'CHARLES LUXMORE.'of Coom Park, Esquire.P.S.—Doan't say nothink to nobody of were I be, wotever you do, and kiss the kids for me. Poast anser at Tavistock or Lanson.Oliver Luxmore refolded the letter, and put it away in his pocket without a word. Neither Honor nor Kate spoke or looked at each other. It was too clear to all that Charles was guilty. The last doubt of his guilt disappeared.Oliver went about the horse and van. Honor did not fail to observe the change effected in him by one night. He seemed older by ten years—to have tumbled down the decline of life, and been shaken by the fall. His clothes did not appear to fit him, his walk was unsteady, his hand shook, his eye wandered, his hair had a greyer tinge, and was lank and moist. Joe ran to help in the harnessing of the horse. His father was trying to force on the collar without turning it. He put on the saddle wrong, and fastened the wrong buckles. The boy corrected his father's errors. Then the man brought the van into the lane, and stood with his hand to his forehead.'I've forgotten 'em all,' he said. 'Whatever were the commissions I don't know.' The whip was shaking in his hand as a withy by a waterbrook. 'I shouldn't wonder if I never came back,' he said, then looked up the steps at Honor. It was the first time he had met her eye since Taverner Langford had left the house. 'I shan't know what is to be till I come home,' he muttered. 'The cuckoo-clock has just called seven, and it is three hours to ten. I think my heart will die within me at Tavistock. I shan't be home till night. However I shall bear it and remember my commissions I do not know. Joe shall come with me. I can't think. I can't drive. I can do nothing.'Then Honor came down the steps with her scarlet cloak about her shoulders, and her red stockings on her feet, slowly, looking deadly pale, and with dark rings about her eyes.'Where are you going?' asked the carrier, 'not coming with me to Tavistock?'She shook her head.'Are you—are you going to—to Langford?' he asked. 'To say what?'—he held his breath.'Yes!'CHAPTER XXXI.THE NEW MISTRESS.'Halloo! where be you off to, Red Spider?' asked Farmer Nanspian, who was on Broadbury, when he saw Honor Luxmore in her scarlet cloak coming over the down. 'Stay, stay!' he said, and put his hand to her chin to raise her face. 'You never come Chimsworthy road—leastways, you haven't yet.—Where be you going to now?''To Langford, sir.''To Langford, eh?' his face clouded. 'I didn't think you was on good terms with Mr. Langford. Take care—take care! I won't have he sloke away this Red Spider from Chimsworthy.' Then he nodded, smiled, and went on. He little knew, he had no suspicion, that what he hinted at was really menaced.Honor went on to the old, lonely house, and asked to speak to Mr. Langford. She was shown into his parlour. Taverner was about the farm. She had some minutes to wait, and nerve herself for the interview, before he arrived.'Well,' said he when he came in, 'you are in good time. You have brought me the answer.''Yes,' she replied, looking down.'Do I take that Yes as a reply to this question or to that I made yesterday?''To both.''There's not another woman in all England to whom I'd have behaved as I have to you.''I hope not, sir!''I mean,' said Langford, knitting his brows, and reddening, 'I mean, I would not have foregone a thousand pounds for any other. I would not have spared the man who had robbed me for any other woman's sake.''I have come here,' she said, 'myself, instead of sending a message, because I wished to speak with you in private.''There is no one here to overhear you. I have stopped up the keyhole; Mrs. Veale listened, she can catch nothing now.''Mr. Langford, I was told by my father that you had promised to do something for my brother and sisters.''Oh, do not be afraid—I will do something for them.''I want you to grant me one request, the only one I will ever make of you. Promise me some small yearly sum assured to my father, I do not ask for much. When I am in the house, I can manage, but it is hard work for me to do so. When I am gone, Kate will find it hard, and she may not remain long there; she is a pretty girl, and has her admirers, she is sure to marry soon—then what will become of my father and the little ones? I do not ask you to take them in here. That would not be reasonable—except so far as they can work for you, and be of use to you—Joe will be a valuable servant, and Pattie is growing up to be neat and active and thoughtful.''How many more?' asked Langford.'That is all,' replied Honor quietly. 'If I ask you to do anything for these two it is only because they will be worth more than you will pay them. But I ask for my father. It will be a loss to him, my leaving the house. He will not be happy. Kate is very good, but she does not understand thrift, and she is light-hearted. Promise me a small sum every year for my father and the little ones to relieve them from the pinch of poverty, and to give them ease and happiness.''How many have you?''There are Joe, and Pattie, Willie, Martha, Charity, and Temperance. If I might bring Temperance with me I should be very thankful; she is but three, and will miss me.''In the Proverbs of Solomon we are told that the horseleech hath three daughters, which cry Give, give, give! Here are more, some seven, all wanting to suck blood. If I marry you, I don't marry the family.'Honor was silent, for a moment, recovering herself; his rudeness hurt her, angered her.'I make a request. I will ask nothing more.'She looked up at him, and rested her eyes on his face. He had been observing her; how pale she was—how worn; and it annoyed him: it seemed to him that it had cost her much to resolve to take him; and this was not flattering to his pride.'I cannot grant it,' he said. 'It is not reasonable. I am not going to be eaten out of house and home by a parcel of ravenous schoolchildren. I want you, I do not want all your tail of brothers and sisters, and, worst of all, your helpless father. I know very well what will happen. I shall be thrown to them like an old horse to Squire Impey's pack—to have my flesh torn off, and my bones even crunched up. I cut this away in the beginning; I will not have it.''I ask only for a small sum of money for my father. The van barely sustains him. The family is so large. I will not bring any of the children here, except little Temperance, who is very, very dear to my heart.''No, I will have none of them.''I may not have Temperance?''No, I said, none of them. Give an inch, and an ell is taken. Put in the little finger and the fist follows.''Then you will grant me an allowance for my father?'He laughed. 'A thousand pounds is what you have cost me. When that thousand pounds is made up, or repaid, then we will talk about an allowance. Not till then—no, no! I may pay too dear for my bargain. A thousand pounds is ample.''That is your last word?''My last.'Then Honor, looking steadily at him, said: 'Mr. Langford, it is true that you lose money by me; but I lose what is infinitely more precious by you. I lose my whole life's happiness. When my mother was dying, I promised her to be a mother to her darlings. Now I am put in this terrible position, that, to save them from a great disgrace and an indelible stain, I must leave them. I have spent the whole night thinking out what was right for me to do. If I remain with them, it is with a shame over our whole family. If I go, I save them from that, but they lose my care. One way or other there is something gone. It cannot be other. I have made my choice. I will come to you; but I have strings from my heart to little Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and Willie, and Pattie, and Joe, and Kate, and father. If they are unhappy, uncomfortable, I shall suffer in my soul. If ill comes to them, I shall be in pain. If the little ones grow up neglected, untidy, untruthful, my heart and my head will ache night and day. If my father is uncared for, the distress of knowing it will be on me ever. I shall be drawn by a hundred nerves to my own dear ones, and not be able to do anything for them. You cannot understand me. You must believe me when I say that the loss to me is ten thousand times greater than the loss of a thousand pounds to you. My happiness is in the well-being and well-bringing up of my brothers and sisters. You take all that away from me. Did you ever hear the tale of the widower who married again, and his new wife neglected the children by the dead wife?—One night the father came to the nursery door, and saw the dead woman rocking and soothing the babes. She had come from her grave. The crying had drawn her. She could not sleep because they called her. I do not know that I can bear it, to be separated from my brothers and sisters—I cannot say—if they suffered or were neglected—I fancy nothing could withhold me from going to them.'Taverner remained silent: her eyes seemed to burn their way into him. She shifted her position from one foot to the other; and went on, in an earnest tone, with a vibration in it from the strength of her emotion: 'I am bound to tell you all. If you are to be my husband, you must know everything. I cannot love you. What love I have that is not taken up by Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and Willie, and Pattie, and Joe, and Kate, and father, and——' still looking frankly, earnestly at him, 'yes, and by Charles, I have given elsewhere. I cannot help it. It has been taken from me in a whirlwind of fire, as Elijah was caught up into heaven; it is gone from me; I cannot call it down again. If you insist on knowing to whom I gave it, I will tell you, but not now, not yet—afterwards. To show you, Mr. Langford, how I love my home, I had made up my mind to give him up, to throw away all that beautiful happiness, to forget it as one forgets a dream, because I would not be parted from my dear ones. I was resolved to give him up whom I love for them, and now I am required to give them up for you whom I love not.' She breathed heavily, her labouring heart beat. She drew the red cloak about her, lest the heaving bosom and bounding heart should be noticed. Langford saw the long drops run down her brow, but there were no tears in her eyes.'You will never love me?' he asked.'I cannot say; it depends how you treat my dear ones.'She took a long breath.'There is one reason why my consent costs me more when given to you than to another; but I cannot tell you that now. I will tell you later.'She meant that by marrying him she was widening the breach between the uncle and nephew—that she was marrying the former for the express purpose of depriving the latter of his inheritance. She could not tell Langford this now.'I will do my duty by you to the best of my lights. But I shall have one duty tying me here, and seven drawing me to the little cottage in the lane, and I feel—I feel that I shall be torn to pieces.'Taverner Langford stood up and paced the room with his arms folded behind his back. His head was bowed and his cheeks pale. The girl said no more. She again shifted her feet, and rested both hands, under her cloak, on the table. Langford looked round at her; her head was bent, her yellow-brown hair was tied in a knot behind. As her head was stooping, the back of her neck showed above the red cloak. It was as though she bent before the executioner's axe. He turned away.'Sit down,' he said. 'Why have you been standing? You look ill. What has ailed you?''In body nothing,' she answered.'Who is it?' he asked surlily, looking out of the window, and passing his own fingers over his face.She slightly raised her head and eyes questioningly.'I mean,' he said, without turning to see her, but understanding by her silence that she asked an explanation—'I allude to what you were saying just now. Who is it whom you fancy?''If you insist, I will tell. If you have any pity you will spare me. In time—before the day, you shall know.'He passed his hand over his face again.'This is a pleasant prospect,' he said, but did not explain whether he alluded to the landscape or to his marriage. He said no more to force further confidence from her.'Come,' said he, roughly, and he turned suddenly round, 'you shall see the house. You shall be shown what I have in it, all the rooms and the furniture, also the cowsheds, and the dairy—everything. You shall see what will be yours. You would get no other man with so much as I have.''Not to-day, Mr Langford. Let me go home. I should see nothing to-day. My eyes are full, and my heart fuller.''Then go,' he said, and reseated himself at the table.She moved towards the door. He had his chin on his hand, and was looking at the grate. She hesitated, holding the handle.'Hah!' exclaimed Langford, starting up. 'Did you hear that? a-fluttering down the passage? That was Mrs. Veale, trying to listen, but could hear nothing; trying to peep, but could see nothing, because I have covered every chink. Come here! come here, Mrs. Veale!'As she did not respond, he rang the bell violently, and the pale woman came.'Come here, Mrs. Veale! show the future mistress out of the house! Not by the kitchen, woman! Unbar the great door. Show her out, and curtsey to her, and at the same time take your own discharge.''"When one comes in the other goes out," as the man said of the woman in the weather-house,' remarked Mrs. Veale with a sneer. She curtsied profoundly. 'There's been calm heretofore. Now comes storm.'CHAPTER XXXII.THE CHINA DOG.No sooner was the scarlet cloak gone than Mrs. Veale leaned back against the wall in the passage and laughed. Langford had never heard her laugh before, and the noise she made now was unpleasant. Her face was grey, her pale eyes glimmered in the dark passage.'Will you be quiet?' said Taverner angrily. 'Get along with you into the kitchen and don't stand gulping here like water out of a narrow-necked bottle.''So!—that be the wife you've chosen, master! It is ill screwing a big foot into a small shoe; best suit your shoe to the size of your foot.''You have received notice to leave. A month from to-day.''This is breaking the looking-glass because you don't like your face,' said the housekeeper. '"Come help me on with the plough," said the ox to the gadfly. "With the greatest of pleasure," answered the fly, and stung the ox.''Gadfly!' shouted Taverner. 'Sheathe your sting, please, or don't practise on me.''You marry!' scoffed Mrs. Veale '"I'm partial to honey," said the fox, and upset the hive. "You must learn how to take it," answered the swarm, and surrounded him.''I'll turn you out at once,' said Langford, angrily.'No, you will not,' answered the housekeeper; 'or you will have to pay my wage and get nothing for it. I've served you faithfully all these years, and this is my reward. I am turned away. What has been my pay whilst here? What! compared with my services? And now I am to make room for the sister of a thief. What will become of your earnings when she comes? If her brother picked a stranger, he will skin a relative. And the rest of them! "I am tilling for you," said the farmer to the rabbits; "come into my field and nibble the turnips." Love in an old man is like a spark in a stackyard. It burns up everything, even common sense.'He thrust her down the passage. She kept her white face towards him, and went along sliding her hands against the wall, against which she leaned her back.'I did suppose you had more sense than this. I knew you were bit, but not that you were poisoned. I thought that you would be too wise to go on with your courting when you found that you had been robbed by Charles. Who that is not a fool will give the run of his house to the man who has plundered him? Can you keep him out when you have married his sister? What of the young ones? They will grow up like their brother. Roguery is like measles, it runs through a house. Have not I been faithful? Have I taken a thread out of your clothes, or a nail from your shoe? Have I relations to pester you for help? Mine might have begged, but would not have stolen; yours will have their hands in all your pockets. Now you are everything in the house, and we are all your slaves. All is yours, your voice rules, your will governs. Will it be so when you bring a mistress home—and that Honor Luxmore? Everyone knows her; she governs the house.' Mrs. Veale laughed again. 'That will be a fine sight to see Master Taverner Langford under the slipper. "I'm seen in the half but lost in the full," said the man in the moon.'Langford thrust her through the kitchen door and shut it, then returned to his parlour, where he bolted himself in, and paced the room with his arms folded behind his back.There was enough of truth in what Mrs. Veale had said to make him feel uncomfortable. It was true that now he was absolute in his house; but would he reign as independently when married? Was not the ox inviting the gadfly to help to draw the plough? In going after the honey, like the fox, was he not inviting stings?Langford had suffered great loss from rabbits. They came out of Chimsworthy plantation and fell on his turnips, nibbled pieces out of hundreds, spoiling whole rows, which when touched rotted with the first frost. Therefore Mrs. Veale's allusion to them went home. Yes!—there were a swarm of human rabbits threatening, the children from the cottage. They would all prey on him. He was inviting them to do so. 'I till for you,' said the farmer. Confound Mrs. Veale! Why was she so full of saws and likenesses that cut like knives? And Charles!—of course he would return when he knew that he would not be prosecuted. How could he be prosecuted when the brother-in-law of the man he had robbed? When he returned, how could he be kept away, how prevented from farther rascality? A thousand pounds gone! and he was not to punish the man who had taken the money. This was inviting him to come and rob him again. He did not think much of what Honor had said of an attachment to some unknown person. Taverner had never loved, and knew nothing of love as a passion. He regarded it as an ephemeral fancy. Every girl thought herself in love, got over it, and bore no scars. It would be so with Honor. Presently he rang for his breakfast. Mrs. Veale came in. She saw he was disconcerted, but she said nothing, till the tray was on the table, and she was leaving; then, holding the handle of the door, she said, 'It is a pity.''What is a pity?''The hare hunt.''What of that?' he asked angrily.'That it was not put off a month, then changed to a stag hunt,' she replied, and went through the door quickly, lest he should knock her down.Mrs. Veale went to her kitchen, and seated herself by the fire. She was paler than usual, and her eyelids blinked nervously. There was work to be done that morning, but she neglected it.Her scheme had failed. She had endeavoured to force Charles Luxmore on to steal of his master, thinking that this must inevitably break the connection with the Luxmores. Taverner, she thought, could not possibly pursue his intentions when he knew he had been robbed by Charles. She was disappointed. What next to attempt she knew not. She was determined to prevent the marriage if she could. She had not originally intended to steal the cash-box, nor, indeed, to rob it of any of its contents, but she had been forced to take it, as Charles would not. Now she was given her dismissal, and if she left, she would take the money with her. But she had no desire to leave without further punishment of her ungrateful master. She had spent fifteen years in his service. She had plotted and worked and had not gained any of her ends. She had at first resolved on making him marry her. When she found it impossible to achieve this, she determined to make herself so useful to him, so indispensable, that he would in his old age fall under her power, and then, he would leave her by his will well off. She was now to be driven out into the cold, after all her labour, disappointments, to make room for a young girl. This should not be. If she must go, she would mar the sport behind her back. If Taverner Langford would not take her, he should take none other. If she was not to be mistress in the house, no young chit of a girl should be.She stood up and took down from the chimney-piece a china dog blotched red, and turning it over, removed from the inside a packet of yellow paper.She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not see that someone had entered the kitchen by the open backdoor.'I declare! They'd make a pair!'Mrs. Veale started, a shiver ran through her from head to foot. She turned, still quivering, and looked at the speaker. Kate Luxmore had entered, and stood near the table.'Well, now,' said Kate, 'this is curious. We've got a dog just like that, with long curly ears, and turns his dear old head to the left, and you've one with the same ears, and same colour, turns his head to the right. We'd a pair once, but Joe broke the fellow. I reckon you'd a pair once, but your fellow is broke. 'Tis a pity they two dogs should be widowers and lonely.'Mrs. Veale stared at her; Kate had never been there before. What had brought her there now? Were all the Luxmores coming to make that their home, even before the marriage?'And what have you got there?' pursued Kate, full of liveliness. 'Why, that is one of the yellow paper rat-poison packets the man sold at the fair. I know it. 'Tis a queer thing you keeping the poison in the body of the dog. But I suppose you are right; no one would think to go there for it.''What do you want here?' asked Mrs. Veale, hastily replacing the packet and the dog on the mantel-shelf. 'Why have you come? We've had enough of you Luxmores already. Your brother Charles has played us a pretty tune, and now your sister's like to lead a dance.''I have come for Honor. Is she here?''She—no! She's been gone some time. Ain't she home? Perhaps she's walking over the land, and counting the acres that may be hers, and prizing the fleeces of the sheep.''She is wanted. As for Charles, there's naught proved against him, and till there is, I won't believe it. I've just had a talk with someone, and he tells me another tale altogether. So there—not another word against poor Charles. He wasn't ever sweet on you, I can tell you. 'Tis a pity, too, about those dogs. They're both water-spaniels—what intelligent eyes they have, and what lovely long curly ears! They ought to be a pair some day.''I tell you,' said Mrs. Veale, 'your sister is not here.''Our dog,' went on Kate, unabashed, 'don't belong to father. He is Honor's own. She had the pair, till Joe knocked one of them over. Her mother gave it her. 'Tis curious now that her dog should turn his blessed nose one way, and this dog should turn his nose the other way. It looks as if they were made for each other, which is more than is the case with some that want to be pairing. A mantel-shelf don't look as well with a spaniel in the middle as it do with one at each end. That is, I suppose, why your master is looking out for a wife. Well! I think he'd have matched better with you than with someone else whom I won't name. A house with one in it is like a mantel-shelf with one odd dog on it. Does this chimney ornament belong to you or to the house?''Never mind, go your ways. Don't you think ever to pair them two dogs, nor your sister and the master. There is a third to be considered. If one be broken, there is no pairing. Do y' know what the ash said to the axe?Whether coupled or counter is wisht (unlucky) for me,My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'CHAPTER XXXIII.AMONG THE GORSE.'Where be you going to, Larry?' asked his father. 'I've just seen the Red Spider running Langford way. Take care Uncle Taverner don't sloke that one away as he tried to sloke t'other.'Hearing that Honor was gone over the moor to Langford, Hillary took that direction, and, as he had expected, encountered her as she was returning to her cottage, before she had left the down.'You are going to give me a quarter of an hour,' said Larry. 'I dare say you may be busy, but I can't spare you till we've had it out with each other. I've but one arm now that I can use, but I'll bar the way with that, if you attempt to escape me.'Honor looked at him hesitatingly. She was hardly prepared for the inevitable trial, then. She would have liked to defer it. But, on second thoughts, she considered that it was best to have it over. Sooner or later, an explanation must be made, so perhaps it would be as well for her that day to pass through all the fires. There on Broadbury, when the gorse is swaled (burnt), the cattle are driven through the flames. They plunge and resist, but a ring of men and dogs encloses them, armed with sharp stakes, and goad them forward, and at last, with desperation, lowing, kicking, leaping, angry and terrified, they plunge through the flames. Honor thought of this familiar scene, and that she was herself being driven on. Sooner or later she must enter the fire, be scorched, and pass through; she would traverse it without further resistance at once.'I am ready, Larry,' she said in a low voice.'My dear, dear Honor, what ails you? You are looking ill, and deadly white! What is it, Honor?''We all have our troubles, Larry. You have a broken arm, and I have a breakage somewhere, but never mind where.''I do mind,' he said vehemently, 'What is amiss?''You told me, Larry, the night your arm was hurt, that—your pride had sustained a fall and was broken.''So it was.''So also is mine.''But what has hurt you? How is it? Explain to me all, Honor.'She shook her head. 'It is not my affair only. I have others to consider beside myself, and you must forgive me if my lips are locked.'He put his left arm round her, to draw her to him, and kiss her. 'I will keep the key of those lips,' he said, but she twisted herself from his grasp.'You must not do that, Larry.''Why not? We understand each other. Though we did not speak, that night, our hearts told each other everything.''Larry, do you remember what I said to you when we were together in the paddock?''I remember every word.''I told you that I regarded you—as a brother.''I remember every word but that.''You have been a friend, a dear friend, ever since we were children. You were always thoughtful towards us, my sister and me, when you thought of nothing else. You were always kind, and as Charles was away, of late, I came to think of you as a brother.''But I, Honor, I never have and never will consent to regard you as a sister. I love you more dearly than brother ever loved sister. I never had one of nay own, but I am quite sure I could not think of one in the way I think of you. I love you, Honor, with all my heart, and I respect you and look up to you as the only person who can make me lead a better life than I have led heretofore.'Honor shook her head and sighed. It was her way to answer by nod or shake rather than by word.'I have good news to tell you,' he went on; 'my father is delighted at the prospect, and he is nearly as impatient as I am to have your dear self in Chimsworthy.''I cannot go there,' said Honor in a tone that expressed the desolation of her heart.'Why not?'She hesitated.'Why not, Honor? When I wish it, when my father is eager to receive you?''Dear Larry,' she said sadly, 'it can never, never be.''Come here,' he exclaimed impatiently, and drew her along with him. 'What is the meaning of this? I will understand.' Before them for nearly a mile lay a sheet of gold, a dense mass of unbroken gorse, in full blaze of flower, exhaling a nectareous fragrance in the sun, that filled the air. So dense were the flowers that no green spines could be seen, only various shades of orange and gold and pale yellow. Through it a path had been reaped, for rabbit-shooters, and along this Hillary drew her. The gorse reached to their waists. The fragrance was intoxicating.'Look here, Honor,' said he, 'look at this furze. It is like my nature. It is said that there is not a month in the year in which it does not blossom. Sometimes there is only a golden speck here and there—when the snow is on the ground, not more than a few flowers, and then one stalk sets fire to another, as spring comes on, and the whole bush burns and is not consumed, like that in the desert, when God spoke to Moses from it. It has been so with me, Honor. I have always loved you. Sometimes the prickles have been too thick, and then there have been but few tokens of love; but never, never has the bloom died away altogether. In my heart, Honor, love has always lived, and now it is all blazing, and shining, and full of sweetness.''Larry,' answered Honor slowly, 'look here;' she put her hand to a gorse bush and plucked a mass of golden bloom.'Honor!' he exclaimed, 'what have you done?' She opened her hand, it was full of blood.'I have grasped the glorious flower,' she said, 'and am covered with wounds, and pierced with thorns.''No—no, dear Honor,' he said, taking her hand, removing from it the prickles, and wiping the blood away with the kerchief that bound his broken arm. 'There shall be no thorns in our life together. The thorns will all go from me when I have you to prune me. I have been wild and rough, and I dare say I may have given you pain. I know that I have. I was angry with you and behaved badly; but I was angry only because I loved you.' Then his pleasant sweet smile broke over his pale face, and he said in an altered tone, 'You do not harbour anger, Honor; you forgive, when the offender is repentant.'She raised her eyes to him, and looked long and steadily into his.'I forgive you for any little wrong you may have done me, heartily and wholly. But, O Larry! I must wrong you in a way in which I can expect to get no forgiveness from you.''That is quite impossible,' he said, smiling.'Larry, you cannot even dream what my meaning is. When you know—there will not be a flower on the furze-bush, the last gold bud of love will fall off.''Never, never, Honor!''You do not know.'He was perplexed. What could stand In the way of her ready acceptance of him, except his own former bad conduct?'Honor,' he said, 'I have had some sleepless nights—these have not been altogether caused by my arm—and during the dark hours I have thought over all my past manner of life, and I have quite resolved to break with it. I will no longer be idle. I will no more boast. I will no more let the girls make a fool of me. I will work hard on the farm as any labourer—indeed, Honor, I will work harder and longer than they. If you mistrust me, prove me. I deserve this trial. My father would like you to be his daughter-in-law at once; but I know that I do not deserve you. In the old story, Jacob served fourteen years for Rachel, and I am not a Jacob—I will wait, though fourteen years is more than my patience will bear, still—dear Honor, dear heart!—I will wait. I will wait your own time, I will not say another word to you till you see that I am keeping my promise, and am becoming in some little way worthy of you. I know,' he said in a humble tone, 'that really I can never deserve you—but I shall be happy to try and gain your approval, and, if you do not wish me to say more of my love till I show you I am on the mend, so shall it be. I am content. Put on the kerchief when I am to speak again.'He stopped, and looked at her. She was trembling, and her eyes cast down. Now, at last, the tears had come, and were flowing from her eyes. One, like a crystal, hung on her red cloak. Knowing that he awaited an answer, she raised her head with an effort, and looked despairingly right and left, but saw no help anywhere, only the flare of yellow blossom flickering through a veil of tears.O, infinitely sweet, infinitely glorious was this sight and this outpouring of Larry's heart to her—but infinitely painful as well—piercing, wounding, drawing forth blood—like the gorse.'Larry!' she said earnestly, 'No—no—not for one moment do I doubt your word. I believe everything you say. I could trust you perfectly. I know that with your promise would come fulfilment, but—it is not that.''What is it then?'Shecouldnot tell him. The truth was too repugnant to her to think, much less to tell—and tell tohim.'I cannot tell you; my father, my brothers and sisters.''I have thought of that, you dear true soul,' he interrupted. 'I know that you will not wish to hurt them. But, Honor, there will be no desertion. I have only to cut a gap through the hedge of your paddock, and in three minutes, straight as an arrow, you can go from one house to the other. Round by the road is longer, but when you are at Chimsworthy we'll have a path between; then you can go to and fro as you like, and the little ones will be always on the run. You can have them all in with you when and as long as you like; and my father will be over-pleased if your father will come and keep him company on the Look-out stone. Since Uncle Taverner and he have quarrelled father has been dull, and felt the want of some one to talk to. So you see all will be just right. Everything comes as though it were fitted to be as we are going to make it.'Again he paused, waiting for her answer. Whilst he had been speaking she had worked herself up to the necessary pitch of resolution to tell him something—not all, no! all she could not tell.'Larry! it cannot be. I am going to marry another.'He stood still, motionless, not even breathing, gazing at her with stupid wonder. What she said was impossible. Then a puff of north-west wind came from the far ocean, rolling over the down, gathering the fragrance of the yellow sea, and condensing it; then poured it as a breaking wave over the heads of those two standing in the lane cut through the golden trees. And with the odour came a humming, a low thrilling music, as the wind passed through the myriad spines beneath the foam of flower, and set them vibrating as the tongues of Æolian harps. The sweetness and the harmony were in the air, all around, only not in the hearts of those two young people, standing breast deep in the gorse-brake. The wind passed, and all was still once more. They stood opposite each other, speechless. Her hand, which he had let go, had fallen, and the blood dropped from it. How long they thus stood neither knew. He was looking at her; she had bent her head, and the sun on her hair was more glorious than on the gorse-flowers. He would have pierced to the depth of her soul and read it if he could, but he was baffled. There was an impenetrable veil over it, through which he could not see.'You do not—you have not loved me,' he said with an effort. This was the meaning of her coldness, her reserve. Then he put out his left hand and touched her, touched her lightly on the bosom. That light touch was powerful as the rod of Moses on the rock in Horeb. Her self-control deserted her. She clasped her hands on her breast, and bowed, and burst into convulsive weeping, which was made worse by her efforts to arrest it and to speak.Hillary said nothing. He was too dazed to ask for any explanation, too stupefied by the unexpected declaration that cut away for ever the ground of his happiness.She waved her hand. 'Leave me alone. Go, Larry, go! I can tell you nothing more! Let me alone! Oh, leave me alone, Larry!'He could not refuse to obey, her distress was so great, her entreaty so urgent. Silent, filled with despair, with his eyes on the ground, he went along the straight-cut path towards the road, and nearly ran against Kate.'Oh! you here!' exclaimed the lively girl, 'then Honor is not far distant. Where is she? What, yonder! and I have been to Langford to look for her. What is the matter? Oh, fiddlesticks! you have been making yourselves and each other miserable. There is no occasion for that till all is desperate, and it is not so yet. Come along, Larry, back to Honor. I must see her; I want to tell her something, and you may as well be by. You are almost one of the family.'She made him follow her. Honor had recovered her composure when left to herself, unwatched, and she was able to disguise her emotions from her sister.'Oh, Honor!' exclaimed Kate, 'I have something to tell you. I think you've been a fool, and too precipitate—I do indeed, and so does Sam Voaden. A little while ago I chanced to go down the lane after some water, when, curiously enough, Sam was coming along it, and we had a neighbourly word or two between us. I told Sam all about Charles, and what Mr. Langford charged him with.''Kate—you never—!' gasped Honor in dismay.'I did. Why not? Where's the hurt? Sam swore to me he'd tell no one.''What is this?' asked Hillary.'Don't you know?' retorted Kate. 'What, has Honor not told you? Faith! there never was another girl like her for padlocking her tongue. I'm sure I could not keep from telling. Sam saw I was in trouble and asked the reason, and my breast was as full as my pitcher, so it overflowed. Well, Honor, Sam is not such a fool as some suppose. He has more sense than all we Luxmores put together—leastways, than we had last night. He says he don't believe a word of it, and that you was to blame for acting on it till you knew it was true.''It is true. I know it is true,' said Honor disconsolately. 'It is no use denying it.''But, as Sam said, why act on it till it is proved? Where is Charles? All you know is from Taverner Langford, and he is an interested party; he may be mistaken, or he may put things wrong way on wilfully.''No, Kate, no! You should not have spoken.''But I have spoken. If a pitcher is full, will it not run over the brim? I have been over-full, and have overflowed. That is nature, my nature, and I can't help it. No hurt is done. Sam will not talk about it to anyone; and what he says shows more sense than is to be found in all the nine heads that go under our cottage roof, wise as you consider yourself, Honor. Sam says nothing ought to be promised or done till Charles has been seen and you have heard what account he can give of himself.''His letter, Kate?''Well, what of his letter? He says nothing about stealing in it—stealing a thousand pounds. What he says may mean no more than his running away and leaving ninepence a day for nothing.''I am sorry you spoke,' said Honor.'I am glad I spoke,' said Kate sharply. 'I tell you Sam's brain is bigger than all our nine. He saw the rights of the matter at once, and—look here!—he promised me that he would go and find Charles if he's gone no further than Plymouth.''You told him where he was!' exclaimed Honor, aghast.'Of course I did. I wasn't going to send him off searching to Lundy Isle or Patagonia. Well, Sam says that he'll go and find him on certain conditions?''On what conditions?''Never mind, they don't concern you, they are private. And he wants to have a talk with Larry first; but Sam says he don't believe Charles took the money. He's too much of a Luxmore to act dishonourable, he said.'Honor was still unconvinced. 'Larry,' continued Kate, 'will you go at once to Swaddledown and see Sam?''Yes; but I understand nothing of what this is about. You must explain it to me.''No, Larry, go to Sam—he knows all.'
of Coom Park, Esquire.
P.S.—Doan't say nothink to nobody of were I be, wotever you do, and kiss the kids for me. Poast anser at Tavistock or Lanson.
Oliver Luxmore refolded the letter, and put it away in his pocket without a word. Neither Honor nor Kate spoke or looked at each other. It was too clear to all that Charles was guilty. The last doubt of his guilt disappeared.
Oliver went about the horse and van. Honor did not fail to observe the change effected in him by one night. He seemed older by ten years—to have tumbled down the decline of life, and been shaken by the fall. His clothes did not appear to fit him, his walk was unsteady, his hand shook, his eye wandered, his hair had a greyer tinge, and was lank and moist. Joe ran to help in the harnessing of the horse. His father was trying to force on the collar without turning it. He put on the saddle wrong, and fastened the wrong buckles. The boy corrected his father's errors. Then the man brought the van into the lane, and stood with his hand to his forehead.
'I've forgotten 'em all,' he said. 'Whatever were the commissions I don't know.' The whip was shaking in his hand as a withy by a waterbrook. 'I shouldn't wonder if I never came back,' he said, then looked up the steps at Honor. It was the first time he had met her eye since Taverner Langford had left the house. 'I shan't know what is to be till I come home,' he muttered. 'The cuckoo-clock has just called seven, and it is three hours to ten. I think my heart will die within me at Tavistock. I shan't be home till night. However I shall bear it and remember my commissions I do not know. Joe shall come with me. I can't think. I can't drive. I can do nothing.'
Then Honor came down the steps with her scarlet cloak about her shoulders, and her red stockings on her feet, slowly, looking deadly pale, and with dark rings about her eyes.
'Where are you going?' asked the carrier, 'not coming with me to Tavistock?'
She shook her head.
'Are you—are you going to—to Langford?' he asked. 'To say what?'—he held his breath.
'Yes!'
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE NEW MISTRESS.
'Halloo! where be you off to, Red Spider?' asked Farmer Nanspian, who was on Broadbury, when he saw Honor Luxmore in her scarlet cloak coming over the down. 'Stay, stay!' he said, and put his hand to her chin to raise her face. 'You never come Chimsworthy road—leastways, you haven't yet.—Where be you going to now?'
'To Langford, sir.'
'To Langford, eh?' his face clouded. 'I didn't think you was on good terms with Mr. Langford. Take care—take care! I won't have he sloke away this Red Spider from Chimsworthy.' Then he nodded, smiled, and went on. He little knew, he had no suspicion, that what he hinted at was really menaced.
Honor went on to the old, lonely house, and asked to speak to Mr. Langford. She was shown into his parlour. Taverner was about the farm. She had some minutes to wait, and nerve herself for the interview, before he arrived.
'Well,' said he when he came in, 'you are in good time. You have brought me the answer.'
'Yes,' she replied, looking down.
'Do I take that Yes as a reply to this question or to that I made yesterday?'
'To both.'
'There's not another woman in all England to whom I'd have behaved as I have to you.'
'I hope not, sir!'
'I mean,' said Langford, knitting his brows, and reddening, 'I mean, I would not have foregone a thousand pounds for any other. I would not have spared the man who had robbed me for any other woman's sake.'
'I have come here,' she said, 'myself, instead of sending a message, because I wished to speak with you in private.'
'There is no one here to overhear you. I have stopped up the keyhole; Mrs. Veale listened, she can catch nothing now.'
'Mr. Langford, I was told by my father that you had promised to do something for my brother and sisters.'
'Oh, do not be afraid—I will do something for them.'
'I want you to grant me one request, the only one I will ever make of you. Promise me some small yearly sum assured to my father, I do not ask for much. When I am in the house, I can manage, but it is hard work for me to do so. When I am gone, Kate will find it hard, and she may not remain long there; she is a pretty girl, and has her admirers, she is sure to marry soon—then what will become of my father and the little ones? I do not ask you to take them in here. That would not be reasonable—except so far as they can work for you, and be of use to you—Joe will be a valuable servant, and Pattie is growing up to be neat and active and thoughtful.'
'How many more?' asked Langford.
'That is all,' replied Honor quietly. 'If I ask you to do anything for these two it is only because they will be worth more than you will pay them. But I ask for my father. It will be a loss to him, my leaving the house. He will not be happy. Kate is very good, but she does not understand thrift, and she is light-hearted. Promise me a small sum every year for my father and the little ones to relieve them from the pinch of poverty, and to give them ease and happiness.'
'How many have you?'
'There are Joe, and Pattie, Willie, Martha, Charity, and Temperance. If I might bring Temperance with me I should be very thankful; she is but three, and will miss me.'
'In the Proverbs of Solomon we are told that the horseleech hath three daughters, which cry Give, give, give! Here are more, some seven, all wanting to suck blood. If I marry you, I don't marry the family.'
Honor was silent, for a moment, recovering herself; his rudeness hurt her, angered her.
'I make a request. I will ask nothing more.'
She looked up at him, and rested her eyes on his face. He had been observing her; how pale she was—how worn; and it annoyed him: it seemed to him that it had cost her much to resolve to take him; and this was not flattering to his pride.
'I cannot grant it,' he said. 'It is not reasonable. I am not going to be eaten out of house and home by a parcel of ravenous schoolchildren. I want you, I do not want all your tail of brothers and sisters, and, worst of all, your helpless father. I know very well what will happen. I shall be thrown to them like an old horse to Squire Impey's pack—to have my flesh torn off, and my bones even crunched up. I cut this away in the beginning; I will not have it.'
'I ask only for a small sum of money for my father. The van barely sustains him. The family is so large. I will not bring any of the children here, except little Temperance, who is very, very dear to my heart.'
'No, I will have none of them.'
'I may not have Temperance?'
'No, I said, none of them. Give an inch, and an ell is taken. Put in the little finger and the fist follows.'
'Then you will grant me an allowance for my father?'
He laughed. 'A thousand pounds is what you have cost me. When that thousand pounds is made up, or repaid, then we will talk about an allowance. Not till then—no, no! I may pay too dear for my bargain. A thousand pounds is ample.'
'That is your last word?'
'My last.'
Then Honor, looking steadily at him, said: 'Mr. Langford, it is true that you lose money by me; but I lose what is infinitely more precious by you. I lose my whole life's happiness. When my mother was dying, I promised her to be a mother to her darlings. Now I am put in this terrible position, that, to save them from a great disgrace and an indelible stain, I must leave them. I have spent the whole night thinking out what was right for me to do. If I remain with them, it is with a shame over our whole family. If I go, I save them from that, but they lose my care. One way or other there is something gone. It cannot be other. I have made my choice. I will come to you; but I have strings from my heart to little Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and Willie, and Pattie, and Joe, and Kate, and father. If they are unhappy, uncomfortable, I shall suffer in my soul. If ill comes to them, I shall be in pain. If the little ones grow up neglected, untidy, untruthful, my heart and my head will ache night and day. If my father is uncared for, the distress of knowing it will be on me ever. I shall be drawn by a hundred nerves to my own dear ones, and not be able to do anything for them. You cannot understand me. You must believe me when I say that the loss to me is ten thousand times greater than the loss of a thousand pounds to you. My happiness is in the well-being and well-bringing up of my brothers and sisters. You take all that away from me. Did you ever hear the tale of the widower who married again, and his new wife neglected the children by the dead wife?—One night the father came to the nursery door, and saw the dead woman rocking and soothing the babes. She had come from her grave. The crying had drawn her. She could not sleep because they called her. I do not know that I can bear it, to be separated from my brothers and sisters—I cannot say—if they suffered or were neglected—I fancy nothing could withhold me from going to them.'
Taverner remained silent: her eyes seemed to burn their way into him. She shifted her position from one foot to the other; and went on, in an earnest tone, with a vibration in it from the strength of her emotion: 'I am bound to tell you all. If you are to be my husband, you must know everything. I cannot love you. What love I have that is not taken up by Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and Willie, and Pattie, and Joe, and Kate, and father, and——' still looking frankly, earnestly at him, 'yes, and by Charles, I have given elsewhere. I cannot help it. It has been taken from me in a whirlwind of fire, as Elijah was caught up into heaven; it is gone from me; I cannot call it down again. If you insist on knowing to whom I gave it, I will tell you, but not now, not yet—afterwards. To show you, Mr. Langford, how I love my home, I had made up my mind to give him up, to throw away all that beautiful happiness, to forget it as one forgets a dream, because I would not be parted from my dear ones. I was resolved to give him up whom I love for them, and now I am required to give them up for you whom I love not.' She breathed heavily, her labouring heart beat. She drew the red cloak about her, lest the heaving bosom and bounding heart should be noticed. Langford saw the long drops run down her brow, but there were no tears in her eyes.
'You will never love me?' he asked.
'I cannot say; it depends how you treat my dear ones.'
She took a long breath.
'There is one reason why my consent costs me more when given to you than to another; but I cannot tell you that now. I will tell you later.'
She meant that by marrying him she was widening the breach between the uncle and nephew—that she was marrying the former for the express purpose of depriving the latter of his inheritance. She could not tell Langford this now.
'I will do my duty by you to the best of my lights. But I shall have one duty tying me here, and seven drawing me to the little cottage in the lane, and I feel—I feel that I shall be torn to pieces.'
Taverner Langford stood up and paced the room with his arms folded behind his back. His head was bowed and his cheeks pale. The girl said no more. She again shifted her feet, and rested both hands, under her cloak, on the table. Langford looked round at her; her head was bent, her yellow-brown hair was tied in a knot behind. As her head was stooping, the back of her neck showed above the red cloak. It was as though she bent before the executioner's axe. He turned away.
'Sit down,' he said. 'Why have you been standing? You look ill. What has ailed you?'
'In body nothing,' she answered.
'Who is it?' he asked surlily, looking out of the window, and passing his own fingers over his face.
She slightly raised her head and eyes questioningly.
'I mean,' he said, without turning to see her, but understanding by her silence that she asked an explanation—'I allude to what you were saying just now. Who is it whom you fancy?'
'If you insist, I will tell. If you have any pity you will spare me. In time—before the day, you shall know.'
He passed his hand over his face again.
'This is a pleasant prospect,' he said, but did not explain whether he alluded to the landscape or to his marriage. He said no more to force further confidence from her.
'Come,' said he, roughly, and he turned suddenly round, 'you shall see the house. You shall be shown what I have in it, all the rooms and the furniture, also the cowsheds, and the dairy—everything. You shall see what will be yours. You would get no other man with so much as I have.'
'Not to-day, Mr Langford. Let me go home. I should see nothing to-day. My eyes are full, and my heart fuller.'
'Then go,' he said, and reseated himself at the table.
She moved towards the door. He had his chin on his hand, and was looking at the grate. She hesitated, holding the handle.
'Hah!' exclaimed Langford, starting up. 'Did you hear that? a-fluttering down the passage? That was Mrs. Veale, trying to listen, but could hear nothing; trying to peep, but could see nothing, because I have covered every chink. Come here! come here, Mrs. Veale!'
As she did not respond, he rang the bell violently, and the pale woman came.
'Come here, Mrs. Veale! show the future mistress out of the house! Not by the kitchen, woman! Unbar the great door. Show her out, and curtsey to her, and at the same time take your own discharge.'
'"When one comes in the other goes out," as the man said of the woman in the weather-house,' remarked Mrs. Veale with a sneer. She curtsied profoundly. 'There's been calm heretofore. Now comes storm.'
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE CHINA DOG.
No sooner was the scarlet cloak gone than Mrs. Veale leaned back against the wall in the passage and laughed. Langford had never heard her laugh before, and the noise she made now was unpleasant. Her face was grey, her pale eyes glimmered in the dark passage.
'Will you be quiet?' said Taverner angrily. 'Get along with you into the kitchen and don't stand gulping here like water out of a narrow-necked bottle.'
'So!—that be the wife you've chosen, master! It is ill screwing a big foot into a small shoe; best suit your shoe to the size of your foot.'
'You have received notice to leave. A month from to-day.'
'This is breaking the looking-glass because you don't like your face,' said the housekeeper. '"Come help me on with the plough," said the ox to the gadfly. "With the greatest of pleasure," answered the fly, and stung the ox.'
'Gadfly!' shouted Taverner. 'Sheathe your sting, please, or don't practise on me.'
'You marry!' scoffed Mrs. Veale '"I'm partial to honey," said the fox, and upset the hive. "You must learn how to take it," answered the swarm, and surrounded him.'
'I'll turn you out at once,' said Langford, angrily.
'No, you will not,' answered the housekeeper; 'or you will have to pay my wage and get nothing for it. I've served you faithfully all these years, and this is my reward. I am turned away. What has been my pay whilst here? What! compared with my services? And now I am to make room for the sister of a thief. What will become of your earnings when she comes? If her brother picked a stranger, he will skin a relative. And the rest of them! "I am tilling for you," said the farmer to the rabbits; "come into my field and nibble the turnips." Love in an old man is like a spark in a stackyard. It burns up everything, even common sense.'
He thrust her down the passage. She kept her white face towards him, and went along sliding her hands against the wall, against which she leaned her back.
'I did suppose you had more sense than this. I knew you were bit, but not that you were poisoned. I thought that you would be too wise to go on with your courting when you found that you had been robbed by Charles. Who that is not a fool will give the run of his house to the man who has plundered him? Can you keep him out when you have married his sister? What of the young ones? They will grow up like their brother. Roguery is like measles, it runs through a house. Have not I been faithful? Have I taken a thread out of your clothes, or a nail from your shoe? Have I relations to pester you for help? Mine might have begged, but would not have stolen; yours will have their hands in all your pockets. Now you are everything in the house, and we are all your slaves. All is yours, your voice rules, your will governs. Will it be so when you bring a mistress home—and that Honor Luxmore? Everyone knows her; she governs the house.' Mrs. Veale laughed again. 'That will be a fine sight to see Master Taverner Langford under the slipper. "I'm seen in the half but lost in the full," said the man in the moon.'
Langford thrust her through the kitchen door and shut it, then returned to his parlour, where he bolted himself in, and paced the room with his arms folded behind his back.
There was enough of truth in what Mrs. Veale had said to make him feel uncomfortable. It was true that now he was absolute in his house; but would he reign as independently when married? Was not the ox inviting the gadfly to help to draw the plough? In going after the honey, like the fox, was he not inviting stings?
Langford had suffered great loss from rabbits. They came out of Chimsworthy plantation and fell on his turnips, nibbled pieces out of hundreds, spoiling whole rows, which when touched rotted with the first frost. Therefore Mrs. Veale's allusion to them went home. Yes!—there were a swarm of human rabbits threatening, the children from the cottage. They would all prey on him. He was inviting them to do so. 'I till for you,' said the farmer. Confound Mrs. Veale! Why was she so full of saws and likenesses that cut like knives? And Charles!—of course he would return when he knew that he would not be prosecuted. How could he be prosecuted when the brother-in-law of the man he had robbed? When he returned, how could he be kept away, how prevented from farther rascality? A thousand pounds gone! and he was not to punish the man who had taken the money. This was inviting him to come and rob him again. He did not think much of what Honor had said of an attachment to some unknown person. Taverner had never loved, and knew nothing of love as a passion. He regarded it as an ephemeral fancy. Every girl thought herself in love, got over it, and bore no scars. It would be so with Honor. Presently he rang for his breakfast. Mrs. Veale came in. She saw he was disconcerted, but she said nothing, till the tray was on the table, and she was leaving; then, holding the handle of the door, she said, 'It is a pity.'
'What is a pity?'
'The hare hunt.'
'What of that?' he asked angrily.
'That it was not put off a month, then changed to a stag hunt,' she replied, and went through the door quickly, lest he should knock her down.
Mrs. Veale went to her kitchen, and seated herself by the fire. She was paler than usual, and her eyelids blinked nervously. There was work to be done that morning, but she neglected it.
Her scheme had failed. She had endeavoured to force Charles Luxmore on to steal of his master, thinking that this must inevitably break the connection with the Luxmores. Taverner, she thought, could not possibly pursue his intentions when he knew he had been robbed by Charles. She was disappointed. What next to attempt she knew not. She was determined to prevent the marriage if she could. She had not originally intended to steal the cash-box, nor, indeed, to rob it of any of its contents, but she had been forced to take it, as Charles would not. Now she was given her dismissal, and if she left, she would take the money with her. But she had no desire to leave without further punishment of her ungrateful master. She had spent fifteen years in his service. She had plotted and worked and had not gained any of her ends. She had at first resolved on making him marry her. When she found it impossible to achieve this, she determined to make herself so useful to him, so indispensable, that he would in his old age fall under her power, and then, he would leave her by his will well off. She was now to be driven out into the cold, after all her labour, disappointments, to make room for a young girl. This should not be. If she must go, she would mar the sport behind her back. If Taverner Langford would not take her, he should take none other. If she was not to be mistress in the house, no young chit of a girl should be.
She stood up and took down from the chimney-piece a china dog blotched red, and turning it over, removed from the inside a packet of yellow paper.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not see that someone had entered the kitchen by the open backdoor.
'I declare! They'd make a pair!'
Mrs. Veale started, a shiver ran through her from head to foot. She turned, still quivering, and looked at the speaker. Kate Luxmore had entered, and stood near the table.
'Well, now,' said Kate, 'this is curious. We've got a dog just like that, with long curly ears, and turns his dear old head to the left, and you've one with the same ears, and same colour, turns his head to the right. We'd a pair once, but Joe broke the fellow. I reckon you'd a pair once, but your fellow is broke. 'Tis a pity they two dogs should be widowers and lonely.'
Mrs. Veale stared at her; Kate had never been there before. What had brought her there now? Were all the Luxmores coming to make that their home, even before the marriage?
'And what have you got there?' pursued Kate, full of liveliness. 'Why, that is one of the yellow paper rat-poison packets the man sold at the fair. I know it. 'Tis a queer thing you keeping the poison in the body of the dog. But I suppose you are right; no one would think to go there for it.'
'What do you want here?' asked Mrs. Veale, hastily replacing the packet and the dog on the mantel-shelf. 'Why have you come? We've had enough of you Luxmores already. Your brother Charles has played us a pretty tune, and now your sister's like to lead a dance.'
'I have come for Honor. Is she here?'
'She—no! She's been gone some time. Ain't she home? Perhaps she's walking over the land, and counting the acres that may be hers, and prizing the fleeces of the sheep.'
'She is wanted. As for Charles, there's naught proved against him, and till there is, I won't believe it. I've just had a talk with someone, and he tells me another tale altogether. So there—not another word against poor Charles. He wasn't ever sweet on you, I can tell you. 'Tis a pity, too, about those dogs. They're both water-spaniels—what intelligent eyes they have, and what lovely long curly ears! They ought to be a pair some day.'
'I tell you,' said Mrs. Veale, 'your sister is not here.'
'Our dog,' went on Kate, unabashed, 'don't belong to father. He is Honor's own. She had the pair, till Joe knocked one of them over. Her mother gave it her. 'Tis curious now that her dog should turn his blessed nose one way, and this dog should turn his nose the other way. It looks as if they were made for each other, which is more than is the case with some that want to be pairing. A mantel-shelf don't look as well with a spaniel in the middle as it do with one at each end. That is, I suppose, why your master is looking out for a wife. Well! I think he'd have matched better with you than with someone else whom I won't name. A house with one in it is like a mantel-shelf with one odd dog on it. Does this chimney ornament belong to you or to the house?'
'Never mind, go your ways. Don't you think ever to pair them two dogs, nor your sister and the master. There is a third to be considered. If one be broken, there is no pairing. Do y' know what the ash said to the axe?
Whether coupled or counter is wisht (unlucky) for me,My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'
Whether coupled or counter is wisht (unlucky) for me,My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'
Whether coupled or counter is wisht (unlucky) for me,
My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'
My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'
CHAPTER XXXIII.
AMONG THE GORSE.
'Where be you going to, Larry?' asked his father. 'I've just seen the Red Spider running Langford way. Take care Uncle Taverner don't sloke that one away as he tried to sloke t'other.'
Hearing that Honor was gone over the moor to Langford, Hillary took that direction, and, as he had expected, encountered her as she was returning to her cottage, before she had left the down.
'You are going to give me a quarter of an hour,' said Larry. 'I dare say you may be busy, but I can't spare you till we've had it out with each other. I've but one arm now that I can use, but I'll bar the way with that, if you attempt to escape me.'
Honor looked at him hesitatingly. She was hardly prepared for the inevitable trial, then. She would have liked to defer it. But, on second thoughts, she considered that it was best to have it over. Sooner or later, an explanation must be made, so perhaps it would be as well for her that day to pass through all the fires. There on Broadbury, when the gorse is swaled (burnt), the cattle are driven through the flames. They plunge and resist, but a ring of men and dogs encloses them, armed with sharp stakes, and goad them forward, and at last, with desperation, lowing, kicking, leaping, angry and terrified, they plunge through the flames. Honor thought of this familiar scene, and that she was herself being driven on. Sooner or later she must enter the fire, be scorched, and pass through; she would traverse it without further resistance at once.
'I am ready, Larry,' she said in a low voice.
'My dear, dear Honor, what ails you? You are looking ill, and deadly white! What is it, Honor?'
'We all have our troubles, Larry. You have a broken arm, and I have a breakage somewhere, but never mind where.'
'I do mind,' he said vehemently, 'What is amiss?'
'You told me, Larry, the night your arm was hurt, that—your pride had sustained a fall and was broken.'
'So it was.'
'So also is mine.'
'But what has hurt you? How is it? Explain to me all, Honor.'
She shook her head. 'It is not my affair only. I have others to consider beside myself, and you must forgive me if my lips are locked.'
He put his left arm round her, to draw her to him, and kiss her. 'I will keep the key of those lips,' he said, but she twisted herself from his grasp.
'You must not do that, Larry.'
'Why not? We understand each other. Though we did not speak, that night, our hearts told each other everything.'
'Larry, do you remember what I said to you when we were together in the paddock?'
'I remember every word.'
'I told you that I regarded you—as a brother.'
'I remember every word but that.'
'You have been a friend, a dear friend, ever since we were children. You were always thoughtful towards us, my sister and me, when you thought of nothing else. You were always kind, and as Charles was away, of late, I came to think of you as a brother.'
'But I, Honor, I never have and never will consent to regard you as a sister. I love you more dearly than brother ever loved sister. I never had one of nay own, but I am quite sure I could not think of one in the way I think of you. I love you, Honor, with all my heart, and I respect you and look up to you as the only person who can make me lead a better life than I have led heretofore.'
Honor shook her head and sighed. It was her way to answer by nod or shake rather than by word.
'I have good news to tell you,' he went on; 'my father is delighted at the prospect, and he is nearly as impatient as I am to have your dear self in Chimsworthy.'
'I cannot go there,' said Honor in a tone that expressed the desolation of her heart.
'Why not?'
She hesitated.
'Why not, Honor? When I wish it, when my father is eager to receive you?'
'Dear Larry,' she said sadly, 'it can never, never be.'
'Come here,' he exclaimed impatiently, and drew her along with him. 'What is the meaning of this? I will understand.' Before them for nearly a mile lay a sheet of gold, a dense mass of unbroken gorse, in full blaze of flower, exhaling a nectareous fragrance in the sun, that filled the air. So dense were the flowers that no green spines could be seen, only various shades of orange and gold and pale yellow. Through it a path had been reaped, for rabbit-shooters, and along this Hillary drew her. The gorse reached to their waists. The fragrance was intoxicating.
'Look here, Honor,' said he, 'look at this furze. It is like my nature. It is said that there is not a month in the year in which it does not blossom. Sometimes there is only a golden speck here and there—when the snow is on the ground, not more than a few flowers, and then one stalk sets fire to another, as spring comes on, and the whole bush burns and is not consumed, like that in the desert, when God spoke to Moses from it. It has been so with me, Honor. I have always loved you. Sometimes the prickles have been too thick, and then there have been but few tokens of love; but never, never has the bloom died away altogether. In my heart, Honor, love has always lived, and now it is all blazing, and shining, and full of sweetness.'
'Larry,' answered Honor slowly, 'look here;' she put her hand to a gorse bush and plucked a mass of golden bloom.
'Honor!' he exclaimed, 'what have you done?' She opened her hand, it was full of blood.
'I have grasped the glorious flower,' she said, 'and am covered with wounds, and pierced with thorns.'
'No—no, dear Honor,' he said, taking her hand, removing from it the prickles, and wiping the blood away with the kerchief that bound his broken arm. 'There shall be no thorns in our life together. The thorns will all go from me when I have you to prune me. I have been wild and rough, and I dare say I may have given you pain. I know that I have. I was angry with you and behaved badly; but I was angry only because I loved you.' Then his pleasant sweet smile broke over his pale face, and he said in an altered tone, 'You do not harbour anger, Honor; you forgive, when the offender is repentant.'
She raised her eyes to him, and looked long and steadily into his.
'I forgive you for any little wrong you may have done me, heartily and wholly. But, O Larry! I must wrong you in a way in which I can expect to get no forgiveness from you.'
'That is quite impossible,' he said, smiling.
'Larry, you cannot even dream what my meaning is. When you know—there will not be a flower on the furze-bush, the last gold bud of love will fall off.'
'Never, never, Honor!'
'You do not know.'
He was perplexed. What could stand In the way of her ready acceptance of him, except his own former bad conduct?
'Honor,' he said, 'I have had some sleepless nights—these have not been altogether caused by my arm—and during the dark hours I have thought over all my past manner of life, and I have quite resolved to break with it. I will no longer be idle. I will no more boast. I will no more let the girls make a fool of me. I will work hard on the farm as any labourer—indeed, Honor, I will work harder and longer than they. If you mistrust me, prove me. I deserve this trial. My father would like you to be his daughter-in-law at once; but I know that I do not deserve you. In the old story, Jacob served fourteen years for Rachel, and I am not a Jacob—I will wait, though fourteen years is more than my patience will bear, still—dear Honor, dear heart!—I will wait. I will wait your own time, I will not say another word to you till you see that I am keeping my promise, and am becoming in some little way worthy of you. I know,' he said in a humble tone, 'that really I can never deserve you—but I shall be happy to try and gain your approval, and, if you do not wish me to say more of my love till I show you I am on the mend, so shall it be. I am content. Put on the kerchief when I am to speak again.'
He stopped, and looked at her. She was trembling, and her eyes cast down. Now, at last, the tears had come, and were flowing from her eyes. One, like a crystal, hung on her red cloak. Knowing that he awaited an answer, she raised her head with an effort, and looked despairingly right and left, but saw no help anywhere, only the flare of yellow blossom flickering through a veil of tears.
O, infinitely sweet, infinitely glorious was this sight and this outpouring of Larry's heart to her—but infinitely painful as well—piercing, wounding, drawing forth blood—like the gorse.
'Larry!' she said earnestly, 'No—no—not for one moment do I doubt your word. I believe everything you say. I could trust you perfectly. I know that with your promise would come fulfilment, but—it is not that.'
'What is it then?'
Shecouldnot tell him. The truth was too repugnant to her to think, much less to tell—and tell tohim.
'I cannot tell you; my father, my brothers and sisters.'
'I have thought of that, you dear true soul,' he interrupted. 'I know that you will not wish to hurt them. But, Honor, there will be no desertion. I have only to cut a gap through the hedge of your paddock, and in three minutes, straight as an arrow, you can go from one house to the other. Round by the road is longer, but when you are at Chimsworthy we'll have a path between; then you can go to and fro as you like, and the little ones will be always on the run. You can have them all in with you when and as long as you like; and my father will be over-pleased if your father will come and keep him company on the Look-out stone. Since Uncle Taverner and he have quarrelled father has been dull, and felt the want of some one to talk to. So you see all will be just right. Everything comes as though it were fitted to be as we are going to make it.'
Again he paused, waiting for her answer. Whilst he had been speaking she had worked herself up to the necessary pitch of resolution to tell him something—not all, no! all she could not tell.
'Larry! it cannot be. I am going to marry another.'
He stood still, motionless, not even breathing, gazing at her with stupid wonder. What she said was impossible. Then a puff of north-west wind came from the far ocean, rolling over the down, gathering the fragrance of the yellow sea, and condensing it; then poured it as a breaking wave over the heads of those two standing in the lane cut through the golden trees. And with the odour came a humming, a low thrilling music, as the wind passed through the myriad spines beneath the foam of flower, and set them vibrating as the tongues of Æolian harps. The sweetness and the harmony were in the air, all around, only not in the hearts of those two young people, standing breast deep in the gorse-brake. The wind passed, and all was still once more. They stood opposite each other, speechless. Her hand, which he had let go, had fallen, and the blood dropped from it. How long they thus stood neither knew. He was looking at her; she had bent her head, and the sun on her hair was more glorious than on the gorse-flowers. He would have pierced to the depth of her soul and read it if he could, but he was baffled. There was an impenetrable veil over it, through which he could not see.
'You do not—you have not loved me,' he said with an effort. This was the meaning of her coldness, her reserve. Then he put out his left hand and touched her, touched her lightly on the bosom. That light touch was powerful as the rod of Moses on the rock in Horeb. Her self-control deserted her. She clasped her hands on her breast, and bowed, and burst into convulsive weeping, which was made worse by her efforts to arrest it and to speak.
Hillary said nothing. He was too dazed to ask for any explanation, too stupefied by the unexpected declaration that cut away for ever the ground of his happiness.
She waved her hand. 'Leave me alone. Go, Larry, go! I can tell you nothing more! Let me alone! Oh, leave me alone, Larry!'
He could not refuse to obey, her distress was so great, her entreaty so urgent. Silent, filled with despair, with his eyes on the ground, he went along the straight-cut path towards the road, and nearly ran against Kate.
'Oh! you here!' exclaimed the lively girl, 'then Honor is not far distant. Where is she? What, yonder! and I have been to Langford to look for her. What is the matter? Oh, fiddlesticks! you have been making yourselves and each other miserable. There is no occasion for that till all is desperate, and it is not so yet. Come along, Larry, back to Honor. I must see her; I want to tell her something, and you may as well be by. You are almost one of the family.'
She made him follow her. Honor had recovered her composure when left to herself, unwatched, and she was able to disguise her emotions from her sister.
'Oh, Honor!' exclaimed Kate, 'I have something to tell you. I think you've been a fool, and too precipitate—I do indeed, and so does Sam Voaden. A little while ago I chanced to go down the lane after some water, when, curiously enough, Sam was coming along it, and we had a neighbourly word or two between us. I told Sam all about Charles, and what Mr. Langford charged him with.'
'Kate—you never—!' gasped Honor in dismay.
'I did. Why not? Where's the hurt? Sam swore to me he'd tell no one.'
'What is this?' asked Hillary.
'Don't you know?' retorted Kate. 'What, has Honor not told you? Faith! there never was another girl like her for padlocking her tongue. I'm sure I could not keep from telling. Sam saw I was in trouble and asked the reason, and my breast was as full as my pitcher, so it overflowed. Well, Honor, Sam is not such a fool as some suppose. He has more sense than all we Luxmores put together—leastways, than we had last night. He says he don't believe a word of it, and that you was to blame for acting on it till you knew it was true.'
'It is true. I know it is true,' said Honor disconsolately. 'It is no use denying it.'
'But, as Sam said, why act on it till it is proved? Where is Charles? All you know is from Taverner Langford, and he is an interested party; he may be mistaken, or he may put things wrong way on wilfully.'
'No, Kate, no! You should not have spoken.'
'But I have spoken. If a pitcher is full, will it not run over the brim? I have been over-full, and have overflowed. That is nature, my nature, and I can't help it. No hurt is done. Sam will not talk about it to anyone; and what he says shows more sense than is to be found in all the nine heads that go under our cottage roof, wise as you consider yourself, Honor. Sam says nothing ought to be promised or done till Charles has been seen and you have heard what account he can give of himself.'
'His letter, Kate?'
'Well, what of his letter? He says nothing about stealing in it—stealing a thousand pounds. What he says may mean no more than his running away and leaving ninepence a day for nothing.'
'I am sorry you spoke,' said Honor.
'I am glad I spoke,' said Kate sharply. 'I tell you Sam's brain is bigger than all our nine. He saw the rights of the matter at once, and—look here!—he promised me that he would go and find Charles if he's gone no further than Plymouth.'
'You told him where he was!' exclaimed Honor, aghast.
'Of course I did. I wasn't going to send him off searching to Lundy Isle or Patagonia. Well, Sam says that he'll go and find him on certain conditions?'
'On what conditions?'
'Never mind, they don't concern you, they are private. And he wants to have a talk with Larry first; but Sam says he don't believe Charles took the money. He's too much of a Luxmore to act dishonourable, he said.'
Honor was still unconvinced. 'Larry,' continued Kate, 'will you go at once to Swaddledown and see Sam?'
'Yes; but I understand nothing of what this is about. You must explain it to me.'
'No, Larry, go to Sam—he knows all.'