you to be one? Not I. I said as how you might become his banker for a hundred pounds. The bank gives but three per cent., and you would give nine. Who'd be the loser? Not master. He'd gain nine pounds without knowing it—and wouldn't he crow!'
Charles Luxmore caught his hat and stood up.
'Where be you going to?' asked Mrs. Veale.
'I cannot stand this,' he said in an agitated voice. 'You torment me. You put notions into me that won't let me sleep, that make me miserable. I shall go.'
'Whither? To the Ring o' Bells. There be no one there to-night, all be away to Chimsworthy at the Haysel. You sit down again, and I will give you some cherry cordial.'
He obeyed sulkily.
'You can't go to dance at Chimsworthy, because you be here at Langford, and there's no dancing and merry-making here. But wait till you're at Coombe Park, and then you'll have junketings and harvest-homes and dances when you will. That'll be a rare life.'
He said nothing, but thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked moodily before him.
'Shall I tell you now who'll find you the money?'
He did not speak.
'Wellon will.'
'What?' he looked up in surprise.
'Ay! old Wellon as was gibbeted, he will.'
Charles laughed contemptuously. 'You are talking folly. I always thought you mad.'
'Did you ever hear of the Hand of Glory?'
'No, never.'
'I wonder what became of Wellon's hand—the hand that throttled Mary Rundle, and stuck the knife into the heart of Jane, and brought down their aunt wi' a blow of the fist. That hand was a mighty hand.'
'Wellon was hung in chains, and fell to dust.'
'But not the hand. Such a hand as that was too precious. Did you never hear it was cut off, and the body swung for years without it?'
'No, I did not.'
'It was so.'
'What good was it to anyone?'
'It was worth pounds and pounds.'
'As a curiosity?'
'No, as a Hand of Glory. It were washed in mother's milk to a child base-born, and smoked in the reek of gallows-wood, and then laid with tamarisk from the sea, and vervain, and rue, and bog-bean.'
'Well, what then?'
'Why, then, sure it's a Hand of Glory.' She paused, then struck her hand across her forehead, 'and grass off the graves of them as it killed—I forgot to say that was added.'
'What can such a hand do?'
'Everything. If I had it here and set it up on the mantelshelf, and set a light to the fingers, all would flame blue, and then every soul in the house would sleep except us two, and we might ransack the whole place and none would stir or hinder or see. And if we let the hand flame on, they would lie asleep till we were far away beyond their reach.'
'If you had this Hand of Glory, I wouldn't help you to use it,' said Charles, writhing on his seat.
'That is not all,' Mrs. Veale went on, standing by a little tea-table with her hand on it, the other against her side. 'That hand has wonderful powers of itself. It is as a thing alive, though dead and dry as leather. If you say certain words it begins to run about on its fingers like a rat. Maybe you're sitting over the fire of nights, and hear something stirring, and see a brown thing scuttling over the floor and you think it is a rat. It is not. It is the dead man's hand. Perhaps you hear a scratching on the wall, and look round, and see a great black spider—a monstrous spider going about, running over and over the wainscot, and touching and twitching at the bell wires. It is not a spider, it is the murderer's hand. It hasn't eyes, it goes by the feel, till it comes to gold, and then, at the touch the dark skin becomes light and shines as the tail of a glowworm, and it picks and gathers by its own light. I reckon, if that hand o' Wellon's were in the oven behind the parlour-grate, it would make such a light that you'd see what was on every guinea, whether the man and horse or the spade, and you could read every note as well as if you had the daylight. Then the ring-finger and the little finger close over what money the hand has been bidden fetch, and it runs away on the thumb and other two—and then, if you will, it's spiderlike with a bag behind.'
'I don't believe a word of it,' said Charles, but his words were more confident than his tone.
'You see,' Mrs. Veale went on, 'there is this about it, you tell the hand to go and fetch the money, but you don't say whither it is to go, and you do not know. You get the money and can swear you have robbed no one. I reckon, mostly the money is found by the hand in old cairns and ruins. I've been told there's a table of gold in Broadbury Castle that only comes to the top on Midsummer night for an hour, and then sinks again. Folks far away see a great light on Broadbury, and say we be swaling (burning gorse) up here; but it is no such thing; it is the gold table coming up, and shining like fire, and the clouds above reflecting its light.'
'Pity the hand don't break off bits of the gold table,' said Charles sarcastically; but his face was mottled with fear; Mrs. Veale's stories frightened him.
'Yes, 'tis a pity,' she said. 'Maybe it will some day.'
'Pray what do you say to the hand to make it run your errands?'
'Ah!' she continued, without answering his question. 'There be other things the Hand of Glory can do. It will go if you send it to some person—bolts and locks will not keep it out, and it will catch the end of the bedclothes, and scramble up, and pass itself over the eyes of the sleeper, and make him sleep like a dead man, and it will dive under the clothes and lay its fingers on the heart; then there will come aches and spasms there, or it will creep down the thighs and pinch and pat, and that brings rheumatic pains. I've heard of one hand thus sent as went down under the bedclothes to the bottom of the sleeper's foot, and there it closed up all the fingers but one, and with that it bored and bored, working itself about like a gimblet, and then gangrene set in, and the man touched thus was dead in three days.'
'It is a mighty fortunate thing you've not the hand of old Wellon,' growled Charles.
'I have got it,' answered Mrs. Veale.
Charles looked at her with staring eyes.
'You shall see it,' she said.
'I do not want to. I will not!' he exclaimed, shuddering.
'Wellon's hand will fetch you a hundred pounds, and we will not ask whence it comes,' said Mrs. Veale.
'I will not have it, I will not touch it!' He spoke in a hoarse, horrified whisper.
'You shall come with me, and I will show you where I keep it, and perhaps you will find the hand closed; and when I say, Hand of Glory! open! Hand of Glory! give up! then you will see the fingers unclose, and the glittering gold coins will be in the brown palm.'
'I will not touch them.'
'No harm in your looking at them. Come with me.'
She stood before him with her firm mouth set, and her blinking eyes on him. He tried to resist. He settled himself more comfortably into his seat. But his efforts to oppose her will were in vain. He uttered a curse, drew his hands out of his pocket, put his hat on his head.
'Go on,' he said surlily; 'but I tell y' I won't go without the lantern. Where is it?'
'In Wellon's Cairn.'
'I will not go,' said Charles, drawing back, and all colour leaving his cheek.
'Then I'll send the hand after you. Come.'
'I'll take the lantern.'
'As you like, but hide the light till we get to the hill. There it don't matter if folks see a flame dancing about the mound. They will keep their distance—Come on, after me.'