CHAPTER XXV.THE HARE HUNT.Directly Mrs. Veale, followed by Charles, came outside the house the former turned and said, with a chuckle, 'You want a lantern, do y', a summer night such as this?'The sky was full of twilight, every thorn tree and holly bush was visible on the hedges, every pebble in the yard.'I'm not going to Wellon's Cairn without,' said Luxmore, sulkily. 'I don't want to go at all; and I won't gotherewithout light.''Very well. I will wait at the gate for you.'He went into the stable, where was a horn-sided tin lantern, and took it down from its crook, then went back into the kitchen and lighted the candle at the fire.'I've a mind not to go,' he muttered. 'What does the woman want with me, pulling me, driving me, this way and that? If I'd been told I was to be subjected to this sort of persecution, I wouldn't have come here. It's not to be endured for ninepence. Ninepence! It would be bad at eighteen pence. I wish I was in Afghanistan. Cawbul, Ghuznee, Candahar don't astonish her. She ain't open-mouthed at them, but sets my hair on end with her Hand of Glory, and talks of how money is to be got. I know what she is after; she wants me to run away with her and the cash box. I won't do it—not with her, for certain; not with the cash box if I can help it. I don't believe a word about a Hand of Glory. I'm curious to know how she'll get out of it, now she's promised to show it me.'He started, and swore.'Gorr!' he said; 'it's only a rat behind the wainscot; I thought it was the hand creeping after me. I suppose I must go. For certain, Mrs. Veale is a bad un. But; what is that? The shadow of my own hand on the wall, naught else.'He threw over him a cloak he wore in wet weather, and hid the lantern under it.'For sure,' he said, 'folks would think it queer if they saw me going out such a summer night as this with a lantern; but I won't go to Wellon's Cairn without, that is certain.''Well,' said Mrs. Veale; 'so you have come at last!''Yes, I have come. Where is the master? I've not seen him about.''He never said nothing to no one, and went off to Holsworthy to-day.''When will he be back?''Not to-morrow; there's a fair there; the day after, perhaps.'A heavy black cloud hung in the sky, stretching apparently above Broadbury. Below it the silvery light flowed from behind the horizon. To the east, although it was night, the range of Dartmoor was visible, bathed in the soft reflection from the north-western sky. The tumulus upon which Wellon had been executed was not far out on the heath. Mrs. Veale led the way with firm tread; Charles followed with growing reluctance. A great white owl whisked by. The glowworms were shining mysteriously under tufts of grass. As they pushed through the heather they disturbed large moths. A rabbit dashed past.'Hush!' whispered Charles. 'I'm sure I heard a horn.''Ah!' answered Mrs. Veale, 'Squire Arscott rides the downs at night, they say, and has this hundred years.''I don't care to go any further,' said the young man.'You shall come on. I am going to show you the Hand of Glory.'He was powerless to resist. As his father had fallen under the authority of Honor, so the strong over-mastering will of this woman domineered Charles, and made him do what she would. He felt his subjection, his powerlessness. He saw the precipice to which she was leading him, and knew that he could not escape.'I wish I had never come to Langford,' he muttered to himself. 'It's Honor's doing. If I go wrong, she is to blame. She sent me here, and all for ninepence.' Then, stepping forward beside the housekeeper, 'I say, Mrs. Veale, how do you manage to stow anything away in a mound?''Easy, if the mound be not solid,' she replied. 'There is a sort of stone coffin in the middle, made of pieces of granite set on end, and others laid on top. When the treasure-seekers dug into the hill, they came as far as one of the stones, and they stove it in, but found nothing, or, if they found aught, they carried it away. Then, I reckon, they put the stone back, or the earth fell down and covered all up, and the heather bushes grew over it all. But I looked one day about there for a place where I could hide things. I thought as the master had his secret place, I'd have mine too; and I knew no place could be safer than where old Wellon hung, as folk don't like to come too near it—leastways in the dark. Well, then, I found a little hole, as might have been made by a rabbit, and I cleared it out; and there I found the gap and the stone coffin. I crept in, it were not over big, but wi' a light I could see about. I thought at first I'd come on Wellon's bones, but no bones were there, nothing at all but a rabbit nest, and some white snail shells. After that I made up the entrance again, just as it was, and no one would know it was there. But I can find it; there is a bunch of heath by it, and some rushes, and how rushes came to grow there beats me.''So you keep Wellon's hand in there, do you?''Yes, I do.''How did you manage to get it?''I will not tell you.''I do not believe you have it; I don't believe but what you told me a parcel of lies about the Hand of Glory. I've been to Afghanistan, and Cabul, and the Bombay Presidency, and never heard of such a thing. It is not in reason. If a dead hand can move, why has not my finger that was cut off in battle come back to me?''Shall I send the Hand after it?'The suggestion made Charles uneasy. He looked about him, as afraid to see the black hand running on the grass, leaping the tufts of furze, carrying his dead finger, to drop it at his feet.'What are you muttering?' asked he, sharply.'I'm only repeating, Hand of Glory! Hand of Light! Fetch, fetch! Run and bring——''I'll strike you down if you go on with your devilry, you hag,' said Charles, angrily.'We are at the place.'They entered the cutting made by the treasure-seekers, the gap in which Honor had often sat in the sun, unconscious of the stone kistvaen hidden behind her, indifferent to the terrors of the haunted hill, whilst the sun blazed on it.'The night is much darker than it was,' said Charles uneasily, as he looked about him.It was as he said. The black mass of cloud had spread and covered the sky, cutting off the light except from the horizon.'I don't like the looks of the cloud,' said Charles. 'There will be rain before long, and there's thunder aloft for certain.''What is that to you? Are you afraid of a shower? You have your cloak. Bring out the lantern. It matters not who sees the light now. If anyone does see it, he'll say it's a corpse-candle on its travels.''What is a corpse-candle?''Don't you know?' She gave a short, dry laugh. 'It's a light that travels by night along a road, and comes to the door of the house out of which a corpse will be brought in a day or two.''Does no one carry the candle?''It travels by itself.' Then she said, 'Give me the light.''I will not let it out of my hand,' answered Charles, looking about him timorously. 'I don't think anyone will see the light, down in this hole.''Hold the lantern where I show you—there.'He did as required. It gave a poor, sickly light, but sufficient to show where the woman wanted to work. She began to scratch away the earth with her hands, and Charles, watching her, thought she worked as a rabbit or hare might with its front paws. Presently she said:'There is the hole, look in.'He saw a dark opening, but had no desire to peer into it. Indeed, he drew back.'How can I see, if you take away the lantern?' asked Mrs. Veale. 'Put your arm in and you will find the hand.'He drew still further away. 'I will not. I have seen enough. I know of this hiding-place. That suffices. I will go home.'The horror came over him lest she should force him to put his hand into the stone coffin, and that there, in the blackness and mystery of the Interior, the dead hand of the murderer would make a leap and clasp his.'I have had enough of this,' he said, and a shiver ran through him, 'I will go home. Curse me! I'm not going to be mixed up with all this devilry and witchery if I can help it.''Perhaps the hand is gone,' said Mrs. Veale.'Oh! I hope so.''I sent it after your finger.''Indeed, may it be long on its travels.' He was reassured. It was not pleasant to think of so close proximity to the murderer's embalmed, still active hand. He suspected that Mrs. Veale was attempting to wriggle out of her undertaking. 'Indeed—I thought I was to see the hand, and now the hand is not here.''I cannot say. Anyhow, the money is here.''What money?''That for which you asked.''I asked for none.''You desired a hundred pounds for the purpose of getting back Coombe Park. Put in your hand and take it.''I will not.'His courage was returning, as he thought he saw evasion of her promise in the woman.'For the matter of that, if this Hand of Glory can fetch money, it might as well fetch more than that.''How much?''A hundred is not over much. Two hundred—a thousand.''Say a thousand.''So I do.''Put in your hand. It is there.''Hark!''Put in your hand.''I will not.''Then you fool! you coward! I must take it for you!' she hissed in her husky voice. She stooped, and thrust both her hands and arms deep into the kistvaen.'Hush!' whispered Charles, as he laid his hand on her shoulder, and covered the light with a flap of his mantle. She remained still for a minute with her arms buried in the crave. There was certainly a sound, a tramp of many feet, and the fall of horses' hoofs, heard, then not heard, as they went over road or turf.'There,' whispered Mrs. Veale, and drew a box from the hole and placed it on Charles's lap. As she did so, the mantleflap fell from the lantern, and the light shone over the box. Charles at once recognised Taverner Langford's cash box, with the letter padlock.'Ebal,' whispered Mrs. Veale. 'A thousand pounds are yours.'At that instant, loud and startling, close to the cairn sounded the blast of a horn, instantly responded to by the baying and yelping of dogs, by shouts, and screams, and cheers, and a tramp of rushing feet, and a crack of whips.The suddenness of the uproar, its unexpectedness, its weirdness, coming on Charles's overwrought nerves, at the same moment that he saw himself unwillingly involved in a robbery, completely overcame him; he uttered a cry of horror, sprang to his feet, upset the money box, and leaped out of the cutting, swinging the lantern, with his wide mantle flapping about him. His foot tripped and he fell; he picked himself up and bounded into the road against a horse with rider, who was in the act of blowing a horn.Charles was too frightened and bewildered to remember anything about the hare hunt. He did not know where he was, what he was doing, against whom he had flung himself. The horse plunged, bounded aside, and cast his rider from his back. Charles stood with one hand to his head looking vacantly at the road and the prostrate figure in it. In another moment Mrs. Veale was at his elbow. 'What have you done?' she gasped, 'You fool! what have you done?'Charles had sufficiently recovered himself to understand what had taken place.'It is the hare hunt,' he said. 'Do you hear them? The dogs! This is—my God! it is Larry Nanspian. He is dead. I said I would break his neck, and I have done it. But I did not mean it. I did not intend to frighten the horse. I—I'—and he burst into tears.'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Veale angrily. 'What do you mean staying here?' She took the horn from the prostrate Larry and blew it. 'Don't let them turn and find you here by his dead body. If you will not go, I must, though I had no hand in killing him.' She snatched the lantern from his hand and extinguished it. 'That ever I had to do with such an one as you! Be off, as you value your neck; do not stay. Be off! If you threatened Larry and have fulfilled your threat, who will believe that this was accident?'Charles, who had been overcome by weakness for a moment, was nerved again by fear.'Take his head,' said Mrs. Veale, 'lay him on the turf, among the dark gorse, where he mayn't be seen all at once, and that will give you more time to get off.''I cannot take his head,' said Charles, trembling.'Then take his heels. Do as I bid,' ordered the housekeeper. She bent and raised Larry.'Sure enough,' she said, 'his neck is broken. He'll never speak another word.'Charles let go his hold of the feet. 'I will not touch him,' he said. 'I will not stay. I wish I'd never come to Langford. It was all Honor's fault forcing me. I must go.''Yes, go,' said Mrs. Veale, 'and go along Broadbury, where you will meet no man, and no footmarks will be left by which you may be traced.' Mrs. Veale, unassisted, dragged the senseless body out of the rough road over the turf.'Is he dead? is he really dead?' asked Charles.'Go!' said Mrs. Veale, 'or I shall have the chance of your hand to make into a better Hand of Glory than that of Wellon.'CHAPTER XXVI.BITTER MEDICINE.The hare and hounds ran some distance before they perceived that they were not pursued by the huntsman and that the horn had ceased to cheer them on. Then little Piper, the cattle-jobber, clothed in the black ox-hide, stopped panting, turned, and said, 'Where be the hunter to? I don't hear his horse nor his horn.' The dogs halted. They were boys and young men with blackened faces. Piper's face was also covered with soot. His appearance was diabolical, with the long ears on his head, his white eyes peering about from under them, a bladder under his chin, and the black hide enveloping him. According to the traditional usage on such occasions, the hunt ends with the stag or hare, one or the other, being fagged out, and thrown at the door of the house whose inmates' conduct has occasioned the stag or hare hunt. Then the hunter stands astride over the animal, if a stag, and with a knife slits the bladder that is distended with bullock's blood, and which is thus poured out before the offender's door. If, however, the hunt be that of a hare the pretence is—or was—made of knocking it on the head. It may seem incredible to our readers that such savage proceedings should still survive in our midst, yet it is so, and they will not be readily abolished.[1][1] The author once tore down with his own hands the following bill affixed to a wall at four cross roads:—'NOTICE!—ON THURSDAY NIGHT THE RED HUNTER'S PACK OF STAG HOUNDS WILL MEET AT ... INN, AND WILL RUN TO GROUND A FAMOUS STAG. GENTLEMEN ARE REQUESTED TO ATTEND.'The police were communicated with, but were unable to interfere as no breach of the peace was committed.Not suspecting anything, the hare and the pack turned and ran back along the road they had traversed, yelping, shouting, hooting, blowing through their half-closed hands, leaping, some lads riding on the backs of others, one in a white female ragged gown running about and before the hare, flapping the arms and hooting like an owl.Would Taverner Langford come forth, worked to fury by the insult? Several were armed with sticks in the event of an affray with him and his men. Would he hide behind a hedge and fire at them out of his trumpet-mouthed blunderbuss that hung over the kitchen mantel-piece in Langford? If he did that, they had legs and could run beyond range. They did not know that he was away at Holsworthy.The road to that town lay over the back of Broadbury and passed not another house in the parish.The wild chase swept over the moor, past Wellon's Cairn, past Langford, then turned and went back again.'I'll tell you what it be,' said Piper, halting and confronting his pursuers. 'Larry Nanspian have thought better of it, and gone home. T'es his uncle, you know, we'm making same of, and p'raps he's 'shamed to go on in it.''He should have thought of that before,' said one of the dogs. 'Us ain't a going to have our hunt spoiled for the lack of a hunter.''Why didn't he say so in proper time?' argued a second.'Heigh! there's his horse!' shouted a third, and ran over the moor towards the piebald, which, having recovered from its alarm, was quietly browsing on the sweet, fine moor grass.'Sure eneaf it be,' said Piper; 'then Larry can't be far off.'Another shout.'He's been thrown. He is lying here by the roadside.'Then there was a rush of the pack to the spot indicated, and in a moment the insensible lad was in the arms of Piper, surrounded by an eager throng.'Get along, you fellows,' shouted the hare. 'you'll give him no breathing room.''Ah! and where'll he think himself, I wonder, when he opens his eyes and sees he is in the hands of one with black face and long ears, and tail and hairy body? I reckon he won't suppose he's in Abraham's bosom.''What'll he take you for either, in your black faces?' retorted Piper. 'Not angels of light, sure-ly.' Then old Crout hobbled up. He had followed far in the rear, as best he could with his lame leg and stick.'What be the matter, now?' he asked. 'What, Larry Nanspian throwed? Some o' you lads run for a gate. Us mun' carry 'n home on that. There may be bones abroke, mussy knows.''I reckon we can't take 'n into Langford,' suggested Sam Voaden.'Likely, eh?' sneered Piper. 'You Sam, get a gate for the lad. He must be carried home at once, and send for a doctor.'He was obeyed; and in a few minutes a procession was formed, conveying Larry from the moor.'He groaned as we lifted 'n,' said Sam Voaden.'So he's got life in him yet.''His hand ain't cold, what I may call dead cold,' said another.'You go for'ard, Piper,' said Tom Crout. 'that he mayn't see you and be frightened if he do open his eyes.'Then the cattle-jobber walked first, holding the long cow's tail over his arm, lest those who followed should tread on it and be tripped up. Sam Voaden and three other young men raised the gate on their shoulders, and walked easily under it. Behind came the hounds, careful not to present their blackened faces to the opening eyes of their unconscious friend; and, lastly, Tom Crout mounted on the piebald. One of the boys had found the horn, and unable to resist the temptation to try his breath on it, blew a faint blast.'Shut up, will you?' shouted Piper, turning. 'Who is that braying? You'll be making Larry fancy he hears the last trump, and he'll jump off the gate and hurt himself again.'Larry Nanspian had not broken his neck nor fractured his skull. He was much bruised, strained, and his right arm and collar-bone were broken. His insensibility proceeded from concussion of the brain; but even this was not serious, for he gradually recovered his consciousness as he was being carried homewards. Too dazed at first to know where he was, what had happened, and how he came to be out and lying on a gate, he did not speak or stir. Indeed, he felt unwilling to make an effort, a sense of exhaustion overmastered him, and every movement caused him pain. He lay with his face to the night sky, watching the dark cloud, listening to the voices of his bearers, and picking with the fingers of his left hand at a mossy gate bar under him. At first he did not hear what words were passing about him, he was aware only of voices speaking: the first connected sentence he was able to follow was this:—''Twould be a bad job if Larry were killed.''Bad job for him, yes,' was the reply.'What do y' mean by that?' asked Sam Voaden. He recognised Sam's voice at once, and he felt the movement of Sam's shoulder tilting the fore end of the gate as he turned his head to ask the question.'O, I mean naught but what everyone says. A bad job for any chap to die; but I don't reckon the loss would be great to Chimsworthy. Some chance, then, of the farm going to proper hands. Larry ain't much, and never will be, but for larks and big talk. I say that Chimsworthy is a disgrace to the parish; and what is more there is sure to be a smash there unless there comes an alteration. Alteration there would never be under Larry.''I've heard tell that the old man has borrowed a sight of money from Taverner Langford, and now he's bound to pay it off, and can't do it.''Not like to, the way he's gone on; sowing brag brings brambles.''You see,' said Voaden, 'they always reckoned on getting Langford, some day, when the old fellow died.''And what a mighty big fool Larry is to aggravate his uncle. Instead of keeping good terms with the old gentleman he goes out o' his road to offend him.''I say it's regular un-decent his being out to-night hunting the hare before his own uncle's door.''I say so, too. It weren't my place to say naught, but I thought it, and so did every proper chap.''It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest.''Does his father know what's he's been after?''No, of course not; old Nanspian would ha' taken a stick to his back, if he'd heard he was in for such things.''I know that however bad an uncle might use me, I'd never have nothing to do with a hare hunt that concerned him—no, nor an aunt neither.''Larry was always a sort of a giddy chap.''He's a bit o' a fool, or he wouldn't have come into this.''Maybe this will shake what little sense he has out of his head.''I'll tell y' what. If Larry had been in the army—he'd have turned out as great a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.''The girls have spoiled Larry, they make so much of him.''Make much of him! They like to make sport of him, but there's not one of them cares a farthing for him, not if they've any sense. They know fast enough what Chimsworthy and idleness are coming too. Why, there was Kate Luxmore. Everyone thought she and Larry were keeping company and would make a pair; but this evening, you saw, directly she had a chance of Sam, she shook him off, and quite right too.''Never mind me and Kate,' said Sam, turning his head again.'But us do mind, and us think as Kate be a sensible maiden, and us thought her a fool before to take up wi' Larry Nanspian.'This conversation was not pleasant for the young man laid on the gate to hear, and it took from him the desire to speak and allow his bearers to know he was awake, and had heard their criticism on his character and conduct. The judgment passed on him was not altogether just, but there was sufficient justice in it to humble him. Yes, he had acted most improperly in allowing himself to be drawn into taking part in the hare hunt. No—he was not, he could never have become such a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.'Halt!' commanded Piper, and the convoy stood still.'We can't go like this to Chimsworthy,' said the little cattle-jobber; 'it'll give the old man another stroke. Let us stop at the Luxmores' cottage, and wash our faces, and put off these things, and send on word that we're coming; the old fellow mustn't be dropt down on wi' bad news too sudden.''Right! Honor shall be sent on to break the news.'Honor! Larry felt the blood mount to his brow. She had herself dissuaded him from having anything to do with this wretched affair which had ended so disastrously to himself, and when Kate advised him to keep away from it because Honor disapproved, he had sent her an insolent defiance. Now he was to be laid before her door, bruised and broken, because he had disobeyed her warning. He tried to lift himself to protest—but sank back. No—he thought—it serves me right.The party descended the rough lane from Broadbury, and had to move more slowly and with greater precaution. The bearers had to look to their steps and talk less. Larry's thoughts turned to Honor. Now he had found out how true were her words. What she had said to him gently, was said now roughly, woundingly. She had but spoken to him the wholesome truth which was patent to everyone but himself, but she had spoken it so as to inflict no pain. She had tried to humble him, but with so pitiful a hand, that he could have kissed the hand, and asked it to continue its work. But he had not taken her advice, he had not learned her lesson, and he was now called to suffer the consequences. Those nights spent beside Honor under the clear night sky—how happy they had been! How her influence had fallen over him like dew, and he had felt that it was well with him to his heart's core. How utterly different she was from the other girls of Bratton. They flattered him. She rebuked him. They pressed their attentions on him. She shrank from his notice. He could recall all she had said. Her words stood out in his recollection like the stars in the night heavens—but he had not directed his course by them.Now, as the young men carried him down the lane, he knew every tree he passed, and that he was nearing Honor, step by step. He desired to see her, yet feared her reproachful eye.CHAPTER XXVII.AFTER SWEETNESS.Oliver Luxmire had returned home before Kate came from the dance, and had eaten his supper, and gone to bed. Her father had been a cause of distress to Honor of late. He said, indeed, no more about Taverner's suit, but he could not forget it, and he was continually grumbling over the difficulties of his position, his poverty, the hardships of his having to be a carrier, when he ought to be a gentleman, and might be a squire if certain persons would put out a little finger to help him to his rights.His careless good humour had given place to peevish discontent. By nature he was kind and considerate, but his disappointment had, at least temporarily, embittered his mood. He threw out oblique reproaches which hurt Honor, for she felt that they were aimed at her. He complained that times were altered, children were without filial affection, they begrudged their parents the repose that was their due in the evening of their days. He was getting on in years, and was forced to slave for the support of a family, when his family—at least the elder of them—ought to be maintaining him. He wished that the Thrustle were as deep as the Tamar, and he would throw himself in and so end his sorrows. His children—his ungrateful children—must not be surprised if some day he did not return. There was no saying, on occasions, when a waterspout broke, the Thrustle was so full of water that a man might drown himself in it.In vain did Honor attempt to turn his thoughts into pleasanter channels. He found a morbid pleasure in being absorbed in the contemplation of his sores. He became churlish towards Honor and refused to be cheered. She had fine speeches on her tongue, but he was a man who preferred deeds to words. A girl of words and not of deeds was like a garden full of weeds. When the weeds began to grow, like the heavens thick with snow, when the snow began to fall—and so on—and so on—he had forgotten the rest of the jingle.Now for the first time, dimly, was Honor conscious of a moral resemblance between her father and Charles. What Charles had become, her father might become. The elements of character were in germ in him that had developed in the son. As likenesses in a family come out at unexpected moments, that had never before been noticed, so was it with the psychical features of these two. Honor saw Charles in her father, and the sight distressed her.Oliver Luxmore did not venture to say out openly what he desired, but his hints, his insinuations, his grumblings, were significant; they pierced as barbed steel, they bruised as blows. Till recently, Oliver had recognised his daughter's moral superiority, and had submitted. Now his eye was jaundiced. He thought her steadfastness of purpose to be doggedness, her resistance to his wishes to be the result of self-will, and his respect for her faded.Although Honor made no complaint, no defence, she suffered acutely. She had surrendered Larry because her duty tied her to the home that needed her. Was it necessary for her to make a farther sacrifice—a supreme sacrifice for the sake of her father? She had no faith in the verbal promises of Taverner Langford, to stand by and assist her brothers and sisters, but it was in her power to exact from him a written undertaking which he would be unable to shake off. Suppose she were to marry Langford—what then? Then—the dark cloud would lift and roll away. There would be no more struggle to make both ends meet, no more patching and darning of old clothes, no more limiting of the amount of bread dealt out to each child. Her father's temper would mend. He would recover his kindly humour, and play with the little ones, and joke with the neighbours, and be affectionate towards her. There would be no more need for him to travel with a waggon in all weathers to market, but he would spend his last years in comfort, cared for by his children, instead of exhausting himself for them.However bright such a prospect might appear, Honor could not reconcile herself to it. Her feminine instincts revolted against the price she must pay to obtain it.That evening Oliver Luxmore ate his supper in sulky silence, and went to bed without wishing Honor a good night. When Kate arrived, she found her sister in tears.'Honor!' exclaimed the eager, lively girl, 'what is the matter? You have been crying—because you could not go to the dance.''No, dear Kate, not at all.''Honor! what is the meaning of this? Marianne Spry tells me she saw the silk kerchief you gave me before to-day.''Well, why not?''But, Honor, I do not understand. Mrs. Spry says that Larry bought it—bought it at Tavistock after he had killed the dog that worried our lambs—after he had got the guinea, and she believes he bought it with that money.''Well, Kate!' Honor stooped over her needlework.'Well, Honor!'—Kate paused and looked hard at her. 'How is it that Larry bought it, and you had it in your chest? That is what I want to know.''Larry gave it me.''Oh—ho! He gave it you!''Yes, I sat up with him when he was watching for the lamb-killer; he is grateful for that trifling trouble I took.''But, Honor! Marianne Spry said that she and others chaffed Larry in the van about the kerchief he had bought for me—and it wasnotfor me.'Honor said nothing; she worked very diligently with her fingers by the poor light of the tallow candle on the table. Kate stooped to get sight of her face, and saw that her cheek was red.'Honor, dear! The kerchief was not for me. Why did you make me wear it?''Because, Kate—because you are the right person to wear his present.''I—why I?' asked Kate impetuously.Honor looked up, looked steadfastly into her sister's eyes.'Because Larry loves you, and you love him.''I can answer for myself that I do not,' Kate vehemently. 'And I don't fancy he is much in love with me. No, Honor, he was in a queer mood this evening, and what made him queer was that you were not in the barn, and had decked me out in the kerchief he gave you to wear. I could not make it out at the time, but now I see it all.' Then Kate laughed gaily. 'I don't suppose you care very much for him, he's a Merry Andrew and a scatterbrain, but I do believe he has a liking for you, Honor, and I believe there is no one in the world could make a fine good man of Larry but you.' Then the impulsive girl threw her arms round her sister. 'There!' she exclaimed, 'I'm glad you don't care for Larry, because he is not worthy of you—no, there's not a lad that is—except, maybe Samuel Voaden, and him I won't spare even to you.''Oh, Kate!'So the sisters sat on, and the generous, warm-hearted Kate told all her secret to her sister.When girls talk of the affairs of the heart, time flies with them. Their father and brothers and sisters were asleep, and they sat on late. Kate was happy to confide in her sister.All at once Kate started, and held her finger to her ear.'I hear something. Honor, what is it? I hope these hare-hunters be not coming this way.'She had not told Honor Larry's message.'I hear feet,' answered the elder. 'Do not go to the door, Kate. It is very late.'The tramp of feet ceased, the two girls with beating hearts heard steps ascend to their door, then a rap at it. Honor went at once to open. Kate hung back. She suspected the hare-hunters, but was afraid of the black faces, and she could not understand the halt and summons.'Don't y' be frightened, Honor,' said a voice through the door, 'us want y' out here a bit, if you don't mind.' Honor unbolted, and the blackfaced, white-eyed, long-eared, skin-clothed Piper stood before her, holding the black cow tail in his hand.'Don't y' be scared. I'm only the hare. I won't touch a hair of your head.''What do you want, Mr. Piper?' asked Honor without trepidation.'Well, it is this. There's been an accident, and Master Larry Nanspian hev fallen on his head off his horse and hurted himself bad.'Honor began to tremble, and caught the door with one hand and the door-post with the other.'Now do y' take it easy. He ain't dead, only hurt. Us don't want to go right on end carrying him into Chimsworthy, all of us dressed as we are. First place, it might frighten Master Nanspian, second place, he mightn't like the larks Larry has been on. So us thought if you would let us clean our faces, and take off our skins and other things, and cut the green coat off the back of Larry, here; and then, you'd be so good as run on to Chimsworthy and prepare the old gentleman, you'd be—well, you'd be yourself—I couldn't put it better.'Honor had recovered her composure.'I will do what you wish,' she said, and her voice was firm, though low.'You see,' Piper went on. 'It's a bit ockerd like; I reckon the old man wouldn't be satisfied that Larry were mixed up in a hare-hunt that made game of Taverner Langford, his own wife's brother; and I don't say that Larry acted right in being in it. Howsomever, he has been, and is now the worse for it. Will you please to bring the candle and let us see how bad he be.'Honor took the tin candlestick with the tallow dip, and descended the steps, holding it.The four bearers set the gate upon the ground, and Honor held the candle aloft that the light might fall on Larry. But a soft wind was blowing, and it drove the flame on one side, making the long wick glow and then carrying it away in sparks.'Mr. Piper, go into the cottage and ask my sister Kate to give you my scissors. I will remove the coat. Go all of you, either to the well a few steps down the lane, or into our kitchen, and wait. Kate will give you towel and soap. Leave me with Larry. I must deal very gently with him, and I had rather you were none of you by.''You're right,' said Piper. 'Us had better have white faces and get clear of horses and other gear before he sees us.''We must be quick,' said Sam Voaden. 'Larry must be got home as fast as may be.'Then they ran, some to the well in the bank, some—Sam, of course—into the cottage, and left Honor for a moment or two beside the prostrate man, kneeling, holding the guttering candle with one hand, and screening the flame from the wind with the other.Then Larry opened his eyes, and looked long and earnestly into her face. He said nothing. He did not stir a finger; but his eyes spoke.'Larry!' she breathed. Her heart spoke in her voice, 'Larry, are you much hurt?'He slightly moved his head.'Much, Larry? where?''In my pride, Honor,' he answered.She looked at him with surprise: at first hardly comprehending his meaning.Then Kate came down the steps with the scissors.'O Honor! How dreadful! I told him not to go! I told him you disapproved! And now he is punished. O Honor! is he badly injured? He is not killed?''No, Kate, he is not killed. How far hurt I cannot tell. Larry! you must let me move you. I may hurt you a little——''You cannot hurt me,' he said. 'I have hurt myself.''O Honor!' exclaimed Kate. 'If he can speak he is not so bad. Shall I help?''No, Kate,' answered Honor, 'go back to the cottage and give the young men what they want to clean their faces; those at the well also. I can manage Larry by myself.'She stooped over him.'Larry! you must let me raise you a little bit. Tell me truly, are any bones broken?''I do not know, Honor. I feel as if I could not move. I am full of pain, full in all my limbs, but most full in my heart.'She began to cut up the seams of the sleeves.'I cannot move my right arm,' he said. 'I suppose there is some breakage there.''Yes,' she said gravely, 'I can feel a bone is broken.''If that be all it does not matter,' he said more cheerfully, 'but I want to say to you, Honor, something whilst no one is by.''What is it?''I have done very wrong in many ways. I have been a fool, and I shall never be anything else unless you——''Never mind that now,' she hastily interrupted him. 'We must think only at present of your aching joints and broken bones.'Then Oliver Luxmore's voice was heard calling, and asking what was the matter? Who were in the house? He had been roused from his sleep and was alarmed. Kate ran up the stairs to pacify him, and when he knew the circumstances he hastily dressed.An altercation broke out at the well. There was not room for all to get at the water. One came running up with streaming face to Honor, 'Am I clean?' he asked. 'How is Larry? Not so bad hurt after all, is he?' Then he went up the steps into the cottage to consult his fellows as to the condition of his face, and to wipe it.Honor removed the coat in pieces.'Thank you,' said Larry. 'The candle is out?''Yes, the wind has made it out (extinguished it).''My left hand is sound. Come on that side.'She did as he asked.'And this,' he said, 'is the side where my heart is. Honor, I'm very sorry I did not follow your advice. I am sorry now for many things. I want you to forgive me.''I have nothing to forgive.''Lean over me. I want to whisper. I don't want the fellows to hear.'She stooped with her face near his. Then he raised his uninjured arm, put it round her neck, and drew her cheek to his lips, and kissed her. 'Honor! dear Honor! I love no one! no one in the world but you! And I love you more than words can say.'Did she kiss him? She did not know herself. A light, then a darkness, were before her eyes. What time passed then? A second or a century? She did not know. A sudden widening of the world to infinity, a loss of all limitations—time, space—an unconsciousness of distinction, joy, pain, day, night, a loss of identity—was it she herself, or another?Then a wakening as from a trance, with tingling veins, and dazed eyes, and whirling brain, and fluttering heart, and voice uncontrolled, as from the cottage door, down the steps, and from the well, up the lane came simultaneously the rabble of boys and men.'Well, how is he?' 'Have you got the coat off?' 'Can he speak?' 'Any bones broke?'Honor could not answer the questions; she heard them, but had no voice wherewith to speak.'Raise the gate again,' said Piper. 'Sam, are you ready? Why are you behind? We must get on.''Honor,' said Larry in a low voice, 'walk by the side of me. Hold my hand.''He is better,' said one of the young men; 'he can speak. He knows Honor.''Yes, he is better,' she said, 'but he has his right arm broken, and he is much shaken and bruised. Let me walk beside him, I can stay the gate and ease him as you carry him over the ruts and stones.' So she walked at his side with her hand in his. In a few minutes the party had arrived at the granite gates of Chimsworthy.'Stay here,' ordered Piper. 'Now, Honor Luxmore, will you go on up the avenue and tell the old gentleman? Us'll come after with Master Larry in ten minutes.''I will go,' said Honor, disengaging her hand.'How are you now?' asked Piper, coming up to the young man.'Better,' he said, 'better than ever before.'
CHAPTER XXV.
THE HARE HUNT.
Directly Mrs. Veale, followed by Charles, came outside the house the former turned and said, with a chuckle, 'You want a lantern, do y', a summer night such as this?'
The sky was full of twilight, every thorn tree and holly bush was visible on the hedges, every pebble in the yard.
'I'm not going to Wellon's Cairn without,' said Luxmore, sulkily. 'I don't want to go at all; and I won't gotherewithout light.'
'Very well. I will wait at the gate for you.'
He went into the stable, where was a horn-sided tin lantern, and took it down from its crook, then went back into the kitchen and lighted the candle at the fire.
'I've a mind not to go,' he muttered. 'What does the woman want with me, pulling me, driving me, this way and that? If I'd been told I was to be subjected to this sort of persecution, I wouldn't have come here. It's not to be endured for ninepence. Ninepence! It would be bad at eighteen pence. I wish I was in Afghanistan. Cawbul, Ghuznee, Candahar don't astonish her. She ain't open-mouthed at them, but sets my hair on end with her Hand of Glory, and talks of how money is to be got. I know what she is after; she wants me to run away with her and the cash box. I won't do it—not with her, for certain; not with the cash box if I can help it. I don't believe a word about a Hand of Glory. I'm curious to know how she'll get out of it, now she's promised to show it me.'
He started, and swore.
'Gorr!' he said; 'it's only a rat behind the wainscot; I thought it was the hand creeping after me. I suppose I must go. For certain, Mrs. Veale is a bad un. But; what is that? The shadow of my own hand on the wall, naught else.'
He threw over him a cloak he wore in wet weather, and hid the lantern under it.
'For sure,' he said, 'folks would think it queer if they saw me going out such a summer night as this with a lantern; but I won't go to Wellon's Cairn without, that is certain.'
'Well,' said Mrs. Veale; 'so you have come at last!'
'Yes, I have come. Where is the master? I've not seen him about.'
'He never said nothing to no one, and went off to Holsworthy to-day.'
'When will he be back?'
'Not to-morrow; there's a fair there; the day after, perhaps.'
A heavy black cloud hung in the sky, stretching apparently above Broadbury. Below it the silvery light flowed from behind the horizon. To the east, although it was night, the range of Dartmoor was visible, bathed in the soft reflection from the north-western sky. The tumulus upon which Wellon had been executed was not far out on the heath. Mrs. Veale led the way with firm tread; Charles followed with growing reluctance. A great white owl whisked by. The glowworms were shining mysteriously under tufts of grass. As they pushed through the heather they disturbed large moths. A rabbit dashed past.
'Hush!' whispered Charles. 'I'm sure I heard a horn.'
'Ah!' answered Mrs. Veale, 'Squire Arscott rides the downs at night, they say, and has this hundred years.'
'I don't care to go any further,' said the young man.
'You shall come on. I am going to show you the Hand of Glory.'
He was powerless to resist. As his father had fallen under the authority of Honor, so the strong over-mastering will of this woman domineered Charles, and made him do what she would. He felt his subjection, his powerlessness. He saw the precipice to which she was leading him, and knew that he could not escape.
'I wish I had never come to Langford,' he muttered to himself. 'It's Honor's doing. If I go wrong, she is to blame. She sent me here, and all for ninepence.' Then, stepping forward beside the housekeeper, 'I say, Mrs. Veale, how do you manage to stow anything away in a mound?'
'Easy, if the mound be not solid,' she replied. 'There is a sort of stone coffin in the middle, made of pieces of granite set on end, and others laid on top. When the treasure-seekers dug into the hill, they came as far as one of the stones, and they stove it in, but found nothing, or, if they found aught, they carried it away. Then, I reckon, they put the stone back, or the earth fell down and covered all up, and the heather bushes grew over it all. But I looked one day about there for a place where I could hide things. I thought as the master had his secret place, I'd have mine too; and I knew no place could be safer than where old Wellon hung, as folk don't like to come too near it—leastways in the dark. Well, then, I found a little hole, as might have been made by a rabbit, and I cleared it out; and there I found the gap and the stone coffin. I crept in, it were not over big, but wi' a light I could see about. I thought at first I'd come on Wellon's bones, but no bones were there, nothing at all but a rabbit nest, and some white snail shells. After that I made up the entrance again, just as it was, and no one would know it was there. But I can find it; there is a bunch of heath by it, and some rushes, and how rushes came to grow there beats me.'
'So you keep Wellon's hand in there, do you?'
'Yes, I do.'
'How did you manage to get it?'
'I will not tell you.'
'I do not believe you have it; I don't believe but what you told me a parcel of lies about the Hand of Glory. I've been to Afghanistan, and Cabul, and the Bombay Presidency, and never heard of such a thing. It is not in reason. If a dead hand can move, why has not my finger that was cut off in battle come back to me?'
'Shall I send the Hand after it?'
The suggestion made Charles uneasy. He looked about him, as afraid to see the black hand running on the grass, leaping the tufts of furze, carrying his dead finger, to drop it at his feet.
'What are you muttering?' asked he, sharply.
'I'm only repeating, Hand of Glory! Hand of Light! Fetch, fetch! Run and bring——'
'I'll strike you down if you go on with your devilry, you hag,' said Charles, angrily.
'We are at the place.'
They entered the cutting made by the treasure-seekers, the gap in which Honor had often sat in the sun, unconscious of the stone kistvaen hidden behind her, indifferent to the terrors of the haunted hill, whilst the sun blazed on it.
'The night is much darker than it was,' said Charles uneasily, as he looked about him.
It was as he said. The black mass of cloud had spread and covered the sky, cutting off the light except from the horizon.
'I don't like the looks of the cloud,' said Charles. 'There will be rain before long, and there's thunder aloft for certain.'
'What is that to you? Are you afraid of a shower? You have your cloak. Bring out the lantern. It matters not who sees the light now. If anyone does see it, he'll say it's a corpse-candle on its travels.'
'What is a corpse-candle?'
'Don't you know?' She gave a short, dry laugh. 'It's a light that travels by night along a road, and comes to the door of the house out of which a corpse will be brought in a day or two.'
'Does no one carry the candle?'
'It travels by itself.' Then she said, 'Give me the light.'
'I will not let it out of my hand,' answered Charles, looking about him timorously. 'I don't think anyone will see the light, down in this hole.'
'Hold the lantern where I show you—there.'
He did as required. It gave a poor, sickly light, but sufficient to show where the woman wanted to work. She began to scratch away the earth with her hands, and Charles, watching her, thought she worked as a rabbit or hare might with its front paws. Presently she said:
'There is the hole, look in.'
He saw a dark opening, but had no desire to peer into it. Indeed, he drew back.
'How can I see, if you take away the lantern?' asked Mrs. Veale. 'Put your arm in and you will find the hand.'
He drew still further away. 'I will not. I have seen enough. I know of this hiding-place. That suffices. I will go home.'
The horror came over him lest she should force him to put his hand into the stone coffin, and that there, in the blackness and mystery of the Interior, the dead hand of the murderer would make a leap and clasp his.
'I have had enough of this,' he said, and a shiver ran through him, 'I will go home. Curse me! I'm not going to be mixed up with all this devilry and witchery if I can help it.'
'Perhaps the hand is gone,' said Mrs. Veale.
'Oh! I hope so.'
'I sent it after your finger.'
'Indeed, may it be long on its travels.' He was reassured. It was not pleasant to think of so close proximity to the murderer's embalmed, still active hand. He suspected that Mrs. Veale was attempting to wriggle out of her undertaking. 'Indeed—I thought I was to see the hand, and now the hand is not here.'
'I cannot say. Anyhow, the money is here.'
'What money?'
'That for which you asked.'
'I asked for none.'
'You desired a hundred pounds for the purpose of getting back Coombe Park. Put in your hand and take it.'
'I will not.'
His courage was returning, as he thought he saw evasion of her promise in the woman.
'For the matter of that, if this Hand of Glory can fetch money, it might as well fetch more than that.'
'How much?'
'A hundred is not over much. Two hundred—a thousand.'
'Say a thousand.'
'So I do.'
'Put in your hand. It is there.'
'Hark!'
'Put in your hand.'
'I will not.'
'Then you fool! you coward! I must take it for you!' she hissed in her husky voice. She stooped, and thrust both her hands and arms deep into the kistvaen.
'Hush!' whispered Charles, as he laid his hand on her shoulder, and covered the light with a flap of his mantle. She remained still for a minute with her arms buried in the crave. There was certainly a sound, a tramp of many feet, and the fall of horses' hoofs, heard, then not heard, as they went over road or turf.
'There,' whispered Mrs. Veale, and drew a box from the hole and placed it on Charles's lap. As she did so, the mantleflap fell from the lantern, and the light shone over the box. Charles at once recognised Taverner Langford's cash box, with the letter padlock.
'Ebal,' whispered Mrs. Veale. 'A thousand pounds are yours.'
At that instant, loud and startling, close to the cairn sounded the blast of a horn, instantly responded to by the baying and yelping of dogs, by shouts, and screams, and cheers, and a tramp of rushing feet, and a crack of whips.
The suddenness of the uproar, its unexpectedness, its weirdness, coming on Charles's overwrought nerves, at the same moment that he saw himself unwillingly involved in a robbery, completely overcame him; he uttered a cry of horror, sprang to his feet, upset the money box, and leaped out of the cutting, swinging the lantern, with his wide mantle flapping about him. His foot tripped and he fell; he picked himself up and bounded into the road against a horse with rider, who was in the act of blowing a horn.
Charles was too frightened and bewildered to remember anything about the hare hunt. He did not know where he was, what he was doing, against whom he had flung himself. The horse plunged, bounded aside, and cast his rider from his back. Charles stood with one hand to his head looking vacantly at the road and the prostrate figure in it. In another moment Mrs. Veale was at his elbow. 'What have you done?' she gasped, 'You fool! what have you done?'
Charles had sufficiently recovered himself to understand what had taken place.
'It is the hare hunt,' he said. 'Do you hear them? The dogs! This is—my God! it is Larry Nanspian. He is dead. I said I would break his neck, and I have done it. But I did not mean it. I did not intend to frighten the horse. I—I'—and he burst into tears.
'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Veale angrily. 'What do you mean staying here?' She took the horn from the prostrate Larry and blew it. 'Don't let them turn and find you here by his dead body. If you will not go, I must, though I had no hand in killing him.' She snatched the lantern from his hand and extinguished it. 'That ever I had to do with such an one as you! Be off, as you value your neck; do not stay. Be off! If you threatened Larry and have fulfilled your threat, who will believe that this was accident?'
Charles, who had been overcome by weakness for a moment, was nerved again by fear.
'Take his head,' said Mrs. Veale, 'lay him on the turf, among the dark gorse, where he mayn't be seen all at once, and that will give you more time to get off.'
'I cannot take his head,' said Charles, trembling.
'Then take his heels. Do as I bid,' ordered the housekeeper. She bent and raised Larry.
'Sure enough,' she said, 'his neck is broken. He'll never speak another word.'
Charles let go his hold of the feet. 'I will not touch him,' he said. 'I will not stay. I wish I'd never come to Langford. It was all Honor's fault forcing me. I must go.'
'Yes, go,' said Mrs. Veale, 'and go along Broadbury, where you will meet no man, and no footmarks will be left by which you may be traced.' Mrs. Veale, unassisted, dragged the senseless body out of the rough road over the turf.
'Is he dead? is he really dead?' asked Charles.
'Go!' said Mrs. Veale, 'or I shall have the chance of your hand to make into a better Hand of Glory than that of Wellon.'
CHAPTER XXVI.
BITTER MEDICINE.
The hare and hounds ran some distance before they perceived that they were not pursued by the huntsman and that the horn had ceased to cheer them on. Then little Piper, the cattle-jobber, clothed in the black ox-hide, stopped panting, turned, and said, 'Where be the hunter to? I don't hear his horse nor his horn.' The dogs halted. They were boys and young men with blackened faces. Piper's face was also covered with soot. His appearance was diabolical, with the long ears on his head, his white eyes peering about from under them, a bladder under his chin, and the black hide enveloping him. According to the traditional usage on such occasions, the hunt ends with the stag or hare, one or the other, being fagged out, and thrown at the door of the house whose inmates' conduct has occasioned the stag or hare hunt. Then the hunter stands astride over the animal, if a stag, and with a knife slits the bladder that is distended with bullock's blood, and which is thus poured out before the offender's door. If, however, the hunt be that of a hare the pretence is—or was—made of knocking it on the head. It may seem incredible to our readers that such savage proceedings should still survive in our midst, yet it is so, and they will not be readily abolished.[1]
[1] The author once tore down with his own hands the following bill affixed to a wall at four cross roads:—
'NOTICE!—ON THURSDAY NIGHT THE RED HUNTER'S PACK OF STAG HOUNDS WILL MEET AT ... INN, AND WILL RUN TO GROUND A FAMOUS STAG. GENTLEMEN ARE REQUESTED TO ATTEND.'
The police were communicated with, but were unable to interfere as no breach of the peace was committed.
Not suspecting anything, the hare and the pack turned and ran back along the road they had traversed, yelping, shouting, hooting, blowing through their half-closed hands, leaping, some lads riding on the backs of others, one in a white female ragged gown running about and before the hare, flapping the arms and hooting like an owl.
Would Taverner Langford come forth, worked to fury by the insult? Several were armed with sticks in the event of an affray with him and his men. Would he hide behind a hedge and fire at them out of his trumpet-mouthed blunderbuss that hung over the kitchen mantel-piece in Langford? If he did that, they had legs and could run beyond range. They did not know that he was away at Holsworthy.
The road to that town lay over the back of Broadbury and passed not another house in the parish.
The wild chase swept over the moor, past Wellon's Cairn, past Langford, then turned and went back again.
'I'll tell you what it be,' said Piper, halting and confronting his pursuers. 'Larry Nanspian have thought better of it, and gone home. T'es his uncle, you know, we'm making same of, and p'raps he's 'shamed to go on in it.'
'He should have thought of that before,' said one of the dogs. 'Us ain't a going to have our hunt spoiled for the lack of a hunter.'
'Why didn't he say so in proper time?' argued a second.
'Heigh! there's his horse!' shouted a third, and ran over the moor towards the piebald, which, having recovered from its alarm, was quietly browsing on the sweet, fine moor grass.
'Sure eneaf it be,' said Piper; 'then Larry can't be far off.'
Another shout.
'He's been thrown. He is lying here by the roadside.'
Then there was a rush of the pack to the spot indicated, and in a moment the insensible lad was in the arms of Piper, surrounded by an eager throng.
'Get along, you fellows,' shouted the hare. 'you'll give him no breathing room.'
'Ah! and where'll he think himself, I wonder, when he opens his eyes and sees he is in the hands of one with black face and long ears, and tail and hairy body? I reckon he won't suppose he's in Abraham's bosom.'
'What'll he take you for either, in your black faces?' retorted Piper. 'Not angels of light, sure-ly.' Then old Crout hobbled up. He had followed far in the rear, as best he could with his lame leg and stick.
'What be the matter, now?' he asked. 'What, Larry Nanspian throwed? Some o' you lads run for a gate. Us mun' carry 'n home on that. There may be bones abroke, mussy knows.'
'I reckon we can't take 'n into Langford,' suggested Sam Voaden.
'Likely, eh?' sneered Piper. 'You Sam, get a gate for the lad. He must be carried home at once, and send for a doctor.'
He was obeyed; and in a few minutes a procession was formed, conveying Larry from the moor.
'He groaned as we lifted 'n,' said Sam Voaden.
'So he's got life in him yet.'
'His hand ain't cold, what I may call dead cold,' said another.
'You go for'ard, Piper,' said Tom Crout. 'that he mayn't see you and be frightened if he do open his eyes.'
Then the cattle-jobber walked first, holding the long cow's tail over his arm, lest those who followed should tread on it and be tripped up. Sam Voaden and three other young men raised the gate on their shoulders, and walked easily under it. Behind came the hounds, careful not to present their blackened faces to the opening eyes of their unconscious friend; and, lastly, Tom Crout mounted on the piebald. One of the boys had found the horn, and unable to resist the temptation to try his breath on it, blew a faint blast.
'Shut up, will you?' shouted Piper, turning. 'Who is that braying? You'll be making Larry fancy he hears the last trump, and he'll jump off the gate and hurt himself again.'
Larry Nanspian had not broken his neck nor fractured his skull. He was much bruised, strained, and his right arm and collar-bone were broken. His insensibility proceeded from concussion of the brain; but even this was not serious, for he gradually recovered his consciousness as he was being carried homewards. Too dazed at first to know where he was, what had happened, and how he came to be out and lying on a gate, he did not speak or stir. Indeed, he felt unwilling to make an effort, a sense of exhaustion overmastered him, and every movement caused him pain. He lay with his face to the night sky, watching the dark cloud, listening to the voices of his bearers, and picking with the fingers of his left hand at a mossy gate bar under him. At first he did not hear what words were passing about him, he was aware only of voices speaking: the first connected sentence he was able to follow was this:—
''Twould be a bad job if Larry were killed.'
'Bad job for him, yes,' was the reply.
'What do y' mean by that?' asked Sam Voaden. He recognised Sam's voice at once, and he felt the movement of Sam's shoulder tilting the fore end of the gate as he turned his head to ask the question.
'O, I mean naught but what everyone says. A bad job for any chap to die; but I don't reckon the loss would be great to Chimsworthy. Some chance, then, of the farm going to proper hands. Larry ain't much, and never will be, but for larks and big talk. I say that Chimsworthy is a disgrace to the parish; and what is more there is sure to be a smash there unless there comes an alteration. Alteration there would never be under Larry.'
'I've heard tell that the old man has borrowed a sight of money from Taverner Langford, and now he's bound to pay it off, and can't do it.'
'Not like to, the way he's gone on; sowing brag brings brambles.'
'You see,' said Voaden, 'they always reckoned on getting Langford, some day, when the old fellow died.'
'And what a mighty big fool Larry is to aggravate his uncle. Instead of keeping good terms with the old gentleman he goes out o' his road to offend him.'
'I say it's regular un-decent his being out to-night hunting the hare before his own uncle's door.'
'I say so, too. It weren't my place to say naught, but I thought it, and so did every proper chap.'
'It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'
'Does his father know what's he's been after?'
'No, of course not; old Nanspian would ha' taken a stick to his back, if he'd heard he was in for such things.'
'I know that however bad an uncle might use me, I'd never have nothing to do with a hare hunt that concerned him—no, nor an aunt neither.'
'Larry was always a sort of a giddy chap.'
'He's a bit o' a fool, or he wouldn't have come into this.'
'Maybe this will shake what little sense he has out of his head.'
'I'll tell y' what. If Larry had been in the army—he'd have turned out as great a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.'
'The girls have spoiled Larry, they make so much of him.'
'Make much of him! They like to make sport of him, but there's not one of them cares a farthing for him, not if they've any sense. They know fast enough what Chimsworthy and idleness are coming too. Why, there was Kate Luxmore. Everyone thought she and Larry were keeping company and would make a pair; but this evening, you saw, directly she had a chance of Sam, she shook him off, and quite right too.'
'Never mind me and Kate,' said Sam, turning his head again.
'But us do mind, and us think as Kate be a sensible maiden, and us thought her a fool before to take up wi' Larry Nanspian.'
This conversation was not pleasant for the young man laid on the gate to hear, and it took from him the desire to speak and allow his bearers to know he was awake, and had heard their criticism on his character and conduct. The judgment passed on him was not altogether just, but there was sufficient justice in it to humble him. Yes, he had acted most improperly in allowing himself to be drawn into taking part in the hare hunt. No—he was not, he could never have become such a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.
'Halt!' commanded Piper, and the convoy stood still.
'We can't go like this to Chimsworthy,' said the little cattle-jobber; 'it'll give the old man another stroke. Let us stop at the Luxmores' cottage, and wash our faces, and put off these things, and send on word that we're coming; the old fellow mustn't be dropt down on wi' bad news too sudden.'
'Right! Honor shall be sent on to break the news.'
Honor! Larry felt the blood mount to his brow. She had herself dissuaded him from having anything to do with this wretched affair which had ended so disastrously to himself, and when Kate advised him to keep away from it because Honor disapproved, he had sent her an insolent defiance. Now he was to be laid before her door, bruised and broken, because he had disobeyed her warning. He tried to lift himself to protest—but sank back. No—he thought—it serves me right.
The party descended the rough lane from Broadbury, and had to move more slowly and with greater precaution. The bearers had to look to their steps and talk less. Larry's thoughts turned to Honor. Now he had found out how true were her words. What she had said to him gently, was said now roughly, woundingly. She had but spoken to him the wholesome truth which was patent to everyone but himself, but she had spoken it so as to inflict no pain. She had tried to humble him, but with so pitiful a hand, that he could have kissed the hand, and asked it to continue its work. But he had not taken her advice, he had not learned her lesson, and he was now called to suffer the consequences. Those nights spent beside Honor under the clear night sky—how happy they had been! How her influence had fallen over him like dew, and he had felt that it was well with him to his heart's core. How utterly different she was from the other girls of Bratton. They flattered him. She rebuked him. They pressed their attentions on him. She shrank from his notice. He could recall all she had said. Her words stood out in his recollection like the stars in the night heavens—but he had not directed his course by them.
Now, as the young men carried him down the lane, he knew every tree he passed, and that he was nearing Honor, step by step. He desired to see her, yet feared her reproachful eye.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AFTER SWEETNESS.
Oliver Luxmire had returned home before Kate came from the dance, and had eaten his supper, and gone to bed. Her father had been a cause of distress to Honor of late. He said, indeed, no more about Taverner's suit, but he could not forget it, and he was continually grumbling over the difficulties of his position, his poverty, the hardships of his having to be a carrier, when he ought to be a gentleman, and might be a squire if certain persons would put out a little finger to help him to his rights.
His careless good humour had given place to peevish discontent. By nature he was kind and considerate, but his disappointment had, at least temporarily, embittered his mood. He threw out oblique reproaches which hurt Honor, for she felt that they were aimed at her. He complained that times were altered, children were without filial affection, they begrudged their parents the repose that was their due in the evening of their days. He was getting on in years, and was forced to slave for the support of a family, when his family—at least the elder of them—ought to be maintaining him. He wished that the Thrustle were as deep as the Tamar, and he would throw himself in and so end his sorrows. His children—his ungrateful children—must not be surprised if some day he did not return. There was no saying, on occasions, when a waterspout broke, the Thrustle was so full of water that a man might drown himself in it.
In vain did Honor attempt to turn his thoughts into pleasanter channels. He found a morbid pleasure in being absorbed in the contemplation of his sores. He became churlish towards Honor and refused to be cheered. She had fine speeches on her tongue, but he was a man who preferred deeds to words. A girl of words and not of deeds was like a garden full of weeds. When the weeds began to grow, like the heavens thick with snow, when the snow began to fall—and so on—and so on—he had forgotten the rest of the jingle.
Now for the first time, dimly, was Honor conscious of a moral resemblance between her father and Charles. What Charles had become, her father might become. The elements of character were in germ in him that had developed in the son. As likenesses in a family come out at unexpected moments, that had never before been noticed, so was it with the psychical features of these two. Honor saw Charles in her father, and the sight distressed her.
Oliver Luxmore did not venture to say out openly what he desired, but his hints, his insinuations, his grumblings, were significant; they pierced as barbed steel, they bruised as blows. Till recently, Oliver had recognised his daughter's moral superiority, and had submitted. Now his eye was jaundiced. He thought her steadfastness of purpose to be doggedness, her resistance to his wishes to be the result of self-will, and his respect for her faded.
Although Honor made no complaint, no defence, she suffered acutely. She had surrendered Larry because her duty tied her to the home that needed her. Was it necessary for her to make a farther sacrifice—a supreme sacrifice for the sake of her father? She had no faith in the verbal promises of Taverner Langford, to stand by and assist her brothers and sisters, but it was in her power to exact from him a written undertaking which he would be unable to shake off. Suppose she were to marry Langford—what then? Then—the dark cloud would lift and roll away. There would be no more struggle to make both ends meet, no more patching and darning of old clothes, no more limiting of the amount of bread dealt out to each child. Her father's temper would mend. He would recover his kindly humour, and play with the little ones, and joke with the neighbours, and be affectionate towards her. There would be no more need for him to travel with a waggon in all weathers to market, but he would spend his last years in comfort, cared for by his children, instead of exhausting himself for them.
However bright such a prospect might appear, Honor could not reconcile herself to it. Her feminine instincts revolted against the price she must pay to obtain it.
That evening Oliver Luxmore ate his supper in sulky silence, and went to bed without wishing Honor a good night. When Kate arrived, she found her sister in tears.
'Honor!' exclaimed the eager, lively girl, 'what is the matter? You have been crying—because you could not go to the dance.'
'No, dear Kate, not at all.'
'Honor! what is the meaning of this? Marianne Spry tells me she saw the silk kerchief you gave me before to-day.'
'Well, why not?'
'But, Honor, I do not understand. Mrs. Spry says that Larry bought it—bought it at Tavistock after he had killed the dog that worried our lambs—after he had got the guinea, and she believes he bought it with that money.'
'Well, Kate!' Honor stooped over her needlework.
'Well, Honor!'—Kate paused and looked hard at her. 'How is it that Larry bought it, and you had it in your chest? That is what I want to know.'
'Larry gave it me.'
'Oh—ho! He gave it you!'
'Yes, I sat up with him when he was watching for the lamb-killer; he is grateful for that trifling trouble I took.'
'But, Honor! Marianne Spry said that she and others chaffed Larry in the van about the kerchief he had bought for me—and it wasnotfor me.'
Honor said nothing; she worked very diligently with her fingers by the poor light of the tallow candle on the table. Kate stooped to get sight of her face, and saw that her cheek was red.
'Honor, dear! The kerchief was not for me. Why did you make me wear it?'
'Because, Kate—because you are the right person to wear his present.'
'I—why I?' asked Kate impetuously.
Honor looked up, looked steadfastly into her sister's eyes.
'Because Larry loves you, and you love him.'
'I can answer for myself that I do not,' Kate vehemently. 'And I don't fancy he is much in love with me. No, Honor, he was in a queer mood this evening, and what made him queer was that you were not in the barn, and had decked me out in the kerchief he gave you to wear. I could not make it out at the time, but now I see it all.' Then Kate laughed gaily. 'I don't suppose you care very much for him, he's a Merry Andrew and a scatterbrain, but I do believe he has a liking for you, Honor, and I believe there is no one in the world could make a fine good man of Larry but you.' Then the impulsive girl threw her arms round her sister. 'There!' she exclaimed, 'I'm glad you don't care for Larry, because he is not worthy of you—no, there's not a lad that is—except, maybe Samuel Voaden, and him I won't spare even to you.'
'Oh, Kate!'
So the sisters sat on, and the generous, warm-hearted Kate told all her secret to her sister.
When girls talk of the affairs of the heart, time flies with them. Their father and brothers and sisters were asleep, and they sat on late. Kate was happy to confide in her sister.
All at once Kate started, and held her finger to her ear.
'I hear something. Honor, what is it? I hope these hare-hunters be not coming this way.'
She had not told Honor Larry's message.
'I hear feet,' answered the elder. 'Do not go to the door, Kate. It is very late.'
The tramp of feet ceased, the two girls with beating hearts heard steps ascend to their door, then a rap at it. Honor went at once to open. Kate hung back. She suspected the hare-hunters, but was afraid of the black faces, and she could not understand the halt and summons.
'Don't y' be frightened, Honor,' said a voice through the door, 'us want y' out here a bit, if you don't mind.' Honor unbolted, and the blackfaced, white-eyed, long-eared, skin-clothed Piper stood before her, holding the black cow tail in his hand.
'Don't y' be scared. I'm only the hare. I won't touch a hair of your head.'
'What do you want, Mr. Piper?' asked Honor without trepidation.
'Well, it is this. There's been an accident, and Master Larry Nanspian hev fallen on his head off his horse and hurted himself bad.'
Honor began to tremble, and caught the door with one hand and the door-post with the other.
'Now do y' take it easy. He ain't dead, only hurt. Us don't want to go right on end carrying him into Chimsworthy, all of us dressed as we are. First place, it might frighten Master Nanspian, second place, he mightn't like the larks Larry has been on. So us thought if you would let us clean our faces, and take off our skins and other things, and cut the green coat off the back of Larry, here; and then, you'd be so good as run on to Chimsworthy and prepare the old gentleman, you'd be—well, you'd be yourself—I couldn't put it better.'
Honor had recovered her composure.
'I will do what you wish,' she said, and her voice was firm, though low.
'You see,' Piper went on. 'It's a bit ockerd like; I reckon the old man wouldn't be satisfied that Larry were mixed up in a hare-hunt that made game of Taverner Langford, his own wife's brother; and I don't say that Larry acted right in being in it. Howsomever, he has been, and is now the worse for it. Will you please to bring the candle and let us see how bad he be.'
Honor took the tin candlestick with the tallow dip, and descended the steps, holding it.
The four bearers set the gate upon the ground, and Honor held the candle aloft that the light might fall on Larry. But a soft wind was blowing, and it drove the flame on one side, making the long wick glow and then carrying it away in sparks.
'Mr. Piper, go into the cottage and ask my sister Kate to give you my scissors. I will remove the coat. Go all of you, either to the well a few steps down the lane, or into our kitchen, and wait. Kate will give you towel and soap. Leave me with Larry. I must deal very gently with him, and I had rather you were none of you by.'
'You're right,' said Piper. 'Us had better have white faces and get clear of horses and other gear before he sees us.'
'We must be quick,' said Sam Voaden. 'Larry must be got home as fast as may be.'
Then they ran, some to the well in the bank, some—Sam, of course—into the cottage, and left Honor for a moment or two beside the prostrate man, kneeling, holding the guttering candle with one hand, and screening the flame from the wind with the other.
Then Larry opened his eyes, and looked long and earnestly into her face. He said nothing. He did not stir a finger; but his eyes spoke.
'Larry!' she breathed. Her heart spoke in her voice, 'Larry, are you much hurt?'
He slightly moved his head.
'Much, Larry? where?'
'In my pride, Honor,' he answered.
She looked at him with surprise: at first hardly comprehending his meaning.
Then Kate came down the steps with the scissors.
'O Honor! How dreadful! I told him not to go! I told him you disapproved! And now he is punished. O Honor! is he badly injured? He is not killed?'
'No, Kate, he is not killed. How far hurt I cannot tell. Larry! you must let me move you. I may hurt you a little——'
'You cannot hurt me,' he said. 'I have hurt myself.'
'O Honor!' exclaimed Kate. 'If he can speak he is not so bad. Shall I help?'
'No, Kate,' answered Honor, 'go back to the cottage and give the young men what they want to clean their faces; those at the well also. I can manage Larry by myself.'
She stooped over him.
'Larry! you must let me raise you a little bit. Tell me truly, are any bones broken?'
'I do not know, Honor. I feel as if I could not move. I am full of pain, full in all my limbs, but most full in my heart.'
She began to cut up the seams of the sleeves.
'I cannot move my right arm,' he said. 'I suppose there is some breakage there.'
'Yes,' she said gravely, 'I can feel a bone is broken.'
'If that be all it does not matter,' he said more cheerfully, 'but I want to say to you, Honor, something whilst no one is by.'
'What is it?'
'I have done very wrong in many ways. I have been a fool, and I shall never be anything else unless you——'
'Never mind that now,' she hastily interrupted him. 'We must think only at present of your aching joints and broken bones.'
Then Oliver Luxmore's voice was heard calling, and asking what was the matter? Who were in the house? He had been roused from his sleep and was alarmed. Kate ran up the stairs to pacify him, and when he knew the circumstances he hastily dressed.
An altercation broke out at the well. There was not room for all to get at the water. One came running up with streaming face to Honor, 'Am I clean?' he asked. 'How is Larry? Not so bad hurt after all, is he?' Then he went up the steps into the cottage to consult his fellows as to the condition of his face, and to wipe it.
Honor removed the coat in pieces.
'Thank you,' said Larry. 'The candle is out?'
'Yes, the wind has made it out (extinguished it).'
'My left hand is sound. Come on that side.'
She did as he asked.
'And this,' he said, 'is the side where my heart is. Honor, I'm very sorry I did not follow your advice. I am sorry now for many things. I want you to forgive me.'
'I have nothing to forgive.'
'Lean over me. I want to whisper. I don't want the fellows to hear.'
She stooped with her face near his. Then he raised his uninjured arm, put it round her neck, and drew her cheek to his lips, and kissed her. 'Honor! dear Honor! I love no one! no one in the world but you! And I love you more than words can say.'
Did she kiss him? She did not know herself. A light, then a darkness, were before her eyes. What time passed then? A second or a century? She did not know. A sudden widening of the world to infinity, a loss of all limitations—time, space—an unconsciousness of distinction, joy, pain, day, night, a loss of identity—was it she herself, or another?
Then a wakening as from a trance, with tingling veins, and dazed eyes, and whirling brain, and fluttering heart, and voice uncontrolled, as from the cottage door, down the steps, and from the well, up the lane came simultaneously the rabble of boys and men.
'Well, how is he?' 'Have you got the coat off?' 'Can he speak?' 'Any bones broke?'
Honor could not answer the questions; she heard them, but had no voice wherewith to speak.
'Raise the gate again,' said Piper. 'Sam, are you ready? Why are you behind? We must get on.'
'Honor,' said Larry in a low voice, 'walk by the side of me. Hold my hand.'
'He is better,' said one of the young men; 'he can speak. He knows Honor.'
'Yes, he is better,' she said, 'but he has his right arm broken, and he is much shaken and bruised. Let me walk beside him, I can stay the gate and ease him as you carry him over the ruts and stones.' So she walked at his side with her hand in his. In a few minutes the party had arrived at the granite gates of Chimsworthy.
'Stay here,' ordered Piper. 'Now, Honor Luxmore, will you go on up the avenue and tell the old gentleman? Us'll come after with Master Larry in ten minutes.'
'I will go,' said Honor, disengaging her hand.
'How are you now?' asked Piper, coming up to the young man.
'Better,' he said, 'better than ever before.'