In after years, when the gorse was flowering full, Honor said to Larry, 'The honey scent always brings back to my memoryoneday.''Yes,' he replied; 'the furze is like love, thorns and flowers; but the flowers grow, and swell, and burst, and blaze, and swallow up the thorns, that none are seen.'CHAPTER XXXIV.THE VISITATION.The amazement of Larry was equalled by his indignation when he heard from Sam Voaden the whole story of the charge against Charles, and of Honor consenting to save him at the cost of herself. He did not share Sam's confidence in the groundlessness of the charge; he thought Charles quite rascal enough to have robbed his master and bolted with the money. Nevertheless he thought that the best thing that could be done was for Sam to go after Charles, as he himself could not do so, on account of his arm and collar-bone; and he urged on Voaden to use his best endeavours, if he found Charles, which was doubtful, to persuade him to return the money, through him, to Langford.'When he finds that he is suspected he may do that, especially if you threaten to hand him over to the constables should he refuse.''I don't believe he ever took it,' said Sam. 'I know Charles better than you.'Hillary was coming away from Swaddledown, along the road or lane to Broadbury, when he met his uncle Taverner, in his Sunday suit, a hat on his head, walking along lustily, with a stick in his hand.Larry stood in the way.'Uncle Taverner,' he said.'Stand aside,' said Langford roughly.'One word.''Not one! I have nothing to do with you or yours. Stand aside that I may pass on.''I cannot; I will not! You are in my path, not I in yours—that is, in the path of my life's happiness.'Langford looked at him interrogatively.'Uncle Langford, I must speak to you.''I am busy, I have to go to the church. It is the rural dean's visitation. I am churchwarden.''I will not detain you long.''I will not be detained at all.''I must speak to you, uncle. You are too—too cruel! you have come between me and happiness.''Get along. Don't think anything you say will make me leave Langford to you.''It is not that. I have not given that a thought. But, Honor——''What of Honor?' asked Taverner sharply, stopping.'I love her, uncle—I love her with my whole heart. I always have loved her, more or less, but now I love her as I can love no one else.''Oh, that is it!' exclaimed the old man, bending his brows, and disguising his agitation and annoyance by striking the stones out of the road with the end of his stick. 'A boy's fancy, light as thistle-seed; and a boy's head is as full of fancies as a thistle is of seed.''Nothing of the sort,' said the young man vehemently. 'There is no one but Honor can make me what I know I ought to become. I have never had a mother or a sister to guide me. I have grown up unchecked, unadvised, and now I want my dear, dear Honor to help me to be what I should be, and am not. Uncle! you sneer at Chimsworthy because it is full of docks, and thistles, and rushes, but I am like that—worthy land, and none but Honor can weed me. Why do you come cruelly in between us, and kill her happiness as well as mine? Her you cannot make other than noble and true, but me!—me, without her you will ruin. I must have Honor! I cannot live without her. Oh, uncle, uncle! what are you doing? It is unworthy of you to use poor Honor's necessity to wring from her her consent. You know she only gives it to save her brother. Why, because she is generous, would you take advantage of her generosity?'The lad pleaded with earnestness, vehemence, and with tears in his voice. Taverner looked at him, and thought, 'How like he is to his mother! This is Blandina's face and Blandina's voice. He is not a Nanspian, he is a Langford.' But he said roughly, 'Pshaw! let me go by. The rural dean is waiting. Do not you mistake me for a weathercock to be turned by every breath. You must get over your fancy—it is a fancy—or change it to regard for Honor as your aunt. Do not attempt to move me. What is settled is settled.'As Hillary still interposed himself between Langford and his course the old man raised his stick.'Come! must I strike you?' he said angrily. 'I've spoken to you more freely than you deserve. Stand aside. I am not to be turned from my way by you or any other.'He went forward headlong, striking about him with his stick, and was not to be further stayed. He went, as he said, to the church to meet the rural dean, but not only because summoned—he went also to see him as surrogate, and obtain a marriage licence.'A Langford cannot be married by banns,' he said. 'And I'm not going to have everyone in church sniggering when our names are called.'As he went along the road, head down, muttering, the face of Hillary haunted him—pale with sickness, refined, spiritualised by suffering, not the suffering of the body but of the mind. He was strangely like Blandina in her last sickness, and there were tones in his voice of entreaty that brought back to Langford memories of his sister and of his mother.He arrived at the church before the rector and the rural dean. The latter was taking refreshment at the parsonage a mile away. Would Nanspian be there? He did not wish to meet him, but he would not be away lest it should be said he had feared to meet him. Nanspian was not there. He had forgotten all about the visitation.'He wants a deal of reminding,' said the clerk, who had unlocked the church. 'He forgets most things worse than ever since his stroke.'Langford disengaged himself from the clerk and entered the church—a noble building, of unusual beauty. In the nave at his feet was a long slate stone, and the name TAVERNER LANGFORD. He knew very well that the stone was there, with its inscription and the date 1635; but as he stood looking at it an uncomfortable feeling came over him, as if he were standing at the edge of his own grave. He was alone in the church. The air was chill and damp, and smelt of decay. The dry-rot was in the pews. The slates were speckled, showing that the church roof was the haunt of bats, who flew about in flights when darkness set in. If it were cold and damp in the church, what must it be in the vault below? He knew what was there—the dust of many Langfords, one or two old lead coffins crushed down by their own weight. And he knew that some day he would lie there, and the 'Taverner Langford' on the stone would apply to him as well as to his ancestor. How horrible to be there at night, with the cold eating into him, and the smell of mildew about him, and the bats fleeting above him! The thought made him uneasy, and he went out of the church into the sunlight, thinking that he would pay a woman to scour the stone of the bat-stains which befouled it. He had never dreamed of doing this before, but when he considered that he must himself lie there, he took a loathing to the bats, and an indignation at the vault-covering stone being disfigured by them.He walked through the coarse grass to where his sister was laid. She was not buried in the family vault. Nanspian had not wished it.The clerk came to him.'Mr. Nanspian had a double-walled grave made,' said the clerk, who was also sexton. 'Folks laughed, I mind, when he ordered it, and said he was sure to marry again—a fine lusty man like he. But they were wrong. He never did. He has bided true to her memory.''I would never have forgiven him had he done other,' said Langford.'I reckon you never forgive him, though he has not,' said the solemn clerk.Langford frowned and moved his shoulders uneasily.'The grave is cared for,' said he in a churlish tone.'Young Larry Nanspian sees to that,' answered the clerk. 'If there be no other good in him there is that—he don't forget what is due to his mother, though she be dead.'Langford put his stick to the letters on the headstone. 'In loving memory of Blandina Nanspian, only daughter of Moses Langford, of Langford, gent.' 'Oh!' muttered Taverner, 'my father could call himself a gentleman when he had Chimsworthy as well as Langford, but I suppose I can't call myself anything but yeoman on my poor farm. Blandina should never have married, and then Chimsworthy would not have gone out of the family.''But to whom would both have gone after your death, Mr. Langford?' asked the clerk. ''Twould be a pity if an old ancient family like yours came to an end, and, I reckon, some day both will be joined again, by Mr. Larry.''No, no!—no, no!' growled Taverner, and walked away. He saw the rural dean and the rector coming through the churchyard gate.An hour later, Taverner was on his way home. He had paid the fee, made the necessary application, and would receive the licence on the morrow. It was too late for him to draw back, even had he been inclined. Taverner was a proud man, and he was obstinate. He flattered himself that when he had once resolved on a thing he always went through with it; no dissuasion, no impediments turned him aside. But he was not easy in mind as he walked home. Never before had he seen the family likeness so strong in Larry; he had caught an occasional look of his mother in the boy's face before, but now that he was ill in mind and body the likeness was striking. Taverner still laid no great weight on Larry's expressed attachment for Honor; he did not know that love was not a fiction, and was unable to conceive of it as anything more than a passing fancy. What really troubled the old man was the prospect of disarrangement of his accustomed mode of life. When he was married his wife would claim entrance into his parlour, and would meddle with what he had there, would use his desk, would come in and out when he was busy, would talk when he wanted quiet. A housekeeper could be kept in order by threat of dismissal, but a wife was tied for life. Then—how about Larry? He might forbid him the house, but would he keep away? Would not he insist on seeing his old friend and companion and love, Honor? That would be dangerous to his own peace of mind, might threaten his happiness. He remembered some words of Mrs. Veale, and his blood rushed through his head like a scalding wave.When he came to his door Mrs. Veale was there. She seemed to know by instinct his purpose in going to Bratton.'Have you got it, master?' she asked with husky voice and fluttering eyelids.'Got what?''What you went to get—the licence.''It is coming by post to-morrow. Are you satisfied?' he asked, sneering, and with a glance of dislike.'A corpse-light came up the lane and danced on the doorstep last night,' said Mrs. Veale. 'And you are thinking of marrying! "I'd better have left things as they were," said the man who scalded his dog to clear it of fleas. The spider spread for a midget and caught a hornet. "Marry come up," said the mote (tree-stump), "I will wed the flame;" so she took him, embraced him, and——' Mrs. Veale stooped to the hearth, took up a handful of light wood-ash, and blew it in her master's face from her palm, then said, 'Ashes, remain.'The ensuing night the house was disturbed. Taverner Langford was ill, complaining of violent sickness, cramps, and burning in the throat. He must have a doctor sent for from Okehampton.'Get a doctor's foot on your floor and he leaves his shoes,' said Mrs. Veale. 'No, wait till morning. If you're no better then we will send.''Go out of my room,' shouted Taverner to the farm men and maids who had crowded in. His calls and hammerings with the stick had roused everyone in the house. 'Do you think I am going to die because I'm took with spasms? Mrs. Veale is enough. Let her remain.''I reckon I caught a chill standing in the damp church with the smell of the vaults in my nose,' said Taverner, sitting in his chair and groaning. 'I felt the cold rise.''It is waiting,' remarked Mrs. Veale,'What is waiting?' he asked irritably.'The corpse-candle; I see it on the doorstep. And you that should be considering to have the bell tolled ordering a wedding peal! Those who slide on ice must expect falls, and elephants mustn't dance on tight-ropes. Rabbits that burrow in bogs won't have dry quarters. The fox said, "Instead of eating I shall be eaten," when, seeking a hen-roost, he walked into a kennel.'CHAPTER XXXV.A WARNING.The day was wet; a warm south-westerly wind was breathing, not blowing, and its breath was steam, a steam that condensed into minute water-drops. The thatch was dripping. The window panes were blind with shiny films of moisture. There had been dry weather for the haysel, glorious weather, and now, just when wanted, the earth was bathed in a cloud. It would be inaccurate to say that it rained. It rained only under the eaves and beneath the trees; the earth was taking a vapour bath.Honor and Kate were in the cottage, basket-weaving. The children were at school. No wet dismays the Devonian, but east wind throws him on his back, and he shrivels with frost. Kate had recovered her spirits marvellously since her interview with Sam Voaden. She had a buoyant heart; it was like a cork in water, that might be pressed under, but came up with a leap again. She felt keenly for the time, but wounds speedily healed with her. It was other with Honor; she remained depressed, pale, thin looking, and silent. She said nothing to her sister about Hillary. Kate had some glimmering idea that Honor liked the young man, but did not suppose that there was more in her heart than a liking. But Kate, though she dearly loved her sister, was somewhat in awe of her. She never ventured to peer into her soul, and she understood nothing of what went on there. Honor was scrupulous, precise, close; and Kate, though a good-hearted, true girl, was not close, but open, not precise, but careless, and ready to stretch a point of conscience to suit her pleasure. Kate, in the presence of Honor, was much like an unmathematical boy set over a problem in Euclid. She was sure that all was very true in Honor's mind, but also that the process by which it arrived at its conclusions was beyond her understanding. Honor possessed, what is the prerogative of few women, a just mind. Forced by her position into dividing between the children who looked up to her, obliged to consider their complaints against each other in petty quarrels from opposite sides, and of deciding equably, she had acquired breadth and fairness and self-restraint, against action upon impulse. Kate was eager to take sides, and was partial; Honor never. She was always disposed to consider that there was something to be said on the side opposed to that first presented to her, and was cautious not to pronounce an opinion till she had heard both sides. This Kate could not understand, and she regarded her sister as wanting in warmth and enthusiasm.'No news yet from Sam,' said Kate. 'That is odd. I thought we should have known at once about Charles.''How could that be? Plymouth is a large place, and Sam Voaden will not know where to look. It is even possible that Charles may have sailed.''If he has sailed you need not be tied to old Langford—that is, not unless you like.''I have passed my word. I cannot withdraw.''Fiddlesticks-ends! You only promised on condition that Mr. Langford would not proceed against Charles.''He has not proceeded.''He can't—if Charles is out of England.''But he might have done so the day he discovered his loss, before Charles got away. I gave my word to prevent his taking immediate action, and so Charles had time to make his escape from the country.''Taverner Langford had no right to ask it of you.''He did ask it, and I gave my word. I cannot withdraw now. That would not be fair and right.'Kate shrugged her shoulders. 'I should pay him out in his own coin.''Like Charles at the circus?'Kate coloured. 'That was another matter altogether. Mr. Langford had no right to put such a price on his forbearance. Besides, I don't believe in Charles's guilt. Sam does not, and, thick as some folks think Sam, he has as much brains as are wanted to fill a large skull, and these of first quality. Sam can see into a millstone.''Yes, Kate, but what is in a millstone?—the same as outside.''Sam says that he knows Charles is innocent.''What reasons does he give?''Oh, none at all. I did not ask for any.Hethinks it, that is enough for me.''Hethinksit, now; he knows it, a minute ago.''I am quite sure that Charles never took the money.''Why?''There you are again with your "whys." Because Sam says it.''Yes, dear Kate, Sam is a good-hearted fellow, who will not think badly of anyone, and he supposes others are as straightforward as himself.''You have a dozen splendid reasons for thinking Charles a thief, and not one of them convinces me. I don't know why, except that Sam is so positive; but I will scratch all the silver off my looking-glass if I am wrong. Charles did not take the money.'Honor said no more. It was useless arguing with Kate, and nothing was gained if she did convince her. The girls worked on for a few minutes in silence; then Kate burst out with, 'After all, I do not see anything so dreadful in becoming Mrs. Langford. One cannot have everything. Taverner has not the youth and looks of—say Sam Voaden, but Sam Voaden has no money of his own, and Mr. Langford can roll in money when his back itches. Langford is a very fine property still, and the house is first-rate. If I take Sam at any time—I don't say I shall—I shall have to put up with poverty. If you take Taverner Langford you must put up with ugliness. You can't catch herring and hake at one fishing.' Then she burst into a ringing laugh.'It will be worth while marrying him only for the fun of making Larry Nanspian call you aunt.' Honor winced, but Kate was too tickled by the idea to observe her sister's face.'When is it to be, Honor? It is mean of you to be so secret about the day. I am your sister, and I ought to know.''I only do not tell you because you cannot keep a secret, and I wish no one to know till all is over. Some morning when nothing is expected, it——' She shivered and turned her face to the wall.'I will not blab. I will not, indeed, dear.''Some day this week. Well, if you must know, Thursday. Pray be secret; you will only add to my pain, my shame, if it be known, and a crowd of the curious be assembled to see.Healso wished it to be kept from getting wind. Indeed, he insisted.''I don't like a marriage without smart and bridesmaids. Who is to be best man? I don't believe old Taverner has a friend anywhere. Why—Honor, he'll be my brother-in-law. That is a strange prospect. We'll come up to Langford and see you every day, that you may not be dull. What are you going to do with Mrs. Veale? You are surely not going to keep her! Do you know, Honor, in the kitchen is a darling china spaniel, just like ours yonder on the mantel-piece, and he turns his head the opposite way to ours. I'm really glad you are going to marry Mr. Langford, because then the dogs will make a pair. They look so desolate, one here and the other there; they are ordained to keep company.' Honor said nothing; she let her sister rattle on without paying heed to her tattle.'Honor,' said Kate, 'do you know whence Charles got the notion of putting the five-pound note under the dog? Guess.''I cannot guess. It does not matter.''Yes, it does matter. Charles got the notion from sweet Mrs. Veale. When I was at Langford looking for you, I saw that she used the dog as a place for putting things away that must not lie about. If you turn one of these china dogs on end, you will see that they are hollow. Well, Mrs. Veale had stuffed a packet of rat poison into the dog. You remember the man at the Revel who sold hones and packets of poison for mice and rats? Do you not recollect the board above his table with the picture on it of the vermin tumbling about as if drunk, and some lying on their backs dead? All his packets were in yellow paper with a picture on them in small like that on the board. It does not seem right to let poison lie about. I should lock it up if I had it; but Mrs. Veale is unlike everyone else in her appearance and in her talk, and, I suppose, in her actions. She keeps the yellow paper of rat-poison in the body of the china spaniel. I saw her take it thence, and stow it in there again. The place is not amiss. No one would dream of looking there for it. Who knows? Perhaps Mrs. Veale keeps her money in the same place. Charles may have seen that, and when he came here, and wanted to give us five pounds and escape thanks, he put it under the dog. That is reasonable, is it not, Honor?' Honor did not answer.'I declare!' exclaimed Kate impatiently. 'You have not been attending to what I said.''Yes, I have, Kate.''What was I saying? Tell me if you can.''You said that Mrs. Veale kept her money in a china dog on the chimneypiece.''No, I did not. I said she kept rat-poison there in a yellow paper.''Yes, Kate, so you did. She hides the poison there lest careless hands should get hold of it.''I am glad you have had the civility to listen. You seemed to me to be in a dream. I don't think, after all, Honor, but for Sam, that I should mind being in your place. It must be an experience as charming as new to have money at command. After all, an old man in love is led by the nose, and you, Honor, he must love, so you can take him about, and make him do exactly what you want. I almost envy you. Where is father?''Gone to see Frize, the shoemaker. I had a pair of shoes ordered from him two months ago, and father has gone to see if they are done. I shall want them on Thursday.''Father is quite pleased at the idea of your marriage. I know he is. He makes sure of getting Coombe Park. He says that Mr. Langford will lend the money; and he expects grand days when we get our own again. Father don't believe any more in Charles being guilty, after I told him Sam's reasons.''What reasons?''Well, I mean assertions. Does father know the day on which you are to be married?''No, Kate. Mr. Langford wished him not to be told. Father is so obliging, so good-natured, that if anyone were to press him to tell, he could not keep the secret, so we thought it best not to let him know till just at the last.''Won't father be proud when you are at Langford! Why, the van will not contain all his self-importance. To have his eldest daughter married into one of the best and oldest families of the neighbourhood, to be planted in the best house—after Squire Impey's—in the parish! My dear Honor! an idea strikes me. Shall I throw myself at Squire Impey's head? Father would go stark mad with pride if that were so—that is, if I succeeded. And if he got Coombe back, we three would rule the parish. We might all three become feoffees of Coryndon's Charity, and pass the land round among us. That would be grand! Honor! what is to be done with Mrs. Veale? I cannot abide the woman. It was a queer idea, was it not, putting the rat-poison in the china dog?'All at once Kate looked up. 'My dear Honor, talk of somebody that shall be nameless, and he is sure to appear.' She spoke in a whisper, as Mrs. Veale came from the steps in at the door. She had a dark cloak thrown over her pale cotton dress. She stood in the doorway blinking nervously.Honor stood up, put her light work aside, and, with her usual courtesy to all, went towards her. 'Do you want me, Mrs. Veale? Will you take a chair??'No, I will not sit down. So'—she looked about—'you will go from a hovel to a mansion! At least, so you expect. Take care! Take care, lest, in trying to jump into the saddle, you jump over the horse.'Honor moved a chair towards the woman, Kate looked curiously at her. The pale, faded creature stood looking about her in an inquisitive manner. 'I've come with a message,' she said. 'You are very set on getting into Langford, eh? Oh, Langford is a palace to this cottage.'Honor did not answer. She drew up her head, and made no further offer of a seat. 'What is your message?' she asked coldly. But Kate fired up in her sister's defence, and, tossing her head, said, 'Don't you suppose, Mrs. Veale, that Honor, or my father, or I, or Joe, or any of us think that a prize has been drawn in your master. Quite the other way—he is in luck. He don't deserve what he has got, for Honor is a treasure.''What message have you brought?' asked Honor again.The vindictiveness against the girl seemed to have disappeared from the woman—at least, she did not look at Honor with the same malevolent glance as formerly; and, indeed, she was not now so full of hate against her as anger against Langford—the deadlier passion had obscured the weaker.'What is the message?' she repeated.'Oh, this: You and your father are to come up to Langford as soon as you can. Lawyer Physick be there and waiting.' Then, with quivering voice and eyelids, and trembling hands thrust through her black cloak, 'I—I be sent wi' this message. He had the face to send me! Him that I've served true, and followed as a hound these fifteen years, turns against me now, and drives me from his door! Look here, Miss Honor Luxmore!' She held up her long white finger before her face. 'I've knowed a man as had a dog, and that dog wi' ill-treatment went mad, and when the dog were mad she bit her master, and he died.' She blinked and quivered, and as she quivered the water-drops flew off her cloak over the slate floor, almost as if a poodle had shaken himself. 'Take care!' she said again, 'take care! The man that kicks at me won't spare you. Take care, I say again. Be warned against him. I've given you his message, but don't take it. Don't go to Langford. Let Lawyer Physick go away. The licence has come. Let it go to light a fire. Make no use of it. Stay where you are, and let the master find he's been made a fool of. Best so! In the hitting of nails you may hammer your knuckles. I've served him fifteen years as if I were his slave, and now he bids me pack. "I should have thought of my thatch before I fired my chimney," said the man who was burnt out of house and home.''Go back to Langford, and say that my father and I will be there shortly.''Then take the consequences.' Mrs. Veale's eyes for a moment glittered like steel, then disappeared under her winking white lashes. She turned and left the cottage, muttering, 'When the owl hoots look out for sorrow. When the dog bays he smells death, and I am his dog—and, they say, his blinking owl.'CHAPTER XXXVI.A SETTLEMENT.Oliver Luxmore entered shortly after Mrs. Veale had left. 'Frize promises the shoes by Monday,' he said.Then Honor told him that he and she were awaited at Langford, and she went upstairs to get herself ready. In the corner of her room was an old oak box, in which she kept her clothes and few treasures. She opened it, and took out the red cloak, her best and brightest pair of red stockings. Then she touched the paper that contained the kerchief Larry had given her. Should she wear it? No; that she could not wear, and yet she felt as if to have it crossed over her bosom would give it warmth and strength. She opened the paper and looked at the white silk, with its pretty moss-rose buds and sprigs of forget-me-not. A tear fell from her eye on it. She folded it up again, and put it away.Presently she came downstairs, dressed to go with her father. On Sundays she wore a straw bonnet with cherry-coloured ribbons in it, but now that the air was full of moisture she could not risk her pretty bows in the wet. She would draw the hood of her scarlet cloak over her head.Neither she nor her father spoke much on the way to Langford. He was, as Kate had said, not ill-pleased at the alliance—indeed, but for the trouble about Charles, he would have been exultant.Honor had been brought to accept what was best for her and for all the family at last. Oliver had easily accepted Kate's assertion that Charles was innocent, but he would not maintain the innocence of Charles before Honor, lest it should cause her to draw back from her engagement.Even on a fine day, with the sun streaming in at the two windows, Langford's parlour was not cheerful. It was panelled with deal, painted slate-grey; the mouldings were coarse and heavy. There were no curtains to the windows, only blinds, no carpet on the floor, and the furniture was stiff, the chairs and sofa covered with black horsehair. What was in the room was in sound condition and substantial, but tasteless. Even the table was bare of cover. Till Honor entered in her scarlet cloak there was not a speck of pure colour in the room. She removed her cloak, and stood in a dark gown, somewhat short, showing below it a strip of red petticoat and her red stockings. Round her neck was a white handkerchief, of cotton, not of silk.Mr. Physick and Langford were at the table; they were waiting, and had been expecting them. Both rose to receive her and her father, the first with effusion, the latter with some embarrassment.'What is the matter with you, sir?' asked the carrier of Taverner Langford. 'You don't look yourself to-day.''I've been unwell,' answered the yeoman. 'I had to be down at the church t'other day to meet the rural dean, as I'm churchwarden, and Nanspian is too lazy to act; I heated myself with walking, and I had an encounter with the young Merry Andrew on the way.' He glanced at Honor, but she neither stirred nor raised her eyes from the table. 'Some words passed. He was impudent, and I nigh on thrashed him. I would have chastised him, but that he had a broken arm. My blood was up, and I had to stand in the damp church, and I reckon I got a chill there. I was taken bad in the night, and thought I must die—burning pains and cramps, but it passed off. I'm better now. It was an inflammation, but I'm getting right again. I have to be careful what I eat, that is all. Slops—slops. I wouldn't dare touch that,' said he, pointing to a brandy bottle beside the lawyer. 'It would feed the fire and kill me.''My opinion is that the affection is of the heart, not of the stomach,' laughed Physick, 'and when I look at Miss Honor I'm not surprised at the burning. Enough to set us all in flames, eh, Langford? Heartburn, man, heartburn!—nothing worse than that, and now you're going to take the best medicine to cure that disorder.''Not that at all,' said Taverner surlily. 'I caught a chill across me standing waiting in the church at the visitation; I felt the cold and damp come up out of the vault to me. I was taken ill the same night.''You've a nice house here,' said the lively Physick, 'a little cold such a day as this, with the drizzle against the windows, but—love will keep it warm. What do you think, Miss Honor, of the nest, eh? Lined with wool, eh? well, money is better than wool.'Honor measured him with a haughty glance, and Physick, somewhat disconcerted, turned to the carrier and Mr. Langford to discuss business.Honor remained standing, cold, composed, and resolute, but with a heart weaker than her outward appearance betokened. 'Come,' said Physick, 'next to the parson I'm the most necessary workman to hammer the chain. The parson can do something for the present, I for the future. If you will listen to the settlement, you won't grumble at my part. Little as you may think of me, I've had your interests in eye. I've taken care of you.''You have done nothing but what I have bid you,' said Taverner roughly. 'Oliver Luxmore and I talked it over before you, and you have written what we decided.''Oh, of course, of course!' exclaimed Physick, 'but there are two ways of doing a thing. A slip of the pen, a turn of expression, and all is spoiled. I've been careful, and I do consider it hard that the parson who blesses the knot should be allowed to claim a kiss, and the lawyer who plaits it should not be allowed even to ask for one.' He glanced at Taverner and Oliver and winked.'Certainly, certainly,' said the carrier.'Come,' said Langford, 'to business. I want her'—he pointed with his elbow at Honor—'to see what I have done. I'm a fair man, and I want her to see that I have dealt generously by her, and to know if she be content.''I have asked you for one thing, Mr. Langford, and that you have refused. I must needs be content with whatever you have decided for me, but I care for nothing else.''Listen, listen, Honor, before you speak,' said Oliver Luxmore. 'I have considered your interests as your father, and I think you will say thatIalso have dealt handsomely by you.''You, dear father!' She wondered what he could have done, he who had nothing, who was in debt.'Read,' said Luxmore, and coughed a self-complacent, important cough.The settlement was simple. It provided that in the event of Honor becoming a widow, in accordance with a settlement made in the marriage of Moses Langford and Blandina Hill, the father and mother of Taverner Langford, the property should be charged to the amount of seventy-five pounds to be levied annually, and that, in the event of issue arising from the contemplated marriage, in accordance with the afore-mentioned settlement the property was to go to the eldest son, charged with the seventy-five pounds for his mother, and that every other child was, on its coming of age, to receive one hundred pounds, to be levied out of the estate. And it was further agreed between Taverner Langford and Oliver Luxmore that, in the event of the latter receiving the estates of the Luxmore family, named Coombe Park, in the parish of Bratton Clovelly and other, he, the said Oliver Luxmore, should pay to Taverner Langford, the husband of his daughter, the sum of five hundred pounds to be invested in the three per cents. for the benefit of the said Honor Langford,aliasLuxmore, during her lifetime, and to her sole use, and with power of disposal by will. This was the stipulation Oliver had made; he insisted on this generous offer being accepted and inserted in the marriage contract. Honor listened attentively to every word. She was indifferent what provision was made for herself, but she hoped against conviction that Langford would bind himself to do something for her father. Instead of that her father had bound himself to pay five hundred pounds in the improbable event of his getting Coombe Park. Poor father! poor father!'You have done nothing of what I asked,' said Honor.'I have no wish to act ungenerously,' answered Taverner. 'Your request was reasonable; however, I have acted fairly, I have promised to advance your father a hundred pounds to assist him in the prosecuting of his claims.''There,' said Oliver Luxmore, 'you see, Honor, that your marriage is about to help the whole family. We shall come by our lights at last. We shall recover Coombe Park.'Then Taverner went to the door and called down the passage, 'Mrs. Veale! Come here! You are wanted to witness some signatures.'The housekeeper came, paler, more trembling than usual, with her eyes fluttering, but with sharp malignant gleams flashing out of them from under the white throbbing lashes.'I be that nervous,' she said, 'and my hand shakes so I can hardly write.'She stooped, and indeed her hand did tremble. 'I'm cooking the supper,' she said, 'you must excuse the apron.' As she wrote she turned her head and looked at her master. He was not observing her, and the lawyer was indicating the place where she was to write and was holding down the sheet, but Honor saw the look full of deadly hate, a look that made her heart stand still, and the thought to spring into her brain, 'That woman ought not to remain in the house another hour, she is dangerous.'When Mrs. Veale had done, she rose, put her hands under her apron, curtsied, and said, 'May I make so bold as to ask if that be the master's will?''No, it is not,' said Langford.'Thank you, sir,' said Mrs. Veale, curtseying again. 'You'll excuse the liberty, but if it had been, I'd have said, remember I've served your honour these fifteen years faithful as a dog, and now in my old age I'm kicked out, though not past work.'She curtsied again, and went backward out of the room into the passage.Langford shut, slammed the door in her face.'Is the woman a little touched here?' asked the lawyer, pointing to his forehead.'Oh no, not a bit, only disappointed. She has spent fifteen years in laying traps for me, and I have been wise enough to avoid them all.' Then he opened the door suddenly and saw her there, in the dark passage, her face distorted with passion and her fist raised.'Mrs. Veale,' said the yeoman, 'lay the supper and have done with this nonsense.''I beg your pardon,' she said, changing her look and making another curtsey, 'was it the marriage settlement now? I suppose it was. I wish you every happiness, and health to enjoy your new condition. Health and happiness! I'm to leave, and that young chick to take my place. May she enjoy herself. And, Mr. Langford, may you please, as long as you live, to remember me.''Go along! Lay the table, and bring in supper.''What will you please to take, master?' asked the woman in an altered tone.'Bring me some broth. I'll take no solids. I'm not right yet. For the rest, the best you have in the house.'Mrs. Veale laid the table. The lawyer, Langford, the carrier, and Honor were seated round the room, very stiffly, silent, watching the preparations for the meal.Presently Honor started up. She was unaccustomed to be waited upon, incapable of remaining idle.'I will go help to prepare the supper,' she said, and went into the passage.This passage led directly from the front door through the house to the kitchen. It was dark; all the light it got was from the front door, or through the kitchen when one or other door was left open. Originally the front door had opened into a hall or reception room with window and fireplace; but Taverner had battened off the passage, and converted the old hall into a room where he kept saddles and bridles and other things connected with the stables. By shutting off the window by the partition he had darkened the passage, and consequently the kitchen door had invariably to be left open to light it. In this dark passage stood Honor, looking down it to the kitchen which was full of light, whilst she pinned up the skirt of her best gown, so as not to soil it whilst engaged in serving up the supper. As she stood thus she saw Mrs. Veale at the fire stirring the broth for her master in an iron saucepan. She put her hand to the mantelshelf, took down the china dog, and Honor saw her remove from its inside a packet of yellow paper, empty the contents into the pan, then burn the paper and pour the broth into a bowl. In a moment Kate's story of the rat poison in the body of the dog recurred to Honor, and she stood paralysed, unable to resolve what to do. Then she recalled the look cast at Taverner by Mrs. Veale as she was signing the settlement as witness. Honor reopened the parlour door, went into the room again she had just left, and seated herself, that she might collect her thoughts and determine what to do. Kate was not a reliable authority, and it was not judicious to act on information given by her sister without having proved it. Honor had seen Mrs. Veale thrust the yellow paper into the flames under the pot. She could not therefore be sure by examination that it was the rat-poison packet. She remained half in a dream whilst the supper was laid, and woke with a start when Taverner said, 'Come to table all, and we will ask a blessing.'Honor slowly drew towards the table; she looked round. Mrs. Veale was not there; before Taverner stood the steaming bowl of soup.Langford murmured grace, then said, 'Fall to. Oliver Luxmore, you do the honours. I can't eat, I'm forced to take slops. But I'm better, only I must be careful.' He put his spoon into the basin, and would have helped himself, had not Honor snatched the bowl away and removed it to the mantelshelf.'You must not touch it,' she said. 'I am not sure—I am afraid—I would not accuse wrongfully—it is poisoned.'
In after years, when the gorse was flowering full, Honor said to Larry, 'The honey scent always brings back to my memoryoneday.'
'Yes,' he replied; 'the furze is like love, thorns and flowers; but the flowers grow, and swell, and burst, and blaze, and swallow up the thorns, that none are seen.'
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE VISITATION.
The amazement of Larry was equalled by his indignation when he heard from Sam Voaden the whole story of the charge against Charles, and of Honor consenting to save him at the cost of herself. He did not share Sam's confidence in the groundlessness of the charge; he thought Charles quite rascal enough to have robbed his master and bolted with the money. Nevertheless he thought that the best thing that could be done was for Sam to go after Charles, as he himself could not do so, on account of his arm and collar-bone; and he urged on Voaden to use his best endeavours, if he found Charles, which was doubtful, to persuade him to return the money, through him, to Langford.
'When he finds that he is suspected he may do that, especially if you threaten to hand him over to the constables should he refuse.'
'I don't believe he ever took it,' said Sam. 'I know Charles better than you.'
Hillary was coming away from Swaddledown, along the road or lane to Broadbury, when he met his uncle Taverner, in his Sunday suit, a hat on his head, walking along lustily, with a stick in his hand.
Larry stood in the way.
'Uncle Taverner,' he said.
'Stand aside,' said Langford roughly.
'One word.'
'Not one! I have nothing to do with you or yours. Stand aside that I may pass on.'
'I cannot; I will not! You are in my path, not I in yours—that is, in the path of my life's happiness.'
Langford looked at him interrogatively.
'Uncle Langford, I must speak to you.'
'I am busy, I have to go to the church. It is the rural dean's visitation. I am churchwarden.'
'I will not detain you long.'
'I will not be detained at all.'
'I must speak to you, uncle. You are too—too cruel! you have come between me and happiness.'
'Get along. Don't think anything you say will make me leave Langford to you.'
'It is not that. I have not given that a thought. But, Honor——'
'What of Honor?' asked Taverner sharply, stopping.
'I love her, uncle—I love her with my whole heart. I always have loved her, more or less, but now I love her as I can love no one else.'
'Oh, that is it!' exclaimed the old man, bending his brows, and disguising his agitation and annoyance by striking the stones out of the road with the end of his stick. 'A boy's fancy, light as thistle-seed; and a boy's head is as full of fancies as a thistle is of seed.'
'Nothing of the sort,' said the young man vehemently. 'There is no one but Honor can make me what I know I ought to become. I have never had a mother or a sister to guide me. I have grown up unchecked, unadvised, and now I want my dear, dear Honor to help me to be what I should be, and am not. Uncle! you sneer at Chimsworthy because it is full of docks, and thistles, and rushes, but I am like that—worthy land, and none but Honor can weed me. Why do you come cruelly in between us, and kill her happiness as well as mine? Her you cannot make other than noble and true, but me!—me, without her you will ruin. I must have Honor! I cannot live without her. Oh, uncle, uncle! what are you doing? It is unworthy of you to use poor Honor's necessity to wring from her her consent. You know she only gives it to save her brother. Why, because she is generous, would you take advantage of her generosity?'
The lad pleaded with earnestness, vehemence, and with tears in his voice. Taverner looked at him, and thought, 'How like he is to his mother! This is Blandina's face and Blandina's voice. He is not a Nanspian, he is a Langford.' But he said roughly, 'Pshaw! let me go by. The rural dean is waiting. Do not you mistake me for a weathercock to be turned by every breath. You must get over your fancy—it is a fancy—or change it to regard for Honor as your aunt. Do not attempt to move me. What is settled is settled.'
As Hillary still interposed himself between Langford and his course the old man raised his stick.
'Come! must I strike you?' he said angrily. 'I've spoken to you more freely than you deserve. Stand aside. I am not to be turned from my way by you or any other.'
He went forward headlong, striking about him with his stick, and was not to be further stayed. He went, as he said, to the church to meet the rural dean, but not only because summoned—he went also to see him as surrogate, and obtain a marriage licence.
'A Langford cannot be married by banns,' he said. 'And I'm not going to have everyone in church sniggering when our names are called.'
As he went along the road, head down, muttering, the face of Hillary haunted him—pale with sickness, refined, spiritualised by suffering, not the suffering of the body but of the mind. He was strangely like Blandina in her last sickness, and there were tones in his voice of entreaty that brought back to Langford memories of his sister and of his mother.
He arrived at the church before the rector and the rural dean. The latter was taking refreshment at the parsonage a mile away. Would Nanspian be there? He did not wish to meet him, but he would not be away lest it should be said he had feared to meet him. Nanspian was not there. He had forgotten all about the visitation.
'He wants a deal of reminding,' said the clerk, who had unlocked the church. 'He forgets most things worse than ever since his stroke.'
Langford disengaged himself from the clerk and entered the church—a noble building, of unusual beauty. In the nave at his feet was a long slate stone, and the name TAVERNER LANGFORD. He knew very well that the stone was there, with its inscription and the date 1635; but as he stood looking at it an uncomfortable feeling came over him, as if he were standing at the edge of his own grave. He was alone in the church. The air was chill and damp, and smelt of decay. The dry-rot was in the pews. The slates were speckled, showing that the church roof was the haunt of bats, who flew about in flights when darkness set in. If it were cold and damp in the church, what must it be in the vault below? He knew what was there—the dust of many Langfords, one or two old lead coffins crushed down by their own weight. And he knew that some day he would lie there, and the 'Taverner Langford' on the stone would apply to him as well as to his ancestor. How horrible to be there at night, with the cold eating into him, and the smell of mildew about him, and the bats fleeting above him! The thought made him uneasy, and he went out of the church into the sunlight, thinking that he would pay a woman to scour the stone of the bat-stains which befouled it. He had never dreamed of doing this before, but when he considered that he must himself lie there, he took a loathing to the bats, and an indignation at the vault-covering stone being disfigured by them.
He walked through the coarse grass to where his sister was laid. She was not buried in the family vault. Nanspian had not wished it.
The clerk came to him.
'Mr. Nanspian had a double-walled grave made,' said the clerk, who was also sexton. 'Folks laughed, I mind, when he ordered it, and said he was sure to marry again—a fine lusty man like he. But they were wrong. He never did. He has bided true to her memory.'
'I would never have forgiven him had he done other,' said Langford.
'I reckon you never forgive him, though he has not,' said the solemn clerk.
Langford frowned and moved his shoulders uneasily.
'The grave is cared for,' said he in a churlish tone.
'Young Larry Nanspian sees to that,' answered the clerk. 'If there be no other good in him there is that—he don't forget what is due to his mother, though she be dead.'
Langford put his stick to the letters on the headstone. 'In loving memory of Blandina Nanspian, only daughter of Moses Langford, of Langford, gent.' 'Oh!' muttered Taverner, 'my father could call himself a gentleman when he had Chimsworthy as well as Langford, but I suppose I can't call myself anything but yeoman on my poor farm. Blandina should never have married, and then Chimsworthy would not have gone out of the family.'
'But to whom would both have gone after your death, Mr. Langford?' asked the clerk. ''Twould be a pity if an old ancient family like yours came to an end, and, I reckon, some day both will be joined again, by Mr. Larry.'
'No, no!—no, no!' growled Taverner, and walked away. He saw the rural dean and the rector coming through the churchyard gate.
An hour later, Taverner was on his way home. He had paid the fee, made the necessary application, and would receive the licence on the morrow. It was too late for him to draw back, even had he been inclined. Taverner was a proud man, and he was obstinate. He flattered himself that when he had once resolved on a thing he always went through with it; no dissuasion, no impediments turned him aside. But he was not easy in mind as he walked home. Never before had he seen the family likeness so strong in Larry; he had caught an occasional look of his mother in the boy's face before, but now that he was ill in mind and body the likeness was striking. Taverner still laid no great weight on Larry's expressed attachment for Honor; he did not know that love was not a fiction, and was unable to conceive of it as anything more than a passing fancy. What really troubled the old man was the prospect of disarrangement of his accustomed mode of life. When he was married his wife would claim entrance into his parlour, and would meddle with what he had there, would use his desk, would come in and out when he was busy, would talk when he wanted quiet. A housekeeper could be kept in order by threat of dismissal, but a wife was tied for life. Then—how about Larry? He might forbid him the house, but would he keep away? Would not he insist on seeing his old friend and companion and love, Honor? That would be dangerous to his own peace of mind, might threaten his happiness. He remembered some words of Mrs. Veale, and his blood rushed through his head like a scalding wave.
When he came to his door Mrs. Veale was there. She seemed to know by instinct his purpose in going to Bratton.
'Have you got it, master?' she asked with husky voice and fluttering eyelids.
'Got what?'
'What you went to get—the licence.'
'It is coming by post to-morrow. Are you satisfied?' he asked, sneering, and with a glance of dislike.
'A corpse-light came up the lane and danced on the doorstep last night,' said Mrs. Veale. 'And you are thinking of marrying! "I'd better have left things as they were," said the man who scalded his dog to clear it of fleas. The spider spread for a midget and caught a hornet. "Marry come up," said the mote (tree-stump), "I will wed the flame;" so she took him, embraced him, and——' Mrs. Veale stooped to the hearth, took up a handful of light wood-ash, and blew it in her master's face from her palm, then said, 'Ashes, remain.'
The ensuing night the house was disturbed. Taverner Langford was ill, complaining of violent sickness, cramps, and burning in the throat. He must have a doctor sent for from Okehampton.
'Get a doctor's foot on your floor and he leaves his shoes,' said Mrs. Veale. 'No, wait till morning. If you're no better then we will send.'
'Go out of my room,' shouted Taverner to the farm men and maids who had crowded in. His calls and hammerings with the stick had roused everyone in the house. 'Do you think I am going to die because I'm took with spasms? Mrs. Veale is enough. Let her remain.'
'I reckon I caught a chill standing in the damp church with the smell of the vaults in my nose,' said Taverner, sitting in his chair and groaning. 'I felt the cold rise.'
'It is waiting,' remarked Mrs. Veale,
'What is waiting?' he asked irritably.
'The corpse-candle; I see it on the doorstep. And you that should be considering to have the bell tolled ordering a wedding peal! Those who slide on ice must expect falls, and elephants mustn't dance on tight-ropes. Rabbits that burrow in bogs won't have dry quarters. The fox said, "Instead of eating I shall be eaten," when, seeking a hen-roost, he walked into a kennel.'
CHAPTER XXXV.
A WARNING.
The day was wet; a warm south-westerly wind was breathing, not blowing, and its breath was steam, a steam that condensed into minute water-drops. The thatch was dripping. The window panes were blind with shiny films of moisture. There had been dry weather for the haysel, glorious weather, and now, just when wanted, the earth was bathed in a cloud. It would be inaccurate to say that it rained. It rained only under the eaves and beneath the trees; the earth was taking a vapour bath.
Honor and Kate were in the cottage, basket-weaving. The children were at school. No wet dismays the Devonian, but east wind throws him on his back, and he shrivels with frost. Kate had recovered her spirits marvellously since her interview with Sam Voaden. She had a buoyant heart; it was like a cork in water, that might be pressed under, but came up with a leap again. She felt keenly for the time, but wounds speedily healed with her. It was other with Honor; she remained depressed, pale, thin looking, and silent. She said nothing to her sister about Hillary. Kate had some glimmering idea that Honor liked the young man, but did not suppose that there was more in her heart than a liking. But Kate, though she dearly loved her sister, was somewhat in awe of her. She never ventured to peer into her soul, and she understood nothing of what went on there. Honor was scrupulous, precise, close; and Kate, though a good-hearted, true girl, was not close, but open, not precise, but careless, and ready to stretch a point of conscience to suit her pleasure. Kate, in the presence of Honor, was much like an unmathematical boy set over a problem in Euclid. She was sure that all was very true in Honor's mind, but also that the process by which it arrived at its conclusions was beyond her understanding. Honor possessed, what is the prerogative of few women, a just mind. Forced by her position into dividing between the children who looked up to her, obliged to consider their complaints against each other in petty quarrels from opposite sides, and of deciding equably, she had acquired breadth and fairness and self-restraint, against action upon impulse. Kate was eager to take sides, and was partial; Honor never. She was always disposed to consider that there was something to be said on the side opposed to that first presented to her, and was cautious not to pronounce an opinion till she had heard both sides. This Kate could not understand, and she regarded her sister as wanting in warmth and enthusiasm.
'No news yet from Sam,' said Kate. 'That is odd. I thought we should have known at once about Charles.'
'How could that be? Plymouth is a large place, and Sam Voaden will not know where to look. It is even possible that Charles may have sailed.'
'If he has sailed you need not be tied to old Langford—that is, not unless you like.'
'I have passed my word. I cannot withdraw.'
'Fiddlesticks-ends! You only promised on condition that Mr. Langford would not proceed against Charles.'
'He has not proceeded.'
'He can't—if Charles is out of England.'
'But he might have done so the day he discovered his loss, before Charles got away. I gave my word to prevent his taking immediate action, and so Charles had time to make his escape from the country.'
'Taverner Langford had no right to ask it of you.'
'He did ask it, and I gave my word. I cannot withdraw now. That would not be fair and right.'
Kate shrugged her shoulders. 'I should pay him out in his own coin.'
'Like Charles at the circus?'
Kate coloured. 'That was another matter altogether. Mr. Langford had no right to put such a price on his forbearance. Besides, I don't believe in Charles's guilt. Sam does not, and, thick as some folks think Sam, he has as much brains as are wanted to fill a large skull, and these of first quality. Sam can see into a millstone.'
'Yes, Kate, but what is in a millstone?—the same as outside.'
'Sam says that he knows Charles is innocent.'
'What reasons does he give?'
'Oh, none at all. I did not ask for any.Hethinks it, that is enough for me.'
'Hethinksit, now; he knows it, a minute ago.'
'I am quite sure that Charles never took the money.'
'Why?'
'There you are again with your "whys." Because Sam says it.'
'Yes, dear Kate, Sam is a good-hearted fellow, who will not think badly of anyone, and he supposes others are as straightforward as himself.'
'You have a dozen splendid reasons for thinking Charles a thief, and not one of them convinces me. I don't know why, except that Sam is so positive; but I will scratch all the silver off my looking-glass if I am wrong. Charles did not take the money.'
Honor said no more. It was useless arguing with Kate, and nothing was gained if she did convince her. The girls worked on for a few minutes in silence; then Kate burst out with, 'After all, I do not see anything so dreadful in becoming Mrs. Langford. One cannot have everything. Taverner has not the youth and looks of—say Sam Voaden, but Sam Voaden has no money of his own, and Mr. Langford can roll in money when his back itches. Langford is a very fine property still, and the house is first-rate. If I take Sam at any time—I don't say I shall—I shall have to put up with poverty. If you take Taverner Langford you must put up with ugliness. You can't catch herring and hake at one fishing.' Then she burst into a ringing laugh.
'It will be worth while marrying him only for the fun of making Larry Nanspian call you aunt.' Honor winced, but Kate was too tickled by the idea to observe her sister's face.
'When is it to be, Honor? It is mean of you to be so secret about the day. I am your sister, and I ought to know.'
'I only do not tell you because you cannot keep a secret, and I wish no one to know till all is over. Some morning when nothing is expected, it——' She shivered and turned her face to the wall.
'I will not blab. I will not, indeed, dear.'
'Some day this week. Well, if you must know, Thursday. Pray be secret; you will only add to my pain, my shame, if it be known, and a crowd of the curious be assembled to see.Healso wished it to be kept from getting wind. Indeed, he insisted.'
'I don't like a marriage without smart and bridesmaids. Who is to be best man? I don't believe old Taverner has a friend anywhere. Why—Honor, he'll be my brother-in-law. That is a strange prospect. We'll come up to Langford and see you every day, that you may not be dull. What are you going to do with Mrs. Veale? You are surely not going to keep her! Do you know, Honor, in the kitchen is a darling china spaniel, just like ours yonder on the mantel-piece, and he turns his head the opposite way to ours. I'm really glad you are going to marry Mr. Langford, because then the dogs will make a pair. They look so desolate, one here and the other there; they are ordained to keep company.' Honor said nothing; she let her sister rattle on without paying heed to her tattle.
'Honor,' said Kate, 'do you know whence Charles got the notion of putting the five-pound note under the dog? Guess.'
'I cannot guess. It does not matter.'
'Yes, it does matter. Charles got the notion from sweet Mrs. Veale. When I was at Langford looking for you, I saw that she used the dog as a place for putting things away that must not lie about. If you turn one of these china dogs on end, you will see that they are hollow. Well, Mrs. Veale had stuffed a packet of rat poison into the dog. You remember the man at the Revel who sold hones and packets of poison for mice and rats? Do you not recollect the board above his table with the picture on it of the vermin tumbling about as if drunk, and some lying on their backs dead? All his packets were in yellow paper with a picture on them in small like that on the board. It does not seem right to let poison lie about. I should lock it up if I had it; but Mrs. Veale is unlike everyone else in her appearance and in her talk, and, I suppose, in her actions. She keeps the yellow paper of rat-poison in the body of the china spaniel. I saw her take it thence, and stow it in there again. The place is not amiss. No one would dream of looking there for it. Who knows? Perhaps Mrs. Veale keeps her money in the same place. Charles may have seen that, and when he came here, and wanted to give us five pounds and escape thanks, he put it under the dog. That is reasonable, is it not, Honor?' Honor did not answer.
'I declare!' exclaimed Kate impatiently. 'You have not been attending to what I said.'
'Yes, I have, Kate.'
'What was I saying? Tell me if you can.'
'You said that Mrs. Veale kept her money in a china dog on the chimneypiece.'
'No, I did not. I said she kept rat-poison there in a yellow paper.'
'Yes, Kate, so you did. She hides the poison there lest careless hands should get hold of it.'
'I am glad you have had the civility to listen. You seemed to me to be in a dream. I don't think, after all, Honor, but for Sam, that I should mind being in your place. It must be an experience as charming as new to have money at command. After all, an old man in love is led by the nose, and you, Honor, he must love, so you can take him about, and make him do exactly what you want. I almost envy you. Where is father?'
'Gone to see Frize, the shoemaker. I had a pair of shoes ordered from him two months ago, and father has gone to see if they are done. I shall want them on Thursday.'
'Father is quite pleased at the idea of your marriage. I know he is. He makes sure of getting Coombe Park. He says that Mr. Langford will lend the money; and he expects grand days when we get our own again. Father don't believe any more in Charles being guilty, after I told him Sam's reasons.'
'What reasons?'
'Well, I mean assertions. Does father know the day on which you are to be married?'
'No, Kate. Mr. Langford wished him not to be told. Father is so obliging, so good-natured, that if anyone were to press him to tell, he could not keep the secret, so we thought it best not to let him know till just at the last.'
'Won't father be proud when you are at Langford! Why, the van will not contain all his self-importance. To have his eldest daughter married into one of the best and oldest families of the neighbourhood, to be planted in the best house—after Squire Impey's—in the parish! My dear Honor! an idea strikes me. Shall I throw myself at Squire Impey's head? Father would go stark mad with pride if that were so—that is, if I succeeded. And if he got Coombe back, we three would rule the parish. We might all three become feoffees of Coryndon's Charity, and pass the land round among us. That would be grand! Honor! what is to be done with Mrs. Veale? I cannot abide the woman. It was a queer idea, was it not, putting the rat-poison in the china dog?'
All at once Kate looked up. 'My dear Honor, talk of somebody that shall be nameless, and he is sure to appear.' She spoke in a whisper, as Mrs. Veale came from the steps in at the door. She had a dark cloak thrown over her pale cotton dress. She stood in the doorway blinking nervously.
Honor stood up, put her light work aside, and, with her usual courtesy to all, went towards her. 'Do you want me, Mrs. Veale? Will you take a chair??
'No, I will not sit down. So'—she looked about—'you will go from a hovel to a mansion! At least, so you expect. Take care! Take care, lest, in trying to jump into the saddle, you jump over the horse.'
Honor moved a chair towards the woman, Kate looked curiously at her. The pale, faded creature stood looking about her in an inquisitive manner. 'I've come with a message,' she said. 'You are very set on getting into Langford, eh? Oh, Langford is a palace to this cottage.'
Honor did not answer. She drew up her head, and made no further offer of a seat. 'What is your message?' she asked coldly. But Kate fired up in her sister's defence, and, tossing her head, said, 'Don't you suppose, Mrs. Veale, that Honor, or my father, or I, or Joe, or any of us think that a prize has been drawn in your master. Quite the other way—he is in luck. He don't deserve what he has got, for Honor is a treasure.'
'What message have you brought?' asked Honor again.
The vindictiveness against the girl seemed to have disappeared from the woman—at least, she did not look at Honor with the same malevolent glance as formerly; and, indeed, she was not now so full of hate against her as anger against Langford—the deadlier passion had obscured the weaker.
'What is the message?' she repeated.
'Oh, this: You and your father are to come up to Langford as soon as you can. Lawyer Physick be there and waiting.' Then, with quivering voice and eyelids, and trembling hands thrust through her black cloak, 'I—I be sent wi' this message. He had the face to send me! Him that I've served true, and followed as a hound these fifteen years, turns against me now, and drives me from his door! Look here, Miss Honor Luxmore!' She held up her long white finger before her face. 'I've knowed a man as had a dog, and that dog wi' ill-treatment went mad, and when the dog were mad she bit her master, and he died.' She blinked and quivered, and as she quivered the water-drops flew off her cloak over the slate floor, almost as if a poodle had shaken himself. 'Take care!' she said again, 'take care! The man that kicks at me won't spare you. Take care, I say again. Be warned against him. I've given you his message, but don't take it. Don't go to Langford. Let Lawyer Physick go away. The licence has come. Let it go to light a fire. Make no use of it. Stay where you are, and let the master find he's been made a fool of. Best so! In the hitting of nails you may hammer your knuckles. I've served him fifteen years as if I were his slave, and now he bids me pack. "I should have thought of my thatch before I fired my chimney," said the man who was burnt out of house and home.'
'Go back to Langford, and say that my father and I will be there shortly.'
'Then take the consequences.' Mrs. Veale's eyes for a moment glittered like steel, then disappeared under her winking white lashes. She turned and left the cottage, muttering, 'When the owl hoots look out for sorrow. When the dog bays he smells death, and I am his dog—and, they say, his blinking owl.'
CHAPTER XXXVI.
A SETTLEMENT.
Oliver Luxmore entered shortly after Mrs. Veale had left. 'Frize promises the shoes by Monday,' he said.
Then Honor told him that he and she were awaited at Langford, and she went upstairs to get herself ready. In the corner of her room was an old oak box, in which she kept her clothes and few treasures. She opened it, and took out the red cloak, her best and brightest pair of red stockings. Then she touched the paper that contained the kerchief Larry had given her. Should she wear it? No; that she could not wear, and yet she felt as if to have it crossed over her bosom would give it warmth and strength. She opened the paper and looked at the white silk, with its pretty moss-rose buds and sprigs of forget-me-not. A tear fell from her eye on it. She folded it up again, and put it away.
Presently she came downstairs, dressed to go with her father. On Sundays she wore a straw bonnet with cherry-coloured ribbons in it, but now that the air was full of moisture she could not risk her pretty bows in the wet. She would draw the hood of her scarlet cloak over her head.
Neither she nor her father spoke much on the way to Langford. He was, as Kate had said, not ill-pleased at the alliance—indeed, but for the trouble about Charles, he would have been exultant.
Honor had been brought to accept what was best for her and for all the family at last. Oliver had easily accepted Kate's assertion that Charles was innocent, but he would not maintain the innocence of Charles before Honor, lest it should cause her to draw back from her engagement.
Even on a fine day, with the sun streaming in at the two windows, Langford's parlour was not cheerful. It was panelled with deal, painted slate-grey; the mouldings were coarse and heavy. There were no curtains to the windows, only blinds, no carpet on the floor, and the furniture was stiff, the chairs and sofa covered with black horsehair. What was in the room was in sound condition and substantial, but tasteless. Even the table was bare of cover. Till Honor entered in her scarlet cloak there was not a speck of pure colour in the room. She removed her cloak, and stood in a dark gown, somewhat short, showing below it a strip of red petticoat and her red stockings. Round her neck was a white handkerchief, of cotton, not of silk.
Mr. Physick and Langford were at the table; they were waiting, and had been expecting them. Both rose to receive her and her father, the first with effusion, the latter with some embarrassment.
'What is the matter with you, sir?' asked the carrier of Taverner Langford. 'You don't look yourself to-day.'
'I've been unwell,' answered the yeoman. 'I had to be down at the church t'other day to meet the rural dean, as I'm churchwarden, and Nanspian is too lazy to act; I heated myself with walking, and I had an encounter with the young Merry Andrew on the way.' He glanced at Honor, but she neither stirred nor raised her eyes from the table. 'Some words passed. He was impudent, and I nigh on thrashed him. I would have chastised him, but that he had a broken arm. My blood was up, and I had to stand in the damp church, and I reckon I got a chill there. I was taken bad in the night, and thought I must die—burning pains and cramps, but it passed off. I'm better now. It was an inflammation, but I'm getting right again. I have to be careful what I eat, that is all. Slops—slops. I wouldn't dare touch that,' said he, pointing to a brandy bottle beside the lawyer. 'It would feed the fire and kill me.'
'My opinion is that the affection is of the heart, not of the stomach,' laughed Physick, 'and when I look at Miss Honor I'm not surprised at the burning. Enough to set us all in flames, eh, Langford? Heartburn, man, heartburn!—nothing worse than that, and now you're going to take the best medicine to cure that disorder.'
'Not that at all,' said Taverner surlily. 'I caught a chill across me standing waiting in the church at the visitation; I felt the cold and damp come up out of the vault to me. I was taken ill the same night.'
'You've a nice house here,' said the lively Physick, 'a little cold such a day as this, with the drizzle against the windows, but—love will keep it warm. What do you think, Miss Honor, of the nest, eh? Lined with wool, eh? well, money is better than wool.'
Honor measured him with a haughty glance, and Physick, somewhat disconcerted, turned to the carrier and Mr. Langford to discuss business.
Honor remained standing, cold, composed, and resolute, but with a heart weaker than her outward appearance betokened. 'Come,' said Physick, 'next to the parson I'm the most necessary workman to hammer the chain. The parson can do something for the present, I for the future. If you will listen to the settlement, you won't grumble at my part. Little as you may think of me, I've had your interests in eye. I've taken care of you.'
'You have done nothing but what I have bid you,' said Taverner roughly. 'Oliver Luxmore and I talked it over before you, and you have written what we decided.'
'Oh, of course, of course!' exclaimed Physick, 'but there are two ways of doing a thing. A slip of the pen, a turn of expression, and all is spoiled. I've been careful, and I do consider it hard that the parson who blesses the knot should be allowed to claim a kiss, and the lawyer who plaits it should not be allowed even to ask for one.' He glanced at Taverner and Oliver and winked.
'Certainly, certainly,' said the carrier.
'Come,' said Langford, 'to business. I want her'—he pointed with his elbow at Honor—'to see what I have done. I'm a fair man, and I want her to see that I have dealt generously by her, and to know if she be content.'
'I have asked you for one thing, Mr. Langford, and that you have refused. I must needs be content with whatever you have decided for me, but I care for nothing else.'
'Listen, listen, Honor, before you speak,' said Oliver Luxmore. 'I have considered your interests as your father, and I think you will say thatIalso have dealt handsomely by you.'
'You, dear father!' She wondered what he could have done, he who had nothing, who was in debt.
'Read,' said Luxmore, and coughed a self-complacent, important cough.
The settlement was simple. It provided that in the event of Honor becoming a widow, in accordance with a settlement made in the marriage of Moses Langford and Blandina Hill, the father and mother of Taverner Langford, the property should be charged to the amount of seventy-five pounds to be levied annually, and that, in the event of issue arising from the contemplated marriage, in accordance with the afore-mentioned settlement the property was to go to the eldest son, charged with the seventy-five pounds for his mother, and that every other child was, on its coming of age, to receive one hundred pounds, to be levied out of the estate. And it was further agreed between Taverner Langford and Oliver Luxmore that, in the event of the latter receiving the estates of the Luxmore family, named Coombe Park, in the parish of Bratton Clovelly and other, he, the said Oliver Luxmore, should pay to Taverner Langford, the husband of his daughter, the sum of five hundred pounds to be invested in the three per cents. for the benefit of the said Honor Langford,aliasLuxmore, during her lifetime, and to her sole use, and with power of disposal by will. This was the stipulation Oliver had made; he insisted on this generous offer being accepted and inserted in the marriage contract. Honor listened attentively to every word. She was indifferent what provision was made for herself, but she hoped against conviction that Langford would bind himself to do something for her father. Instead of that her father had bound himself to pay five hundred pounds in the improbable event of his getting Coombe Park. Poor father! poor father!
'You have done nothing of what I asked,' said Honor.
'I have no wish to act ungenerously,' answered Taverner. 'Your request was reasonable; however, I have acted fairly, I have promised to advance your father a hundred pounds to assist him in the prosecuting of his claims.'
'There,' said Oliver Luxmore, 'you see, Honor, that your marriage is about to help the whole family. We shall come by our lights at last. We shall recover Coombe Park.'
Then Taverner went to the door and called down the passage, 'Mrs. Veale! Come here! You are wanted to witness some signatures.'
The housekeeper came, paler, more trembling than usual, with her eyes fluttering, but with sharp malignant gleams flashing out of them from under the white throbbing lashes.
'I be that nervous,' she said, 'and my hand shakes so I can hardly write.'
She stooped, and indeed her hand did tremble. 'I'm cooking the supper,' she said, 'you must excuse the apron.' As she wrote she turned her head and looked at her master. He was not observing her, and the lawyer was indicating the place where she was to write and was holding down the sheet, but Honor saw the look full of deadly hate, a look that made her heart stand still, and the thought to spring into her brain, 'That woman ought not to remain in the house another hour, she is dangerous.'
When Mrs. Veale had done, she rose, put her hands under her apron, curtsied, and said, 'May I make so bold as to ask if that be the master's will?'
'No, it is not,' said Langford.
'Thank you, sir,' said Mrs. Veale, curtseying again. 'You'll excuse the liberty, but if it had been, I'd have said, remember I've served your honour these fifteen years faithful as a dog, and now in my old age I'm kicked out, though not past work.'
She curtsied again, and went backward out of the room into the passage.
Langford shut, slammed the door in her face.
'Is the woman a little touched here?' asked the lawyer, pointing to his forehead.
'Oh no, not a bit, only disappointed. She has spent fifteen years in laying traps for me, and I have been wise enough to avoid them all.' Then he opened the door suddenly and saw her there, in the dark passage, her face distorted with passion and her fist raised.
'Mrs. Veale,' said the yeoman, 'lay the supper and have done with this nonsense.'
'I beg your pardon,' she said, changing her look and making another curtsey, 'was it the marriage settlement now? I suppose it was. I wish you every happiness, and health to enjoy your new condition. Health and happiness! I'm to leave, and that young chick to take my place. May she enjoy herself. And, Mr. Langford, may you please, as long as you live, to remember me.'
'Go along! Lay the table, and bring in supper.'
'What will you please to take, master?' asked the woman in an altered tone.
'Bring me some broth. I'll take no solids. I'm not right yet. For the rest, the best you have in the house.'
Mrs. Veale laid the table. The lawyer, Langford, the carrier, and Honor were seated round the room, very stiffly, silent, watching the preparations for the meal.
Presently Honor started up. She was unaccustomed to be waited upon, incapable of remaining idle.
'I will go help to prepare the supper,' she said, and went into the passage.
This passage led directly from the front door through the house to the kitchen. It was dark; all the light it got was from the front door, or through the kitchen when one or other door was left open. Originally the front door had opened into a hall or reception room with window and fireplace; but Taverner had battened off the passage, and converted the old hall into a room where he kept saddles and bridles and other things connected with the stables. By shutting off the window by the partition he had darkened the passage, and consequently the kitchen door had invariably to be left open to light it. In this dark passage stood Honor, looking down it to the kitchen which was full of light, whilst she pinned up the skirt of her best gown, so as not to soil it whilst engaged in serving up the supper. As she stood thus she saw Mrs. Veale at the fire stirring the broth for her master in an iron saucepan. She put her hand to the mantelshelf, took down the china dog, and Honor saw her remove from its inside a packet of yellow paper, empty the contents into the pan, then burn the paper and pour the broth into a bowl. In a moment Kate's story of the rat poison in the body of the dog recurred to Honor, and she stood paralysed, unable to resolve what to do. Then she recalled the look cast at Taverner by Mrs. Veale as she was signing the settlement as witness. Honor reopened the parlour door, went into the room again she had just left, and seated herself, that she might collect her thoughts and determine what to do. Kate was not a reliable authority, and it was not judicious to act on information given by her sister without having proved it. Honor had seen Mrs. Veale thrust the yellow paper into the flames under the pot. She could not therefore be sure by examination that it was the rat-poison packet. She remained half in a dream whilst the supper was laid, and woke with a start when Taverner said, 'Come to table all, and we will ask a blessing.'
Honor slowly drew towards the table; she looked round. Mrs. Veale was not there; before Taverner stood the steaming bowl of soup.
Langford murmured grace, then said, 'Fall to. Oliver Luxmore, you do the honours. I can't eat, I'm forced to take slops. But I'm better, only I must be careful.' He put his spoon into the basin, and would have helped himself, had not Honor snatched the bowl away and removed it to the mantelshelf.
'You must not touch it,' she said. 'I am not sure—I am afraid—I would not accuse wrongfully—it is poisoned.'