"So be it then," answered Daniel.
Mr. Churchward found some difficulty in arranging a representative committee to consider the water leat celebrations. Many refused to join him—among others Woodrow. To the master of Ruddyford he wrote, in his expansive way, and begged that he would "represent the outlying agricultural interests"; but Hilary declined, and John Prout consented to fill his place.
"'Tis all smoke and wind, no doubt, but 'twill please the man," he said.
There met together at the schoolmaster's house Jarratt Weekes, old Valentine Huggins, Noah Pearn—the landlord of the Castle Inn—John Prout, and two others—men of repute in Lydford. They were the miller, Jacob Taverner, and the postmaster, a weak and pink-eyed person, called Nathaniel Spry. Him Mr. Churchward regarded as a satellite, and patronized in a manner at once unctuous and august.
Weekes opened the proceedings while the men were getting out of their coats.
"Is Squire Calmady coming?" he asked.
"I regret to say that he is not," answered the schoolmaster. "I approached himin propriâ personâby letter, and he replied that the meeting would be very safe in our hands. I hope you all think the same. Anyhow, we have paid him the compliment; we can do no more."
"There's no gentlefolks on the committee, then?"
Mr. Taverner, who was a stout radical, and saturated with class prejudice, resented this suggestion.
"Gentle or not gentle, Jarratt Weekes, we are all pretty solid men, and know how to behave, I believe."
"I vote Mr. Churchward into the chair, neighbours," said the postmaster. "Then we shall have wisdom over the committee."
Adam bridled, but held up his hand in a deprecating manner.
"I want no power—nothing of the sort. I'm only your servant in this matter. But since somebody must—in fact, I leave myself in your hands."
"'Tis your own house, so you'd better take the lead, and I'll second the motion," declared John Prout.
"Shall us smoke, or would it be out of order?" asked the landlord of the Castle Inn.
Spry looked imploringly at the schoolmaster. He hated the smell of tobacco, and suffered from a nervous cough. But Mr. Churchward liked his pipe as well as smaller men, and he declared for smoke.
"I've a new box of 'churchwardens' in this drawer," he said. "I beg the committee will make free with them. Now—but where's Mr. Norseman? Speaking the word 'churchwarden' reminded me of him. We want him to complete the committee."
The official in question almost immediately joined them. Henry Norseman was a swarthy, black-bearded, sanctimonious man, the factor of important estates, and churchwarden of the people.
They sat round the table that Mr. Churchward had cleared for them. Pens and paper were arranged upon it, and the box of clay pipes stood in the midst. A fire burnt on the hearth, and two oil lamps gave light.
"'Tis a very comfortable committee, I'm sure," said Mr. Huggins, stretching for a tobacco pipe, and bringing a flat metal box from his trouser pocket to fill it.
Mr. Churchward opened the proceedings.
"What we have to decide is the sort of thing we are going to do the day the water comes into Lydford. I have my idea, but I am quite prepared to submit itsub rosa. If anybody has a better one, I shall be the first to agree thereto. Now my notion is a public holiday and a procession. This procession should start from the high road and walk through Lydford down to Little Lydford, and back. At a foot's pace 'twould take not above three hours."
"And I propose that the procession stops at the Castle Inn on the way back," said Mr. Pearn.
"Why?" asked Jarratt Weekes, pointedly, and the publican bristled up.
"Why do people stop at an inn?" he asked, in his turn. "That's a damn silly question, if ever I heard one."
"You're out of order," retorted Weekes. "Though, of course, we all know very well your meaning."
Mr. Pearn lifted his chin very high.
"All right, all right!" he said. "What d'you want to open your mouth so wide for? I suppose every man of this committee has a right to be heard? And I suppose we've all got an axe to grind, else we shouldn't be here?"
"You'll have your say in due course, Noah Pearn. Don't waste the committee's time interrupting," said Mr. Prout.
But the landlord proceeded.
"I'm the last to want to waste anybody's time—know the value of time too well. But this I will say, that I'll give a free lunch to fifty people on the day—three courses, and hot joints with the first—if 'tis understood everyone pays for his own drinks. That's my offer; take it or leave it. So now then!"
"I was going to say 'order'; but, since you submit a definite proposal, I won't, Mr. Pearn. Well, that seems a patriotic offer—eh, gentlemen?"
Mr. Churchward glanced about him and caught Mr. Henry Norseman's eye.
"We ought to vote on that," declared the churchwarden.
"I'm against liquor, as you know, and cannot support the idea, owing to conscience."
"No good voting—I don't care what you vote, and I don't care for a teetotaler's conscience. Take it or leave it. Free lunches for fifty, and them as drinks pays for it," repeated Mr. Pearn.
"I advise the committee to accept that," said the miller Taverner. "'Tis a public-spirited offer, and if Noah does well out of the beer, why shouldn't he? In fact, I second it."
"Are we agreed?" asked Mr. Churchward, and all held up a hand but Mr. Norseman. The publican resented his attitude as a personal slight.
"Don't you come to fill your belly with my free lunch, then—that's all, for you won't be served," he said, furiously.
"Have no fear," answered the other. "I never support drink, and never shall, Mr. Pearn."
"Order—order!" cried the chairman. "The free lunch is carried. Now, neighbours, please hear me. The first thing to decide is, shall we or shall we not have a procession? If any man can think of a better idea, let him speak."
"Impossible," declared the postmaster. "You have hit on exactly the right thing, Mr. Chairman. A procession is the highest invention the human mind can ever reach on great occasions, and the most famous events of the world, from ancient times downwards, are always marked so. The bigger the affair, the longer the procession. History is simply packed full of them."
"Hear, hear, Spry!" said Mr. Taverner. "And what the postmaster says is true. 'Tis always a solemn sight to see men walking two by two, whether they be worthies of the nation or mere convicts chained together."
The committee, without a dissentient voice, agreed to a procession, and Mr. Churchward was much gratified. He bowed from the chair.
"I'm very pleased to have been the humble instrument of expressing your views in a word, gentlemen," he began. "And now arises the question of the nature of the pageant."
"The Goose Club might walk, for one thing," suggested Mr. Prout.
"It shall," answered Pearn; "as the president of the Goose Club, I can promise that."
"And I'll speak for the Ancient Dartymoor Druids—Lydford Branch," said Jacob Taverner. "But I won't promise the banner if the day be wet. It cost three pounds, and wouldn't stand weather."
"That's very good to begin with, I'm sure," declared Mr. Churchward; then old Huggins made his first contribution to the debate.
"Us must have brass moosic, souls. There's nought like trumpets—they'll carry off anything. I mind when Jimmy Briggs was buried there never was a poorer funeral—nought but five or six humble creatures behind, and me an' a few other men to carry him. But, just as we stopped to change hands, what should go by but a four-hoss coach! And the guard didn't see us, and blowed a sudden blast as would sartainly have made us drop the carpse if he hadn't been on the ground for the moment. But there 'twas; it gave a great grandeur to the scene, and comforted the mourners, like the Trump of Doom."
"Brass music, of course," said Jarratt Weekes. "The Okehampton Yeomanry band is very good, and their black and silver uniforms would look fine in the show."
"They'll cost a pot of money; that's the worst of them," said the postmaster.
"As to that, my dear Spry, we must, of course, approach the subject in a large and hopeful spirit. When everything is arranged I shall propose an appeal to the district. I have thought of this, too, and, I consider, if we can collect thirty to forty pounds, that should cover all expenses."
Mr. Churchward it was who spoke.
"You'll never get as much as that—or half of it," declared Weekes. "What are you going to show 'em for the money?"
"That's the point. I propose——"
Mr. Taverner, who had been whispering with Mr. Pearn, interrupted.
"Excuse me if I'm not in order; but I beg to say that talking's dry work, and I should like for to ask if we may send round to the 'Castle' for a quart or two?"
The chairman looked round him.
"Agreed," said Mr. Prout. "I second that."
"I've no objection in the world," declared Mr. Churchward.
"I should have suggested it myself," remarked Noah Pearn; "but for obvious reasons, gentlemen, I couldn't."
They applauded his delicate feeling, and Adam spoke to Nathaniel Spry.
"If you walk across to the inn, Nat, you'll find my son in the bar for certain," he said. "Just tell him to fetch over two quarts of mild, and write it down to me; and put on your overcoat afore you go, for the night is sharp."
"And I'll ask for a bottle of lemonade, if there's no objection," added Mr. Norseman.
The publican was mollified at this order, and while the others talked, he turned to his former enemy.
"I hope you'll not think twice of what I said, and come to my free lunch with the rest, Henry Norseman," he said.
The other nodded.
"Plenty of time, plenty of time," he answered.
"I can't sit cool and hear beer attacked," explained Mr. Pearn. "As a man of reason, you must see that."
"Certainly, certainly. I'm not unreasonable—I'm large-minded even over beer, I believe. If we must have it—poison though it is—let us have it good."
"And the man who says he ever got bad beer at my house is a liar," concluded Mr. Pearn.
The schoolmaster rapped on the table and resumed the main discussion.
"Now as to this procession," he began. "We must have features. I believe I am allowed some claim to be original in my ideas. Indeed, I am too much so, and even in the scholastic line, find myself rather ahead of the times. But with a procession, what can be better than originality? Then I say we must have some impersonations—historic characters—to walk in procession. They must be allegorical and typical, and, in fact, emblematical."
He paused for breath just as Mr. Spry returned.
"William's going to bring the beer to the committee in five minutes," said he.
"You've missed some long words, postmaster," remarked Mr. Taverner. "The chairman here have got a great thought for the procession. 'Twill be better than the riders,[1] if it can be done."
[1]The Riders, a circus.
"Allegorical, emblematical,et hoc genus omne," declared Mr. Churchward, and mopped his forehead.
"Trust schoolmaster to make a regular, valiant revel of it," said Mr. Huggins. "'Twill be very near as good as Wombwell's beast show, if the committee only stands by Mr. Churchward to a man."
"Have you thought who the great characters should be?" asked Henry Norseman doubtfully.
"I may have done so, churchwarden," answered the chairman; "but that's for us in committee. We must argue upon it. I invite you all to give your ideas; and what poor knowledge of history I may possess is at your service."
"St. George for one," said Jarratt Weekes; and everybody looked at Mr. Churchward.
He considered and nodded his head with gravity. The propriety of the idea was obvious; but Adam disliked the younger Weekes and grudged him credit.
"The patron Saint of England—eh? Well, there's no objection to him, certainly," he said, but without enthusiasm; and Jarratt instantly made his annoyance clear.
"Objection to St. George! Good God! I should think there wasn't any objection to St. George! What next, I wonder? If St. George ban't done, I'll leave the committee—so I tell you. You're glumpy because you didn't think of the man yourself!"
"Order! order!" cried Mr. Churchward. "Far be it from me to cast any slur on the name of St. George. But there are so many other notable personages to consider; and as I am of opinion that we can hardly manage more than five or six at the outside, I felt doubtful. However, let us have St. George by all means. Those in favour of St. George will kindly signify the same in the usual manner."
St. George was honoured with a unanimous vote. Then Mr. Huggins piped in.
"And do let's have the old dragon, souls! St. Garge be nought without un."
"The dragon! The dragon, Huggins?" asked Mr. Churchward. "That's rather startling—and yet——"
"Certainly the dragon," said Mr. Prout firmly; "Valentine's right there."
"'The Infant' might play dragon very nice," suggested Mr. Pearn.
"Not he—too fat," declared Jarratt Weekes brutally; and William Churchward's father was a good deal hurt.
"My son is not too fat," he answered. "William may be stout; but I imagine a prosperous dragon would be stout, for that matter. Wasn't St. George's dragon prosperous before he met St. George, Mr. Spry? You are pretty well up in the heathen mythology, I believe."
"Thank you for that kind word, schoolmaster," said Spry. "And he was prosperous. 'Tis all a fable, but——"
At this moment William Churchward entered. He was a huge, burly, thick-necked young man with a voice that surprised the ear. One expected a solemn bass and heard a ridiculous treble. William had bulbous, pale grey eyes like his father's, flabby chops and a small mouth.
"There's your beer," he said. "Good Lord! you old blades be going it seemingly."
"Would you play dragon, 'Infant,' and let St. Garge pretend to stick his spear into 'e?" asked Mr. Huggins.
"Us be going to have a dragon in the procession—with St. George a slaying of him, William," explained Mr. Prout.
"The 'Infant' will never let himself be slain, I'm afraid?" murmured Nathaniel Spry in a questioning voice.
"You'll have to wear an outrageous tail, William, an' cover your gert carcase in glittering scales," declared Jacob Taverner. "But I don't think you ought to be allowed to roar, for you haven't got a dragon's voice—to say it kindly."
"'Twill come down to play-acting in a minute," grumbled Mr. Norseman, "and I don't hold with that, I warn the committee. If there's to be any May games of that sort, I'll lay it afore the vicar."
William helped himself to a churchwarden from the box, and prepared to depart.
"You'm a rare old rally," he said; "and all drunk a'ready, I should think."
"You don't follow the course of the argument, my son," explained his father. "However, I'll make it clear at another time. You mustn't stop now, because we are in committee, and it would be irregular."
"Bless you nose, I don't want to stop!" replied William. Then he made a mock bow and departed.
When he had gone, Mr. Spry, who was a peace-loving man, proposed that they should drop the dragon. Pearn, Prout and Taverner, however, held out for the monster loudly, and Mr. Huggins supported them.
"Better have a sub-committee to decide," sneered Jarratt Weekes; but Mr. Churchward ignored his satire and put the question to the vote.
"Dragon romps home!" cried John Prout.
"St. George and the Dragon have passed the committee," announced Mr. Churchward. "And now, gentlemen, perhaps you'll kindly help yourselves."
There was an interval of clinking glasses and bubbling liquor. A smell of beer permeated the chamber.
"All's going wonderful well," sighed Mr. Huggins. "I hope we haven't nearly finished yet."
Presently the discussion was resumed.
"With your permission, I will now myself submit a character," said the chairman, "and it is no less a solemn figure than the patriarch Moses."
"Your reasons?" asked Jarratt Weekes sharply.
Mr. Churchward flushed, but was not disconcerted.
"Moses brought forth water from the rock. It would be symbolical and religious to have him in the procession. We've brought forth water from the rock. There you are—an allegory in fact."
"You couldn't have hit on a higher idea in history, schoolmaster," asserted Nathaniel Spry.
"There's no offence?" asked Mr. Norseman. "You're sure there's no offence, schoolmaster? You know what his reverence is."
"I do," answered the chairman. "And I also know what I am. I believe that, when it comes to decorum, Mr. Norseman, I am generally allowed to befacile princeps. If I am wrong I hope somebody will correct me."
Jarratt Weekes uttered a contemptuous sound into his glass as he drained it; then old Huggins spoke.
His voice was tremulous, and he evidently laboured under great suppressed excitement.
"I do beg and pray of the committee as you'll let me be Moses, souls! I'm old enough—up home fourscore to a week—just the man's age when he denied and defied King Pharaoh. An' my beard's a regular Moses beard; an' I'm accounted wise to the eye, so long as I keep my mouth shut. 'Twould be the first and last act of note that ever I should do, an' a very fine thing to be handed down in my favour for my grandchildren to remember."
There was an awkward silence. Mr. Prout and the schoolmaster whispered aside, Mr. Norseman and Mr. Taverner shook their heads.
"Let him—let the old blid do it," said John Prout under his breath. "Might be a gracious act. He couldn't mar it, if he said nought."
Mr. Spry also whispered into the chairman's ear.
"Does he bear himself straight enough in the back? That's my fear. And the stone tables—he'd droop to the ground under them."
Mr. Huggins pleaded again.
"I'd wear the holy horns on my brow and everything; and many a married man would rather not. But 'tis nought to me."
"I had thought to write speeches in character for the emblematical people, and perhaps some verses," said Churchward; whereupon the face of the aged Huggins fell.
"Don't ax me to say nought," he begged. "Even as 'tis, if I walk as Moses, I shall be sweating for fear under my sacred coat; and if I had to tell a speech, I should disgrace myself and the company without a doubt."
"I'm against speeches altogether," declared Jarratt Weekes; "and so's Mr. Norseman here. We won't have no play-acting and no chattering of silly verses."
Mr. Churchward glared at his foe, and Weekes glared back and poured out more beer. The chairman thought of certain rhymes already in his desk, and Mr. Spry, who knew of these rhymes, cast a timorous and sympathetic eye at his gloomy friend.
"Schoolmaster's made some beautiful speeches, that nobody here could mend, for he's been so very good as to let me read them," he said.
But the sense of the meeting was for a dumb show; Mr. Huggins had his way and became self-conscious and nervous from that moment. Like greater men, he won his ambition and lost his peace of mind for evermore.
Sir Francis Drake, who brought water from Dartmoor to Plymouth, was suggested by the postmaster and agreed upon with enthusiasm; then Mr. Churchward proposed a Druid and Mr. Spry seconded, but Norseman protested.
"No heathen—no heathen!" he said. "'Twould be a reproach and make us a byword. Let's have St. Petrock—him that our church be named after. He might travel side by side of Moses, and keep the show well within Christianity."
"St. Petrock is good," declared Adam Churchward. "St. Petrock is a thought worthy of you, Norseman. Spry and I will consult our books about him. I second that, certainly."
The drink was done, and Mr. Pearn, aware that his part in the debate had sunk to nothing, advanced an idea.
"Why for shouldn't us have a lady hero? How would it be, Mr. Chairman, if Jezebel, Queen of Sheba, went among 'em?"
"Jezebel wasn't Queen of Sheba," answered several voices simultaneously.
"Not?" exclaimed the publican. "There now! If I didn't always think she was."
"You should read your Bible better, Noah Pearn," said Mr. Norseman; "and I object to women displaying themselves in the show at all."
"Churchwarden's right: don't have no women," advised John Prout. "They'm not fitted in their intellects to stand the strain of a public procession without getting too overbearing. They'm better kept under, in my opinion. You might lift up some comely maiden and turn her head for all time by it."
"If we had a queen at all, it should be Queen Elizabeth," said Mr. Churchward.
"Why?" asked Weekes.
"To walk along with Sir Francis Drake," answered the postmaster promptly. "That's sound history and sound sense."
"Don't have no queens," urged Mr. Prout. "Mark me, they'll spoil all with their giggling and nonsense."
"How be the heroes going to travel?" inquired Taverner. "For my part I think a hay-wain would be best. They'll get in a jakes of a mess if they go afoot down to Little Lydford. You know what the road is, even in dry weather."
"C[oe]teris paribus," answered Mr. Churchward thoughtfully.
"Very likely," admitted Taverner, "but, all the same, a hay-wain will be best."
Then it was that Jarratt Weekes allowed his gathering anger to bubble forth in a very acute explosion.
"Why the hell can't you talk English?" he asked the chairman. "I'm sick to death of your bumbling noise. Whenever you don't know what the deuce to answer a man, you fall back on some jargon, that may be Latin, or may be gibberish more likely. You don't know any more than us what your twaddle signifies; but you know we can't laugh at you, and so you're safe to pretend a lot of larning you haven't got. What doesc[oe]teris paribusmean, anyway?—I ask you that afore this committee, and I will be answered!"
The chairman grew red and blew a heavy blast through his nostrils. Mr. Spry cried out "Shame—shame!"; Mr. Huggins was frightened.
"The committee is adjourned," answered Adam very haughtily. "And for the benefit of those who have so little education, and who envy those who may be better endowed in that respect, I may remark thatc[oe]teris paribusmeans—it means, in the manner in which I employed it, that the question of a hay-wain shall be decided at the next meeting. And that is all I have to say, except that I expect an apology."
"And all I have to say is that you won't get one," answered Mr. Weekes very rudely.
The company rose, and a date having been appointed for future deliberations, every man prepared to go on his way.
Jarratt Weekes refused to apologize, despite efforts on the part of Prout and Norseman to make him do so. He persisted in the display of a very ferocious temper, and expressed grave doubt as to whether he should again join the committee. None pressed him to do so.
"A beautiful meeting," said Mr. Huggins to Mr. Taverner, who saw him home. "I'm sure I hope I shall be spared to see many more such afore the great day cometh."
Daniel Brendon asked Sarah Jane to marry him on an afternoon in November, when the wind blew like a giant from the west, and the life of the Moor slept.
They sat in a nook of Great Links Tor, looked at the world outspread beneath them, and listened to the hiss of the wind, as it flogged heath and stone and chattering rushes. A million tiny clouds dappled the sky with pure pearl, and far beneath this apparently motionless cloth of silver was woven another cloud-pattern of darker tone, where tattered vapour fled easterly across heaven before the roaring breeze. This rack sank to earth's surface, swept the Moor, and, when it reached the crowns of the land, swallowed them. Thus a world of wild movement and music filled the lower air and throbbed upon the wilderness, while the upper chambers of the sky were bright and still. Some faint sunlight pierced the cirrus, but its radiance was caught by the turmoil below and hardly reached these lovers, where they sat sheltered from the riotous breath of the wind.
GREAT LINKSGREAT LINKS
Daniel had asked for a half-holiday, and Sarah met him by appointment in this most lofty, most lonely place.
He had rehearsed his words many times until his brain whirled. By night the statement was clear, and phrases that seemed good to him thronged up from heart to tongue. With day they vanished, and now, on the threshold of the supreme moment, not a shadow of all his fine ideas remained. The wind from the Atlantic swept the last thought away. He sat by her, heaved immense sighs, panted dumb as the stone and heather, fixed his gaze upon her placid face.
"You'm blowing like the wind's self," said Sarah.
"I know I be," he answered. "There's times when I find mouth-speech terrible difficult, and this be one of them."
She knew very well what Daniel must now find words to tell her, but for once love was stronger than herself. When a halting blacksmith had nearly choked with a proposal in the past, she had helped him out of his misery as swiftly as possible, so that there might be little delay before the fatal word fell on his ears; but to-day the case was altered. She enjoyed the discomfort of her dear one's struggle, because her answer must presently make him forget his tribulation, as a warm fire makes us forget battle with the cold air outside.
"You don't talk enough to be very clever at it," she said. "'Tis the little, peart men talk best, like the small birds sing best. You gert big chaps croak like the crows—just now and again. You can't keep it up."
"Very true, I'm sure. But I don't want to croak now, God knows. If I was to put it in shape of a prayer, 'twould come easy, for you'd be surprised how my words slip out then. It loosens the tongue something wonderful to ax God for anything. He helps."
"You don't say your prayers out loud, however—else everybody to Ruddyford would hear 'em—with your gert voice."
"No—I whisper 'em. But no man can pray to anybody but his Maker. So it's cruel difficult."
"Who is it you'm fretting to speak to, then? Be you shamed to do it? Be it an uncomely thing?"
"No, no—'tis a very every-day thing; and yet not that—'tis a—— Would I say anything to you that weren't comely?"
"To me?"
"To you—yes."
"Whatever should you have to say to me?"
"Things as I haven't got the language for. There's words—like 'marriage,' for instance—that be an awful mouthful to spit out. Worse than having a tooth drawed. Yet there's no other word for it."
"And what's the hard word you can't bring yourself to say?"
"Look here—listen. There are some things that I can say, and they'll do for a start. I'm a terrible poor man. I've only got fifty pound stored up, but it goodies and it will be fifty-four ten by next March. I get twenty-five shillings a week; and that's very tidy indeed for me. Yet I'm worth it—not to despise myself—and I've great hopes of getting up higher. You'll think I'm a very own-self man, to keep on about myself so much."
"Not at all. 'Tis cruel interesting."
"Very kind to say so."
"Well, what next?"
"Should you reckon that was a promising case, or maybe you don't?"
"'Tis a very common state of things—save for the fifty-four pounds ten."
"You'd reckon that was to the good, then?"
"Every penny of it."
"It took some saving, Sarah Jane."
"I lay it did, Daniel Brendon."
"And I'm putting by a nice bit every week now."
"So you ought to be. You never know."
There was silence between them, but the wind ceased not. Then she relented and made it easy for him.
"I say you never know; because presently you'll be sure to see a girl that you'll like. No doubt you think not; but you will."
"I have—I have!"
She hardened her heart again.
"Ah! So soon? Well, if I may give you advice, you lie low till that fifty's up in three figures. Then—very like she'll take 'e, if nobody better comes in the meantime."
She looked at him and saw his face grow long and his jaw droop.
Then she suddenly threw her arms round him.
"You dear, great monster!" she said.
"Eh—what! Good God!" cried the man; and his emotion heaved up, slow and mighty, like the swing of a wave. He could say nothing; but he kept her face close to his and kissed her pale hair; then his arms tightened round her, and she felt the immense strength of them, and the great uplift of his ribs against her breast.
"I can't let 'e go; I'll never let 'e go again, I do believe," he said at last.
She knew he was unconsciously bruising her white body, but let him hug.
"My darling Blue-eyes!" he cried out, "what have I done to deserve this?"
"Made me love you."
"Think of it—think of it! When did you begin?"
"When did you?"
"First moment that ever I set eyes on you. When I walked down-along, after seeing you and drinking the cider you poured out for me, I knocked my knees against the rocks, like a blind sheep, for I couldn't think of nothing but your lovely hair."
"'Tis too pale. What d'you suppose I said to myself when I seed you first?"
His arm had settled to her waist. She rubbed her ear against his cheek.
"I said, 'I'll get that chap to take off them little funny three-cornered whiskers, if I can. They spoil the greatness of his beautiful, brown face."
"Did you think that—honour bright?"
"Honour bright, I did."
"I'll chop 'em off afore I see you again!"
He kissed her on the mouth.
"I never thought I could be so happy as this, Daniel," she said.
"'Tis almost too much," he admitted. "I doubt if any two was ever heart an' soul together like this afore. Feel me—fire—fire—burning like the bush in the wilderness, and yet not burning away! An' Him up above the clouds—to think it all out for us and plan it so loving and merciful! Bless God for His great goodness, darling Blue-eyes! This be all His work and His thought."
She showed no religious enthusiasm.
"Leave God till after," she said. "Go on burning now. Love me, hug me. There'll be black and blue bruises on my arms to-morrow."
"I'll make you love God in a way you haven't come to yet, Sarah Jane."
"Don't drag God in now," she said. "Talk to me, cuddle me. Tell me about what we're going to do when we'm married. Think of it all round—the astonishment—the fun. My father first—and then the castle-keeper. He'll have the flesh off your gert bones for this! Talk—talk—hug me tight and talk!"
"I want to think—I want to think," he said.
"Don't," she answered. "Feeling is better than thinking any day."
They lived through an hour as though it had been a moment. They did not feel the gathering dusk; they did not hear the wind. The rain fell presently, and to Sarah it seemed to hiss as it touched Daniel's cheek.
She leapt up at last.
"Now us'll go straight home and tell father."
"To-day—must we?"
"In course. You needn't fear it. It won't surprise him over much."
As they returned, he spoke again of the goodness of his watchful Creator, and moralized upon it.
"He does so much for us—He is sleepless—always watching and thinking for us worms.... And what can we do to pay Him? Nothing. We can only thank Him in our hearts every hour of the day."
Sarah Jane was silent a moment—then broke out suddenly.
"I don't want you to fawn on God about me, Daniel."
He started.
"What do you say, my darling dear?"
"Us don't think all alike there. I hate a mean spirit in a man. Not that you've got one—far, far from that. But I hate even a dog that cringes; and maybe God thinks the same of a man that does."
"Can we cringe to the Almighty?"
"The Giver's more than the gift to you, perhaps?"
"Nought on earth could be more than the gift, and well you know it! But——"
"I've given myself to you. I've done it myself—out of my own heart," she cried almost passionately.
He did not argue the point, but put his arms round her again. Yet he pondered as they passed on to Dunnagoat Cottage; and presently she startled him once more.
Mr. Friend took the news in a spirit very stoical.
"It had to come: 'twas only a question of time. I've always knowed that," he said. "I'm going to bargain for a fair spell of keeping company afore you do the rash deed. You catched fire from each other the first moment you met, I do believe. But sometimes the love that's soon ripe is soon rotten. So you'll just larn a bit about each other and we'll talk of marrying presently, when there's a foundation of understanding and knowledge built up between you."
"I know Dan to the very soul of him," said Sarah Jane. "I've read him day by day like a book of large, easy print; and he knows me—better than I know myself—don't you, Daniel?"
Brendon grinned doubtfully.
"I know you're the best, beautifullest wonder of a woman as ever I met with; and I know that I ban't worthy to tie your shoe-string; and that's about all I do know," he said.
"Exactly so!" declared Gregory. Then he took his daughter's face between his hands and kissed her.
"Bless you, you bowerly maid. You know nought about her, man; and I—her own parent—don't know much more; and she herself—what do she know, but that she's born—and loves you? There's as much we don't know, and she don't know, behind them blue eyes of hers, as there is behind the blue sky. Mark that; an' the Lord bless you, I'm sure; and if all goes well, I shall be pleased to have you for a son-in-law."
"I hope you'll never get no cause to regret them words, Mr. Friend. And, God helping, I'll Be a useful son to you as the years go on."
"That's a very proper thing to say. And if I have any opinion in the matter, 'tis this, that you won't take her too far off from me. She must bide fairly close. She's all I've got, and I couldn't go on without seeing her from time to time."
"That I will promise."
They fell into long silences while Gregory's daughter made tea; then they ate and drank and talked more freely again.
The lovers began to plan daily meetings; and Sarah Jane allowed herself to think deliciously of all the friends to whom this great news must be broken. Daniel remarked that they were mostly of his sex, and remembered that she had told him how her friendships with women were few.
"Every Dick, Tom, and Harry on the country side is to know about it seemingly," he said with a comical expression. "I hope they'll take the hint anyhow, and the less we see of 'em the better henceforward."
Then it was that she astonished him again, and the humorous note was changed abruptly in his mind, though not in hers.
"You men—so greedy you be—like a dog with a bone. 'Tis all or none with you."
He stared. It sounded an unmaidenly speech to his ear.
"By God! I should think so! All or none indeed. We don't share sweethearts, I believe."
She enjoyed his tragical face.
"'Twould be a poor look out for them as tried to come between me an' my gert monster," she said.
"It would be."
"An' for me too, I reckon?"
"Yes," he admitted. "But don't be telling such nonsense—or thinking such folly. You've done with all men but me for evermore. The Lord help any man or woman who ever came between us in deed or thought, if I catched word of it."
She nodded.
"They'd be dust afore your wrath."
Mr. Friend left them presently and went to a little room on the ground floor of Dunnagoat cot, where he pursued his business of testing peat for tar and gas. He never wearied of this occupation. Then, while Sarah Jane washed up the tea things, Brendon made an excuse to leave her and spoke with his future father-in-law.
"Can 'e lend me a razor, master?" he said.
"A razor? Yes. I don't use 'em of late years, but it happens I've got one. What for? Have you changed your mind and want to cut your throat for being a fool?"
"No, indeed. I've only just begun to live; but she don't like my whiskers."
"Ah! Take 'em off, and she'll want 'e to grow 'em again in a week. Wear a hard hat and she'll order a billycock; put on black gaiters and she'll cry out for yellow. God help you, poor giant of a man! You'll hear more about yourself from her fearless lips in the next fortnight, than ever you've found out yet all your life."
"The razor be—where?"
"Up in my sleeping chamber, in a little drawer under the looking-glass."
"Thank you very much, master."
"They'm like the false gods o' the Bible: they think nought of axing the men to gash themselves with knives. The biggest fool of a woman as ever cumbered earth can always be clever at inventing tortures for the men."
"'Tis all very well; but if I take Sarah Jane, you'll have to marry again yourself, Mr. Friend," said Daniel.
"Not me. I had one good one. I drew a prize, though she was always wrong about Amicombe Hill. Ban't in reason to expect two prizes."
Presently Daniel appeared with shaven cheeks before Sarah Jane. He left her to discover the loss, and she did so in an instant.
"My stars! if it isn't as though you was another man!" she said. "But I wasn'tquitetired of them all the same. I think I must ax 'e to put on a beard, Dan. I like 'em, because faither's got one."
"I could easy enough; my chin be like a stubble field after I've let him bide a day or two."
"But I couldn't rub my cheek against it while 'twas coming!'
"Better let me go as I am."
"I'll think about that. Be you going to stop to supper?"
"Can't, worse luck. I've promised to be back for a few indoor jobs this evening."
"When shall I see you next?"
"To-morrow night without a doubt. I'll come up over for an hour after supper."
"'Tis a terrible long way up; an' a terrible rough road."
"Not to me—and never has been."
"I love you with every drop of blood in my body, you dear blessed Daniel!"
"Well I know it; but 'tis such an amazing thought, I can't grasp it yet. 'Twill take days, I doubt."
"I've grasped it tight enough! 'Tis the only thing in my head. I've forgot everything else in the world, for there's nought else worth knowing, except you love me."
Thus they prattled at the door. Then a great gust dashed in and blew out the lamp. Brendon had to stop until it was relighted, and they made three more partings. Then Mr. Friend's voice called Sarah Jane, and Brendon set out in earnest for home.
The darkness was full of storm; but his heart made a heaven of night, and the elements that swooped, and shouted, and soaked, were agreeable to Daniel as he plunged into them. They seemed tremendous as his love; and his love made him tremendous as they were. He felt kinship with the lash of the rain and the thrust of the wind. Underfoot, earth, like a slave, submitted to the torrent and the gale; and he also spurned it even as they did; he feared not its steep and stony miles; he swept forward as strong and fierce as the sky, as joyful as the fetterless forces of the air.
On the morning after Daniel's glorious adventure, the girl Susan found it necessary to withdraw from her Aunt Hepsy's unsettled atmosphere and seek the calmer climate of her Aunt Tab. As usual, she appeared about breakfast time on a washing day; and as usual Tabitha expressed much concern and regret. Susan enjoyed a good breakfast, and found herself able to take an important part in the subject of the moment. To those who are familiar with the rustic's sense of humour, it need not be said that the event of that morning was Daniel Brendon's appearance whiskerless. Over night they had not seen him, for a hunger, higher than need of meat or drink, filled the man after his walk with the storm. He had desired no human face to come between him and his thoughts, had done his work by lantern-light in an outhouse, and had then gone to his chamber and there communed with his God. Kneeling, he poured out immense gratitude and thanksgiving; and before the first narrow light of day called him to rise, Brendon had wakened and again devoutly turned his thoughts to the creed that controlled him.
His advent at the breakfast table provoked titters, then guffaws, then questions. Agg first marked the change and thrust his elbow into Joe Tapson's ribs; then Tabitha cocked her thin nose, and John Prout smiled calmly. It was Lethbridge who first dared to approach the subject directly. After Walter Agg had stroked his own cheeks and Tapson subtly inquired what was the price of hair for stuffing pillow-cases, Peter Lethbridge boldly spoke and reminded Dan of a circumstance that he had forgotten. Upon his abstraction at breakfast fell a startling utterance.
"Good Lord, Dan!" cried Lethbridge with great affected concern, "the wind have blowed off your whiskers, my bold hero!"
Then laughter echoed, so that the lamp shook and Mr. Prout ordered silence.
"You'll wake master!" he said. "Can't a man shave his hair as it pleases him, without you zanies making that row?"
"You'm a hardened bachelor, John," said Tapson; "but I know better—eh, Dan'l? Ban't what pleases you, but what pleases her—come now?"
"If she'd axed un to shave his head, the poor soul would have done it—wouldn't you, Dan?" asked Agg.
"I'd forgot 'em," confessed Brendon. "I dare say it looks odd to your silly eyes."
"Did she cut 'em off with her scissors?" inquired Lethbridge, and Tabitha, taking Daniel's side, felt it necessary to reprove him.
"You eat your bacon and don't be too funny, Peter Lethbridge," she said, "else you might hurt yourself."
Brendon's love affair was well known and had already formed matter for mirth.
"You've done wrong, however," declared Tapson. "When Sarah Jane sees that great jowl of thine laid naked as a pig's chap, she'll wish the whiskers back."
"'Tis like as if you got two triangles of white paint upon your cheeks, Mr. Brendon," ventured Susan respectfully.
"You'm a lost man, mark me," continued Joe Tapson. "'Twas a rash act, and you'll rue it yet."
"If you buzzing beetles will let me speak," answered Dan genially, "I'd give 'e a bit of news. There's such a lot on my mind this morning, that I'd quite forgot my whiskers. Well, souls, she'm going to take me, thank God! I axed the question last afternoon and she be of the same mind!"
The woman in Tabitha fluttered to her lips and head. She went over and shook Brendon's hand, and her eyes became a little moist.
"Bravo! Bravo!" said Mr. Prout. "Very glad, I'm sure, though 'tis a shattering thing for a Ruddyford man to want a wife."
"Now he's set the example, these here chaps will be after the maidens, like terriers after rats; you mark me," foretold Joe Tapson.
"Tab," said John Prout, "draw off a quart or so of beer—not cider. 'Tis early, but the thing warrants it. Us'll drink good luck to 'em, an' long life an' a happy fortune."
Dawn already weakened the light of the lamp and made a medley of blue streaks and splashes on the men's faces. Now they neglected their mugs of tea for the more popular beverage, and all drank Daniel's health; while he grinned to his ears and thanked them and shook hands with them.
It was then, when the party had decreased, and Tapson, Agg, and Lethbridge were gone to work, that Susan spoke with the frankness of youth.
"I'm awful surprised, Mr. Brendon," she said, "because to home, where I live, 'tis thought that Jarratt Weekes, my aunt's son, be going to marry Sarah Jane Friend. He thinks so hisself, for that matter."
"He thinks wrong, Susan," answered Daniel. "He offered marriage, but it wasn't to be. Sarah Jane likes me best, though I'm only a poor man. And there's an end of the matter."
"Of course she likes you best—such a whopper as you be! But my cousin, Jarratt, will be awful vexed about it, when he hears."
"I'm sorry for him, I'm sure."
Susan fell into thought, from which her aunt aroused her.
"Now, my dear, you can just put on your bonnet and cloak and march home again. I don't want you to-day. Washing was done yesterday, and I've got to go down to Bridgetstowe; so the sooner you run back to Aunt Hepsy and beg her pardon, the better for you."
"Agg's going to take the cart to Gimmet Hill, and he can drive you a good part of the way," said Mr. Prout.
Susan would have disputed this swift return under ordinary circumstances; but to-day, the richer by great news, she felt rather disposed to go back at once. She did not like Jarratt Weekes; for when, as sometimes happened, he was busy and she had to show visitors over Lydford Castle, he always took every penny of the money from her, even though it exceeded the regulation charge.
"Very well," said Susan. "I'll go along with Mr. Agg; and next time Jar has anything sharp to say to me, I'll give him a stinger!"
"You'll do better to mind your own business," advised her aunt. "The man will hear he's out of luck soon enough, without you telling him."
"Then I should lose the sight of his face," said Susan spitefully. "Him and his mother be so cock-sure that she's going to take him."
"A good few others besides Jarratt Weekes will have to face it," said Tabitha. "There's been a lot after that lovely she for years. They flaxen maidens make the men so silly as sheep. You won't have 'em running after you in a string, Susan, though you grow up never so comely."
"I ban't so sartain of that," said Susan. "I know a chap or two——"
She broke off and picked up her sunbonnet.
"You ban't so bad for fifteen, sure enough," declared John Prout. "Now then, off you go, or else Walter will be away without 'e."
The girl, who had left Lydford at half-past four in the morning, now returned quite cheerfully. As Agg's cart breasted White Hill and presently reached the high road, the sun came out and the weather promised a little peace. It was bright and still after the storm. Some belated Michaelmas daisies yet blossomed in the garden of Philip Weekes; a cat sat at the door in the sun. It recognized Susan and greeted her as she returned. In the rear of the house, clearly to be heard, her aunt's voice sounded shrill. She was talking to a neighbour, and Susan listened, but heard no good of herself.
"The anointed, brazen, shameless trollop—the hussy! the minx! And to think what I've done and suffered for her! The dogs and beasts have more heart in 'em than her. Here be I—toiling day and night to make her a useful creature and teach her the way to grow up decent—and she turns on me, like the little wasp she is, and runs away, as if I was the plague. Let it happen once more—but once—an' so sure as the sun's in the sky, she shall go to the workhouse. 'Tis the evil blood in her veins—the toad. Her mother——"
Here Susan intervened.
"You can call me what you please, Aunt Hepsy," she said. "But don't you go giving my dead mother no names. I wasn't her fault anyway."
"Back again, you saucy maggot! No—poor soul, you wasn't her fault; you was her eternal misfortune—same as you be mine. But don't you think I'm an angel, because I ban't—nothing but an unfortunate, down-trodden old woman. But I won't be rode roughshod over by a black imp like you, and so I tell 'e. You go once again, and God's my judge, you shan't come back. I won't let your shadow over my doorstep no more. You shan't bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, you scourge of a girl!"
She rated, like some harsh-voiced machine that needs oil, and Susan, perfectly accustomed to these explosions, stood silent before her, waiting for a familiar hitch or gasp, that she knew would presently reduce her aunt to temporary silence.
At last it came, just as Philip Weekes appeared from a visit to his poultry.
"This be very serious, Susan," he said. "I really don't know what to think of it. 'Tis a senseless, improper thing to be off like this whenever you be niffed with your aunt—such a woman as she is, too. And—and—how is it you'm back so soon?"
"Because——" began Susan; but Mrs. Weekes was now able to proceed.
"Because your Aunt Tabitha didn't just happen to want 'e, no doubt. As feeble as a mole she is, to have stood it so often. She did ought to have sent you packing with a flea in your ear first time ever you dared to run away, instead of keeping you to help washing. Just like you all—you Prouts and Weekeses—soft stuff—soft stuff—and you'll all go down into the pit together. Lord, He knows where you'd be yourself, Philip Weekes, if it wasn't for me. But even I can't turn putty into starch. Putty you are, and putty you will be till the Day of Doom."
"I comed back, Uncle Philip, because I got hold of a very interesting piece o' news, and I knowed Aunt Hepsy would be very much obliged to me for telling of it," said Susan swiftly.
"Interesting news, indeed! Then you've been listening to other people, I suppose? That's your way. If you'd listen to me, you might get salvation; but never, never—what I say don't matter more than the wind in the hedge. I'm only an old fool that haven't seen the world, and haven't got no wisdom or learning. Of course Aunt Tabitha knows so much better, and of course Uncle John's a good second to Solomon! Well, well, there's times when a broken spirit hungers for the grave and peace. And so I feel more and more when I look at you, Susan."
"All the same, I comed home for nought but to tell you. 'Tis about Sarah Jane. She'm not going to have cousin Jar. She's took another man. I've seen him."
Mrs. Weekes sat down. She dropped so suddenly that her husband was alarmed. Her hand went up to her breast; her eyes grew round.
"Take her away," said Hephzibah feebly; "take that little black-eyed liar away, and get me my peppermint. 'Tis her one delight and plot from daylight till dark to fetch up my spasms; and now she've done it."
"'Tis solemn truth; and I don't want to fetch up your spasms, Gods knows," whimpered Susan. "The man himself told me. He's called Daniel Brendon—a whacker with gert hands, I never see the like. He's shaved off his whiskers for her, and she's taken him. So Jar's out of it."
Mr. Weekes brought his wife her peppermint mixture, and it appeared to have a remarkable effect.
"Out of it! We'll see about that. To throw over Jarratt Weekes for a nameless clod-pole from the middle of the Moor! You just go down to the castle this instant moment and fetch the man to me. The sooner he hears tell of this, the better."
"I shouldn't do it," advised Jarratt's father. "Let her tell him. The blow will fall easier like that. 'Twill cut him up rather cruel."
"Bah!" cried Mrs. Weekes, rising to her feet. "I'd sooner go to a shell-snail for opinions than you. A mouse have got more courage, and a ear-wig more sense. He shall hear, and he shall go to this chap and just bid him be off about his business. Why—good angels!—ban't Jarratt and Sarah Jane almost tokened already? Be my son going to give her up now? Not very likely! He's got my courage in his blood, I hope. A fighter I've always been, and always had to be; and I thank God for it every night on my knees. And so should you, you gawkim of a man, for you'd be of no more account than an eft in a pond if it wasn't for me."
Philip nodded mechanically, as he always did when the torrent roared; then he faded away to his fowls, and Susan went off that she might find her cousin. This task was agreeable to her, for she did not love him. She conveyed her news in as few words as possible, and he stared at her without any words at all. Then presently, with a dark brow, the man came before his mother.
"What's this?" he asked.
"You go and take off them filthy boots and sweep the upper landing," said Aunt Hepsy to Susan, who appeared a few yards behind her son; then, when a broom began to work overhead, she turned to Jarratt.
"Well may you ask! That thankless terror of a child runned off to Ruddyford again last night; and there she heard it. The man be called Daniel Brendon—some labourer lately took on by Woodrow. But 'tis for you to stop it if you're my son. I lay I'd put a spoke in their wheel double quick! All the same, the woman's not worth it—a gert, good-for-nought, gallivanting giglet as she is!"
"A pretty poor compliment to me, if it's true," he said.
"Very likely it isn't true at all. Still, it's your job. Only think twice. There's the schoolmaster's darter be worth twenty of Sarah Jane."
"Couldn't stand her voice, mother—nor yet her temper."
"More fool you. Give me a voice and a temper, too, if you want to get on in the world. 'Tis the gentle sort, as twitters like birds and be frightened to hurt a fly, as always go down. Let people hear your voice and feel your temper; then they'll respect you and you'll keep up your end of the stick. Them as be so sweet as sugar, mostly melt like sugar in the hard business of life."
"One thing I know, afore God, and that is, if she takes any man but me, I'll be revenged on her and him, if it costs my last farthing."
"What's the sense of that talk? If you'm set on her still, have her willy-nilly. Do anything inside honesty. Ride off with her! Break the man's stupid head for him! All the same, that's not sense, but only passion. My advice may be nought; but it is just this: that you bide along with your mother for the present, and wait for a better maiden to turn up."
"That woman could have done pretty well anything she liked with me."
"I hope not. What foolishness! You think so now. You wouldn't have thought so a week beyond your honey-month. Well, 'tis for you to go forward. The very sort of job I should have liked, if I'd been a man."
"I'll have it out with the chap."
"Better have it out with her. And yet, perhaps, you'm right. Tell him to his face she'm yours, and tokened to 'e. Stir him up; or, if you find he's that sort, pay him off. Twenty pounds would go an awful long way with a man. 'Tis far easier for such a chap to get a girl to walk with him than put by twenty pounds into the saving's bank."
"A likely idea," said Jarratt. "Such a fellow wouldn't know what love means, same as an educated man like me. I dare say if I was to put it into pounds, shillings, and pence, he'd meet me like a lamb."
Mrs. Weekes almost regretted giving her son advice that looked so promising. Now, she did not wish him to marry Sarah Jane; she did not wish him to marry at all; but since he seemed set upon the step, her desire turned to the schoolmaster's daughter as a woman of character, who would also have three figures for her dowry.
"When all's said, I could wish you would think of Mary."
"Not I," answered her son. "I saw a touch of Mary after that committee meeting at her father's. The place was pretty full of baccy smoke and beer reek, certainly; and she didn't say nothing—not a word—when she looked in at the finish; but there was an expression on her face that made me almost sorry for Churchward after we'd gone, though he is the biggest, emptiest old fool in Lydford."
"A silly, blown-up man! I like to stab his ideas with a word, and let the wind out. But his daughter's not so chuckle-headed. She'd make a tidy wife."
"Not for me. I'll fight yet for Sarah Jane. And any stick's good enough to beat a dog."
Mrs. Weekes, however, hesitated before this sentiment.
"Fight fair, Jar," she said. "Don't let it be told of my son that he didn't go to work honest and above-board. No—no, I never would believe it. Mrs. Swain often says to me that whatever faults I may have—and who hasn't?—yet I speak home to the truth, good market or bad, and never deceive the youngest child as comes with a penny, or the simplest fool who would buy a fowl without feeling it. Be straight. You must be straight, for there's not a crooked drop of blood in your veins. You know all about your mother's family, and as for your father's—rag of a man though he is—I will say of Philip Weekes that he never departs from uprightness by a hair. Often, in my most spirited moments, when I've poured the bitter truth into his ear, like a river, half the night long, your father have agreed to every word, and thanked me for throwing such light on his character."
"I shan't offer the man twenty to begin with," he said. "I may choke him off for less. I ban't angry with him: I'm angry with her for listening to him, or allowing herself to know such trash."
"And I'll help where I get the chance, be sure of that. Your good's my good. If I can catch Sarah Jane some day, I'll drop a word in season."
"Don't," he said. "You keep out of it till I tell you. I'll ax you soon enough to lend a hand if the time comes when you can be useful."
The air was heavy with unshed rain, and the Moor reeked after past storms of night, as Jarratt rode over Lyd river and breasted the slopes of Bra Tor. A boy on a pony followed him, and two dogs brought up the rear. Mr. Weekes was come to drive some colts off their pastures; and, being doubtful, to a few miles, where they might be found, he had made an early start. Great clouds hid the summits of the land, and water shone in pools or fell in rivulets on every side.
Then it was that, passing through the mediæval ruins of old enterprise, where once Elizabethan miners streamed the Moor for tin, the keeper of Lydford Castle suddenly found himself face to face with a man much in his thoughts of late. Though he had never seen Brendon until that hour, he recognized him instantly by reason of his great size. Daniel was walking up the hill with his face towards the peat-works, and he carried a message from Mr. Woodrow to Gregory Friend.
"Good-morning!" shouted Jarratt, and the pedestrian stopped. Soon Weekes was beside him and had leisure to note his rival. The great brown face, square jaw, dog-like eyes and immense physical strength of the man were all noted in a searching glance; and he also saw what pleased him little: that Brendon was better dressed, cleaner, and smarter every way than a common hind.
"Have you seen my colts this way, neighbour?" he asked. "They're ear-marked with red worsted."
"Then I met with them only yesterday. There's a grey mare in foal along with them."
"That's right."
"You'll find 'em down in the strolls on this side Rattle-brook for certain."
"Much obliged to you."
Weekes shouted to his boy, directed the road, and told him to proceed and wait by the river until he himself should follow. Then he turned again to Brendon.
"You're not a Lydford man, are you?"
"No. I belong to Ruddyford—down-along. I'm just going up to the peat-works with a message. You'll be Mr. Jarratt Weekes, I suppose?"
"Jarratt Weekes is my name. And what's yours?"
"Daniel Brendon."
"Ah! you're not easily forgot. I suppose you don't know of anybody who wants a horse? This one I'm riding is for sale."
Brendon found Mr. Weekes walking slowly up the hill beside him. His pulse quickened. He guessed that the other meant to speak of matters more personal presently, for it had come to his ears that Jarratt Weekes publicly refused to give up Sarah Jane. Agg brought news from Lydford how Weekes had said in the bar of the Castle Inn that he was engaged to Gregory Friend's daughter, and would punish any man who denied it.
"A good horse seemingly. Have 'e asked my master, Mr. Woodrow? He's only waiting to be tempted, I believe."
"A good horse, as you say; but he won't carry beer," explained Jarratt Weekes. "Not that I ever want him to do so; but he's always nervous of the dark. Old farmer Routleigh used to have him; then, coming home market-merry from Okehampton, he got into trouble and was left in the hedge. I like the horse very well, but he's barely up to my weight. He'd suit Woodrow exactly, I should judge."
"I'll mention the matter to him."
"Thank you, Brendon. Brendon was it you said, or Brandon?"
"Brendon's my name."
"Lucky I met you, then, for I've wanted to have a say with you for some time."
Daniel did not answer.
"Look here, now—between men there need be no beating about the bush. That's women's way. And a woman I want to talk about. In Lydford they are mentioning the name of a Daniel Brendon with that of Miss Friend, who lives up here for the present at Dunnagoat Cottage with her father."
The other's face hardened, and a heavy look came into his eyes; but he did not speak.
"That's not as it should be," continued Jarratt Weekes. "It gets about, and then there's wrong ideas in the air. Living up here, the girl can't hear it or contradict it. But 'tis a very unmaidenly thing for her to be talked over like that, and, frankly, I don't much like it, Brendon."
Still Daniel preserved silence. His heart was beating hard; he felt anger running in his veins and his jaws fastening on each other. But he made no answer. Instead he stopped, slowly drew his pipe and a tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and prepared to smoke.
"Buckets more rain be coming," he said presently, looking at the sky.
"Don't change the subject, please. Answer my question."
"I don't know you'd asked one."
"You're wasting time to pretend ignorance. Say what you've got to say. I've a perfect reason and right to speak to you on this delicate matter, and everybody well knows it—but yourself apparently. Now speak."
"You had better finish telling first," answered Daniel.
"To me you appear to be on a wild goose chase altogether, and talking no better than silly rummage. Why are you so busy about Sarah Jane Friend? Tell me that, and then 'twill be time for me to talk to you. Let's have your reason and right you mention, if you please, Mr. Weekes."
"My reason and right is that I am going to marry her myself. We are engaged. Everybody knows that very well. And nobody better than Sarah Jane Friend. It happens that I've been exceedingly busy lately—too busy to be quite so lover-like as I ought. So she's been amusing herself by drawing you on. But 'tis beyond a joke now, and I'll have no more of it, or I'll speak to your master."