"Punctual to the appointed time, I met Mason at Teign Head cot. But my uncle did not appear. An hour we waited; then came the boy and the dogs. The lad had also heard one report of a distant fowling-piece, but he had worked all the way down to our starting-place without seeing his master.
"Still I found myself not anxious. I partook of food, then went down the valley expecting to meet him at every turn. At last I reached the place where we had parted, and then Mason and the dogs together made that terrible discovery. You know the rest. My unhappy relative was reduced to the primal, 'porcelain clay of human kind.' He had slain himself by putting his weapon to his throat and pulling the trigger with his foot. My fishing-line had been used for that terrible purpose.
"'Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace,' says Dryden. Before set of sun, as though carried on magic pinions, the whole little world of Chagford knew what had happened. It was a very trying time for me. My spirit sank. But for thoughts of Fox Tor Farm I could have relinquished my new responsibilities and envied the eternal rest of the dead. I felt most dreadfully unsettled. Nothing mattered. The dubiety of mundane affairs was much borne in upon me. Reflections concerning the shortness and darkness of man's days crowded down like a fog upon my spirit. I felt as I never yet had felt, that
"'The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.'
Dryden again.
"There he lay in his life's blood—extinct and cold as ice. He had chosen to destroy himself within a hollow worked by the old-time miners. Great deliberation and forethought clearly marked his actions. Yet I am thankful that they brought it in as insanity; and, for my part, I am positive that the dear gentleman's mind had given way under his misfortunes. But there is no marrying nor giving in marriage where he is now."
Mrs. Malherb wept silently as Peter finished his story. Then her husband spoke.
"He was a coward, and a coward is better out of the way. No human tribulations can justify the evasion of suicide. The man's duty had been to follow them, find his false lady, and, with proper formality, blow her lover's brains out, not his own. Go to the piano, Grace."
That night the weather changed from fair to foul. Dense vapours descended upon the Moor, driving mists wrapped hill and valley; scarce a mountain thrust its crown above the gloom. For two days the rain prevailed and Grace was in some fear that the change would delay Peter Norcot and lengthen his stay at Fox Tor Farm; but when she whispered that belief to Kekewich in the breakfast parlour on the morning of their visitor's departure, the old man showed no fear.
"He'll go. He'm not the sort to change his plans for a scat o' rain. You'll be rids of him by noon."
"Oh Kek, when shall I be rids of him altogether?"
"'Twill be wiser to get rids of your dislike of the gentleman, Miss Grace. Master means to see you married by next Whitsuntide."
"Somebody will have to run away with me."
"There's many would be very willing, I doubt not. But them as runs away with a maid, will often run away from her come presently. In this here vale o' tears, the hard deed be the wisest, nine times out o' ten. You'm so butivul as a painted picture; but your sort is often miserable in their lives, just because 'love' be the first thought and only thought in every heart as sees 'em. So you pretty ones get to think that love be the sole thing as matters."
"I'm sure I don't, then; at least—I—oh, why do fathers plot and plan for us so? Is it right? Is it fair?"
"A grown-up faither must be wiser than a young giglet not out of her teens."
"Where's the wisdom of——?" began Grace; but her mother appeared at this moment, and Mr. Norcot followed with the master of Fox Tor Farm.
After breakfast the weather mended, and Malherb insisted that Peter should ride round the estate with him—a performance of which they had been disappointed on the previous day. Norcot obeyed and admired all things, but he ventured to doubt whether a plan for bringing water from a spring by way of an open conduit would serve the purpose in winter.
"It is like to freeze or choke with snow," he said.
"Nonsense!" answered Malherb. "Everybody here is always whining about what will happen come winter. Did not I see last winter here myself?"
"A very unusually mild one."
"Well, I don't fear it. But my men shiver at the name of it. It haunts their summer. They begin to see the phantom of it before September. Woodman and Beer are always crying about it. Is it not so, man?"
He addressed Mr. Beer, who was ploughing up potatoes with a yoke of oxen. The stalks had been drawn and collected in huge heaps, and now, with his coulter held close on the left of each row, Richard flung up fine tubers at every step, while Tom Putt, Mark Bickford, and several women, specially engaged for this important business, followed and filled the carts.
The crop was heavy, and Mr. Malherb regarded it triumphantly.
"These will astonish some of our neighbours, I fancy," he remarked.
"You must have brought this land with you!" commented Peter; and the farmer was constrained to admit that the soil had called for costly preparation.
The weather broke anon, and before midday the mist lifted sluggishly to the crowns of the hills, sulked there awhile, then prepared to roll down again.
At his parting meal Norcot had some speech with Grace and, afterwards, succeeded in winning a little conversation with her alone. She showed indifference and impatience. Then he interested her by describing his visit to Prince Town.
"The hero of the chisel honoured me with his attention. I am to do him a service if I can. He is a gentleman from the State of Vermont. He congratulated me on my fortune and I expressed a hope that he might be at your wedding. If I win his parole for him, it is quite possible that he may be."
"I am resolved with all my soul and all my strength never, never to marry you, Peter; and you know it; and you are ungenerous and cruel to press it."
Mr. Norcot nodded thoughtfully.
"Nothing in the world like a hearty resolution," he answered. "'I have seen a woman resolve to be in the wrong all the days of her life; and by the help of her resolution, she has kept her word to a tittle.' But not so Grace Malherb. She is too sensible for that. I can leave my future happiness with absolute confidence in her little hands."
"My happiness is of no account!"
"Your happiness is my own. But let us return to Cecil Stark. A handsome and a gallant lad. He and his companions should enjoy parole without a doubt; and it may be that I shall assist them in that direction."
"You're a fool for your pains," declared Maurice Malherb, who entered at this moment. "Are there not enough of his kidney quartered all round about at Moreton, Tavistock, Ashburton and elsewhere? Certain of the Americans have broken their parole as it is. Conceive, if you can, the mind capable of such a crime. A dog has more sense of honour than these people."
"There are both heroes and rascals among them as amongst us all. You know my weakness for physical perfection. He was such a magnificent lad—Stark, I mean. And sailors always get upon the blind side of me. I find them so sterling and so simple. Of course, 'they that go down to the sea in ships, that do their business in great waters,' surprise one, since you might suppose that no man of intelligence would willingly select such a deplorable profession; yet I like 'em for their modesty and humble behaviour. I shall release Commodore Miller and the rest, I believe, if Lord Hamilton prove still my friend. He ispersona gratawith the Regent."
"And so is Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt at Tor Royal. I am almost minded to pit my influence against yours," said Malherb, half in jest, half in earnest. "I am myself privileged to know the Duke of Clarence, and at his table I was once honoured by meeting the Prince and received some flattering attention from him when he learned that I was a friend of Tyrwhitt."
"Oh, dad, don't!" pleaded Grace. "Let Peter free them if he can."
"And what interest have you in the matter, my dear?"
"Why, didn't the young man nearly knock my brains out? I have every right to be interested," declared his daughter.
Anon, Mr. Norcot set off for Chagford, and Grace, yielding to her father's wish, rode with him for some miles. Behind them followed John Lee and Thomas Putt. The former had come to escort Grace home again; the latter carried Mr. Norcot's luggage. As for Lee, Peter's well-knit figure and prosperous mien quite filled the forefront of his thoughts. His own helplessness especially crushed him when Norcot occupied his mind, and while Peter and Grace exchanged ideas, John kept a dark silence behind them, nor could Putt win any word from him.
At last Miss Malherb reached the turning-point and prepared to take her farewell.
"I wish you could find a reason for your coldness," said Norcot, as they drew up on the lonely heights of Believer. "I'm a logical man. If you convinced me of error, it would be so different. But I have yet to know why I shouldn't love you and why you shouldn't marry me."
"I don't love you."
"Tut, tut! That's nothing. What a pitiful fellow should I be to let so small an accident frighten me from a noble purpose! Besides, 'don't' and 'won't' are very different words. Patience is my strong point, and you can't remain a child for ever."
"Words—words, Peter! I often wonder what your real life is behind so much talking."
"Marry me and find out."
"Never. You think I may love you presently. It is absolutely impossible, so spare yourself the delusion, and spare me."
"As to that, delusion is half the joy of life, and at least three parts of true love. Hear Waller. His address to the 'Mutable Fair' might do you good.
"'For still to be deluded so,Is all the pleasure lovers know;Who, like good falconers, take delight,Not in the quarry, but the flight.'
Farewell, sweet Grace, until we meet again."
He bent over her hand in a very courtly fashion, and then set off for Chagford with Putt after him.
When they were out of sight Grace turned to her lover and quickly felt his arm round her, his gentle kisses upon her cheek.
"'Tis very well," she said; "but I can't live even on your kisses, sweetheart. This man quite overclouds my spirit. I gasp for air; I suffocate with quotations. You'll have to run away with me, John."
"Whither, my lovely Grace?"
"Why—to your grandmother. I'll dye myself nut-brown and pick snails for Lovey Lee."
Than her jest nothing had better served to show young John the futility of his hopes.
He groaned aloud.
"I have been mad," he said; "each day, each hour shows me how mad."
"Your love must find the way. Read some of my story-books. I'll warrant they'll hearten you. You are meant to do dashing deeds."
"Life falls out so different. What can I do? How shall I set about proving that I'm worthy to tie your shoe-string? The bitter truth is that I'm not."
"Now I see that Mr. Norcot has oppressed you as he oppresses me. I always feel not good enough, nor great enough to breathe the same air with him."
"But he is not good, nor yet great," John answered.
"Well, we stand where we did. You must see your grandmother and be firm with her. You are a man now. Approach her boldly upon the subject of your father. She knows all about you—more even than I do—'tis not to be endured. And if you cannot win her to our side, then I must. Just think how it might chance if she has the amphora!"
Upon this fascinating problem they spoke at length, and with such earnestness, that they forgot their love affairs for full five minutes. Not until familiar landmarks warned them that they neared their home again, did they become personal. Then John Lee's soul grew glad once more, and hope woke within him at her voice.
Peter Norcot, meantime, heard something of interest on his homeward way. In a wild heath beyond Hameldon, he overtook two old men plodding along together, and as he possessed a remarkable memory, the horseman recollected one of them very well, and offered him greeting.
"How now, Mr. 'Ha'penny for a rook, a penny for a jay'! How wags the world with you? You forget me, but I remember Leaman Cloberry who showed me my road to Fox Tor Farm when I was fog-foundered a while agone."
"To be sure—an' they be reaping what they sowed there by all accounts—I mean where I took you."
"Reaping what you sowed more like," said Putt wrathfully. "If I'd catched you at your May-games wi' rats and moles up-along, I'd have broken your wicked neck—old as you be."
"Stuff an' nonsense!" answered Cloberry, "I never went nigh the place. 'Tis Childe's Tomb I speak of, not rats an' mice. 'Tis pulling down of holy crosses wi'out more thought than an honest man would draw a turnip. An' they lost their only son; and but for the mercy of God might have had their throats cut last night—eh, Uncle Smallridge?"
"'Tis so indeed, your honour," piped Uncle. "An' me the first to tell the news; for if they'd escaped, 'tis odds but they'd have fallen on man, woman, 'an childern; for they'm little better'n Red Injuns by all accounts."
"What is this aged but animated earth chattering about?" asked Peter.
"'Tis thanks to the watching Lord an' Cap'n Cottrell they didn't," declared Uncle. "But they tried, an' they'd a' gotten their devilish contrivances all ready; but the red-coats was too clever for 'em; an' now 'twill be bloody backs for every one of 'em; an' sarve 'em right, I say!"
"The old chap overruns his subject, your honour," explained Cloberry. "The matter be that last night but one, when the fog blowed up so thick an' sudden, a party of them Yankees to the War Prison concocted a wonnerful clever plan for escape. In the thick of the dimsy light they popped over the first wall wi' a very nice li'l ladder all made o' rabbit wire; but somehow—God he knows how—afore they could scale the outer wall, up ran Commander Cottrell an' his valiant men, as was snugly hidden away in a covered shed there. The armed sojers made every man Jack of 'em a prisoner in a moment. How the plot was found out an' who told upon 'em ban't known; but somebody did for sure—else they'd a' got clean off—all seven of 'em."
"Pegs! 'tis a merciful escape for Dartymoor!" said Uncle Smallridge.
"Most interesting; but I hope 'twas not a young acquaintance of mine," answered Peter, "else I much fear my efforts upon his behalf will prove vain. Thank you, my men, for this remarkable news. Now let us sing 'Long live the King,' and Cottrell, long live he; and here's a trifle to cool your throats when you have done so."
He handed a shilling to each man, and they clamoured blessings upon him.
"Always knowed you was a gentleman. An' may it be your turn next, sir," said Cloberry with great heartiness. "I only hopes you'll be in a proper tight fix some of these days and 'twill be my fortune to pull you out!"
"An' me, too," declared Uncle Smallridge, "for you'm one of the Lord's chosen heroes if ever I seed one. You can take an old man's word for't."
Within a fortnight, Norcot had succeeded in obtaining the privilege of parole for Commodore Jonathan Miller, Cecil Stark and William Burnham. But the boon arrived too late, for in response to the order came a communication, telling how these officers, together with four other men, had recently been captured in a bold attempt to break out of the War Prison. In what manner the authorities had learned their secret and hindered them, none knew; but the result proved definite enough; for the promise of parole was immediately withdrawn and all future hope of it denied.
A week after his latest recorded ride with Grace, John Lee visited Siward's Cross, to find his grandmother in a black and savage temper. Not only had she lost her money, but all chance of making more, because the Americans now firmly believed that Lovey Lee was the traitress, since she alone, beside the Seven, knew of their project and the time determined for it. This woman was quite innocent; yet now, indeed, her sole regret centred in the fact that she had not betrayed them. But an unknown spy had taken the Government's money, and was richer by twenty guineas, while Lovey went poorer every way. How to regain the confidence of the prisoners was the problem before her, and she had not solved it on a day when John Lee came to her cabin. With him he brought some of his wages, and the silver served to comfort Mrs. Lee. She was half tempted to tell him her grievance, but natural caution arrested her. She held her peace concerning her private affairs; then, by a sudden question, unconsciously led him into his.
"How do Malherb get on with Norcot? You can tell him from me that thicky chap be built to be his master."
"'Tis the daughter he wants to master, not Mr. Malherb. She's promised to him. 'Tis all cut and dried in every mind but Miss Grace's."
"They won't ax her."
"To think of such a maiden being flung to a man she hates!"
"Stuff! She'll come round same as her betters afore her. He'll make her like him. Ban't he made o' money? Us all know that he be."
"She's wept tears against him a thousand times. She's a Malherb too, with all her father's strength of will and fifty times his sense. She won't wed against her heart for any man."
"What do you know about her heart, Jack Lee? You'll be wise not to open your mouth so wide; else you'm like to lose your job."
"I'm not blind to hideous injustice."
"Nor me neither. The man who would rob the poor would sell his darter to the rich. His damn stone walls stretch out all around yon valleys now, an' my cows get the fat of the pasture no more. I wish I could fret the flesh off his bones for it."
"Mr. Malherb has got his troubles and so much the more he wants to have his daughter off his hands and be free of her. The madness of the man! I learned from Kekewich, who is a very good friend to me, that he has already asked Norcot for his first-born to make him master of Fox Tor in the time to come. He looks that far ahead."
"The fool!"
"It shan't be while I live and can stand between her and the ruin of all her young life. I'm a man now—I——"
"Since when did you larn to talk so fine? An' who taught 'e?"
"Miss Malherb has been pleased to polish my speech. We—we are very good friends, thank God."
Lovey reflected over this curious remark. Then the matter in her mind was suddenly echoed upon his tongue and he put the familiar question.
"Grandmother, when are you going to tell me my father's name? I weary of asking you."
"You'm travelling fast," she answered; "long rides, an' mended speech, an' what else? She finds you're fair to see—'tis natural. Yet 'twill dash this crack-brained foolery when you know what you crave to know. For years I've kept that secret, hoping there was money hanging to it. But I don't see none."
"'Tis your duty to tell me now that I am a man."
"As to that— Do she want to know, or do you?"
"We both—at least——"
She caught him up.
"Ho-ho! An' what be you to her that she should care a rush who your faither was?"
"Well—a secret understanding——"
"Unknown to her faither?"
"'Tis so, but for God's sake, grandmother——"
"Say it out, then, or I'll peach. Come now——"
"Will you swear before heaven to tell nobody—not a breath to any living soul?"
"I'll swear hard and fast—may my liver rot if I whimper it," said Lovey, already speculating what the lad's confession might be worth to Maurice Malherb.
"And you'll tell me my father's name?"
"As to that, yes. We'm prone to hunger after more truth than's pleasant to taste. An' what you want to know won't make you more light-hearted, nor yet that maiden, if she's been so daft as to turn her eyes to you. Your mother was my daughter Jane. Your faither was Norrington Malherb, the younger brother of Maurice Malherb, as died long since. So you stand cousin, wrong side the blanket, to that girl."
She watched his face grow pale and heard him groan.
"Only his faither, my old master, knowed, and that was why he paid me anything at all—cussed miser that he was. You wince, as if I'd thrashed 'e like I did when you was a boy. You'd better have bided ignorant."
"No, by God!" he swore. "'Twas right that I should know. My only grief is that you hid it so long. 'Twill break her heart."
Lovey jeered.
"If that's all your trouble, you can laugh again. Maids as ban't hardly growed to see their bosoms rounded don't break their hearts for men. You tell her, an' she'll find it very easy to forget you."
"She has promised to be my wife!"
"My stars! The moonshiney madness there is in children!"
"She loves me—she always will. We can't be more than mistress and man now. But she'll never think no worse of me; for this is no fault of mine."
Lovey Lee did not answer, but her mind worked busily. She was wondering whether she might be able to pluck profit out of this folly.
"You'm a proper man—none can gainsay it. Have 'e the pluck of a man? A church service an' the mumbo-jumbo of the parsons never yet kept the rickets out of a weakly babe, nor made the child of healthy folks more fair to see. Cuss the world, as must needs drag God A'mighty in by the ears to their twopenny-ha'penny plans an' plots an' marryings! Nature's made you a fine, shapely mate for any female. Maybe this wench——"
"No," he said; "I'm a gentleman at least. I cannot marry her now, and I will not. Fate has cast me into the world and has given me good blood, but it has denied the only thing that makes blood worth having. She can never be my wife; yet I may fight for her against the world; I may serve her well, please Heaven."
"Bah! What's the use of that knock-kneed twaddle? 'Tis for you to fight for yourself against the world and beat it at its own dirty games, not to whine about fate, just 'cause your faither an' mother didn't happen to be yoked but by their own healthy passions. Be a man! Ban't it better to have noble blood in 'e, even o' the left hand, than wake and find yourself a labourer's son—heir to nought? Here's such a chance as might find you master of Fox Tor Farm in twenty years or less, if you was built of fighting stuff. What's the bar? None at all to any but a fool. There be Dukes of the Realm whose forbears comed in the world when a King of England cuddled an actress. Larn what happens an' take a big view of things. If you'm ashamed of yourself, then slink away an' cut your throat comfortable behind a haystack, an' get out of it. But if there's a pinch of your faither in you—not to name your gran'mother—then pick up the cards an' play 'em for all they be worth. Oh, I could almost wish I was a pretty lad like you be, to have the living of your life."
"I'm in a maze. I must get away with my thoughts; and I must speak to her."
"But don't speak what I've told you. Don't be such a born fool as that. Run away with her if there's one drop of lover's blood in you. Marry her; then play for Fox Tor Farm after; an' mind there's a lew corner by the fire for your poor starving gran'mother come she gets old."
He left her and went out with his head hung low and abiding grief upon his face. The woman's talk had not fired him; the thought of fighting and conquering the world did not quicken his pulses. He only saw the gulf for ever fixed between himself and Grace Malherb, and he was crushed. He felt not even curious to find out how she would receive the news. His own mind assured him that his determination could not waver. He must leave the farm, and that immediately. He debated whether he should vanish away without a word. But such a step appeared both cruel and weak. Therefore he decided to tell Grace everything and then depart.
Lovey Lee meantime flung herself into the matter with great mental zest and an itching palm. Come what might, a lively promise of money rose out of this remarkable accident, and she foresaw encounters such as her soul loved between the strong and the feeble. Peter Norcot and Maurice Malherb were upon one side; Grace and the boy upon the other. Her natural instinct drew her to the powerful and the rich; then she reflected that in the long run Grace Malherb herself might prove the best mistress to follow. All depended upon the young woman's attitude towards John Lee's information; for that he would tell her the truth Lovey perceived, and that the girl's decision would presently reach her own ears she was also assured. Dismissing the matter, therefore, she returned to her former problems, and speculated how to convince the American prisoners that she had acted in good faith, and that the traitor to the enterprise must be sought inside the War Prison, and not outside it.
Harvey Woodman was ploughing with a team of six bullocks, and as he plodded behind them over the burnt ground, he sang a strange song understanded of the cattle. It cheered them at their toil, and the low, monotonous notes sometimes broke suddenly, and leapt abruptly a whole octave upward. When the song stopped, the steers also stopped, nor would they resume their labour until the ploughman returned to his music. Beside Woodman tramped his son to turn the team when necessary. But they made poor ploughing through the heavy and ill-drained ground, and Maurice Malherb, who watched the operations from a distance, was alive to the fact. His personal unwisdom prompted the enterprise, for he was engaged in attempting to reclaim land that defied the effort; but, as usual, he set all blame upon other shoulders than his own. Now he approached Mr. Woodman and accosted him.
"You're not getting what you might out of those brutes. If you'd sing less and watch your work closer——"
"Ban't that, your honour—devil a bit will they go unless a man chants their proper song to 'em. 'Tis the nature of the earth, not the cattle."
"Nonsense. The land is no worse than the rest aloft there, that I've drained and pared and turned into fine fallow. The cattle go uneasily. I'll wager that fool blacksmith at Prince Town shoed them ill." He examined the hoof of an ox as he spoke. The inside claws behind were left unprotected, but the outer ones had been carefully shod with iron. Malherb perceived that the work was good.
"Then he threw them carelessly, I'll wager. These big steers should be thrown with the greatest skill."
"To be just, your honour, 'twas very cleverly done, for I helped myself," answered Woodman.
The master turned away without another word. In his stormy mind of late there had been growing a darkness foreign to it. Dim suspicions, thrust aside only to reappear, shadowed his waking hours and haunted his pillow. From cursing ill success he had, by rare fits and starts, risen superior to his character and asked himself the reason for it. With impatience and an oath the answer was generally rapped out; but the question returned. In secret arcana of his heart, Maurice Malherb knew that he had acted with overmuch of haste. Thereupon he distributed the blame of his enterprise right and left: and chiefly he censured Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, in that the knight had always prophesied smooth things. Yet honesty reminded Malherb that while pursuing the suggestions of local men where it pleased him to do so, he had widely departed from the beaten track of experience in many directions. He remembered a recent interview with the owner of Tor Royal, and the words bluntly uttered then: that in certain particulars of husbandry Malherb attempted the impossible. The impossible, indeed, had always possessed a fatal charm for him. He had of late despatched cattle to Bideford Fair and sheep to that at Bampton—a matter of considerable expense in those days. But no prize nor commendation rewarded his undertaking. He was spending money still with but meagre return for it. He saw his means dwindling, and already the future of his family depended largely upon the success of a midland canal, in which Maurice Malherb, fired by glowing promises, had embarked a very large proportion of his capital. Canals were the rage amongst speculators a hundred years ago, but few sensibly succeeded; many were no more than the schemes of rascals and existed only upon paper.
Now this man, conscious of gathering troubles, lifted a corner of the veil that hid his spirit and looked upon himself. The spectacle was disquieting and made him first impatient, then sad. Angry he often was, but sadness before this apparition proved something of a new emotion. For a few fleeting moments he glimpsed the real and perceived that his own stubborn pride and boyish vanity were near the roots of life's repeated failures. For once, in the glare of a mental lightning-flash, he saw and understood; then his troubled eyes caught sight of flocks feeding in the bosom of Cater's Beam; and Malherb's misery lifted. Scattered upon the hills like pearls, their fleeces washed to snowy whiteness by recent rain, the farmer saw his sheep; and they put heart into him, and dispelled the gloom begotten elsewhere. He turned his back on Harvey Woodman and failure; he stopped his ears to the cattle song, and looked out upon the Moor.
"The music of a sheep-bell rings my fortune," he reflected. "There lies my strength; that wool means high prosperity presently and an issue out of these perplexities."
Now his flocks represented the counsel of other men.
A moment later the master went his way with mended spirits, and as he entered his farmyard a grumbler met him. Mr. Putt revealed a face red to his sandy locks, while the rims of his eyes were even pinker than usual. Consciousness of wrong stared out of his face and he spoke with great feeling.
"I does my stint, God He knows. I work by night as well as day, but 'tis too much to be agged into a rage six times a week by they females, Dinah Beer an' t'other, just because I can't do miracles. Ban't my fault things go awry in the fowl-house; ban't in me to alter the laws of nature an'——"
"What's the matter? Despite your scanty vocabularies, all you men take a wearisome age to say what might be said in a minute. But if you had more words perhaps you would make shorter speeches."
"Ban't vocableries at all, axing your pardon, sir," said Tom Putt; "'tis rats—an' their breeding is no business of mine. I'm at 'em all the time wi' ferrets an' traps an' terriers; but they will have the chickens, for they'm legion. But what's the sense of Mary Woodman using sharp words to me? I do all that a man may. Look at the barnyard door next time you pass, your honour, an' you'll see varmints of all sizes an' shapes nailed against it. There's owls an' weasels, an' rats' tails by the score, an' martin-cats, an' hawks. I can't do no more; an' Leaman Cloberry hisself couldn't."
"Go your way. I'm satisfied that you work hard enough. We shall get 'em under presently. As to Cloberry—the old moth-eaten knave—let him not show his face to me while he shoots foxes."
"There was a brave gert fox round here two nights since," said Putt. "I heard un bark, an' he got short in his temper, too, when he found the ducks was out of reach. You could tell by the tone of his voice that he was using the worst language he knowed. An' I told Miss Grace; an' her laughed an' said she could wish as he'd collared hold of a good fat bird for hisself and his family."
Mr. Malherb smiled grimly.
"Very right and proper," he said. "If any duck of mine will help a good fox to stand before hounds, he's welcome to it. Never touch a fox as you hope to be saved, Thomas Putt. Thank the Lord cub-hunting begins in a fortnight."
Cheered by this reflection, the master proceeded about his business, and Putt went the round of the mole-traps to find not a few of Mr. Cloberry's "velvet-coats" dangling from the hazel switches that he had set. As he returned he met Grace about to start on her ride, and hearing of Mr. Putt's speech with the master, she bid him take to heart what her father had said. Then, turning to John Lee as they trotted out of sight into the wilderness, she continued upon the same matter.
"To think that within a few short weeks I may win my first brush! But a cub's little brush—it seems so unkind to kill the baby things. Still the baby hounds must be brought up in the way they should go—eh, John?"
But the young man's thoughts were far from foxes, because he was now to tell his lady of the conversation with Lovey Lee.
"You're sad," she said, as they rode over the Beam and descended into those heathery wastes that stretched south-east of it. "Even the thought of my first brush wins no enthusiasm from you. What's amiss, John? I fear that Lovey——?"
"Even so," he answered. "'Twas but the day before yesterday, and yet it seems long years since I heard it—my death-knell."
"What a word!"
"The true one. I only ask your leave to go. Bide here I cannot any more."
Grace looked very grave.
"What dreadful thing has fallen out?" she asked. "Whatever you have learned, it cannot make you other than you are. And it cannot surely make you love me less."
"My father was your father's brother, Grace—your Uncle Norrington, who died."
She did not answer, but stared before her. A flush lighted her cheek, but it was of exultation rather than dismay, "You're a Malherb! How glorious."
He shook his head very sadly.
"Not I. My mother's name and my mother's shame is all my portion."
"Poor John—'tis hard to smart for others so. Yet—you're my own cousin."
"Don't think it. These things run by law, not by blood. I'm mere fatherless dust—not worthy to be trod upon by you. I can't live for you now, Grace; I might die for you; 'tis the highest fate I hope for."
She reflected for some moments, then answered—
"I do not see that the case is much altered. We had guessed at this, John; it hardly hurts me. We are still as we were. There is nothing between us that prevents me from being your wife."
"How ignorant you are of this cold, cursed world! You argue like an angel might that had never been beyond the gate of heaven. But we must face facts now. All is changed."
"Except my word and yours. I've promised to wed you; and a Malherb does not break promises. Don't I love you dearly? Tell me that I do."
"Right well I know it."
"Then that's your weapon against this cold world you speak of. You've got to make the world warm for yourself—and me; you've got to make the world forget this accident of birth. How are you different? You were born like any other. A man may be born to power; but no man is born great. 'Tis but an extra handicap and obstacle at the start. Oh, my brains are quick as lightning to-day! You must conquer this thing, as many great men have; you must see that it might have been ten thousand times worse. Your father was my father's favourite brother. He was a soldier and died in the wars. Now 'tis for you to make my father your friend. Then he gets you a commission in the Army. Then you go to the wars, and—oh, no, no—to think that I can say that! I who still wear black for my brother!"
But he saw her vision of himself—grown great despite his birth. He beheld himself winning a place in the world even worthy to offer her. He was young and sanguine, and her words had thrown a veil over the harsh truth. Yet his spirit sank.
"If such a thing could be!"
"Such things have been a thousand times. History is rich in them."
"I might do something, yet never anything great enough to offer to you."
"It must mean that you went far away, and I don't think I could let you go. And yet——"
"The thought is too grand even for hope. Who am I that I should ever win a commission in His Majesty's Army?"
"You are the son of a good soldier. The time cries for soldiers; but no, I couldn't let you—oh, dear, gentle John, I couldn't. Perchance Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt might—but I can't plot the details in cold blood, and I wish heartily I'd never thought of such a horrid idea at all. You shall not go to the wars for me. You must shine in a peaceful part."
"Fighting's the only sure quick way to success in these days. How to get Mr. Malherb's good word?"
"I've thought of that already. I've been thinking of it ever since you told me, and hating myself for thinking with such a hard heart. You've got a grandmother, and she is shrewdly suspected of a great crime. If, indeed, she robbed dear father, and you could prove it——"
"If I could find the amphora and bring it to him!"
"You must do so! That is what lies before you."
"But it may be all a dream, Grace."
"Then we must go on with the dream until we waken. Our love's no dream at least, and if one way won't serve, we will seek another."
"Honesty and right point the only way—for me: that leading out of your life."
"You are downcast and you try to make me so; but you shall not succeed, I promise you. Am I nobody, that you talk so easily of the road that leads away from me? Do you want to be off with the old love, John? Ah! Now I know what has fallen out: you've found a pretty girl and one easier to come by!"
"Don't—don't! 'Tis no time for jesting. My heart's breaking to see my duty so cruel plain."
"Your duty lies where your love is, and honour bids you keep your word to me before everything, John. And if you love me well enough to go into the world and fight for me, you shall; though 'tis my heart that will break, not yours, when I think of it. Thus it stands: you must win my father to your way and if good chance helps you to bring him back his treasure, then so much the more quickly will you come to your reward."
"It may be so. Certainly there is some place that my grandmother used to haunt by night, and I know the direction."
"As a child she nearly killed you for spying; now, as a man, you must do the like again to better purpose. She can't whip you now."
"You will jest."
"The amphora is no jest. Secure it, and my father is under an eternal obligation."
"Would you have me ask for his daughter?"
"No, indeed; he would fling the amphora back in your face. But you ask—oh, that I should say it—for a commission. Yet, please God, the war will be done; and yet, again, if it is, whence are you going to win glory?"
"Glory!" He sighed and said no more.
"To be frank," continued Grace, "dear father would not keep the amphora now. He loves beautiful things, but he loves his farm better. He needs money. He looks so far ahead, that the present often finds him very straitened. Just now 'tis money he most wants, and you have to begin the campaign by finding twenty thousand pounds for him."
"I'll do my best—the Lord helping."
"And think not, dear John, that I am light of heart because my tongue wags so fast. I laugh, but my spirit is low enough when I remember all that these things must mean. Your life will be full of fret and fever and action; I shall have nothing but thought and hope to fill mine."
"I wish I could believe you. Your dangers will be real ones. If I departed, who is to stand between you and Peter Norcot? Since I am to fight, 'tis your battle, not the King's, that I long to enter into."
Grace shook her head.
"Have no fear for me, John; I can take good care of myself—of that I do assure you. Now tell me that no maid more practical and sensible and brave than I, ever set sail to face a sea of troubles."
Then fell silence between them for a long season, and there was no sound but the rasp of the dry, burnt heather twigs against their horses' feet.
John Lee entertained a very vivid recollection of the spot where his grandmother had turned on a moonlit night under Fox Tor, and beat him for daring to follow her. That her hiding-place was still the same he doubted not; and now he determined to track the old woman down again, but with more stealth and skill than had marked his boyish operations.
Seven times he waited on the Moor beneath the hills, only to find each vigil unbroken save by the familiar shapes and voices of the night. Then two moons passed and the hunting season opened in earnest. It now became Lee's duty to ride his master's second horse, for Mr. Malherb was both a heavy weight and a hard rider. As for Grace, she approached the sport with all her father's ardour and quickly proved herself a brave and a brilliant horsewoman. Oftentimes she made John's heart sink, for she knew no fear; then Maurice Malherb cautioned her for incurring of unnecessary risk, and in private John implored her to be more cautious.
"You are magnificent," he said. "'Tis a grand thing to see Mr. Malherb's face when he watches you; but you are made of flesh and blood, not moonbeams; and your horse, fine though he is, can only do what a horse may."
"'Tis so funny to hear dear father tell all men about his wonderful system of teaching; while the sober truth is that you have taught me what I know," she answered. "Father rides well enough and with the courage of a lion; but you—I love to hear them talk of it. Sir Thomas and the rest declare that you have the most perfect style on Dartmoor. Father has to thank you for much. You nurse his second horse marvellously."
"He is always most generous with his praise—and his half-guineas. I hate to take them," replied John.
Grace Malherb got her first brush in November. Then came a day when circumstances so fell out that she went to a meet with Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt and the house party from Tor Royal. Upon this occasion Mr. Malherb had business in Exeter and he rode thither at dawn with John Lee. It was understood that Grace might spend the night with friends at Holne, some miles from Fox Tor Farm.
An incident trivial in itself needs this much of elaboration, since mighty matters sprang from it. Maurice Malherb, his business of purchasing a new hunter happily completed, set off homeward in good spirits; while John Lee followed, riding his own horse and leading the new one.
Upon his return the master found that Grace had not come home; while John Lee, perceiving the night to be clear and lit by the moon, determined once again to keep a vigil for Lovey. He tumbled into bed soon after eight o'clock, slept soundly for three hours, then, as he had often done of late, arose, dressed in his thickest attire, left the loft wherein he lived and crept out of the house. Slipping from a side door, John was startled to hear footsteps, and, peeping cautiously over a gate that led to the stable-yard, he saw his master, booted and spurred. A moment later Maurice Malherb led a saddled horse from the stable, mounted it and cantered away.
John kept invisible until the other was gone; then, full of wonder at a circumstance quite beyond his experience, he left the farm and entered the Moor. The moon shone clearly, and there was frost in the air. Dew glimmered grey upon the dying herbage; and below in the valley waters murmured softly from a dense cloud of silver mist that hid them.
Now the object of Malherb's secret pilgrimage was one which he would sooner have perished than declare. The man's soft heart prompted him upon this mission; a simple matter of sentiment, hidden jealously from every eye, took him forth into the night. The morning kiss that he gave to Grace was always formal and cold; and if sometimes he stroked her hair or patted her soft cheek, he instantly assumed an attitude of indifference or said some harsh word, as though contemptuous of his own weakness. Annabel Malherb, affectionate and warm-hearted though she was, possessed far more common-sense and infinitely more self-possession in matters of human affection than did her husband. She showed all that she felt and very properly passed for a gentle and a tender-hearted woman; he secreted his emotions and banked up volcanic fires out of sight. Thus he suffered as only those at once self-conscious and deeply feeling can suffer.
Upon returning from Exeter, Mr. Malherb supped with his wife and heard how Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt had called upon his homeward way after hunting and taken a dish of tea and a cordial.
"'Twas a very good run—one hour and twenty minutes. They killed upon East Dart, near Dury, and my lady Bastard had the brush."
"What of Grace?"
"Sir Thomas saw her once, well up. Doubtless she returned with the Fentons to Holne. Her things were sent in good time, for Dinah Beer went in to market there and took 'em with her."
"Yes, yes, of course," said the farmer, and spoke of other matters. Yet sleep refused to close his eyes; and while Annabel slumbered placidly enough, well knowing that her daughter was safe and happy, the father, equally sure of the fact in his reason, found a paternal instinct above reason keeping him awake and restless. He tossed to the right and left; he swore half-sleeping; then he started into wakefulness and saw his window full of moonlight. The illumination decided him. With a shamed face he stole from the side of his wife, and ten minutes later was ready to take the road. Creeping out of doors, he went to the stable, saddled a hack and rode off towards Holne village with a sulky and guilty satisfaction. The thought of any human eye upon him had driven him into a furious passion at once. He was ashamed of himself, yet well content to be upon this business.
Malherb trotted the four miles to Holne, fastened up his horse at the edge of a wood, and proceeded cautiously to the dwelling of the Fentons. Avoiding the front of the house, he presently reached the back premises. All was still, and he passed noiselessly to the window of the stables. The occasional thud of hoofs and snort of nostrils reached him from here. Moonlight illuminated the interior, and Malherb without difficulty saw what he wished to see. His daughter's hunter stood comfortable and asleep in its stall. For that sight alone the man had come, because it revealed to him how all was well with Grace. Some great dog bayed, and leaped to the length of its chain with a rush and rattle, but before a sleepy voice from above bade it be silent, Malherb was far away. He hurried back through the trees to his horse, then returned homewards, happy. Other such human secrets as this were locked in the casket of his heart, and now, thinking upon the past, he remembered deeds to his account as a young husband and father. He growled impatiently and shook his head, for it vexed him that God's self should know those things.
Into the thread of the night's incidents Malherb anon returned, but for the moment it is necessary that we follow John Lee. Proceeding along the accustomed way, he hid closely where, beneath the inky blackness of a rock's shadow, it was possible for him to survey the shining vast, himself unseen. The sky twinkled with frosty stars to the horizon; the moon sailed high overhead. Then, almost before he had settled to his vigil, there came a sound out of the night, a rhythm of feet, that bore a lean grey figure who seemed woven of light and mist. It crept towards him; it promised to pass along the sheep-track within five yards of him; and Lee, with a tremor of boyish fear suddenly chilling his bones, shrank into the darkness and scarcely dared to breathe. Then Lovey Lee went past, and the light was in her eyes where they glimmered out of her white face, like jewels set in marble. Her breath came a little short, for she was moving fast. As one in sleep she swept along, staring before her, until her tall shape was swallowed up again within the pearly dimness of the Moor. The sound of her footsteps died upon his ear; the vision of her faded.
John Lee gave his grandmother a few minutes' start before he followed with extreme caution. For two miles he stalked the shadow of her, then, perceiving that she must presently enter a deep gorge known as Hangman's Hollow, where certain ruins of old mining works and blowing-houses still stood, he made a wide detour, mended his pace, and got to the neck of the coombe before her. Here he concealed himself again beside one of the rotting buildings, formerly used for smelting of tin. He hid behind a broken wall, and through a chink in it kept watch upon the ravine down which he had just hastened. Upon his left yawned a disused gravel-pit, where a labourer had hanged himself to a rowan tree and so given this sinister name to the spot. Around about, dying brake-fern spread wanly under the night; and here and there flashed the white of a rabbit's scut as it bobbed from its hole to the open and back again. On the watcher's right hand, deep sunk into the heather-clad earth, the bulk of an old blowing-house still appeared; but one side had bulged and broken out, so that the whole stood like a shattered corpse of some habitation, and shone pallid there in its pall of grey lichens and rusty moss.
While still he panted after his run, and was vexed to see his breath steam into the moonlight, there came Lovey Lee slowly descending. She passed him, and turned the corner of the ruin where two broken walls rose with a shattered alley-way between them. Above towered the dome of the blowing-house; beneath was a wilderness of broken stone.
John heard no sound, so he took off his boots, and, keeping in the shadow, peeped round the corner that Lovey had turned. But he saw nothing. The place was a narrow cul-de-sac and no visible exit offered from it; yet Lovey had quite vanished. Her grandson rubbed his eyes, then crept forward, and, growing bolder, searched every nook and cranny of the spot. But not one evidence of life rewarded him. Beneath, green sward sloped away at the embouchure of the combe, and a few sleeping sheep appeared dotted upon it, all misty and silver-grey. No shadow of his mysterious grandmother was visible. Again he searched without avail, then turned homeward—in haste to be gone. There was upon him now a cold and crawling sensation of dread. Witches and devils, hobgoblins and werwolves were dancing in his mind; each silent stock and stone that stared moon-tranced upon him seemed to hide some nocturnal thing of horror, some ghoul, or cacodemon. Impish atoms of life twisted and wriggled under his feet; the owl's cry uttered words of dark meaning to him; the night opened sudden unexpected eyes, and spirits that he had never known now jostled and elbowed poor John Lee. Even in his superstitious dread he felt a wave of shame when he thought of what Grace must say; yet he could not regain his courage immediately, for every time that the problem of his grandmother's disappearance turned uppermost in his mind there came an unnatural solution to it.
But had John Lee waited patiently with his eyes upon the ruin, instead of flying so fast away, his fears had been stilled, and the mystery solved without any superhuman aid. Long before he reached home again Lovey had already reappeared, and was tramping back by the way that she had come.
Then the sound of a horse's feet fell suddenly upon her ear, and knowing that it was no wandering pony, but a mounted beast, she turned and saw the figure of Maurice Malherb approaching. The old woman's first instinct was to secrete herself, but time did not allow of it. The horseman had observed her and now reached her side. Indeed, annoyance quickly gave place to curiosity at this extraordinary apparition of him by night; and he felt no less surprise on meeting the ancient woman thus alone at such an hour.
"Lord defend us!" she cried. "What ghost be you stealing here afore cock-crow thus?"
"You know me well enough," he answered. "And you, you old miser? Going to visit your hoard, I'll wager—or else keeping an appointment with the Devil."
"Ess; only I've missed my gentleman. He's too busy to meet me this evening," she said; "but you'll do very well. An' so you ban't weary o' Dartymoor; but love it so dearly that you must wander here by night as well as day? Most of your sort be sick of the place before the moss begins to grow on the silly walls they build."
"There's no shepherd for sheep like the owner of them," said Malherb. "A good wether was slaughtered not long since. I'd pay handsomely to know whose belly bettered by him. There's a man called Jack Ketch for that work, Lovey Lee."
"You be fond of promising me a halter. See your own cursed temper don't thrust your head into one afore long. You be all alike—your brother, an' him as be dead, an' my old skinflint master—robber that he was. But 'tis idle to cuss the dust."
"You've no call to curse Malherbs—you with twenty thousand pounds of my money stolen."
"You still think as I've got you're beggaring old pot?"
"I'll swear you had it; and I'd stake half its value that you have it yet."
"An' if I had? What better way of filling your eyes with twenty thousand pound all to once?"
"But not your own."
"Bah! If I had it, 'twould be my own, as much as my body an' bones be my own—mine to make or mar—to cherish or put under my feet."
"I'll swear your hag's eyes have mirrored it this night!" cried Malherb. "I see you licking your lips as though you had just come from a feast."
"If 'twas so, 'tis a feast as I won't ax you to share."
"Nevertheless, I shall share it some day unasked."
"You'm welcome; but the day you see the Malherb amphora again will be the last day you see anything."
"You've got it then?"
"Why, as to that—since there be no witness here but your horse—I can speak. Ess, I've got it safe enough. 'Tis my family to me, my fire, my food, my heaven. I catch heat from it in the cold; it feeds me when I be hungry; it fires my blood same as liquor would. I hug it like a lover an' it makes me young again. But you—you that have lifted walls between my cattle an' their best grazing ground—you that have cursed me and promised to hang me—you that be what is worst in every generation of your race rolled into one—you may ax an' pray to all the devils of hell for your amphora; an' they'll sooner give it back to you than ever I shall!"
Malherb preserved a very remarkable restraint under these insults.
"As usual, my judgment is confirmed," he said. "You hold my treasure and deny me possession. So be it. But you must die some day, Lovey Lee. Now let us discuss the future."
"Never—never," she screamed. "Die—who be you talking to? I ban't built to die. I'm all steel springs and tough as osiers. Not a sense failing, an' power to do a man's work when I will. I'll last out you an' your brood, never fear; I'll live to see your blasted walls in the dust yet an' your body resting on the Coffin Stone up Dartmeet Hill. Don't fox yourself to think I'm going to die afore you. An' when that time does come an' I know that I've got to go, I'll scat your toy to little bits—pound it to dust an' eat it—eat twenty thousand pounds! I've thought of that—I, that live on snails an' efts, will make me such a meal as no human has ever made. You! I'd rather fling the glass under the hammers at the tin mine afore you should touch it or see it more."
"A ducking-stool would do you good, you foul-mouthed old witch," he said. "Be very sure your secret's out now and the end of you is not far off."
"You're a fool to think so. You'll tell the world I've got your amphora? And I'll say I have not. You'll say that I confessed to it, and I'll ax when? You'll say upon the middle of Dartymoor at a moonshiney midnight! An' the neighbours will reckon another fool be taking to drink to drown his troubles. Get home to your wife! Be you faithless to her, too, along of your other faults? Go; throw over more crosses till the curse of God's ripe for you! An' do me a hurt at your eternal peril. Your son be took, but lift one finger against me, an' by the God as made us both evil, I'll ruin your daughter's life. 'Tis in my power to do it, so I can hit you harder than you can hit me."
She stood still a moment, then turned her back upon him, and hastened down a stony place into the darkness. He watched her climb out upon the other side and fade into night. For a moment his rage prompted him to gallop after her, but he changed his mind and turned homeward.
A grand problem filled the foreground of his life from that moment. Daily his circumstances grew more straitened, and that morning he had felt shamed in secret to spend fifty guineas on a new hunter. Yet now twenty thousand pounds seemed almost within reach again. He doubted not that his amphora was hidden upon Dartmoor, and felt positive that the historical jewel of the Malherbs must soon return to his possession. Already he planned the spending of the money.
In olden times this man would have thought it no sin to torture the truth out of Lovey Lee by rack or red-hot iron. Now he concerned himself with other ways of solving the problem. Stealthily he returned home, stalled his horse and rubbed it down, then crept back to bed. His mind was occupied with fair means to recover his amphora. As for the miser's threats, they were forgotten. He had as yet met no woman capable of opposing herself successfully to his determination.
While John Lee carried his experience of the night to Grace at the first opportunity, Malherb told no man of the nocturnal meeting with Lovey. He turned his secret over, and between intervals of hunting and of work, held deep speculation with himself how best to circumvent the miser. Vaguely he dreamed of cunning traps and surprises, but such warfare was foreign to Maurice Malherb, and his mind lent itself to no subtlety in that sort. Nor would he ask assistance of any man; for, though he thought upon Peter Norcot more than once, and might, indeed, have made no better choice, yet pride rebelled before the spectacle of himself seeking aid to outwit a woman. That he would recover Lovey's stolen treasure the master felt positive; but no means of doing so immediately appeared.
John Lee, meanwhile, had less than Malherb's knowledge in one direction, much more in another. That the amphora was actually in his grandmother's possession he did not guess; but the locality of her hidden haunt he had discovered. All that he knew Grace now learnt, and her mind awoke into great enthusiasm.
"'And then she vanished'! No, no, dear John; people don't vanish—not even mysterious, savage old misers like Lovey. She went somewhere out of your sight and out of your reach for the present; but flesh and blood cannot vanish," said Grace very seriously.
"There were witches in the Bible, and there may be on Dartmoor," he answered. "Not that I'm afeared any more. I'm going to hunt Hangman's Hollow every moment of my spare time henceforth. All the future depends on it for me, and for you, and for Mr. Malherb also, since you say that without money things must fall out hardly in a year or so."
Yet, despite John Lee's great resolutions, a chance unforeseen came now to thwart them, and it was many weeks before any human foot explored the desolate ravine that hid Lovey Lee's secrets. As though to convince the master of Fox Tor Farm that the moor-men did well to fear winter, terrific weather fell upon the upland waste. Long weeks of sulky black frost ended in white frost. From lowering skies the sun crept forth above the undulation of Cater's Beam; but his direct rays proved powerless to thaw the ground. Each night the frost bit deeper; each morning the cattle byres were coated with ice from the frozen breath of the kine. Work was suspended, and the world seemed a thing perished and insensible to any further touch of life. Then, alter a cloudless week, the wind, that had puffed fitfully as it listed, yet never found a cloud to drive along the pale azure floors of heaven, went north and stopped there. Now the frost abated by a degree or two, but still remained severe and, from day to day, feathers and films of cloud swept southerly. For some time these vanished before nightfall; then they increased and a few light snow-showers fell. They heralded a notable and terrific blizzard, whose sustained fury burst upon the Moor, swallowed its boundaries, buried its lonely heart and piled mighty barriers of snow between the central waste and all civilisation. Fox Tor Farm was well equipped for such a siege; but many an isolated homestead, now surprised by weather beyond man's memory to parallel, found itself much straitened until the thaw.
At one place above all others this avalanche of snow brought with it deep concern and anxiety. In the War Prison, Commandant Cottrell and his staff, with ten thousand men to feed, found great problems threatening their peace. Supplies promised quickly to run short, and even the store of sealed provisions set aside for any possible emergency, represented little more than a week's fare for the hosts of Americans and French. Within three days of the great isolation food was being nursed and rations were decreased—a hardship terrible at such a time. But unutterable suffering and woe beyond words marked these black weeks at Prince Town. Infinite cold settled upon the waste, and thousands of prisoners stuck all day to their hammocks, leaving them only at the hour of meals. All buying and selling had been suspended, for the country-folk now possessed nothing they could part from. Within the War Prison order and discipline were scarce maintained beneath the strain; death reigned at the hospital, and nimiety of human misery found an end in the frozen earth.
The tempest that followed upon this arctic weather deeply affected the fortunes of the Seven. After some weeks of imprisonment in the cachots, Cecil Stark and his companions rejoined their compatriots in Prison No. 4. What had happened to defeat their scheme they knew not, and no thought of treachery amongst their comrades darkened a single heart, because every man supposed that Lovey Lee had betrayed them. For a time after their failure each held aloof from the rest, since suspicious eyes now closely marked their actions. Then came a meeting with Captain Cottrell, and immediately after their liberation, the three officers, Miller, Stark and Burnham, were summoned before the Commandant.
They appeared and for the first time learnt that Peter Norcot had availed with the authorities.
"But those who break prison would break parole," said Cottrell drily. "Therefore upon my report, gentlemen, and as the result of your own folly, the privileges that a generous Government was prepared to extend to you are now denied."
Commodore Miller answered for the Americans.
"Little need be said to what you tell us, Captain Cottrell. We stand under a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Norcot, for his generous and disinterested effort on our behalf; and our failure to make good escape will not unnaturally be punished by a withdrawal of the privilege of parole. One other point only of your remarks challenges my comment, and that I would willingly avoid, since it is no wish of ours to quarrel personally with any man in authority. But when you say that those who would break prison would break parole, I declare that you speak for yourself, and not for these gentlemen, or for me. We are honourable men and the prisoners of an honourable country, but you—by these words you have proclaimed yourself a mean and base soul, not worthy either to have the control of gentlemen, or to mingle with them."
The Commodore spoke with calm self-restraint, and upon the silence that followed his rebuke struck Stark with somewhat less careful choice of words.
"Every man has a right to regain his liberty at any cost; but no man has a right to tell a lie and break a solemn oath. You are much to be pitied, Commandant, in that you, who call yourself an officer and a gentleman, can confuse such widely different issues."
The soldier gnawed his moustache and grew red.
"I stand corrected," he said. "So many of your countrymen have committed this crime of breaking their parole, that I assumed the issues were not regarded as opposite in the American mind. Commodore Miller, I pray that you will accept my apologies, and I shall be very happy after the war is ended, to give you every satisfaction."
"It is enough," said Miller. "I would that you could extend your ready sense of justice to the parole now tended to us by authority; but that, of course, is a question for your personal judgment."
"In that connection no apology is needed nor will be offered," returned the other. "Had you escaped, the onus of the achievement must have fallen upon my shoulders. I had possibly been cashiered."
"Since we are on it, Captain Cottrell," said Stark, "may I, as a sportsman and in good faith, inquire how you discovered our enterprise and knew so punctually both when and where we should endeavour to depart?"
"What! the informer's name? Surely you know that informers are sacred in this world, whatever may be their fate in the next?"
"This much at least I beg you to tell us, if you hold it square with duty. Was it from within or from without that we were struck? We may desire to try again, and it is well to know friend from foe."
Captain Cottrell laughed at the bold question. He reflected a moment, then made reply.
"You've preached me a sermon on honour, and I'll pay for it with a word of advice. A man's worst foes shall be they of his own household. There's a seed to sow in your heart, Mr. Stark! But since you will have it, then take it. At least I trust that it may serve to break up a little family party of Seven which I hear about. It will be better for all concerned that you respect the prison regulations henceforth. Now, gentlemen, I wish you a very good day."
In darkness and indignation they departed before this cynical speech. Stark and Burnham were for disbelieving it utterly; Commodore Miller, more cautious and more experienced, deemed the assertion not one to ignore without serious reflections.
"'Tis a patent lie," declared Stark. "I marvel that you cannot see it, sir. He actually dared to declare his object in uttering it. He wishes to separate the Seven and scatter them finally. What more certain way of so doing than by making each distrust the rest?"
"We shall only doubt each other, however, if we believe him," said William Burnham.
"Yet I will not say offhand that he lied," answered the Commodore.
Thus the cloud worked to bitterness from the outset. Four of the Seven, their hearts fouled by racial prejudice, swore that Cuffee was the culprit; while the Commodore supported poor Sam, and Stark staked his own honesty and honour upon the negro's. Acrimonious conversations passed among them, and it seemed that Commandant Cottrell had fully effected his purpose; but then came the awful weather, and certain necessary relaxations called for by its severity, now drew the old friends together again in hope of escape.
The cold had long reduced all exercise in the open, and through the greater part of every day the prisoners collected by thousands in the chambers immediately beneath the roof of each main building. Here, through the windows, a wide survey of the surrounding country offered, and Stark and his friends often noted the visible contours of the land, and realised to some extent the accuracy of Lovey Lee's maps. They learned also of a matter more interesting and nearer at hand. The boxes upon the inner wall were empty, for one soldier had already perished of frost-bite on sentry-go, and two others were at the door of death. To stand in the open air for half an hour was a proceeding so dangerous that the inner wall now remained unguarded save by its automatic protection of bells and wires.
Upon the occasion of the blizzard, while yet nature waited in frozen silence and the north grew black at midday, six of the Seven, taking their lives in their hands, made a second effort to escape. David Leverett alone had no share in the enterprise, for he was sick of a chill and kept his bed in the hospital. Burnham and Stark demurred whether they might in honour repeat their attempt without him, but Commodore Miller decided that the greatest good to the greatest number must determine their action. They were all sailors, and failing the apparatus of a wire ladder, employed in their first experiment, they designed a living ladder that could be quickly built up of their own persons. The manoeuvre was not difficult, and they practised it out of sight of the sentries until each man well knew his place and part in it.