CHAPTER XXVIII.A FIRST STEP.For the next two days and nights Larry was in great pain. His arm and collar-bone had been set, but strains are more painful than breakages, and the young fellow in his fall had managed to bruise and sprain his muscles as well as fracture his bones. He could not sleep; he could not move in bed; every turn, even the slightest, caused him agony. The doctor enjoined perfect rest. Through the two long sleepless nights his mind was active, and the train of thought that had begun as he was being carried from Broadbury continued to move in his brain. What different nights were these to those spent by him on the bench with Honor! He considered what she had said to him, and he knew that what she had said was right. How careless of his best interests he had been! How regardless of his duties! How neglectful of his proper self-respect! Of course she was right. His father never had properly managed the farm, and since his stroke he had paid it less attention than before. He, the son and heir, ought to have devoted himself to the work of the farm, and made that his main object, not to amuse himself.His father came up to his room several times a day to enquire how he was.'There's Physick coming here,' said the old man, 'and I want you to use your hand when he comes.''I have only my left.''Well, the left must do. If you can't sign your name, you can make a cross and that will suffice.''What do you want me to sign, father?''The mortgage. Physick will find the money, and then we shall pay off Taverner Langford, and have done.'Larry sighed. He remembered what Honor had said. He was helping to burden, not to relieve, the property.'Can't it be helped, father? I'd rather not, if the money could be raised any other way.''But that is impossible without a sale.''Why did Uncle Taverner lend the money?''We were behind in a score of things.''Is it all gone, father?''Gone! of course it is. Now I'm wanting more, and I must raise double what Taverner lends me, half to pay him off, and half to meet present demands.''How is this?''Bad times. Things will come round some day.''How long have they been bad?''Ever since your mother died. That was a bad day for us.' The old man sat rubbing his chin. 'The next bad day was when I quarrelled with Taverner, or rather, when Taverner quarrelled with me. 'Tis a pity. I made up his orchard with my new grafts; and a more beautiful lot of apple-trees are not to be seen—and he for to cut them. Shameful.''What was the quarrel about, father?''I've told you afore. A red spider. Taverner tried to sloke (draw) her away, when she was running straight as a line into my pocket. But I reckon he can't keep you for ever out of Langford. He may live for ten or twelve years out of wicked spite, but he is not immortal, and Langford will come to you in the end. Then you can clear off the mortgages.—I reckon I shall be gone then.''Don't say that, father.''I know I shall. When Taverner sloked that spider away he carried off my health, and I were took with the stroke immediately. I've not been myself since.' He continued rubbing his chin. 'And now comes this mortgage, and you laid up in bed as you never was before. It all comes o' sloking away the spider.''Father,' said Larry earnestly, but timorously: 'I wish you would let me bring another here.''Another what?''Red Spider.''What do you mean?''Honor Luxmore.'The old man looked puzzled, then gradually an idea of his son's meaning crept into his head.'I thought,' said he slowly, 'I thought it was t'other maid.''No, dear father, I love Honor. Let me bring her here, let her be nay wife, and I'm sure she will bring luck to this house.'Hillary senior continued rubbing his chin. 'Her mayn't have money,' he mused, 'but her's good up and down the backbone; as a money-spinner is all redness and naught else, so is Honor all goodness and not a speck of black in her.''It is so indeed, father.''I'm better pleased than if it were Kate.''I never really thought of Kate.''Well, you was sly about it then. All folks said that Kate had stolen your fancy. Well now. Honor mayn't be a money-bringer, I reckon she's got nothing—Oliver be poor as rushy land—but she may spin it. There's no saying.''Say yes, father.''Her's a red spider that Taverner won't try to sloke away,' chuckled old Nanspian. Then he continued musing. He was an altered man of late, not ready with his thoughts, quick of motion, lively of tongue as before. He took time to come to a decision, and drifted in his ideas from one matter to another. 'Things haven't gone quite right since Blandina died, they haven't—though I don't allow that to others. I've had five years of wool heamed (laid) up. I said I'd not sell with wool so low, and it has been sorry down ever since, and now it's risen a penny and I tried to sell—the worm is in it and the staple is spoiled, and it won't fetch any price. Then there be the maidens. They've let the thunder get into the milk and turn it sour, and wasted the Lord knows how much butter, because they were lazy and wouldn't leave their beds in time at five o'clock, and make before the sun is hot. If you'd a good wife, her'd mend all that. And Honor! well, no one has other than a good word for her. I'm main pleased wi' your choice, Larry. Yes, I be.''Oh, father! Thank you! thank you!''It's not for me to go into the maidens' room and rake them out of bed at half-past three in the mornings. I put it to you, Larry. Folks would say it was ondecent. And if I don't, the butter ain't made, the thunder gets in the pans, and I lose many pounds. I reckon Honor Luxmore would do that. I've been racking my brains as you rack cider, how to get over the difficulty, and it was all dark before me, but now I see daylight at last. Honor will rake the maids out o' their beds, and I needn't interfere. You'll be quick about it, won't you, Larry, before the blazing hot summer weather sets in, with thunder in the air, and spoils the milk.'He passed his hand through his grey hair. 'I had a bell put up in their bedroom, and a wire brought along to mine, and a handle nigh my bed, that I might ring them up in the mornings early. It cost me nigh on thirty shillings did that bell. The hanger had to come all the way from Tavistock, and it took him two days to put up, and there were a lot of cranks to it. Well, it was just so much money thrown away. What do y' think the maidens contrived? Why, they stuffed an old worsted stocking into the bell and tied it round the clapper; I might pull the rope as if I were pealing a triple bob major, and not a sound came out of the bell, because of the stocking. Well, I wouldn't go into the maidens' room and see what was the matter, and so I sent to Tavistock for the bell-hanger out again, and he charged me three shillings for himself, and half-a-crown for his man, and ten shillings for the hire of a trap, and all he did was to remove the stocking. Next night the maidens tied up the clapper with the fellow stocking. If Honor were here she'd put all that to rights, wouldn't she?''I'm sure of it, father.''You be sharp and get well,' continued the old man, 'then we'll have it all over, and save pounds of butter.' He stood up. 'I mustn't shake hands wi' you, Larry, but I'm main pleased. Honor's good through and through as a money-spinner is scarlet.'Larry was fain to smile, in spite of his pain. This was like his father. The old man went on vehemently, hotly for some new fancy, and in a few weeks tired of it, and did nothing more about it.Next day Physick the lawyer came, and brought the mortgage and the money. The signatures were appended, a cross for Larry, and the money received.'Now,' said the old man, 'I'd like you, Mr. Physick, to go over to Langford and pay the sum I owe to my brother-in-law. I can't go myself. He's spoken that insolent to me, and that too before the whole of Coryndon's Charity, that I can never set foot over his drexil (threshold) again. So I'd wish you to go for me, and bring me my note of hand back all square.''I will go as well,' said Larry, who was up, able to walk about, but without his jacket, because of his bandaged bones and arm strapped back.'You!' exclaimed his father. 'Why should you go?''I wish it,' answered the lad. 'I'll tell you the reason after.''You'd better not go out yet.''Why not? Mr. Physick will drive me there and back in his gig. I shall not be shaken. The gig has springs.''I reckon there's a certain cottage the rogue will want to get out at on the way. Don't let him, Mr. Physick, or he won't be home for hours.'Although the gig had springs Larry suffered in it, and was glad to descend with Mr. Physick at Langford.Taverner Langford had returned home but an hour before; he had been to the fair at Holsworthy, and thence had gone into Bideford about a contract for young bullocks. He had just finished his dinner of bread and cheese, washed down with water, when Mrs. Veale opened the parlour door, and without a word showed in Mr. Physick and Larry.Langford greeted the lawyer with a nod. 'Please to take a chair.' He stared at Hillary with surprise, and said nothing to him.'We've come to pay you the loan you called in,' said Physick.'Right,' answered Taverner, 'I was expecting the money, though why?—grapes of thorns and figs of thistles is against nature as well as Scripture.' Then he eyed his nephew furtively. He saw that he was looking pale and worn, that his arm was bandaged, and he was without a jacket. He saw that the lad moved stiffly when he walked. 'You may sit down,' he said gruffly. Larry took the back of an armchair with his left hand and drew it to him, then slowly let himself down into it. All his movements, and the twitching of the muscles in his face, showed he was in pain. His uncle watched him and saw this, but he asked no questions.When the money had been counted, and the release handed over, and Physick had indulged in some desultory talk, and disparagement of water, which he saw that Taverner was drinking, he rose to leave. Langford was not in a conversationable mood, his dark brows were knit.Then Larry stood up, and came towards the table, against which he stayed himself with his hand.'I beg your pardon, Uncle Taverner,' he said in a voice somewhat tremulous, whilst colour came into and spotted his brow. 'I came here, though I thought you would not care to see me.''I don't mind when I see your back,' interrupted Langford surlily, 'your father insulted me grossly.''I have come, Uncle Taverner——''Ah! I suppose your father has sent you. He wants to patch up the quarrel; you may go back and tell him it is too late. I won't make it up. It is of no use. I have nothing to lose by estrangement. You and he are the losers, and that to a heavy amount, as you shall learn some day.''I have not come with any message from my father.''You've come for yourself, have you? You think that Langford would be a fine farm for the growth of wild oats? You shan't try it.''I came here of my own accord,' said the young man. 'My father knows nothing of my purpose. I have come to tell you that I am very sorry for what I did,—what I did, I dare say you have not heard, as you have been away. You shall hear from me.''What have you done? Some foolery, I warrant.''Yes, uncle, something worse than foolery. The night you were away, and when we did not know but you were at Langford, there was a hare hunt before your doors.''What!' almost screamed the old man.Physick was unable to restrain a laugh.'There was a hare hunt, and I was in it. I took a principal part. I was thrown from my horse, and picked up unconscious, and the thing came to an end, it went no further. I have been badly hurt. I might have been killed.''And pray how came that about?' asked the old man quivering with anger. 'A light from heaven—struck you to the ground, like Saul when breathing out threatenings and slaughters against the Elect? And now you're a converted character, eh? and so think I'll take you back into favour, and let you have Langford?''No, uncle. I do not know quite what it was threw me down. Don't think me mad if I say it—but it seemed to me to be old Wellon rising from the cairn and rushing down on me, to strike me to the earth.'Langford looked at him with amazement.'I tell you just what happened. I was riding in the hunt—more shame to me—and I had the horn to my lips, and was just by the Gibbet Hill, when my piebald stood bolt still, and shivered with fear, and all at once there came a yellow light out of the barrow, and a great black figure with flapping clothes about it and I remember no more.'Langford was like the rest of his class, full of belief in the supernatural. Larry spoke with such earnestness of tone, his face so fully expressed his conviction, that the old man was awed.'I have broken my right arm and collarbone. I have suffered a great deal, I have not slept for three nights, and this is the first day I have been out of my bedroom. Uncle Taverner, I made up my mind the very first night, that I would come to you directly I was able, and tell you that I am ashamed of myself. When the fellows were carrying me away on a gate, and I woke up—then I knew I had done wrong. I was warned beforehand twice to have nothing to do with the hunt. I heard those who were carrying me say how bad I behaved in taking part in the game against my own uncle. There—uncle! I'm very sorry, and I hope I'll never be such a fool and so wicked again.'Taverner's lips quivered, whether from suppressed rage, or from a rising better emotion, neither Physick nor Larry knew, for they left the room, whilst the old man stared after them with his dark brows contracted over his keen, twinkling eyes, and he sat motionless, and without speaking.Larry was some little while getting into the gig. Mrs. Veale stood on the doorsteps watching him. All at once they heard a cry from the inside of the house—a cry, whether of terror, or rage, or pain, could not be told.'What is it?' asked Physick. 'What's the matter?''It's master,' said Mrs. Veale; 'something has disagreed with him, I reckon.'CHAPTER XXIX.A BLOW.Honor felt like one who has looked into the lightning. A glimpse of surpassing light, a vision into a heaven of fire, was succeeded by darkness and numbness of mind.She was unable for some while to recover her mental and moral balance. The joy that had wrapped her soul as in flame had left a pain of fire. What had she done? What would come of this? Must she go on or could she step back? The moment when Larry's lips had met her cheek, and his words of love had rushed in at her ear and boiled through her veins, had been one in which her self-control had deserted her.She thought over and over what had taken place. She felt his grasp of her hand, his arm about her neck, the pressure of his lips. What must follow on this? She had not withdrawn herself from him at his touch. She could not have done so. The power of resistance had left her. But now, as her clear mind arranged duties and weighed them against passion, she was doubtful what to do. It was strange for her to feel need of advice, to be forced to ask another what to do, yet now she felt that she could not judge for herself; but she also knew of no one who could advise her. There was nothing for her but to wait. Her simple faith raised her soul to God, and she prayed for a right judgment. She would leave the future in His hands: events must decide her course for her. Of one thing she was clear in her view: her duty to her father and brothers and sisters—she must not desert them. Whether she must wholly surrender her happiness for them, or whether she could combine her duty with her inclination, she could not tell; that Larry and the future must decide.She waited in patience. She knew that he would come to her as soon as he could. She heard daily from Chimsworthy how he was. Little Joe ran up and inquired.She saw him drive by with Mr. Physick. Whither was he going? To Okehampton? It was not the shortest road. As he passed the cottage his face was turned towards it, and she saw his eyes looking for her, but the gig was not arrested. She was in the house, and had but a glimpse of him through the open door. Whether he had seen her or not she could not tell.Presently he returned. He must have been to Langford. She stood in the doorway, and their eyes met. He did not stay the horse; he could not. He sat beside the lawyer, who was driving, and the broken right arm was near the reins. Physick was between him and Honor; but Larry turned his head and looked at her as the trap went by. How pale and thin he seemed! What marks of suffering were on his face! The tears of pity came into Honor's eyes.'He will come and see me soon,' she said to herself. 'May I have my strength to do what is right.' Then she seated herself at her work.Kate was in the house, lively as a finch. Honor was always reserved: she was now more silent than usual. Kate's humour was unusually lively. Her tongue moved as nimbly as her feet and fingers, her conversation sparkled, and her tones danced like her eyes. When she was not talking she was singing. She made her jokes and laughed over them herself, as Honor was in no laughing mood.Oddly enough, Sam Voaden was daily in the lane. He came round by the cottage from Swaddledown to ask at Chimsworthy after Larry; he made two miles out of a journey that need not have been three-quarters across the fields. When Sam went by he whistled very loud, and then Kate found that the pitcher was empty and needed replenishing at the well; on such occasions, moreover, the pitcher took a long time filling. Kate made no secret of her heart's affairs to her sister. It was in her nature to talk, and a girl in love likes nothing better, when not with her lover, than to talk about him.Honor put away her needlework and got the supper-table ready, and whilst she was putting the cold pasty on the table her father walked in. He was going next day to Tavistock, and had been round for commissions.He was out of spirits, did not say much, wiped his face with his sleeve, and complained of the weather—it was sultry, he was tired. Some of his customers had been exacting and had worried him. 'The pasty is heavy; it goes against me,' he grumbled. 'All well for young appetites.''Shall I do you a bit of bacon, father?' asked Honor.'Rich that,' he said discontentedly. 'I'm fanciful in my eating. I can't help it; I'm too poor to have what would suit me. It is in my constitution. Those who have the constitutions of gentlefolk want the food of gentlefolk.' He took a little piece of pasty, but pushed it away. 'It makes my throat rise; look at that great hunch of suet in it, like a horse-tooth (quartz spar) in granite. I can't eat anything; you may clear away.'Actually Oliver Luxmore had eaten supper at one of the farms; that was why he had now no appetite; but he made occasion of his having no relish for his food to grumble and make Honor uncomfortable.'The fog was a hunting this morning, so we've had a fine day for going nowhere, and it's gone a fishing this evening, to let me understand it will rain to-morrow when I go into Tavistock. It is always so. Bain on market days to spoil my custom and run away with profits.'In explanation of his words, it is necessary to say that, when the white fog mounts the hills it is said to go hunting, when it lies along the rivers it is said to be fishing, and these conditions of fog are weather indications.'I don't know what you call that,' said Oliver, pointing with his fork to a piece of meat in the pasty. 'It looks to me as if it were a goat caterpillar got in. I suppose you found it crawling across the lane from one of the willow trees, and, because we're poor and can't afford meat, stuck it in.''Father, it is wholesome; it is nothing but a bit of pig-crackling. You know we were given a piece of young pork by Mrs. Voaden, the other day.'Then Oliver sprang to his feet, and Honor started back in surprise.Without a word of salutation, with white face, and glaring eyes, with hand extended and shaking, Taverner Langford came in at the door.'There! there!' he said, in a voice raised almost to a scream. 'This is what comes of doing a favour. Now I am punished.''What is the matter, Mr. Langford?' asked the carrier deferentially.'What is the matter? Everything is the matter,' he cried. He turned to Honor: 'It is your doing, yours, yours.''What have I done?' she asked, with composure.'You asked me to take him in; the scoundrel, the rogue.''You cannot mean my brother Charles,' said Honor, with dignity; 'or you would not speak thus under our roof to his father and sisters.''Oh no, of course not, you don't like to hear it; but that is what he is.''What has Charles done?' asked Oliver in alarm.'Robbed me!' shrieked Taverner, with his whole body quivering, and with vehement action of his hands. 'Robbed me, and run away with my money.'He gasped for breath, his eyes glared, the sweat ran off his brow. He was without his hat, he had run bareheaded from Langford, and his grizzled hair was disordered.'He has robbed me of nigh on a thousand pounds, and he has gone away with the money. He took occasion of my being from home; he has taken all—all—all I had laid by. I thought no one knew where was my bank. He must have watched me; he found out; he has taken the box and all its contents.''Charles could not, would not, do such a thing,' said Honor, with heaving bosom; she was more angry at the charge than alarmed.'Could not! would not! Where is he now?''I do not know. We have not seen him for several days.''He has not been seen at Langford either. As soon as I was off to Holsworthy he bolted. He knew he would have three days clear, perhaps more, for getting away with the money.''It is impossible,' said Honor. 'Charles may be idle, but he is not wicked.''He has robbed me,' repeated Taverner vehemently. 'Do you want proof? The five pound note.'Honor shuddered; she had forgotten that.'Do you remember, Luxmore, you paid me a note of the Exeter and Plymouth Bank? Do you remember that I took the number?'Oliver looked helplessly about the room, from Langford to Honor and Kate.'I ask you, whence you got that note? Come, answer me that? You, Luxmore, who gave you that note?''Charles,' moaned the carrier, and covered his face with his hands, as he threw himself into a chair.'I thought as much. Let me tell you that that note had been abstracted from my box. I had the list of all the notes in it, but I did not go over them till I found that I had been robbed. Here is the note. I did not restore it to the box. I kept it in iny pocket-book. I can swear—I have my entries to prove it—that it had been stolen from me. When I found Charles was gone, I thought it must have been he who had robbed me. When I saw the number of the note agreed with one I had put into the box a month ago, then I knew it must be he. You brought me the note, and he is your son.'Kate burst into tears and wrung her hands.Honor saw the faces of the children frightened, inclined for tears; she sent them all upstairs to their bedrooms.Oliver sat at the table with his forehead in his hands, and his fingers in his hair.None spoke. Langford looked at the carrier, then at Honor. Kate threw herself into the chair by the window and wept aloud. Honor stood in the middle of the room, with her head bent; she was deadly pale, she dared not raise her eyes.'What will you do?' she asked in a low tone.'Do!' exclaimed Taverner; 'Oh, that is soon answered. I send at once to Tavistock, Launceston, and Okehampton, and communicate with the proper authorities and have him arrested. There are magistrates, and constables, and laws, and prisons in England, for the detention and chastisement of thieves and burglars.'Oliver moaned. 'I cannot bear the disgrace. I shall drown myself.''What will that avail?' sneered Langford. 'Will it save my thousand pounds? Will it save Charles from transportation? It is a pity that there is no more hanging for robbery, or Wellon's mound would be handy, and the old gibbet beam in my barn would serve once more.'The words were cruel. Honor's teeth clenched and her hands closed convulsively.Then Oliver Luxmore withdrew his hands from his face, dragged himself towards Langford, and threw himself on the ground at his feet.'Have pity on him, on me, on us all. The shame will kill us, brand us. It will kill me, it will stain my name, my children, for ever.''Get up,' said Langford, roughly. 'I'm not to be moved by men's tears.'But Oliver was deaf; his great absorbing agony momentarily gave dignity to his feeble pitiful character, to him even crouching on the slate floor.'Spare us the dishonour,' he pleaded. 'I cannot bear it; this one thing I cannot. Luxmore—thief—convict!' He passed his hand over his brow and raised his eyes; they were blank. 'Luxmore, of Coombe Park—Luxmore! Take care!' his voice became shrill. 'Dishonour I cannot bear. Take care lest you drive me desperate. Rather let us all die, I, Honor, Kate, and the little ones, and end the name, than that it should live on stained.' He tried to rise, but his knees shook and gave way under him.'You may sell all I have. Take the van, everything. We cannot find you a thousand pounds. We will all work as slaves—only—spare us the dishonour! spare us this!'Kate came up and cast herself at her father's side and raised her streaming eyes.'Well,' said Taverner, turning to Honor, 'do you alone not join? Are you too proud?''Mr. Langford,' she answered, with emotion, 'you are too hard. I pray to God, who is merciful.''You are proud! You are proud!' he said, scowling. 'You, Oliver Luxmore! you, Kate! do not kneel to me. Go, turn to her. The fate of Charles, the honour of your name, your happiness, that of your children, rest with her—with her!'He looked at her.She did not speak; she understood his meaning. A pang as of a sword went through her soul. She raised her clenched hands and put them to her mouth, and pressed the knuckles against her teeth. In the agony of that moment she was near screaming.'There!' said Langford, pointing to her. 'Look how haughty she is. But she must bend. Entreat her, or command her, as you will. With her the issue lies. I will wait till to-morrow at ten, and take no steps for the capture of Charles. If before that hour I have yes, it is well. I pay a thousand pounds for that yes. I shall be content. If not, then—' he did not finish the sentence; he went out at the door.Then only did Honor give way. She saw as it were a cloud of blue smoke rising round her. She held out her hands, grasping, but catching nothing, and fell on the floor insensible.CHAPTER XXX.YES!Honor could not rest in her bed that night. Oliver Luxmore in the adjoining room groaned and sighed, he was sleepless. Kate, who shared her bed, was awake and tossed from side to side. Poor Kate knew that the disgrace would separate her from Sam. She was too generous to urge her sister to make the costly sacrifice. Oliver felt that words would be unavailing, the matter must be left to Honor; his best advocate was in her own conscience. The resolution one way or the other must be come to by Honor unresisted, unswayed. She lay still in her bed, but Kate knew she did not sleep. She lay with her hands clasped as in prayer on her heaving bosom. Her eyes were on the little latticed window, and on a moth dancing dreamily up and down the panes, a large black moth that made the little diamonds of glass click at the stroke of its wings. Her hair over her brow was curled with the heat of her brain, the light short hair that would not be brushed back and lie with the copper-gold strands. Great drops rolled off her forehead upon the pillow. Afterwards, Kate felt that the cover was wet, and thought it was with Honor's tears, but she was not crying. Her eyes were dry and burning, but the moisture poured off her brow. Her feet were like ice. She might have been dead, she lay so still. Kate hardly heard her breathe. She held her breath and listened once, as she feared Honor was in a swoon. She did not speak to her sister. An indefinable consciousness that Honor must not be disturbed, must be left alone, restrained her. Once she stole her hand under the bedclothes round her sister, and laid it on her heart. Then she knew for certain what a raging storm was awake in that still, hardly breathing form.That touch, unattended by word, was more than Honor could bear. She said nothing, but stole from bed, and put on some of her clothes. Kate watched her through her half-closed lids, and dared not speak or otherwise interfere. Honor went softly, barefooted down the stairs, that creaked beneath her tread. Her father heard the step. He knew whose it was. He also would not interfere. It was best for all—for Kate, for Charles, for himself, for Joe, and Pattie, and Willie, and Martha, and Charity, and little Temperance—that Honor should be wholly undisturbed.The girl unfastened the back door, took up the little bench, cast a potato-sack over her head, and went forth, shutting the door gently behind her.She carried the seat under the hedge in the paddock, where she had watched with Larry, and placed herself on it, then rested her elbow on her knee, and her head in her hand. Her feet were bare, dipped in the dewy grass; a seeded dandelion, stirred by them, shed its ripe down over them. She thrust the sack from her head. She could not endure the weight and the heat, and laid it across her shoulders; from them it slipped unheeded. Her arms were bare from the elbow. The cold night wind stroked the arm that stayed up her scorched brain. She had prayed that God would guide her, and the guidance had led into a way of sorrows. 'It is expedient that one man should die for the people,' those words of the High Priest recurred to Honor, and she thought how that He to whom they referred had accepted the decision. She would have died—died! O how willingly, how eagerly!—for the dear ones under the thatched roof; she would have leaped into fire, not for all, but for any one of them, for little Temperance, for dear Charity, for Martha, for Willie, for darling Pattie, for good, true Joe, for Kate, for her father of course—yes, even for Charles—but this that was demanded of her was worse than a brief spasm of pain in fire; it was a lifelong martyrdom, a sacrifice infinitely more dreadful than of life. The thrushes were singing. There was no night in the midst of June, and the birds did without sleep, or slept in the glare of midday. The only night was within the girl's soul. There was no singing or piping there, but the groaning of a crushed spirit.She started. She was touched. She put out her hand and sighed. The horse that Langford had let them have was in the paddock; it had become much attached to Honor, and the beast had come over to her, unperceived, and was resting his head on her shoulder and rubbing it against her ear and cheek. She stroked the nose of the beast with her left hand without altering her position, mechanically, and without much diversion of her thoughts. When poor Diamond was dying in the gravel pit, Honor had sat by him and caressed him; now Diamond's successor had come to comfort Honor, as best he could, when her girlhood was dying in anguish, passing into a womanhood of sorrow.Chink! chink! chink! a finch was perched on the topmost twig of an alder that swayed under its light weight in the wind, repeating its monotonous cry, chink! chink! chink!The cold about Honor's feet became stronger, the dew looked whiter, as if it were passing into frost, the breath of the horse was as steam. High, far aloft, in the dusky sky some large bird was winging its way from sea to sea, from the Atlantic boisterous barren coast about Bude, to the summer, luxuriant bays of the Channel. What bird it was Honor could not tell. She would not have seen it but that the winking of its wings as they caught the light from the north attracted her attention. Strange as it may seem, though engrossed in her own sorrows, she watched the flap of the wings till they passed beyond range of vision.Not a cloud was in the sky. The stars were but dimly seen in the silvery haze of summer twilight. One glowworm in the hedge opposite her shone brighter than any star, for it shone out of darkness deeper than the depths of heaven.One long leaf near Honor was as if it had been varnished, wet with dew, and as the dew gathered on it, it stooped and the moisture ran to the lanceate end, bowing it further, and forming a clear drop; then the drop fell, and the leaf with a dancing rebound recovered its first position. Honor's eye rested on the leaf; as the dew formed on it, and bent it down, so were tears forming on her soul and bowing it. The leaf shook off the drop; would her spirit ever recover?What wondrous sounds are heard at night! How mysterious, how undiscoverable in origin! It seemed to Honor less still in the meadow, under the thorn hedge, than in the cottage. Insect life was stirring all about; the spiders were spinning, moths flitting, leaves rustling, birds piping, the wind playing among the thorns; the field mice were running, and the night birds watching for them on wing.All was cool, all but Honor's head. Whatever sounds were heard were pleasant, whatever movement was soothing. Through all the intricate life that stirred there ran a breath of peace—only not over the heaving soul of Honor.Poor Larry! Honor's thoughts were less of herself than of others. She was sure to the ground of her heart that he loved her. She knew, without riddling out the why and how, that she could have made him happy and good at once. There was sterling gold in him; the fire would purge away the dross. As in the cocoon there is an outer shell of worthless web which must be torn away before the golden thread is discovered, so was it with him; the outer husk of vanity and idleness and inconsiderateness was coming away, and now all that was needed was a tender hand to find and take hold of the end of the thread and spin off the precious fibre. Another hand, rough and heedless, might break and confuse and ruin it.But, though she knew she could have made Larry's life right and orderly, yet she would not undertake to do so unless she saw the other lives committed to her trust cared for and safe.Above all, high as the highest star, in her pure soul shone the duty imposed on her by her mother. If she could not combine her duty to the dear ones under the brown thatch with the charge of Larry's destiny, she would not undertake the latter.And now, most horrible gall to her womanly mind, came the knowledge that she—she whom Larry loved and looked up to—she, she who loved the careless lad, even she must step in between him and his uncle's property, that she was chosen by old Langford as the weapon of his revenge on the Nanspians.The Langford estate must descend to Larry should his uncle die childless, and she——Her breath came in a gasp. She tore up the cold dockleaves and pressed them to her brow to cool the burning there, to take the sting out of her nettled brain.There was no rest for Honor anywhere, in the meadow or in her bed—no rest for her evermore.She rose and went back to the house, but when she reached the door, true to her regular habits, remembered that she had left the sack and the bench in the field, and went back, fetched them, and put each in its proper place. Nothing was ever left littering about by Honor. If she had been dying and had seen a chip on the floor, she would have striven to rise and remove it.In the morning the carrier and his two eldest daughters looked haggard and pale.The children seemed aware of trouble. Joe was attentive and helped to quiet and amuse the youngest, and watched his father, but especially Honor, to read what was menaced in their faces. He had not been at home when Langford came, and his sister Pattie could give him but the vaguest idea of what had occurred. All she knew was that it was a trouble connected with Charles, who had run away. The carrier had to be ready early to start for Tavistock market. Honor and Kate prepared breakfast for him and the children, without a word passing between them on what was uppermost in their minds. As they were eating, the Ashbury postboy passed down the lane and called at the steps.The carrier went out.'A letter for you.'Oliver took and paid for it, then brought it in and opened it slowly with shaking fingers. He, Honor, Kate knew that it must have reference to their trouble. It was in the handwriting of Charles; it bore the Plymouth postmark. The carrier spread it on his plate; he did not read it aloud because Joe and the other children were present; but Honor and Kate stood behind him and read over his shoulder without uttering a word.This was the letter:—'Dear Father,—I take my pen in hand, hopping this finds you has it leafs me, with a bad running at the noaz, and a shockin corf, gripes orful in my innerds, and hakes all over me. I dersay you've eard what I gone and done, don't judge me harshly, I couldn't do otherwise, and I'm not so bad to blame as you may suppose. I didn't intend delibberat to do 't, but I did it off-hand so to speke. Wot's dun can't be undun. It's no use crying over spilt milk. Wot can't be kured must be undured. That's wot Mrs. Veale would say, and her's a bad un. I ketched a cold with getting wet running away, but I shall be all rite soon, please God when I'm away on the i seez. I'm goin to Ameri'kay which is the place to which the flour of the British aristokracy go when its ockerd or embarassing at ome. As it is ockerd and embarassing to me, I'm orf, and I hope with the Almighty's aid to do well in the new whirld, wheer I intend to found a new Coom Park, to which I shall invite you all to come, when I can drive you about in a carridge and pare. I want to know how it is with Larry, whether he be alive or dead. I came away in such aste I couldn't stay to know, but I'm very desiring to know. Don't rite to me by my proper name, there may be disagreeables in my wereabout being knone, so direct to Mr. Charles, poast resteny, Plymouth.—From your loving sun,
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A FIRST STEP.
For the next two days and nights Larry was in great pain. His arm and collar-bone had been set, but strains are more painful than breakages, and the young fellow in his fall had managed to bruise and sprain his muscles as well as fracture his bones. He could not sleep; he could not move in bed; every turn, even the slightest, caused him agony. The doctor enjoined perfect rest. Through the two long sleepless nights his mind was active, and the train of thought that had begun as he was being carried from Broadbury continued to move in his brain. What different nights were these to those spent by him on the bench with Honor! He considered what she had said to him, and he knew that what she had said was right. How careless of his best interests he had been! How regardless of his duties! How neglectful of his proper self-respect! Of course she was right. His father never had properly managed the farm, and since his stroke he had paid it less attention than before. He, the son and heir, ought to have devoted himself to the work of the farm, and made that his main object, not to amuse himself.
His father came up to his room several times a day to enquire how he was.
'There's Physick coming here,' said the old man, 'and I want you to use your hand when he comes.'
'I have only my left.'
'Well, the left must do. If you can't sign your name, you can make a cross and that will suffice.'
'What do you want me to sign, father?'
'The mortgage. Physick will find the money, and then we shall pay off Taverner Langford, and have done.'
Larry sighed. He remembered what Honor had said. He was helping to burden, not to relieve, the property.
'Can't it be helped, father? I'd rather not, if the money could be raised any other way.'
'But that is impossible without a sale.'
'Why did Uncle Taverner lend the money?'
'We were behind in a score of things.'
'Is it all gone, father?'
'Gone! of course it is. Now I'm wanting more, and I must raise double what Taverner lends me, half to pay him off, and half to meet present demands.'
'How is this?'
'Bad times. Things will come round some day.'
'How long have they been bad?'
'Ever since your mother died. That was a bad day for us.' The old man sat rubbing his chin. 'The next bad day was when I quarrelled with Taverner, or rather, when Taverner quarrelled with me. 'Tis a pity. I made up his orchard with my new grafts; and a more beautiful lot of apple-trees are not to be seen—and he for to cut them. Shameful.'
'What was the quarrel about, father?'
'I've told you afore. A red spider. Taverner tried to sloke (draw) her away, when she was running straight as a line into my pocket. But I reckon he can't keep you for ever out of Langford. He may live for ten or twelve years out of wicked spite, but he is not immortal, and Langford will come to you in the end. Then you can clear off the mortgages.—I reckon I shall be gone then.'
'Don't say that, father.'
'I know I shall. When Taverner sloked that spider away he carried off my health, and I were took with the stroke immediately. I've not been myself since.' He continued rubbing his chin. 'And now comes this mortgage, and you laid up in bed as you never was before. It all comes o' sloking away the spider.'
'Father,' said Larry earnestly, but timorously: 'I wish you would let me bring another here.'
'Another what?'
'Red Spider.'
'What do you mean?'
'Honor Luxmore.'
The old man looked puzzled, then gradually an idea of his son's meaning crept into his head.
'I thought,' said he slowly, 'I thought it was t'other maid.'
'No, dear father, I love Honor. Let me bring her here, let her be nay wife, and I'm sure she will bring luck to this house.'
Hillary senior continued rubbing his chin. 'Her mayn't have money,' he mused, 'but her's good up and down the backbone; as a money-spinner is all redness and naught else, so is Honor all goodness and not a speck of black in her.'
'It is so indeed, father.'
'I'm better pleased than if it were Kate.'
'I never really thought of Kate.'
'Well, you was sly about it then. All folks said that Kate had stolen your fancy. Well now. Honor mayn't be a money-bringer, I reckon she's got nothing—Oliver be poor as rushy land—but she may spin it. There's no saying.'
'Say yes, father.'
'Her's a red spider that Taverner won't try to sloke away,' chuckled old Nanspian. Then he continued musing. He was an altered man of late, not ready with his thoughts, quick of motion, lively of tongue as before. He took time to come to a decision, and drifted in his ideas from one matter to another. 'Things haven't gone quite right since Blandina died, they haven't—though I don't allow that to others. I've had five years of wool heamed (laid) up. I said I'd not sell with wool so low, and it has been sorry down ever since, and now it's risen a penny and I tried to sell—the worm is in it and the staple is spoiled, and it won't fetch any price. Then there be the maidens. They've let the thunder get into the milk and turn it sour, and wasted the Lord knows how much butter, because they were lazy and wouldn't leave their beds in time at five o'clock, and make before the sun is hot. If you'd a good wife, her'd mend all that. And Honor! well, no one has other than a good word for her. I'm main pleased wi' your choice, Larry. Yes, I be.'
'Oh, father! Thank you! thank you!'
'It's not for me to go into the maidens' room and rake them out of bed at half-past three in the mornings. I put it to you, Larry. Folks would say it was ondecent. And if I don't, the butter ain't made, the thunder gets in the pans, and I lose many pounds. I reckon Honor Luxmore would do that. I've been racking my brains as you rack cider, how to get over the difficulty, and it was all dark before me, but now I see daylight at last. Honor will rake the maids out o' their beds, and I needn't interfere. You'll be quick about it, won't you, Larry, before the blazing hot summer weather sets in, with thunder in the air, and spoils the milk.'
He passed his hand through his grey hair. 'I had a bell put up in their bedroom, and a wire brought along to mine, and a handle nigh my bed, that I might ring them up in the mornings early. It cost me nigh on thirty shillings did that bell. The hanger had to come all the way from Tavistock, and it took him two days to put up, and there were a lot of cranks to it. Well, it was just so much money thrown away. What do y' think the maidens contrived? Why, they stuffed an old worsted stocking into the bell and tied it round the clapper; I might pull the rope as if I were pealing a triple bob major, and not a sound came out of the bell, because of the stocking. Well, I wouldn't go into the maidens' room and see what was the matter, and so I sent to Tavistock for the bell-hanger out again, and he charged me three shillings for himself, and half-a-crown for his man, and ten shillings for the hire of a trap, and all he did was to remove the stocking. Next night the maidens tied up the clapper with the fellow stocking. If Honor were here she'd put all that to rights, wouldn't she?'
'I'm sure of it, father.'
'You be sharp and get well,' continued the old man, 'then we'll have it all over, and save pounds of butter.' He stood up. 'I mustn't shake hands wi' you, Larry, but I'm main pleased. Honor's good through and through as a money-spinner is scarlet.'
Larry was fain to smile, in spite of his pain. This was like his father. The old man went on vehemently, hotly for some new fancy, and in a few weeks tired of it, and did nothing more about it.
Next day Physick the lawyer came, and brought the mortgage and the money. The signatures were appended, a cross for Larry, and the money received.
'Now,' said the old man, 'I'd like you, Mr. Physick, to go over to Langford and pay the sum I owe to my brother-in-law. I can't go myself. He's spoken that insolent to me, and that too before the whole of Coryndon's Charity, that I can never set foot over his drexil (threshold) again. So I'd wish you to go for me, and bring me my note of hand back all square.'
'I will go as well,' said Larry, who was up, able to walk about, but without his jacket, because of his bandaged bones and arm strapped back.
'You!' exclaimed his father. 'Why should you go?'
'I wish it,' answered the lad. 'I'll tell you the reason after.'
'You'd better not go out yet.'
'Why not? Mr. Physick will drive me there and back in his gig. I shall not be shaken. The gig has springs.'
'I reckon there's a certain cottage the rogue will want to get out at on the way. Don't let him, Mr. Physick, or he won't be home for hours.'
Although the gig had springs Larry suffered in it, and was glad to descend with Mr. Physick at Langford.
Taverner Langford had returned home but an hour before; he had been to the fair at Holsworthy, and thence had gone into Bideford about a contract for young bullocks. He had just finished his dinner of bread and cheese, washed down with water, when Mrs. Veale opened the parlour door, and without a word showed in Mr. Physick and Larry.
Langford greeted the lawyer with a nod. 'Please to take a chair.' He stared at Hillary with surprise, and said nothing to him.
'We've come to pay you the loan you called in,' said Physick.
'Right,' answered Taverner, 'I was expecting the money, though why?—grapes of thorns and figs of thistles is against nature as well as Scripture.' Then he eyed his nephew furtively. He saw that he was looking pale and worn, that his arm was bandaged, and he was without a jacket. He saw that the lad moved stiffly when he walked. 'You may sit down,' he said gruffly. Larry took the back of an armchair with his left hand and drew it to him, then slowly let himself down into it. All his movements, and the twitching of the muscles in his face, showed he was in pain. His uncle watched him and saw this, but he asked no questions.
When the money had been counted, and the release handed over, and Physick had indulged in some desultory talk, and disparagement of water, which he saw that Taverner was drinking, he rose to leave. Langford was not in a conversationable mood, his dark brows were knit.
Then Larry stood up, and came towards the table, against which he stayed himself with his hand.
'I beg your pardon, Uncle Taverner,' he said in a voice somewhat tremulous, whilst colour came into and spotted his brow. 'I came here, though I thought you would not care to see me.'
'I don't mind when I see your back,' interrupted Langford surlily, 'your father insulted me grossly.'
'I have come, Uncle Taverner——'
'Ah! I suppose your father has sent you. He wants to patch up the quarrel; you may go back and tell him it is too late. I won't make it up. It is of no use. I have nothing to lose by estrangement. You and he are the losers, and that to a heavy amount, as you shall learn some day.'
'I have not come with any message from my father.'
'You've come for yourself, have you? You think that Langford would be a fine farm for the growth of wild oats? You shan't try it.'
'I came here of my own accord,' said the young man. 'My father knows nothing of my purpose. I have come to tell you that I am very sorry for what I did,—what I did, I dare say you have not heard, as you have been away. You shall hear from me.'
'What have you done? Some foolery, I warrant.'
'Yes, uncle, something worse than foolery. The night you were away, and when we did not know but you were at Langford, there was a hare hunt before your doors.'
'What!' almost screamed the old man.
Physick was unable to restrain a laugh.
'There was a hare hunt, and I was in it. I took a principal part. I was thrown from my horse, and picked up unconscious, and the thing came to an end, it went no further. I have been badly hurt. I might have been killed.'
'And pray how came that about?' asked the old man quivering with anger. 'A light from heaven—struck you to the ground, like Saul when breathing out threatenings and slaughters against the Elect? And now you're a converted character, eh? and so think I'll take you back into favour, and let you have Langford?'
'No, uncle. I do not know quite what it was threw me down. Don't think me mad if I say it—but it seemed to me to be old Wellon rising from the cairn and rushing down on me, to strike me to the earth.'
Langford looked at him with amazement.
'I tell you just what happened. I was riding in the hunt—more shame to me—and I had the horn to my lips, and was just by the Gibbet Hill, when my piebald stood bolt still, and shivered with fear, and all at once there came a yellow light out of the barrow, and a great black figure with flapping clothes about it and I remember no more.'
Langford was like the rest of his class, full of belief in the supernatural. Larry spoke with such earnestness of tone, his face so fully expressed his conviction, that the old man was awed.
'I have broken my right arm and collarbone. I have suffered a great deal, I have not slept for three nights, and this is the first day I have been out of my bedroom. Uncle Taverner, I made up my mind the very first night, that I would come to you directly I was able, and tell you that I am ashamed of myself. When the fellows were carrying me away on a gate, and I woke up—then I knew I had done wrong. I was warned beforehand twice to have nothing to do with the hunt. I heard those who were carrying me say how bad I behaved in taking part in the game against my own uncle. There—uncle! I'm very sorry, and I hope I'll never be such a fool and so wicked again.'
Taverner's lips quivered, whether from suppressed rage, or from a rising better emotion, neither Physick nor Larry knew, for they left the room, whilst the old man stared after them with his dark brows contracted over his keen, twinkling eyes, and he sat motionless, and without speaking.
Larry was some little while getting into the gig. Mrs. Veale stood on the doorsteps watching him. All at once they heard a cry from the inside of the house—a cry, whether of terror, or rage, or pain, could not be told.
'What is it?' asked Physick. 'What's the matter?'
'It's master,' said Mrs. Veale; 'something has disagreed with him, I reckon.'
CHAPTER XXIX.
A BLOW.
Honor felt like one who has looked into the lightning. A glimpse of surpassing light, a vision into a heaven of fire, was succeeded by darkness and numbness of mind.
She was unable for some while to recover her mental and moral balance. The joy that had wrapped her soul as in flame had left a pain of fire. What had she done? What would come of this? Must she go on or could she step back? The moment when Larry's lips had met her cheek, and his words of love had rushed in at her ear and boiled through her veins, had been one in which her self-control had deserted her.
She thought over and over what had taken place. She felt his grasp of her hand, his arm about her neck, the pressure of his lips. What must follow on this? She had not withdrawn herself from him at his touch. She could not have done so. The power of resistance had left her. But now, as her clear mind arranged duties and weighed them against passion, she was doubtful what to do. It was strange for her to feel need of advice, to be forced to ask another what to do, yet now she felt that she could not judge for herself; but she also knew of no one who could advise her. There was nothing for her but to wait. Her simple faith raised her soul to God, and she prayed for a right judgment. She would leave the future in His hands: events must decide her course for her. Of one thing she was clear in her view: her duty to her father and brothers and sisters—she must not desert them. Whether she must wholly surrender her happiness for them, or whether she could combine her duty with her inclination, she could not tell; that Larry and the future must decide.
She waited in patience. She knew that he would come to her as soon as he could. She heard daily from Chimsworthy how he was. Little Joe ran up and inquired.
She saw him drive by with Mr. Physick. Whither was he going? To Okehampton? It was not the shortest road. As he passed the cottage his face was turned towards it, and she saw his eyes looking for her, but the gig was not arrested. She was in the house, and had but a glimpse of him through the open door. Whether he had seen her or not she could not tell.
Presently he returned. He must have been to Langford. She stood in the doorway, and their eyes met. He did not stay the horse; he could not. He sat beside the lawyer, who was driving, and the broken right arm was near the reins. Physick was between him and Honor; but Larry turned his head and looked at her as the trap went by. How pale and thin he seemed! What marks of suffering were on his face! The tears of pity came into Honor's eyes.
'He will come and see me soon,' she said to herself. 'May I have my strength to do what is right.' Then she seated herself at her work.
Kate was in the house, lively as a finch. Honor was always reserved: she was now more silent than usual. Kate's humour was unusually lively. Her tongue moved as nimbly as her feet and fingers, her conversation sparkled, and her tones danced like her eyes. When she was not talking she was singing. She made her jokes and laughed over them herself, as Honor was in no laughing mood.
Oddly enough, Sam Voaden was daily in the lane. He came round by the cottage from Swaddledown to ask at Chimsworthy after Larry; he made two miles out of a journey that need not have been three-quarters across the fields. When Sam went by he whistled very loud, and then Kate found that the pitcher was empty and needed replenishing at the well; on such occasions, moreover, the pitcher took a long time filling. Kate made no secret of her heart's affairs to her sister. It was in her nature to talk, and a girl in love likes nothing better, when not with her lover, than to talk about him.
Honor put away her needlework and got the supper-table ready, and whilst she was putting the cold pasty on the table her father walked in. He was going next day to Tavistock, and had been round for commissions.
He was out of spirits, did not say much, wiped his face with his sleeve, and complained of the weather—it was sultry, he was tired. Some of his customers had been exacting and had worried him. 'The pasty is heavy; it goes against me,' he grumbled. 'All well for young appetites.'
'Shall I do you a bit of bacon, father?' asked Honor.
'Rich that,' he said discontentedly. 'I'm fanciful in my eating. I can't help it; I'm too poor to have what would suit me. It is in my constitution. Those who have the constitutions of gentlefolk want the food of gentlefolk.' He took a little piece of pasty, but pushed it away. 'It makes my throat rise; look at that great hunch of suet in it, like a horse-tooth (quartz spar) in granite. I can't eat anything; you may clear away.'
Actually Oliver Luxmore had eaten supper at one of the farms; that was why he had now no appetite; but he made occasion of his having no relish for his food to grumble and make Honor uncomfortable.
'The fog was a hunting this morning, so we've had a fine day for going nowhere, and it's gone a fishing this evening, to let me understand it will rain to-morrow when I go into Tavistock. It is always so. Bain on market days to spoil my custom and run away with profits.'
In explanation of his words, it is necessary to say that, when the white fog mounts the hills it is said to go hunting, when it lies along the rivers it is said to be fishing, and these conditions of fog are weather indications.
'I don't know what you call that,' said Oliver, pointing with his fork to a piece of meat in the pasty. 'It looks to me as if it were a goat caterpillar got in. I suppose you found it crawling across the lane from one of the willow trees, and, because we're poor and can't afford meat, stuck it in.'
'Father, it is wholesome; it is nothing but a bit of pig-crackling. You know we were given a piece of young pork by Mrs. Voaden, the other day.'
Then Oliver sprang to his feet, and Honor started back in surprise.
Without a word of salutation, with white face, and glaring eyes, with hand extended and shaking, Taverner Langford came in at the door.
'There! there!' he said, in a voice raised almost to a scream. 'This is what comes of doing a favour. Now I am punished.'
'What is the matter, Mr. Langford?' asked the carrier deferentially.
'What is the matter? Everything is the matter,' he cried. He turned to Honor: 'It is your doing, yours, yours.'
'What have I done?' she asked, with composure.
'You asked me to take him in; the scoundrel, the rogue.'
'You cannot mean my brother Charles,' said Honor, with dignity; 'or you would not speak thus under our roof to his father and sisters.'
'Oh no, of course not, you don't like to hear it; but that is what he is.'
'What has Charles done?' asked Oliver in alarm.
'Robbed me!' shrieked Taverner, with his whole body quivering, and with vehement action of his hands. 'Robbed me, and run away with my money.'
He gasped for breath, his eyes glared, the sweat ran off his brow. He was without his hat, he had run bareheaded from Langford, and his grizzled hair was disordered.
'He has robbed me of nigh on a thousand pounds, and he has gone away with the money. He took occasion of my being from home; he has taken all—all—all I had laid by. I thought no one knew where was my bank. He must have watched me; he found out; he has taken the box and all its contents.'
'Charles could not, would not, do such a thing,' said Honor, with heaving bosom; she was more angry at the charge than alarmed.
'Could not! would not! Where is he now?'
'I do not know. We have not seen him for several days.'
'He has not been seen at Langford either. As soon as I was off to Holsworthy he bolted. He knew he would have three days clear, perhaps more, for getting away with the money.'
'It is impossible,' said Honor. 'Charles may be idle, but he is not wicked.'
'He has robbed me,' repeated Taverner vehemently. 'Do you want proof? The five pound note.'
Honor shuddered; she had forgotten that.
'Do you remember, Luxmore, you paid me a note of the Exeter and Plymouth Bank? Do you remember that I took the number?'
Oliver looked helplessly about the room, from Langford to Honor and Kate.
'I ask you, whence you got that note? Come, answer me that? You, Luxmore, who gave you that note?'
'Charles,' moaned the carrier, and covered his face with his hands, as he threw himself into a chair.
'I thought as much. Let me tell you that that note had been abstracted from my box. I had the list of all the notes in it, but I did not go over them till I found that I had been robbed. Here is the note. I did not restore it to the box. I kept it in iny pocket-book. I can swear—I have my entries to prove it—that it had been stolen from me. When I found Charles was gone, I thought it must have been he who had robbed me. When I saw the number of the note agreed with one I had put into the box a month ago, then I knew it must be he. You brought me the note, and he is your son.'
Kate burst into tears and wrung her hands.
Honor saw the faces of the children frightened, inclined for tears; she sent them all upstairs to their bedrooms.
Oliver sat at the table with his forehead in his hands, and his fingers in his hair.
None spoke. Langford looked at the carrier, then at Honor. Kate threw herself into the chair by the window and wept aloud. Honor stood in the middle of the room, with her head bent; she was deadly pale, she dared not raise her eyes.
'What will you do?' she asked in a low tone.
'Do!' exclaimed Taverner; 'Oh, that is soon answered. I send at once to Tavistock, Launceston, and Okehampton, and communicate with the proper authorities and have him arrested. There are magistrates, and constables, and laws, and prisons in England, for the detention and chastisement of thieves and burglars.'
Oliver moaned. 'I cannot bear the disgrace. I shall drown myself.'
'What will that avail?' sneered Langford. 'Will it save my thousand pounds? Will it save Charles from transportation? It is a pity that there is no more hanging for robbery, or Wellon's mound would be handy, and the old gibbet beam in my barn would serve once more.'
The words were cruel. Honor's teeth clenched and her hands closed convulsively.
Then Oliver Luxmore withdrew his hands from his face, dragged himself towards Langford, and threw himself on the ground at his feet.
'Have pity on him, on me, on us all. The shame will kill us, brand us. It will kill me, it will stain my name, my children, for ever.'
'Get up,' said Langford, roughly. 'I'm not to be moved by men's tears.'
But Oliver was deaf; his great absorbing agony momentarily gave dignity to his feeble pitiful character, to him even crouching on the slate floor.
'Spare us the dishonour,' he pleaded. 'I cannot bear it; this one thing I cannot. Luxmore—thief—convict!' He passed his hand over his brow and raised his eyes; they were blank. 'Luxmore, of Coombe Park—Luxmore! Take care!' his voice became shrill. 'Dishonour I cannot bear. Take care lest you drive me desperate. Rather let us all die, I, Honor, Kate, and the little ones, and end the name, than that it should live on stained.' He tried to rise, but his knees shook and gave way under him.
'You may sell all I have. Take the van, everything. We cannot find you a thousand pounds. We will all work as slaves—only—spare us the dishonour! spare us this!'
Kate came up and cast herself at her father's side and raised her streaming eyes.
'Well,' said Taverner, turning to Honor, 'do you alone not join? Are you too proud?'
'Mr. Langford,' she answered, with emotion, 'you are too hard. I pray to God, who is merciful.'
'You are proud! You are proud!' he said, scowling. 'You, Oliver Luxmore! you, Kate! do not kneel to me. Go, turn to her. The fate of Charles, the honour of your name, your happiness, that of your children, rest with her—with her!'
He looked at her.
She did not speak; she understood his meaning. A pang as of a sword went through her soul. She raised her clenched hands and put them to her mouth, and pressed the knuckles against her teeth. In the agony of that moment she was near screaming.
'There!' said Langford, pointing to her. 'Look how haughty she is. But she must bend. Entreat her, or command her, as you will. With her the issue lies. I will wait till to-morrow at ten, and take no steps for the capture of Charles. If before that hour I have yes, it is well. I pay a thousand pounds for that yes. I shall be content. If not, then—' he did not finish the sentence; he went out at the door.
Then only did Honor give way. She saw as it were a cloud of blue smoke rising round her. She held out her hands, grasping, but catching nothing, and fell on the floor insensible.
CHAPTER XXX.
YES!
Honor could not rest in her bed that night. Oliver Luxmore in the adjoining room groaned and sighed, he was sleepless. Kate, who shared her bed, was awake and tossed from side to side. Poor Kate knew that the disgrace would separate her from Sam. She was too generous to urge her sister to make the costly sacrifice. Oliver felt that words would be unavailing, the matter must be left to Honor; his best advocate was in her own conscience. The resolution one way or the other must be come to by Honor unresisted, unswayed. She lay still in her bed, but Kate knew she did not sleep. She lay with her hands clasped as in prayer on her heaving bosom. Her eyes were on the little latticed window, and on a moth dancing dreamily up and down the panes, a large black moth that made the little diamonds of glass click at the stroke of its wings. Her hair over her brow was curled with the heat of her brain, the light short hair that would not be brushed back and lie with the copper-gold strands. Great drops rolled off her forehead upon the pillow. Afterwards, Kate felt that the cover was wet, and thought it was with Honor's tears, but she was not crying. Her eyes were dry and burning, but the moisture poured off her brow. Her feet were like ice. She might have been dead, she lay so still. Kate hardly heard her breathe. She held her breath and listened once, as she feared Honor was in a swoon. She did not speak to her sister. An indefinable consciousness that Honor must not be disturbed, must be left alone, restrained her. Once she stole her hand under the bedclothes round her sister, and laid it on her heart. Then she knew for certain what a raging storm was awake in that still, hardly breathing form.
That touch, unattended by word, was more than Honor could bear. She said nothing, but stole from bed, and put on some of her clothes. Kate watched her through her half-closed lids, and dared not speak or otherwise interfere. Honor went softly, barefooted down the stairs, that creaked beneath her tread. Her father heard the step. He knew whose it was. He also would not interfere. It was best for all—for Kate, for Charles, for himself, for Joe, and Pattie, and Willie, and Martha, and Charity, and little Temperance—that Honor should be wholly undisturbed.
The girl unfastened the back door, took up the little bench, cast a potato-sack over her head, and went forth, shutting the door gently behind her.
She carried the seat under the hedge in the paddock, where she had watched with Larry, and placed herself on it, then rested her elbow on her knee, and her head in her hand. Her feet were bare, dipped in the dewy grass; a seeded dandelion, stirred by them, shed its ripe down over them. She thrust the sack from her head. She could not endure the weight and the heat, and laid it across her shoulders; from them it slipped unheeded. Her arms were bare from the elbow. The cold night wind stroked the arm that stayed up her scorched brain. She had prayed that God would guide her, and the guidance had led into a way of sorrows. 'It is expedient that one man should die for the people,' those words of the High Priest recurred to Honor, and she thought how that He to whom they referred had accepted the decision. She would have died—died! O how willingly, how eagerly!—for the dear ones under the thatched roof; she would have leaped into fire, not for all, but for any one of them, for little Temperance, for dear Charity, for Martha, for Willie, for darling Pattie, for good, true Joe, for Kate, for her father of course—yes, even for Charles—but this that was demanded of her was worse than a brief spasm of pain in fire; it was a lifelong martyrdom, a sacrifice infinitely more dreadful than of life. The thrushes were singing. There was no night in the midst of June, and the birds did without sleep, or slept in the glare of midday. The only night was within the girl's soul. There was no singing or piping there, but the groaning of a crushed spirit.
She started. She was touched. She put out her hand and sighed. The horse that Langford had let them have was in the paddock; it had become much attached to Honor, and the beast had come over to her, unperceived, and was resting his head on her shoulder and rubbing it against her ear and cheek. She stroked the nose of the beast with her left hand without altering her position, mechanically, and without much diversion of her thoughts. When poor Diamond was dying in the gravel pit, Honor had sat by him and caressed him; now Diamond's successor had come to comfort Honor, as best he could, when her girlhood was dying in anguish, passing into a womanhood of sorrow.
Chink! chink! chink! a finch was perched on the topmost twig of an alder that swayed under its light weight in the wind, repeating its monotonous cry, chink! chink! chink!
The cold about Honor's feet became stronger, the dew looked whiter, as if it were passing into frost, the breath of the horse was as steam. High, far aloft, in the dusky sky some large bird was winging its way from sea to sea, from the Atlantic boisterous barren coast about Bude, to the summer, luxuriant bays of the Channel. What bird it was Honor could not tell. She would not have seen it but that the winking of its wings as they caught the light from the north attracted her attention. Strange as it may seem, though engrossed in her own sorrows, she watched the flap of the wings till they passed beyond range of vision.
Not a cloud was in the sky. The stars were but dimly seen in the silvery haze of summer twilight. One glowworm in the hedge opposite her shone brighter than any star, for it shone out of darkness deeper than the depths of heaven.
One long leaf near Honor was as if it had been varnished, wet with dew, and as the dew gathered on it, it stooped and the moisture ran to the lanceate end, bowing it further, and forming a clear drop; then the drop fell, and the leaf with a dancing rebound recovered its first position. Honor's eye rested on the leaf; as the dew formed on it, and bent it down, so were tears forming on her soul and bowing it. The leaf shook off the drop; would her spirit ever recover?
What wondrous sounds are heard at night! How mysterious, how undiscoverable in origin! It seemed to Honor less still in the meadow, under the thorn hedge, than in the cottage. Insect life was stirring all about; the spiders were spinning, moths flitting, leaves rustling, birds piping, the wind playing among the thorns; the field mice were running, and the night birds watching for them on wing.
All was cool, all but Honor's head. Whatever sounds were heard were pleasant, whatever movement was soothing. Through all the intricate life that stirred there ran a breath of peace—only not over the heaving soul of Honor.
Poor Larry! Honor's thoughts were less of herself than of others. She was sure to the ground of her heart that he loved her. She knew, without riddling out the why and how, that she could have made him happy and good at once. There was sterling gold in him; the fire would purge away the dross. As in the cocoon there is an outer shell of worthless web which must be torn away before the golden thread is discovered, so was it with him; the outer husk of vanity and idleness and inconsiderateness was coming away, and now all that was needed was a tender hand to find and take hold of the end of the thread and spin off the precious fibre. Another hand, rough and heedless, might break and confuse and ruin it.
But, though she knew she could have made Larry's life right and orderly, yet she would not undertake to do so unless she saw the other lives committed to her trust cared for and safe.
Above all, high as the highest star, in her pure soul shone the duty imposed on her by her mother. If she could not combine her duty to the dear ones under the brown thatch with the charge of Larry's destiny, she would not undertake the latter.
And now, most horrible gall to her womanly mind, came the knowledge that she—she whom Larry loved and looked up to—she, she who loved the careless lad, even she must step in between him and his uncle's property, that she was chosen by old Langford as the weapon of his revenge on the Nanspians.
The Langford estate must descend to Larry should his uncle die childless, and she——
Her breath came in a gasp. She tore up the cold dockleaves and pressed them to her brow to cool the burning there, to take the sting out of her nettled brain.
There was no rest for Honor anywhere, in the meadow or in her bed—no rest for her evermore.
She rose and went back to the house, but when she reached the door, true to her regular habits, remembered that she had left the sack and the bench in the field, and went back, fetched them, and put each in its proper place. Nothing was ever left littering about by Honor. If she had been dying and had seen a chip on the floor, she would have striven to rise and remove it.
In the morning the carrier and his two eldest daughters looked haggard and pale.
The children seemed aware of trouble. Joe was attentive and helped to quiet and amuse the youngest, and watched his father, but especially Honor, to read what was menaced in their faces. He had not been at home when Langford came, and his sister Pattie could give him but the vaguest idea of what had occurred. All she knew was that it was a trouble connected with Charles, who had run away. The carrier had to be ready early to start for Tavistock market. Honor and Kate prepared breakfast for him and the children, without a word passing between them on what was uppermost in their minds. As they were eating, the Ashbury postboy passed down the lane and called at the steps.
The carrier went out.
'A letter for you.'
Oliver took and paid for it, then brought it in and opened it slowly with shaking fingers. He, Honor, Kate knew that it must have reference to their trouble. It was in the handwriting of Charles; it bore the Plymouth postmark. The carrier spread it on his plate; he did not read it aloud because Joe and the other children were present; but Honor and Kate stood behind him and read over his shoulder without uttering a word.
This was the letter:—
'Dear Father,—I take my pen in hand, hopping this finds you has it leafs me, with a bad running at the noaz, and a shockin corf, gripes orful in my innerds, and hakes all over me. I dersay you've eard what I gone and done, don't judge me harshly, I couldn't do otherwise, and I'm not so bad to blame as you may suppose. I didn't intend delibberat to do 't, but I did it off-hand so to speke. Wot's dun can't be undun. It's no use crying over spilt milk. Wot can't be kured must be undured. That's wot Mrs. Veale would say, and her's a bad un. I ketched a cold with getting wet running away, but I shall be all rite soon, please God when I'm away on the i seez. I'm goin to Ameri'kay which is the place to which the flour of the British aristokracy go when its ockerd or embarassing at ome. As it is ockerd and embarassing to me, I'm orf, and I hope with the Almighty's aid to do well in the new whirld, wheer I intend to found a new Coom Park, to which I shall invite you all to come, when I can drive you about in a carridge and pare. I want to know how it is with Larry, whether he be alive or dead. I came away in such aste I couldn't stay to know, but I'm very desiring to know. Don't rite to me by my proper name, there may be disagreeables in my wereabout being knone, so direct to Mr. Charles, poast resteny, Plymouth.—From your loving sun,