"No need to rage against him. He's a harmless fool enough and would be your friend—anybody's friend but his own. 'Twill be no grief to her, a joy rather to find that she's mistaken in him."
"She never really loved him then?"
"She didn't know—she didn't know. You forget how young she is. I think she loved him with an innocent, baby love; I think she'll always love him a little for the sake of—but let that go—she's free—free to listen to a lover. Now you know what I came to tell you."
Stark stared silently up into the sky and John Lee saw a light dawn upon his face, as though some angel passed in the air and shone upon him. Then the prisoner turned to Lee and spoke slowly and solemnly, for he was awestruck at the magnitude of this great revealment.
"If I owned a kingdom it should be yours this day. Please God I can do something, though nothing worthy such news. If you will, you shall have an acre of good Vermont earth presently for every word you've spoken to me. Yet earth's a pitiful payment for the hope of heaven on earth you've given to me."
He knew not the sufferings he wakened or the wounds he tore open. Voices laughed in John Lee's ears and told him that he had sold his heart.
"Leave that," he said roughly. "You mistake me. I'm here for love of her—not you. Listen, then I'll be gone. You must get in touch with her very gradual and delicate. I can go between you."
"I see; I see. What a learned man you are in these matters, Jack! With your Apollo's face you've had your experiences, I'll wager! But wait; I'll be gone and write a letter—just a reminder that I live. I'll sell you a little bone windmill I made for a turnkey's child; and in it I'll place a note. You must give me a coin for it, but you shall find a larger one inside for yourself."
He was gone, and Lee waited, seeing but not perceiving the throng around him, hearing but not heeding the medley of voices and the tramp of many feet. Aloft in the blue a hawk hung poised upon trembling wings. It surveyed the bustling scene, then glided away to the Moor. The American, David Leverett, approached Lee and invited him to purchase a little mat of woven grass.
"Here, young feller," he said. "I reckon now your gal's just fretting herself silly for a keepsake, whoever she is; and you'd best not displeasure her by refusing. This was woven by a one-armed man, you see, and that makes it worth twice as much as any other mat. So 'tain't no manner o' use ter offer less than ten cents for it. Hev a squint at the workmanship—not bad for a crab with one claw—eh?"
Lee shook his head and the sailor gibed:—
"Not ten cents! Then by God! you don't love her, and she shall hear of it. Come now—fourpence, then—only four dirty pennies. Think o' the kisses she'll give for it."
Still Lee declined, his thoughts elsewhere, and Leverett cursed him for a fool, shook his stump in John's face, and turned to find a customer.
A few minutes later, as bugles were sounding for the visitors to depart, Cecil Stark came back with a little toy made of mutton bones.
"Hand me any small coin you have about you," he said. "You'll find a billet for Miss Malherb and two guineas for yourself in the drawer at the bottom."
These simple words hurt poor John cruelly, for their business-like and even sordid tenour jarred upon his own great renunciation in a way that Stark little guessed. Lee's heart was numb; his mind had grown dreamy and incoherent now. Mechanically he took the windmill and handed Cecil a shilling. Then, without any word of farewell, he turned away and followed the departing crowds. He heard Cecil Stark say "God bless you!" as he went; but only a strange loathing of the money he carried rose in his mind. This mean detail of two guineas fretted him to madness. He could not see the matter as Cecil saw it; he jealously muffled his reason, and refused to behold in himself henceforth no more than that necessary thing—a lover's messenger.
Slowly he returned over the Moor towards Fox Tor Farm, and the thought of all that he had lost swept down upon him like a storm in the wilderness. Temptations shook him then. He turned the toy of bone about in his hand. He might have crushed it and stamped it down under the bog in a moment. But nothing could crush the deed done. He relapsed into a sullen and ferocious sorrow. His feet dragged under him. A sense of age swept over him, and along with it came bitter remorse that he had flung his fate away to another man and set no store upon fortune's priceless gifts. A savage loathing of himself awoke in his spirit. He hated the flesh that he was clad in, poured contumely upon his own head and cried out aloud in the loneliness that his repulsive weakness proclaimed him what he was: a bastard and a creature fit only for the scorn of men. He cumbered the earth. None was the better for him. The cur that fled from a badger had greater courage; the baying foxhound more pluck, than had he. His grandmother's words in the past returned to his memory and clashed in his head like bells rung by demons. This was how he had employed her wisdom; this was how he had cast away his grand opportunity to win fortune and love.
Siward's Cross rose before him and he stood near the home of his childhood. He sat awhile beside the hoary monument and leant his back against it. Then he turned and examined it with listless eyes, and watched the shadow cast by its squat arms darken the heather. Long he delayed; and, at last, as the sun, turning westward, warmed the Moor and touched the cross with a gentle and roseate glory, the benignant, evening hour found out John Lee, soothed his giant sorrow and set its seal upon him. This venerable stone had power to comfort the lad's grief. He began to think less of himself and more of Grace Malherb. Her joy grew out of the sunset light; her young life's story opened before him; he saw a ribbon of pure gold stretching down into the West, where the sun was setting beyond a distant sea; and he knew that it was her road home.
Great words came to his recollection: "He that loseth his life shall save it," was written for him in the soft and mellow earth-shadows of sunset.
"My life shall be lost in her life," he said; "and if she's saved, I'm blessed above all deserving."
When Mr. Mordecai Cockey entered Fox Tor Farm the spirit of Grace Malherb sank within her. Had an executioneer appeared, she had felt no greater horror; for Mr. Cockey was a journeyman tailor, and, according to the custom of that time upon Dartmoor, when clothes were needed, the maker of them came to his customers and took up his abode in farm or hamlet until local requirement was satisfied. A month's work or more awaited Mr. Cockey, and first among the articles to be fashioned with his skilful needle were certain gowns—a part of Grace's wedding trousseau; for all men now knew that within the space of a few weeks Miss Malherb was to become Mrs. Peter Norcot.
Two trestles and a dozen boards completed Mr. Cockey's professional requirements in the servants' hall; and here, day by day, he sat and snipped and sewed, and sewed and snipped. He was a very full-bodied, pallid man, with flabby cheeks, mournful, watery eyes and a puzzled expression. He came from Totnes, and often mourned that his itinerant labours required him to be much away from his wife and family. This tailor descended in direct line from Mordecai Cockey, the famous seventeenth-century bell-founder; and when he heard any one of those seven great bells that the bygone Cockey had cast, he would lift his head where the musical monster thundered from some Devon belfry, and nod respectfully, as to the spirit of his ancestor.
Now Mordecai worked at the wardrobe of the farm, and, elevated upon his trestles, held a sort of conference, and told the things life taught him. Once during the dinner hour, several farm folk were at Mr. Cockey's feet, as he sat cross-legged amid his tools and ate his meal of bread and cheese. Meat he might have had in plenty, but he explained to Dinah Beer that his sedentary life had long since turned him vegetarian.
"By God's blessing I can stomach cheese," he said, "an' if so be as a body's humours will cope with vinnied cheese, he may hope for a long life."
"Be my breeches mended, Mister?" asked Tom Putt. "'Cause if so, I should like to don 'em afore afternoon. I've got a riding job as'll take me to Holne by-an'-by."
"They'm done. I've double-seated 'em for 'e."
Mr. Cockey nodded towards the garment.
"You'm always as good as your word, I'm sure," said Harvey Woodman, "though how them fat hands of yours—as look more like bunches of parsnips than hands—can do such finnicky work makes me wonder."
"Ah, I dare say a lot of things make you wonder," answered the tailor. "Not but what I envy you your way of life, for 'tis healthier'n mine. You chaps, as till the earth, have no time to fret your intellects like what I do. Ploughmen never band together and make trouble in the world. Tailors be a very thinking race; but you'll not find they takes a hopeful view of human nature."
"Then they'm small-minded," said Beer firmly; "for, looked at all round, human nature be a very hopeful thing."
Mordecai Cockey sighed.
"You may be in the right. Perhaps building of clothes do narrow the heart, for we grow apt to think 'tis our feathers make the birds. For that matter the world counts us but light. We'm slighted tradesmen, we tailors. They say it takes nine of us to make a man; though it only takes one to get a long family, as I know to my cost. Thirteen children have I, an' all with the tailoring spirit in 'em except my eldest son."
"An' what might he be doing?" asked Putt.
"Well, he's a baker."
"A very honest trade."
"That's just what it ban't," declared Mr. Cockey. "They'm sly as lawyers; an' there's a damned sight more in bread than corn nowadays. A man may be eating his own great gran'faither; as I've said openly down to Totnes, an' nobody contradicted me.
"God's word! They don't rob churchyards for their bones, do they?" asked Woodman. "If I thought that, I'd never take bit nor sup to Totnes no more."
"There's ways an' ways," explained the tailor. "Bone goes in; as thus. Man is earth, an' earth is bread; an' when they take the top spit off what was thought to be an old burial place of the ancients an' turn it over an' make a wheat field—what then?"
"'Tis just short of a cannibal act!" declared Woodman; for they never buried deep in them days."
"Rubbish, Harvey!" answered Beer. "We ourselves be only the fatness of the earth when all's said. 'Tis nature's plan; an' I see no harm in it at all."
"More don't I for that matter," declared Cockey. "With my well-knowed feelings about human nature, you won't be surprised if I say that many a man's better as corn or cabbage than ever he was on two legs."
"Then you don't believe in God, same as me," said Kekewich grimly.
"Not at all, not at all," answered the other. "I'm only saying a man's body is mud, an' his clothes is mud in shape of wool or flax; an' he's all mud to the eye; but as to his soaring spirit I won't hazard a word. A tailor must believe in God. 'Twas Him as gave the word for clothes an' put Adam an' his lady into their first shifts of His own Almighty making."
"You meet men whose spirits be the muddiest part about 'em, all the same," declared Kekewich.
"So you will; but every thinking creature turned of fifty must have come across folks with souls looking out of their eyes. Why, I've seed pictures in big houses where the paint had a soul! Ess fay—beautiful dead an' gone women have pretty nigh spoke to me where I sat an' worked below their gold frames."
"I'll never believe in souls," said the older man. "We'm a vile race, an' no God of Heaven would ever make such a poor bargain as to overbuy such trash as us at the price of His only Son. Why for should He? If He'd but lifted His finger, He might have had us for nought."
"The devil must be itching for you, Kek," said Harvey Woodman.
"You'm no hand at argument, Mr. Kekewich," continued Cockey; "for half the beauty of argufying is to hold close to the matter. You was saying as you didn't believe in souls; an' I was saying as I did. Well, take an instance. There's Miss Grace Malherb for who I be making this here lovely vest. Be that bowerly maiden no more than the pink-an'-white china dust she goes in? If so, she's no better'n this bit of flowered silk."
"People can be good or evil, an' yet have no more souls than dogs," began the head man; but at that moment Miss Malherb herself entered as a bell rang to tell that the dinner hour was done.
The labourers departed to their work, and Grace was left with Mr. Cockey. She came to beg a secret favour and now whispered it into the tailor's ear, though there was none but himself to hear it.
"If you command, it must be done," he said. "I know a mariner to the harbour at Totnes, where the Holne timber goes down Dart to build His Majesty's great warships. The man has goodly stores, an' will sell me so much bunting as I want—red, white and blue. I'm going down to-morrow for the day to get more cloth."
"And, before all things, keep it secret. Not a whisper!"
"It shall be as you please, Miss. An' I'll ax you to take this here vest along, an' put it on, an' let me see if 'tis all right."
"You work so dreadfully quick! You're sewing a shroud,—d'you know that, Mordecai?"
"What a word! How comes it you want stuff for flags then?"
"Ah! 'tis not for my wedding day. Now, if you could fashion me a pair of wings to fly with——"
Mr. Cockey drew a thread through his needle.
"Fine clothes don't make a happy marriage, I know," he said; "but they do put heart into a wedding party, an' speaking generally, they'm a great softener of life to females. A parcel from me has dried many tears—poor fools."
"I'm not married yet, however."
"No, but—Lord! what's that?"
The tailor sat with his back to the window, and, unseen by him, a horseman had ridden up to it. Now he stopped, rapped upon the casement with his whip, doffed his hat and grinned at Grace. The glass was not good, and it distorted a countenance generally esteemed amiable and handsome.
"Mercy on us, what a chap! 'Tis a face like to Satan!" cried Cockey.
"That's the gentleman my father wishes me to marry," answered Grace quietly.
"Then I'm sure I beg pardon, Miss. 'Twas a twist in the glass."
"You caught sight of his soul—not his face," she said. The girl had turned pale, and now she hastily left the room.
Much had happened since Mr. Norcot's last visit, and soon accident was to enlighten him in certain directions. Mordecai Cockey went off on the following morning and returned in eight-and-forty hours with various bales and packages. One of these he handed to Grace in private, and she conveyed the parcel unseen to her chamber. Its nature will presently appear. For the moment it suffices to say that Miss Malherb's secret concerned Cecil Stark, with whom, thanks to John Lee, she had now established a correspondence. Their letters Grace showed to John openly for some time, but, perceiving that they were the joy of two lives, the messenger refused to read these missives more. Grace still stood at the parting of the ways, nor knew that John Lee's road was already chosen. The relation of three became difficult beyond endurance; Stark understanding that John had access to all letters, chafed at the mystery, and naturally found little to admire in such control. He was meditating action when a sudden incident upset their former relations and quickened the catastrophe.
Peter Norcot, upon this, his last visit to Fox Tor Farm before the wedding, pursued a customary course and endeavoured by imperturbable good humour and kindness to soften his lady's temper. He well knew the futility of the task, yet persevered.
On the night of his arrival Grace had a headache and did not appear, whereupon he wrote her a letter and sent it to her by the hand of Mary Woodman.
"Dear Light of my Eyes," said he, "I am quite broken-hearted to know that Mordecai Cockey has a greater place in your affections just now than any other man. It is the Tailor's Hour! Well, well! I must be patient. Yet what can a tailor do to make Grace more graceful? Here's a beautiful epigram from our own Devon poet, Browne. I transcribe it for you:
"'To CUPID.
"'Love! when I met her first, whose slave I am,To make her mine why had I not thy flame?Or else thy blindness not to see that day;Or if I needs must look on her rare parts,Love! why to wound her had I not thy darts?Since I had not thy wings to fly away?'
How cruel well these lines fit one Norcot! But I would never fly. True love is patient—like charity it suffereth long; like hope it is eternal; like faith it keeps its course with the stars. Bless you! May the morning light restore you to health, and to the presence of your devoted Peter.
"Postscript:—
"'If all the earthe were paper white,And all the sea were incke,'Twere not inough for me to writeAs my poore hart doth thinke.—LYLY.'"
To this letter came no reply; but in the morning Grace appeared as usual and spent a reasonable portion of her time with the wool-stapler. For once Mr. Norcot tried an erotic vein, quoted the most passionate things he knew and attempted to warm a heart that—moonlike—ever turned one face to him. But it was the dark frozen side he saw.
"My ideas are boundless," he said. "I spurn space on the day I call you my own. You were meant to mirror the Mediterranean in those wonderful eyes of yours, and you shall. We'll sail away to the land of wine and song—to Provence, the cradle of the troubadours. It can be done now that we are friends with the French again. Yes; and I'm going also to take you to Italy; I——"
"At the beginning of the hunting season? How ridiculous you are, Peter. Why, even if I married you—which you know I never shall—I would not——"
"Grace, you must marry me. It is an accomplished fact. The banns have been read for the first time of asking at Widecombe and at Chagford. Nobody forbade 'em. You are absolutely vital to my peace of mind, to my well-being, to my sanity. You may not love me yet, but soon enough you'll look back to these wayward days and mourn 'em."
"Indeed I shall."
"Mourn 'em, that you could so often have made so true a man sad. You won't understand me."
"Yes, I do—perfectly. If there is one thing about our dreadful relations that I do see clearly, it is your nature. You have been peculiarly and horribly clear of late. You want me—what you call 'me'—my curls, eyes, lips, and all the rest of a wretched girl. But you don't care a feather for the part of me that matters. You never consider that I've got a soul, and that it's always sad and sick and sorry when it thinks of you. You don't mind that you're killing all my higher senses and instincts—poisoning them; you——"
"Now, my dear Grace, these assumptions are nonsense, and show first how little you really know about me, and, secondly, how absurdly scant attention you pay to my conversation. It is a union of souls that I sigh for and shall assuredly establish when the time comes.
"'Tell me not of your starrie eyes,Your lips that seem on roses fed,Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling liesNor sleeps for kissing of his bed—'
George Darley—a pretty boy-poet who has not published yet."
"Really, Peter, you're impossible!"
"I say tell me not of these things, Grace, because they are nothing whatever to me. I don't want to hear about 'em. Soul to soul—that's all I ask; and that is what I will have."
"Never! It takes two people to be married, and they've got to be of the same mind."
"Happily you are mistaken in that last assertion. Your idea is that one lover may take a maid to church, but the Bench of Bishops can't make her his wife if she's averse. Tut, tut! What a violent thought! We'll find ourselves of one mind yet. Greater things than matrimony have happened in less time than lies before us."
"Plain English is wasted upon you, Peter Norcot, and upon my father too."
"I'm much afraid you'll hear some exceedingly plain English yourself before long—from that same father. He grows singularly savage of an evening when you have retired. How clear lies your duty—why do you so shirk it? Is your conscience taking a holiday? You know better than you speak—I'm positive you do."
Many such-like futile conversations passed between them; then befell the accident aforesaid. It placed some sensational information in the hands of Peter, and, little guessing at the result, he hesitated not to avail himself of it.
There came an afternoon when he sat with Maurice Malherb; while the master mentioned Grace and inquired how matters progressed in the affair of Peter's courtship.
"To tell you truth, a very retrograde business. I had done better to have copied your own unbending methods. But I'm a soft-hearted fool. What says the poet? Those writing men always know such a deal about it!
"'He that will win this dame, must doAs Love does, when he bends his bow;With one hand thrust the lady from,And with the other pull her home!'"
"I'm amazed that any child of mine—but words only waste air now. The wedding day's at hand. She'll be the first to see her own folly when she looks back upon it. Obey she must and shall. To-morrow I purpose to have speech with her. Things have reached a climax. Heaven knows whence she got this sullen and mulish humour. Not from me."
"Nor from her mother, I'm very sure. Would she was more like your wonderful lady.
"'Prudently simple, providently wary,To the world a Martha and to heaven a Mary.'
Annabel is a jewel among her sex."
"A wise man chooses his wife," said Malherb, "but it is denied him to choose his daughter. To-morrow, at any rate, we'll try and make the matter clear to her. I hate force. I am naturally a man of mild manners; yet this thick-headed world will never understand me until I clench my fist."
"One thing I must beg," interrupted Peter. "Don't surprise her. Don't suddenly appear before dear Grace. It would not be fair. I passed her chamber door yesterday, and by chance it stood ajar. She sat there busy with her needle; and the purpose to which she was putting it nearly startled me into an ejaculation. She does not know that I saw her. Candidly, I wish that I had not done so. There are sad secrets—'She loves a black-hair'd man.' In fact, there is somebody dearer to her than either you or I. What did I see? 'Sight hateful—sight tormenting!' Stars and stripes—stars and stripes—but all stripes to me. I'll swear each one has left a bruise upon my soul!"
"What, in God's name, are you ranting about?" cried Malherb impatiently. "Is everybody going mad, or have I already become so?"
"You must ask Gracie that question. I saw her enfolded in a mass of red, white, and blue bunting. There is nothing in that. Bunting may stand for joy.
"'The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,But wonder how the devil they got there.'
And I wondered the more since these coloured rags were taking upon themselves the likeness of the United States national flag. Now, what is that notable emblem doing under this roof? I would not deny my future wife any rational amusement, but——"
Peter stopped, for Maurice Malherb had hurried from him.
The father strode straightway to his daughter's room, found the door locked and kicked it open with a crash, to see Grace sitting beside her window half hidden under billows of bunting.
In the year 1814, America's banner consisted of fifteen alternate red and white stripes with fifteen stars arranged in a circle on the blue canton. Helped by designs from Cecil Stark, Grace was carefully reproducing the historic standard upon a generous scale; and her father surprised her in the act to fit the last star into the circle. Upon one star was the word "Vermont," embroidered with white silk, and round about it ran a tiny margent of golden thread.
"What means this, woman?" roared Malherb.
"Why, that you've broken into my private chamber, dear father, and kicked the door down. And this—this, that I am making, is a flag of freedom for Mr. Cecil Stark and his friends. They hoped to hoist it above their Prison and rejoice at the sight of it on the Fourth of July—a very glorious day among them."
No man nor woman at Fox Tor Farm had ever witnessed an explosion of human passion so awful as shook Maurice Malherb upon his discovery. Annabel, in tears, confided to Peter Norcot that her husband had taken his daughter by the shoulders, shaken her nearly senseless, then flung her upon her bed. He had raged and roared until the house was a cave of harsh echoes; he had made fast his daughter's chamber door from the outside, and dared any living soul to approach the sinner without his permission.
"In the case of these tropical tempests," explained Peter, "nothing can be done. Happily they are short. 'In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.' For my part, I return home immediately. Everybody here must get under shelter and wait for a change of wind."
"Argument is vain," said Annabel.
"Tut, tut! Who argues with a volcano? Write to me in a day or two; and have no fear for the dear girl. Half his rage now is because he so far lost his self-command as to shake her. A shaking after all—well, by my faith, she deserves it. To correspond with Cecil Stark! When I say that it was naughty, I understate the offence. However, that matter lies in a nutshell. Get rid of her messenger. John Lee's the man. Despatch him; and let him know that I'll befriend him. Farewell, until a brighter star shines over us, my dear Annabel."
Towards evening, when his wrath had somewhat abated, Mrs. Malherb told her husband of Norcot's departure—a fact he had not noticed for himself. She added particulars of his last advice; and before the moon rose John Lee had passed out of Fox Tor Farm for ever. With difficulty Beer and Kekewich withstood their master, for he had rushed among his people with a horsewhip.
"I was her servant, sir, to do her bidding," said Lee quietly; then he rose from his meal to depart. One ghastly blow he received across his face; and he clapped his hand to it and went out, while Kekewich interposed his stunted figure between Malherb and the groom.
"You've done enough for one day," he said without flinching. "Best to cool down, else your raging fires will set your brain on light and cast you into Bedlam."
"'Enough'! Is it enough that a man's daughter——?" began Malherb. Then he broke off and rolled his eyes upon their frightened faces until the pallid and rotund orb of Mr. Cockey's countenance challenged his glance.
"And you, tailor, work as you never worked yet! Let your trash be done next week, or take it back again."
He quitted the hall abruptly; and for the rest of that dim day his wife suffered him alone. Her prayers he cried down; her tears he dried by terror. He ordered her not to weep, and frightened her into obedience. She believed that he was going mad and suffered untold dismay until, cast up like a drowned thing by the waves of his passion, physical nature collapsed and Malherb slept. Groaning and moaning in the dream scenery begot of his wild spirit, she left him, crept to the prisoner and took Grace to her bosom.
For an hour they held mournful discourse, but Annabel did all the weeping. Her father's temper animated the girl and she panted with indignation.
"I weary of your tears, dearest mother," she said. "If you may fetch me some food I should be thankful for it. That smooth coward to peep into my room! And to tell! I will jump from my window on to the kind granite sooner than marry him!"
Annabel mourned her daughter's folly; she explained how that John Lee had been dismissed at a moment's notice; and then, changing her mood, she talked herself into quite another frame of mind, and began to upbraid the sinner with all her might.
"'Twas a very unmaidenly thing, and that much I stoutly tell you. To have an understanding with a man, and one who is your country's enemy! Your father has destroyed the flag. He thrust it into the red-hot peat and scorched his own hand badly. He raved against the very foundations of the earth when he burnt himself. Like Samson, he would have dragged down the house if he could. Oh, you are a thorn, not a daughter! He is breaking his great heart. Treachery is beyond his understanding. I blush for you, Grace Malherb."
"I wish you would get me some food; I'm starving," said the girl wearily. "He would not grudge me bread and water."
"That is what he said just before he slept. 'Bread and water,' said he; then his voice grew softer on the brink of sleep, and he said, 'She may have milk too.'"
"I love him through it all!"
Mrs. Malherb's tears flowed again. She left her daughter and presently returned with the food.
"He didn't say 'twas not to be warmed, so I've heated it for you. Oh, my pretty, wicked sweet—how could you do a deed so unbecoming?"
"I don't know, mother," answered Grace, beginning to eat. "These things happen. I liked Mr. Cecil Stark very much, and I like his country and his ideas about right and wrong."
"A young man's ideas upon such subjects are usually very mistaken."
"In the third letter he wrote me he asked me to make a flag for him, and I consented after carefully weighing the matter in my mind."
"What should he want with a flag, poor soul?"
"'Twas for the Fourth of July—the Anniversary of their Independence. There—the bread and milk are gone. Good night, kind mother. I'm sorry you ever had a daughter."
"The female character has always been beyond me," confessed Mrs. Malherb. "The difference between a boy and a girl, as Peter once said, is the difference between a dog and a cat. A dog is so much more reasonable, so much easier to comprehend and direct. Slyness: 'tis a feline thing; and as to obedience, it certainly comes more natural to a son than a daughter, though I know not why. At any rate, it is so where a mother's concerned. A son will do anything so gladly for his mother—if you don't ask him to interfere with his own comfort. And what mother worthy of the name would do that? Not that disobedience to parents was ever recorded against either sex in our rank of society when I was a girl. Now good night, child. Try to sleep, and let your prayer be the same as mine—that it will please God to lift your dear father's wrath by morning."
But with the return of day Malherb still wasted his nervous energy in anger. He refused to see his daughter or to liberate her. He wandered miles upon the high Moors alone; then going back again, he returned to the infamous treatment he had suffered and the torment of possessing a thankless child. Presently he attacked his wife, and cursed her past folly and ignorance.
"You are to blame for all!" he said. "'Twas your upbringing—so weak, so fond—that bred this devil in her. Would to God you had more of my own mother's spirit in you. Look at me. I owe everything to my education. She was a Roman mother. Had you been more like her, this minx had never dared to flout a father. But, by God, I'll break her now or never!"
Within the day Malherb arrived at a determination; but he told his wife and Kekewich only. Then a letter reached Peter Norcot. The secret, however, leaked out, for Kekewich confided it to Mordecai Cockey, and Mr. Cockey uttered it aloud as a mournful fact in the hearing of Dinah Beer. That night Richard Beer naturally heard it; and then the news reached Harvey Woodman's ears. Finally it came to the intelligence of Tom Putt, and made his heart quicken by a stroke or two in the minute. For Putt had taken this matter much to heart.
"'Tis become a common prison, wi' that lovely miss locked up as if she's done a murder, 'stead of fall into love with a fine gentleman," grumbled Thomas. "For my part, I can't stand it very much longer. Ban't a manly thing for us chaps to bide here an' know a maiden's being starved to death on bread an' water under the same roof with us."
"Her done it underhand," said Woodman. "If it wasn't for that, I'd feel the same as you."
"Well she might do it underhand wi' a tiger for a parent."
"Best you pick your words, else you'll go after Jack Lee, wi' a flea in your ear," returned Woodman. "I say 'tis a very terrible proceeding," he continued. "An' seeing the chap's a Yankee, nought can be done. 'Tis an unthinkable thing for one of our bettermost young women to marry an American. I'm 'mazed she could give her mind to such a rash deed."
"That's because you haven't got more ideas than a cow," said Mary Woodman firmly. "What's the matter with the man—Mr. Stark, I mean? God's goodness! You talk as if he was a monkey, or some foreign savage as scalped people for his pleasure. He'm good to look at, an' he had a beautiful gentle way with him for all his fighting face. An' so straight as a fir tree a was, an' full of learning, an' civil to the least of us, an' gave you a golden half-sovereign afore he went away. So you'm a traitor to miscall him. I won't have no narrowness, Harvey, an' you well know it. You used to be so broad as Bible in your opinions, an' very charitable-minded for a common man. But to tell such things because a young gentleman be born out of England—I'm shamed for 'e!"
Woodman had little to say before this wifely rebuke. They all talked on and expressed their concern; but Thomas Putt did more than debate the situation and regret it. Despite lack of opinions on all matters save sporting, he had plenty of common sense and courage. He could act promptly, and danger or any consciousness of unlawfulness in a task usually stimulated him to successful achievement. On his own responsibility he took up the cause of the prisoner. While there was yet time, Grace Malherb must know the thing determined; so argued Putt; and in that conviction he took a definite step, and conveyed his information to another.
Then came a morning when Grace from her prison window witnessed the departure of Mr. Mordecai Cockey. She shivered as he went, for she knew that his work was done. Some six weeks yet remained before the day appointed for the marriage, and gloomily she speculated as to whether her father could find it in his heart to keep her thus shut up throughout the whole splendour of summer. Annabel visited her daughter thrice daily; but she brought little news and no comfort. Grace soon discovered that her gentle parent suffered much under weight of secrets. The mother felt often tempted to reveal what was now afoot; but she had promised her husband to say nothing.
"Mr. Cockey has gone off much earlier than it was proposed," said Grace upon the evening of the tailor's departure.
"He has done his work."
"And wasted much good cloth."
"I pray to Heaven that you will listen to reason when the time comes to do so, Grace."
"I shall never hear reason under this roof, mother. To think—a grown woman so treated! How can father heap such insult upon his own flesh and blood? How he would have scorned any other man in the land who had treated a daughter so!"
"It has pleased God to perplex his noble nature; and he knows his own weaknesses. He has come near relenting more than once. But, like Pharaoh, he hardens his heart again. He suffers worse than you do. He has quite lost his appetite—a very alarming symptom, I think. At table he helps himself, as he helps everybody, with his usual generosity; then I see you come into his mind, and he fumes and frets and thrusts his meat from him. There is trouble, too, that I know not of. We are much straitened. I shall hear all about it some night, when he is in a soft mood."
"Nobody can help him—that's the cruel thing with dear father."
"He'll not listen to his kind. It is as though God had cursed him and said, 'Thou shall trust no judgment but thine own.' So warm-hearted and so beyond reach of other men's wisdom as he is!"
"I trust in Heaven to bring him to his better self. There are yet many weeks before this dreary farce is ended," said Grace.
Mrs. Malherb looked exceeding guilty as her daughter uttered these words. She answered nothing and prepared to depart; but she hesitated at the door as though about to speak. Then she changed her mind and withdrew quickly.
Ere the morning's dawn, however, Grace heard the thing so studiously concealed from her. She slept but little at this period and busied her mind with futile thoughts. She did not doubt that John Lee and Stark knew all and were busy upon her behalf. Therefore, when a gentle tap fell on her casement an hour after midnight, she felt neither fear nor astonishment, but welcomed it as a thing expected. She struck a light to show that she had heard, wrapped a gown about her and came to the window.
A scrap of paper tied round a pebble lay on the sill, and upon the paper was written one word: "PULL." She obeyed and found that a thread communicated with the ground below. At the other end of this string was a length of whipcord, and when that also had been drawn up, she found that it brought after it the head of a slight rope-ladder. A further laconic direction appeared upon another scrap of paper: "MAKE FAST." Grace fixed the ropes to the iron grate of her fireplace and extinguished the light for safety; then her heart beat fast as the cords strained and a man rose up from the darkness of the earth below.
Not until he was at the casement and she heard him whisper, did she know that it was John Lee. A wave of disappointment swept over her; and to hide any ray of it, she bent and kissed his hand.
"'Tis only me," he said; and his voice that read her heart so clear, cried to her to be honest with him and speak the thing she had longed yet feared to say.
"Dear, dear John. I wish I could say what you deserve to hear! You risk your life for me, for father would surely kill you if he knew of this. Yet what have I to give you back for such devotion? 'Tis no time for anything but solemn truth. I've long feared to face it, dear John; but now I'm grown older and braver. I will marry you, John, but I do not feel all that I thought I felt. I am not the true, trustful girl you think me, but a flighty fool who did not know her own mind. There—you know—and I'm thankful that you should know, though you must hate me and condemn me evermore."
"Think you this is news, my pretty Grace? How strange to hear these things retold after so many days! I'm long since schooled to this cold truth. Dear heart, your eyes never hid a secret—nor your soul! I know—I know everything—all that you feel—all the sorrow you've suffered for me—all that you cannot say—all—all—to the secret prayers you've prayed to Christ about it! Suffer no more. The man you love will soon be free to stand between you and trouble. And you'll never quite forget me neither—never forget me—I know that. I'm content; and I'm selfish too, you see. I've claimed one great payment—the right to rescue you, and the joy of it. 'Twill be his turn next. I'm saving you for him. You can trust me if he does?"
"Whom should we trust? We're both in prison now. 'Trust you'! faithful, generous John!"
"You must be so good as your word at once then. Your banns have been asked out thrice. To-day is Saturday; you are to be married on Monday. The date is changed. Putt brought me the news where I dwell now. I have returned to my grandmother. There's much to tell about what's doing at the War Prison, and about him—Master Stark—but that must wait until you're safe."
"They have plotted to marry me—to dash me into it by a surprise?"
"They have."
"I'll stay and brave them!"
"No, no—what's one girl against two resolute and determined men? Terrible things happen—women have been drugged as maids and come to their senses wives. Don't pit yourself against them. Stark knows that you must escape."
She reflected a moment.
"If he wishes it—if you wish it—yes. But not now. To-morrow night, John."
"All's ready. Your parents shall learn that you are safe and well. But to find you will be beyond power of man. So that you can trust me——"
"To-morrow night, then, I'll be furnished for flight. To-morrow—kiss me, John."
"For him?"
"For yourself. Is not my life worth that? Yet 'tis poor payment for a poor thing."
"For the last time before God."
He bent over her and folded her in his arms. She felt his young heart against her own. Then he kissed her lips.
"Your lover no more; your slave for ever," he said.
A moment later he had descended to earth, and Grace shed tears for the first time since her imprisonment. She drew up the ladder as he directed, hid it close and watched John Lee vanish into the dim dawn. Then she turned into her room and felt already that it was a memory of the past—a nest of youthful joys and sorrows, of many a girlish fancy and old dead dream, now left behind for ever.
Cecil Stark and William Burnham walked side by side in their exercise yard and discussed the affairs of the world. While the American prisoners toiled like moles underground, great events marked the time. The Allies were in Paris; Napoleon had abdicated and, for a moment, the war with France was ended. The Peace of Paris had been accomplished, and Europe took breath. Yet liberty's glorious reveille woke the French at Prince Town to more grief than joy.
"I can find it in me to be truly sorry for them," said Stark. "They have starved and frozen and suffered for an ideal cause and the ideal is shattered. They trusted Bonaparte as our people trust God; and now the idol they adored is fallen, and the master they hate is lifted up again."
"Men from Plymouth presented them with their old national flag and advised them to wear the white cockade," answered Burnham; "but every mother's son of 'em sticks to the tricolour and has pinned the Bourbon favour to his dog!"
"They cry out that Elba is too small to hold the spirit of Napoleon. Perhaps they are right. Time will show that," said Stark.
"Their wives and children will soften their griefs when they get home."
"Doubtless. And their common sense, so soon as the first smart of failure is past. War teaches men to look twice into the claims of kings."
Burnham did not immediately reply. Then he said—
"I've noticed a change in you since that awful experience when Miller perished. You seem—forgive me—less patriotic-minded than of yore."
"I have wider interests than of yore. I get important private letters."
"From home?"
"No—from friends in this country. To be frank, I have now a personal stake in life that I lacked until recently. We cannot live to the State only. We must also live to ourselves."
"Do those interests of self and State clash then?"
"As to that, my lad—why, mind your own business," replied Stark. His tone was amiable, but Burnham knew the subject could not be reopened.
Presently others joined them and conversation turned to the subterranean works.
A shaft, whose adit was carefully concealed, now sank upon the tunnel under Prison No. 6. The mouth was narrow, but within it space had been dug for four men to work abreast. A grand difficulty was the disposal of the excavated earth; and ingenious methods had been taken to get rid of it. A stream, which ran through each prison yard at the rate of four miles an hour, carried away many tons of fine dirt, while much was mixed with lime, plastered over the prison walls and then whitewashed. A large cavity discovered under Prison No. 5 proved also of great service, and many tons of surplus soil had been cast into it. Now, as their passage crept yard by yard nearer to the outer walls, the workers suffered for want of air; but means to eject the azotic gas were devised; a system of lighted lamps answered this purpose; and to Lovey Lee fell the task of smuggling large quantities of oil into the War Prison.
The leaders spoke with hope and enthusiasm. A week or less would see the completion of the tunnel, and already plans were being developed for the great exodus.
Burnham, fresh from his conversation with Stark, found David Leverett at his elbow; whereupon he discussed his recent rebuff with the sailor.
"Stark was wont to be open as daylight. But now there's a bitterness about the man, and his mind wanders. To-day he confessed to other interests than our common interests. And at such a critical time!"
"You can't trust any human in this world," said Leverett. "I tell you there's not a doodle inside these walls—narry a Yankee or Britisher—who hevn't got his figure. Man's built so; so's God. You can't even get into Heaven for nought. 'Tis a question of price. Only Hell lets you in free."
"You don't mean——?"
"I don't mean nothing. 'Tis dangerous ter mean anything in this place, when you've always got unseen eyes watching you, like a hawk watches a sparrow. But let the highest amongst us be watched as well as the lowest—that's all. No treason in that. I hevn't got any ill-will against Cecil Stark, though I know you was always jealous of him. He's a good boss, and I trust him as much as I trust anybody else. But liberty's sweeter than love of man or country; and money with liberty would tempt the angels I reckon, if they found themselves in this place. Money and liberty's all the world can give a man."
"What's money to him? He's made of money."
"So much the more might he want ter be free ter spend it. He's not the sort to stop home nights anyhow."
"For that matter, there's money for all since the French departed. Their offices fall to our men now. The prisoners are making fifty pounds a week or more—apart from home allowances."
"Yes, an' that tarnal miser, Lovey Lee, pouches half of it," grumbled Leverett. "Talk about money! If I'm first through the rat-hole, I'd like ter get my four fingers on ter her windpipe and strangle her by inches. That's the payment she deserves!"
"We shall be through in four or five days. Knapps sends in word that since they got a recruit—Lovey Lee's grandson—their rate of progress has increased. 'Tis the letters that John Lee gets to Stark that make him so unrestful, I believe."
"Stark could give 'em the slip for that matter," said Leverett. "Scores of Yankees as can speak the lingo have given up the names of Frenchmen and gone out. I'd hev done it myself if I could parley-voo."
"Yes," admitted Burnham. "He's a good scholar. He could go to-morrow; but if he did he would be a coward and a knave. He knows that it is his duty to stop and see this thing through."
"'Duty'! Well, I haven't got much more use for duty myself," replied the other. "Life's short, and there's nobody on earth or in heaven cares for me but David Leverett."
"Stark happens to have bigger ideas than you," answered Burnham coldly.
"'Tis easy for the rich ter hev big ideas; but they ain't no good to the likes of you and me."
William Burnham resented these sentiments and turned on his heel; while Leverett addressed Mr. Cuffee, who passed at the moment, and, in default of a better listener, grumbled to him.
"Devil take the hot-heads; and Devil take the hindermost! 'Tis every man for himself in this world, so far as I've seen. And when all's done, and we're free—what? How's five thousand unarmed men ter get ter Tor Quay and take ship ter France? We want a fleet o' vessels! They'll send the sojers after us, and they'll lick up and overtake us and cut us ter ribbons—that's what they'll do. 'Twould be truest kindness ter stop the whole thing."
"Marse Stark he lead de way. He wiser den us."
"You think so—and the rest likewise. But I say this snarl is beyond his powers ter loose, and we're going the wrong way about it."
"You no blame Marse Stark?"
"I duz then. He ought ter know, if he's so tarnation wise, that it can't fall out right."
Sam Cuffee shook his head.
"If you fink Marse Stark ebber make a mistake in him life, you no fren' ob mine no more," he said.
Elsewhere the subject of these criticisms was fighting with mingled interests, and found himself torn in half between the prisoner at Fox Tor Farm and the prisoners at Prince Town. Escape was now easy enough for any intelligent man; and with each draft of French prisoners many Americans had got clear off by giving up the names of the dead; but in Stark's opinion, the fortunes of the plot were his fortunes. Daily the difficulties increased, and as larger numbers of prisoners became familiar with the secret, the chances of treachery grew. A week or less must see the tunnel bored; but meantime the temptation to desert his post was terrible. Through John Lee, Stark had learned of the catastrophe at Fox Tor Farm, and now understood that secret means were afoot greatly to hasten Grace's marriage with Peter Norcot. The American also knew clearly that, while a prisoner in body, Grace Malherb was free in heart, and that she loved him. His soul longed with a frantic desire to reach her side and save her. By night he dreamed wild dreams of rescue; in sleep he saw himself conveying his love to France, wedding her there, and returning to England again that he might face her father's fury; but with day his obligations to his countrymen banished this picture. To desert the cause now was impossible, for his escape would awake sleeping authority and unsettle those he left behind him. Every hour new problems had to be met and solved. Rumours of disaffection reached him often. In this predicament he did not trust himself to think of what he might do, had it not been for the presence of John Lee. The vital matter of Grace's escape rested with John, and even now, as Stark tramped the prison yard, he scanned the grille, impatient to see his friend. For upon the preceding night Grace had been rescued from her home and now hid in Lee's safe keeping until Stark himself was free.
As for John, no personal hopes and ambitions longer remained in his mind. Never keen, they had waned utterly with his life's sole joy. Now he stood for nothing but the happiness of Grace Malherb, her safety and her welfare. She alone acted as an incentive and made his life continue to possess attraction. For her he entered into the plot of the Americans; for her he toiled beside James Knapps to hasten the ends of Cecil Stark; for her he now ran countless personal risks and came safely out of them, helped by his very indifference to danger.
Upon the day that was to have seen Grace married to the wool-stapler, Lee appeared among the spectators at the barriers, and pulled some small coins from his pocket as Stark approached with one or two trinkets of prison manufacture.
"All's well," he said shortly. "I brought her safely off. Even now Norcot must be cooling his heels at Widecombe Church; for when they discovered this morning that she had escaped 'em, there was no time to communicate with him."
"She is unhurt? No harm befell her?"
"To earth she came like a pretty dove, and by sun-up she was safe. She's not far off neither."
"To think of another doing these things that should have been my blessed privilege!"
"D'you grudge me that much?"
"No, no, Jack; but consider—her lover. Yes—I'm that now, thank God."
"This was what I could do for her and you could not. She is out of danger now, and will be for a week—not longer."
"In less time than that my work here is done and we shall be free," answered Stark. "Then 'tis my turn; then I must——"
"The tunnel will be through in less than four days—perhaps three," interrupted John. "Knapps works eighteen hours a day and I do my stint. He's made of iron. By night we get rid of the soil; by day we work while my grandmother keeps guard. When the time comes, we shall knock out the side of the cottage so that the open door shall be as large as possible."
With difficulty Stark brought his mind back to this great matter.
"She—yes—the exit must be as wide as you can make it. We are planning the final stroke. At best it will take some hours, however good our method and discipline. The danger of alarm is manifest—also the danger of false alarm and panic."
"You deserve to succeed. You have great authority over men."
"My obligations cease when I take my turn with my fellows and come through the tunnel. It is each man for himself then. But I have given my word to depart no other way. Then! How shall I pay you for all I owe you, Jack?"
"Name that no more. You cannot. She will pay me. Her future happiness is my payment."
"And her future will rest with me. 'Tis a solemn thought for one so little worthy of such a trust. Shall you see her to-day?"
"Every day until you are free and beside her."
"My purpose is to get to Dartmouth and hire a vessel that will take us to France. I have heard all about the place, and believe that a little ship can lie hid at some appointed spot where the trees hang over the river."
"Such spots abound. I might see to that. When once you and your countrymen are free, her hiding-place must be left instantly, for another will come to it."
A shadow of lover's jealousy clouded Stark's face; but it was gone in an instant.
"If we get successfully out of this, you and you only must be thanked for all. I lag behind you every way. But I'll do my share, Jack, when I get opportunity."
"No fear of that. To-morrow I may beg a mount at Holne and get to Dartmouth. But, to be frank, 'tis more vital that I should watch over her than do any other thing just now. If Norcot lays hands upon me, all may go wrong. He'll know right well that I've a hand in this."
"Then think first and only of her, and guard your own safety before everything, for her sake."
A mat of dyed grass and a little box of coloured wood passed between them, while Lee handed a coin back through the bars.
"Her letter is under a false bottom in the box," said Stark; then he turned to some friends and Lee went his way. In his mind was a great desire to visit Dartmouth and complete these secret plans. Yet the awful danger to Grace if misfortune overtook him and kept him from returning, made him hesitate to incur other risks than those already run.
When Thomas Putt reached Widecombe Church on the morning of the wedding, he found the company from Chagford had already arrived. Peter Norcot's bottle-green coat, gilt buttons, and noble shirt frill, presented an imposing and attractive appearance; his sister Gertrude was attired in lace and silk of a faded lavender hue; his man Mason wore a mighty bouquet of flowers on his new livery. Last of this party was the bridegroom's cousin from Exeter—a young Clerk in Orders, one Relton Norcot, whose flat and somewhat vacant countenance grew pale as he heard the news. He feared the issue and expected an explosion, but his knowledge of Mr. Norcot was small.
When Putt announced that Grace Malherb had vanished in the night, Peter's eyes contracted a little; he rose from his seat, thrust his hands deep in his breeches pockets, and began to pace up and down in front of the altar rails, regardless of the whispering crowd in the church. His reverend cousin drew him to the vestry; then the disappointed lover spoke.
"I'm very little surprised. We must act with the utmost promptitude. She's not done this thing single-handed. I'll wager that groom John Lee's in this, and, like enough, Stark, too. He is the rascal for whom she suffered imprisonment."
Peter next turned to Putt.
"Tell us all you know," he said.
"Only that the window was open, your honour," answered Tom, who secretly prided himself on the entire conduct of the affair. "'Twas by the window Miss Grace went out. Her left a letter for her mother. They do say—Mrs. Beer I mean—that her wrote her'd rather die a thousand deaths than have you, begging your honour's pardon for mentioning it. She said as she was going to be in trusty hands also."
Peter nodded, while the young clergyman with the fatuous face began to get out of his surplice.
"She must have been very badly brought up," he remarked, and Norcot stared at his cousin; but his mind was on the matter in hand.
"I shall proceed instantly to Dartmouth," he said. "Tell Mason to saddle my horse and his own. Either from Dartmouth or Tor Quay they will endeavour to leave the country. Mark me, that man Stark has broke prison again. Is Mr. Malherb in communication with Prince Town?"
"Not that I knows about," answered Putt. "Master be like a bull of Bashan—to say it with all respect. He've made Fox Tor Farm shake to its roots. He's lamed two horses a'ready afore I started, an' he's been tearing over the Moor since dawn, like the Wild Hunter. He 'pears to think he's been hardly treated by Providence; an' he's called down fire from Heaven, by all accounts, on pretty near everybody as lives on Dartymoor. A proper tantara, I warn 'e! God knows how 'twill end. He roareth against all things but hisself."
"'Tis a shattering stroke," wept Miss Norcot, "and you are a marvel, Peter, to bear it with such composure."
"Tut, tut! Get you home, you and Relton here. The marriage is postponed. See her home, Relton, and bide my coming. I may not be back for a day or two, but don't return to Exeter until you hear from me."
Then he again addressed Putt.
"Ride back at once and direct your master to set a sharp watch about Holne. They are lying close to-day; but they will doubtless try for the coast at nightfall. First ascertain if Mr. Stark has escaped again from the War Prison; next do all in your power to capture the person of that groom. I've a hundred pounds for the man who takes John Lee and keeps him fast. Now be off; and let them know that I will be at Fox Tor Farm by midnight or later."
His horse was waiting for him, and quite indifferent to the crowd that had assembled round it, Peter mounted, bade the children get out of his way, and galloped off with his man after him. The disappointed bridegroom purposed to inform the authorities and place patrols above Dartmouth, both upon the roads and river.
As for Tom Putt, he rode home; while Miss Norcot and the clergyman returned to Chagford.
At Fox Tor Farm, as the day wore on, wild turmoil reigned, and the flock-master in fury was urging his exhausted labourers to further efforts. Every spot for miles around about was searched; the industrious Mark Bickford even tramped over Cater's Beam and through Hangman's Hollow; but Grace Malherb, securely hidden in Lovey's treasure-house, was beyond reach of discovery. John Lee had laid his plans with care, and knowing that his grandmother would stop at Prince Town until the completion of the tunnel and the liberation of the Americans, he selected her secret hiding-place for Grace. Here, until Lovey's next visit, she was safe; but the miser would soon herself be flying hither with her reward; and before that moment Grace must be gone.
"When she does come," said Lee on the night of the rescue, "she'll bring some fat money-bags with her; and she'll have to lie low henceforth, for if they catch her——"
"And there's danger for you too?"
"None to name," he answered. "My fear is only for your health—that you may suffer in this dismal pit. It is damp. But here's a snug cubby-hole I've found—dry as a bone—and I've filled it with sweet dead fern and heath. The water that trickles yonder is pure. And upon that shelf, beside the money-bags, you'll find bread and bacon and a jug of cider. 'Twas all I could furnish yesterday, but I'll come back to-night with better fare. Here's a few candles too, and a flint and steel. And—and he'd be here now if he could—Master Stark—you know that right well; but he's got a great weight on his shoulders—five thousand fellow-men to answer for; and he knows you're safe while I draw breath."
"I can't thank you. Each word you say stabs me and makes me ashamed to live."
"Sleep—sleep soft and safe; and dream of him. 'Tis not going to be long before he comes to you; but it won't be here. To-morrow I see him; to-morrow night I'll return again. Don't fear for him. Think of the light he's got to show him his road! You're safe as sanctuary here. And remember, if time hangs heavy, that you may be within touching distance of the amphora."
She shook her head sadly.
"Father will never forgive me now. I have done a deed unpardonable. He cannot understand that I love him with all my heart, and yet deem my poor, wretched body a sacred thing—beyond his right to dispose of as he pleases. I only pray this will not drive him to distraction."
The man left her, and during that day had speech with Cecil Stark at the War Prison, as we have noted. He worked also for several hours beside James Knapps, and then, towards midnight, returned to Grace. So silently did he descend into her hiding-place that he did not waken her. She slept snug in the russet sweetness of last year's bracken, and the candle by her side made a play of great black shadows broken by the glow of the fern. Her young shape was sunk in this soft resting-place, and her lips shone very red in the candle-light. They held his eyes, since her own eyes—those lovely lamps that generally attracted a beholder—were hidden. Long he watched her peaceful breathing, and stood fired to his heart, unwilling to rouse her. Once she half awoke, and moved and lifted her head; then she cuddled into the fern, sighed softly and slept again.
Presently he called her in gentle tones, and she sat up, still dreaming; then came to her senses and remembered.
"Great news," he said. "First, here's some fresh wheaten cake and some butter and three hard-boiled eggs. Next, you must know that the tunnel is just finished. We were nearer by five or six yards than we thought. To-day we heard them knocking."
"How is it with my mother and father?"
"I have seen Putt within the last two hours. He stole out to Fox Tor and met me as I came. Your mother keeps calm, for she knows that you are safe; but Mr. Malherb is like one possessed."
"Alas, I can see him and hear him as though I was by."
"Men fear to come to him. There is a settled battle in him against every human soul. Yet a strange thing happened: at a lonely cot yesterday, where he called to learn if they had heard of you, a little girl stood by the door; and he looked at her, then suddenly caught her up and kissed her before he got on his horse again. The child was not feared at his fierceness neither, but laughed into his bloodshot eyes. The mother told Tom Putt."
"Oh, why was I your daughter?"
"Norcot went straight from Widecombe to Dartmouth, so Putt also tells. A deep man—how he hit the critical point—how he knew what was in our heads! He'll have watchers on all the beatable waters, and to-morrow he'll set to work to hunt himself."
"If he should find me, John!"
"Then I'll forgive him. Now farewell for a while. I shall see you again to-morrow night."
They parted, and Grace read the letter that John had brought her. Stark was deeply concerned at her escape; but he wrote not one word of love in this missive. She missed that word, yet knew well how much he had upon his hands and how that this was no time for softness.
And Lee, returning over the Moor, heard a horse's hoofs behind. He had scarcely dived into some old tin-streamer's workings and flung himself flat behind a furze-bush, when Peter Norcot went by in the dim tremor of dawn. So close was he that John saw his eyes were half shut, and that he nodded and nearly slept in his saddle. Light had broken eastward, and already the small life of the Moor stirred amid glimmering grass-blades.
Norcot jogged onward to Fox Tor Farm, and Lee, wondering whether the lover or himself had worked harder during the past day and night, got back to his grandmother's cottage at Prince Town.
Great bustle marked the farm when Peter reached it. Mrs. Malherb, haggard and careworn, greeted him where sleepy-eyed men and women were collected in the servants' hall. For a moment there was respite, because Malherb had already risen and ridden away. Norcot followed his kinswoman to her parlour, then sank into a chair and began to drag off his top-boots.
"Any news, Annabel? I see from your face that there is none. This mad business of keeping her chained up! It was bound to end thus."
"Maurice has started again—this time to Prince Town. Oh, Peter—his reason—I fear terribly for it! No human creature could endure what he has endured and keep sane. I assure him that she is safe on her own showing. I have it under her hand and seal. But he will not believe me or her. He is like the sea breaking on rocks—he never tires. After midnight he leapt up and was soon in the saddle again. He has gone to the War Prison now."
"He should have gone there first. Many hours have been lost."
"He will make trouble with Commandant Short, for he is in no mood to be denied."
"What news had he of Stark's escape?"
"We did not so much as know that the young man was escaped."
"I feel little doubt of it. However, he'll hardly clear Dartmouth, or Tor Quay either. Grace, Grace! Poor child—how true—Hesiod—Earth and Chaos are the parents of Love. Now I must lift myself out of this chair again! Fifteen hours in the saddle—three horses. Do for pity's sake get me a bumper of strong drink, Annabel. And my wedding breeches—worn out. Only just now off to the War Prison! Tut, tut! His rage has made him blind."
"He has been brave as a lion and done ten men's work."
"Ten fools' work, you mean. 'When valour preys on reason, it eats the sword it fights with.'"
"I fear, indeed, for his reason, and for his precious neck. He is worn out in mind and body, and ought to be in bed instead of on horseback."
"So ought I. Send the drink to my usual room, my dear. And bid them call me in three hours. Make 'em wake me whether I will or not in three hours' time."
"If my Maurice would but listen to sense!"
"Men don't change the habits of a lifetime at fifty. What does Cicero say? 'Utatur motu animi——' I'm too sleepy to talk English, let alone Latin. 'He only uses passion who cannot use reason.' A very unreasonable man is Malherb."
"You shall not criticise him at such a pass, Peter. None shall. This wicked girl may cost him his life—you and she between you. No man ever led a more honourable and single-hearted existence. He is always trying to do right."
"Yes, I know all that. A man trying to do right is only interesting as long as he fails. Malherb has never yet ceased to interest me."