The evidences of former humanity that abound upon Dartmoor may be divided into remains prehistoric and mediæval. Amid the first shall be found the ruins of the stone-man's home and the scattered foundations of his lodges and encampments. To him also belong certain cirques of stone lifted here and there in lonely places, together with parallelitha, or avenues, and those menhirs and cairns that rise solitary upon high hills to mark the sleeping-places of neolithic heroes. Profound antiquity wraps up these memorials, and the significance of their record is still matter of antiquarian doubt. To what purpose was erected the hypæthral chamber and the long aisle of stone, may never now be understood; but later entries in the granite cartulary of Dartmoor are more easily deciphered. From the middle ages date the tin-streamers' works, where Tudor miners laboured; and scarce a river valley shall be searched without offering many evidences of their toil; while upon the higher grounds, marking some spot of special note, indicating boundaries or serving as guide-posts from goal to goal, the old stone crosses stand.
It was significant of the different attitudes of Sarah Jane and her husband that she found a measure of interest in the pagan hut-circle or grave; he only cared to see the chance symbol of his faith. These Christian evidences were rare round about Ruddyford, but marks of the old stone men did not lack, and Sarah Jane, to whom Hilary Woodrow had once explained their meaning, always professed active interest in these fragments, and told the things that she had heard concerning them to her husband.
There came a Sunday in March when the Brendons went up to see Gregory Friend, that they might convey a great piece of news to him. The young heather was rusty-red in the shoot, and here and there swaling fires had scorched the bosom of the hills to blackness. The day was wintry, yet clear, but many snug spots offered among the boulders, where one might sit facing the sun and sheltered from the east wind.
Such a place Brendon presently found and bade his wife rest awhile.
"'Tis another of them hut-circles master tells about," said Sarah Jane. "That was where the door opened without a doubt. To think as folk lived here, Dan—thousands and thousands of years ago."
"Poor dust! I like the crosses better: they be nearer to our own time, I suppose, and mean a comfortabler thing. 'Tis wisht to hear farmer tell how savage, skin-clad folk dwelt here afore the coming of Christ."
"They couldn't help coming afore He did. He ought to have come sooner, if He wanted for them to know about Him," she answered.
Brendon frowned.
"You'm always so defiant," he said. "I still catch the master's way of speech in your tongue now and again. An' very ugly it sounds."
"I'm bound to stop and listen to him sometimes, when he begins to talk. But since he comed of a morning for his glass of milk and you stopped it—or I told him I'd rather he didn't—us have had no words about holy things. He's got a side all the same."
"I'm sorry to hear you say so. If you say so, you think so, no doubt."
Sarah Jane laughed.
"'Tis a free country—as far as thoughts be the matter."
"That's him again. I heard him say the only sort of freedom we could have was freedom of thought. But unbelievers shouldn't have that if I could help it."
She looked at him with love rather than respect.
"You'm deep but not wide in your way of thinking. I mind once last autumn coming to you and marking as you'd been trampling in the whortleberries. Your boots was all red and purple, and it looked for all the world as if you might have been stamping somebody to death."
"What things you say!"
"All the same now, be honest, Daniel—couldn't you do it? Can't you feel that things might happen so bad that you'd even kill a person? There's death in your eyes sometimes, when you talk of evildoers, and them that are cruel to children, and suchlike."
"'Tisn't a wifely thing to remind me I've got a temper. You've never had to regret it, anyway."
"How do you know that? But 'tis true: I never have. You're a deal too soft with me, bless your big heart. I can't do wrong in your eyes; and yet, sometimes, I wonder how you'd take it if I did do wrong—such wrong as there could be no doubt about. There's some things you'd kill me for, I do believe."
"You'm talking to a Christian man; but you don't seem to know it."
"A man be a man—Christian or heathen. Things do happen to men sometimes, and their religion don't make any more difference then to what they do than the hat on their heads. Quite right, too. I like to think there's a bit of metal in you. Sometimes I almost wish you'd make me feel it, when I startle you and say my silly speeches."
"How can I be angry with such speeches as yours? They'm silly enough only too often; but they'm frank as light. 'Tis the hidden and secret thing I'd rage against."
"If you found it out."
"I should find it out. There's no power of hiding in you, even if there was the will."
"You'm a dear man," she said, and lifted her mouth and kissed him.
"All the same," she added, "every woman's got a power of hiding—even the biggest fool amongst 'em—and—and the old gravestones of they lost people be quite as interesting to me as the crosses are to you."
"I don't say they are lost. I only say that we've no right to say anything about all them as went down to death before salvation came."
"Why couldn't Jesus Christ have hastened into the world quicker?" she asked. "'Twould have saved a deal of sad doubt about all them poor souls."
"You ought not to think such questions. I lay Woodrow said that."
"No, he didn't. 'Tis my very own thought. Suppose, Dan, that He'd been the earliest man born of a woman, and comed into the world Eve's first li'l one? How would that plan have worked?"
He stared at her.
"Who could have crucified Him?" he asked.
She sighed.
"I forgot that."
"It shows how ill-regulated your mind is, Sarah Jane. You oughtn't to let your ideas run so wild."
"'Tis no fault of yours that they do. And yet your fault it is, I do believe, Dan, for you keep me so terrible close to holy thoughts."
"The closer the better through the time that's coming. To think you could picture my boots stamping life out of a fellow-creature! 'Twasn't a kind fancy, to say no more of it. As much as to say I might be no better than a wild beast, given the temptation."
"All men are beasts when the wind blows from somewhere," she said. "Let a certain thing but happen, and they'll be as hot and stubborn and hard and fierce as the animals. Some would never forgive being robbed; some would never forgive being laughed at; some would never forgive being deceived by another person. Everybody's got one spot like that. Some will go mad for a woman; some for a thing. Why did Agg quarrel with Lethbridge and knock him off his feet into the stream last week? Such an easy, lazy man as Agg to do it!"
"Because Lethbridge said that Agg would get a girl at Mary Tavy into trouble before he'd done with her. 'Twas an insult, and Agg was quite right to knock him down. 'Twas no fault in him."
She did not answer. Then he spoke again.
"Don't think I don't know my faults. I know 'em well enough. The gospel light shows them up very clear. But jealousy ban't a fault, and I never will allow it is. 'Tis a virtue, and every self-respecting married Christian ought to be jealous. I'm jealous of the whole world that comes near you. I'm jealous of every male eye I catch upon your face—at church or anywhere. 'Tis my nature so to be. A man that marries hands over to his wife the best he's got, and 'tis just as precious to a day labourer as to a crowned king. He does well to be jealous of it. He'd be a mean-minded fashion of creature if he wasn't."
"I don't feel like that," she replied. "You've said yourself that nought can hurt a man from the outside; so how can a wife hurt a man?"
"Good Lord! what a lot you've got to learn, Sarah Jane! To talk of a wife as being outside! Ban't she the innermost of all—a man's own self—next to his God? 'Outside'! I wouldn't like for anybody else to hear you say a man's wife is outside him—and you a wife yourself."
"I'm rested," she said. "Us'll go on. I wish I was so deep-minded as you, but I never shall be. A regular Old Testament man you are."
"'Tisn't deep-mindedness," he answered; "'tis religious-mindedness. The puzzle to me is that you, who be so good as gold and honest as light, ain't more religious-minded. John Prout's the same. I know he's all wrong, yet I can't get up and point out where he's all wrong. 'Tis what he leaves undone that's wrong."
"It takes all sorts to make a world."
"But only one sort to make heaven," he answered very earnestly.
"Lucky we are not called upon to decide what sort."
He laughed rather grimly.
"You an' Prout would let all through, if you had to judge," he said.
They reached the peat-works presently, and found Mr. Friend awaiting them. Sarah Jane praised him for putting on his Sunday coat, but she expressed greater dissatisfaction than ever at seeing the place he called home. For Gregory had been true to his word, and left Dunnagoat cot after Sarah Jane's marriage.
Now he dwelt at the scene of his futile work, and only left it once or twice a week to gather his supplies. He had taken a chamber in the ruin, boarded the floor, built up a wall in the midst, removed his grate and oven from Dunnagoat, and established himself, much to his satisfaction, in the very midst of the skeleton of the peat-works. There he dwelt perfectly happy and content. No anchorite ever chose a spot more lonely and desolate for a home; but a repellent condition usually absent from the hermit's cell belonged to Mr. Friend's abode. Here were no surroundings of a natural grot, no ivy curtain at the door, no matin song of birds to rouse the recluse. Instead scowled rotting roofs, broken walls, rusting metal and a sullen spirit of failure. The very perspective of the tram-lines, stretching straight into the midst of the ruins, by some accidental stroke upon the mind through the eye, added another mournful character to this scene.
Mr. Friend greeted them cheerfully. Tea was made, and chairs were set about his little table. His daughter protested with all her might at the miserable conditions in which he now chose to dwell.
"Look at the damp on the walls! Ban't a place for a dog to live in, let alone a man. Dunnagoat was weather-proof, anyway."
"'Twill serve very well. There's a talk of something definite come the spring. So like as not we shall set to work again afore another year's gone; and I must be on the spot. I be going to see if I can get steam in the boiler this week. But I almost doubt it. Then there's an order for Plymouth will fetch best part of a five pound note."
"Us have brought 'e a bit of news," announced Dan; "but Sarah Jane's set on telling you herself."
"Guess, father," she said.
"That Dan's got advancement. 'Twas time he had too."
Brendon shook his head.
"I wish you was right," he answered. "But you're not. It don't look as if I was ever to be raised. However, farmer may see it presently."
"He does see it," declared Sarah Jane. "He's sharp as a needle behind his quiet, casual way. He knows what you're good for. Who is it he seeks if any thing's to be done? Who is it gets the difficult work, where brains be wanted to a thing? 'Twill come right, only us can't hurry it."
Brendon laughed.
"I shall get advancement the same time that you'll set your peat-works going again, and not sooner, father," he told Gregory.
"I hope so. They be both things delayed; but both be bound to happen sooner or later. You'm like Amicombe Hill—good all through, Dan. The time will come when other people will be sorry enough they didn't find it out sooner."
They discussed the various problems of Daniel Brendon and Amicombe Hill for some time. Both men were sanguine, and both wondered why other people so obstinately failed to see with their eyes. Daniel put his faith in God and declared that he felt no fear of the ultimate issue; but Mr. Friend inclined to trust man. It was idle to suppose that the results of his personal investigations on Amicombe Hill peat would be ignored for ever. He believed that some sagacious spirit must presently arise at headquarters, justify his patient belief, and delve for the treasure that he still so zealously guarded.
Presently Gregory turned to his daughter.
"And what's the secret only you are to tell me, my dear?" he asked.
"I be going to have a little baby," said Sarah Jane.
"A big one more like! And a boy I do hope. That's capital news, and I wish you both joy of him with all my heart. If 'tis a boy, call him 'Amicombe' for luck—eh?"
"No, no! He shall be called 'Gregory' after his grandfather," declared Daniel.
The news cheered Mr. Friend, and he became very solicitous for Sarah Jane.
"Don't you let her do too much work," he said. "She mustn't tramp up here no more. I'll come down of a Sunday instead."
But his daughter laughed.
"You old dear! I shall call you a grandmother instead of a grandfather."
"I can see him running about here taking his first lessons in peat, an' messing his little self up to the eyes in it," said Mr. Friend. "An' right welcome he'll be. There's many wonders up here as I'll show him."
"Might be a girl, however," said Daniel.
"I hope not and I think not," declared the peat-master. "'Twill be a brave boy, I'm pretty sure. Us may be doing a roaring business before he appears; but be that as 'twill, I'll always make time to play a game with him. When's he coming, Sarah?"
"In September, I reckon."
"A very good time. Well, well—what would your mother think!"
"She knows all about it, be very sure," said Daniel. "And now us must get going, for the dusk be down a'ready."
"I'll come to you next Sunday," promised Gregory, as he bade them "good-bye," after walking part of their road with them. "And there's four sacks more of my special fuel for you when you can draw them, Dan. You must keep her so warm as a toast through the spring weather, and 'if you want heat, burn Amicombe peat,' as I made up twenty years ago."
"'Tis a rhyme that will never be forgot," said his son-in-law; and Gregory, well pleased at the compliment, kissed Sarah Jane, then left them and returned to his den.
Daniel Brendon had long since stopped the meetings of his master and his wife at dawn, when Sarah Jane milked the cows. He was naturally a jealous man, but in this matter emotion took an elevated form. No earthly consideration tainted it. His only concern was for Sarah Jane's soul. To let her come within the breath of infidelity, from Daniel's standpoint, seemed deliberate sin. His God was a jealous God, and, as he himself declared, he held jealousy, in certain aspects, a passion proper to healthy man. Therefore he had desired his wife not to speak with Hilary Woodrow more than she could help, for her soul's sake; and she had obeyed him, and avoided the master as far as she might without rudeness. Yet her heart felt sorrow for Woodrow. She perceived the wide want in his life and explained it more correctly than could her husband or any other man.
On the Sunday after their visit to the peat-works, Daniel took Sarah Jane to Mary Tavy instead of to Lydford. They went to chapel with Agg; and the service pleased Brendon well. He had debated as to the propriety of praying in a place of dissent, but Agg spoke highly of his minister, and induced the other to accompany him. The incident served powerfully to affect Brendon's future, for this service, largely devoid of the familiar formulæ of his own church, impressed him with its life and reality. The people were attentive, their pastor was earnest and of a warm and loving heart. A few got up and spoke as the sitting extended; and presently, to the amazement of Sarah Jane, her husband rose and uttered some words. He rehearsed a text from Isaiah, proclaimed it to be his favourite book in the Bible, declared that it covered all things and was tremendous alike in its threats and promises. For three minutes he stood up, and his great voice woke echoes in the little, naked, white-washed meeting-house. When he knelt down again there followed a gentle hum of satisfaction.
From that day forward Brendon threw in his lot with the Luke Gospellers and made Sarah Jane do the like.
Agg congratulated him very heartily as they returned home, and Daniel explained that to have acted thus was far from his thought when he started.
"Something pulled me on to my feet and made me speak. 'Twas a force, like a strong voice, whispering in my ear. I oped Isaiah at hazard—my Bible always falls open there—and them words fell under my eye, and I had to speak."
"You'd make a very valiant hand at it with a bit of practice," declared Agg, "and the deaf would come miles for to hear you. Your voice be like a big drum."
"There was a bird sat up on the rafters," said Sarah Jane. "The poor thing had flown in, an' couldn't find the window. It sat so still as a mouse through the sarvice, till Dan spoke. Then the rafter shook, I suppose, for it flew about, and drove against the window with its little wings."
"I'm mazed to look back and think that I've actually stood afore my fellow-men and spoke to 'em from God," said Daniel. "To do such a thing never entered into my mind."
"'Twas a terrible brave deed," declared Sarah Jane. "But I ban't surprised; there's nothing you can't do, if you think 'tis right to do it."
That night Agg took Brendon again to chapel; but the wife stayed at home.
It happened that Hilary was returning from a long ride after the hour of dusk, and as he came up through his fields he met Sarah Jane alone. She had walked to meet Daniel, who would presently be returning with Agg from the evening service at Mary Tavy.
The farmer stopped, and when she prepared to go on her way, bade her wait for a few moments.
"I'm in luck," he said. "I wanted to speak to you, Sarah Jane, and here's the chance. Where are you off to at this hour?"
"Going to meet Dan. Him and Agg have gone to worship with the Luke Gospellers down-along."
"You astonish me. Such a pillar of the church as Brendon to seek some new thing!"
"We went this morning, and Daniel was terrible pleased, and liked the homely feeling of it. They'm kind folk, and Mr. Matherson, the minister, speaks and prays beautiful."
Woodrow had often mentioned serious subjects to this woman without perceiving the futility of such a course. But he did so more for the pleasure of hearing his own ideas, than from any wish to influence her. There was none to heed his opinions, none with whom to exchange thoughts and arguments touching the topics that so largely interested him. At first, therefore, he had regarded Sarah Jane as a useful listener, and enjoyed talking to her for the sake of talking. Then her own attitude attracted him, and he spoke less and listened more. Her views arrested his mind a little. She was uneducated, yet nature had actually led her to some ideas that he had only reached through the channel of books. Once or twice, in her blunt speech and with her scanty vocabulary, she uttered a thing that wise men had only found by taking thought. Her natural mind drew Woodrow; then the lovely body of her interested him, and she began to fill his attention.
Women had almost passed out of his life after one of them jilted him; now this particular woman reminded him that they were not all alike. His eyes opened; it struck him that he was deliberately depriving himself of a great part of the joy of life by ignoring them. His thoughts began to play upon the subject, and his memory revived events of the past.
Whether it was Sarah Jane's sex, or Sarah Jane's self that had awakened him, remained to be seen. He told himself, despite his admiration for her spirit and her beauty, that it could not be the individual who had aroused dormant sense, but rather the accidental fact of having been thrown into contact with her. The world was full of women. He pondered the problem, and now, by light of moon, told Brendon's wife of a decision at which he had recently arrived.
"A great one for the Bible, my Dan," said she. "Miles of texts he've got by heart. A regular word-warrior he is."
"If he believes it, he's right to stick to it. Why, if I believed 'twas the Word of God—actually the very thoughts of the Almighty sent by Him—I'd never open any other book, Sarah Jane. I'd think that every second of my reading time spent with man's writings was a wasted moment. If I had faith—it would move mountains."
"That might be my Dan speaking. But you know pretty near so many verses as him, for all you don't believe in 'em."
"We free thinkers are much keener students of the Bible than thousands who profess to live by it."
"And yet you reckon there's no God and not another life after we die?"
"My old grandfather had a saying, 'When a man's dead, there's no more to be said.' That was his philosophy, and though my father called him a godless heathen, yet I always agreed with the old man, though I wouldn't have dared to say so. But mind this, Sarah Jane—this I will grant: if there's another world after death, then there's a God. You won't have one without the other. Nature can look after this world; but it will take a God to look after the next. Don't think I believe there's another. I'd scorn to believe anything that nature doesn't teach me. But, none the less, it may come true; and if it does, that means God."
"This life's mighty interesting," she said. "To me 'tis full to the brim; but Dan says the only drop in the cup that matters is the sure thought of the Kingdom of Heaven after."'
"Trust to this life. That's a certainty, at any rate. Look after this life, and the next will look after itself."
"Funny you should say that. Dan's way's just different. He says, 'Look after the next life, and this one will look after itself'!"
"Nonsense—I'm right. And you know I'm right."
Sarah Jane felt in a mind to tell him that she was with child. As yet only her husband and her father knew it. She was about to do so, when he spoke again.
"I shall not live to be an old man," he said. "I know, as well as I know anything, that the longest half of my days are done. I thought the best of them were done too. But you've made life very interesting again and well worth living."
"You shouldn't say things like that, I'm sure, though I'm very glad you like me, Mr. Woodrow. What's amiss with you?"
"Nothing—everything."
"Your cough's better, so Mr. Prout says. I wish you'd find a wife, sir. That might be the best physic for you."
He did not answer immediately. The moon came from behind a cloud, and Sarah Jane strained her eyes into the distance.
"Dan ought to be coming," she said.
"A wife?" he asked suddenly. "Perhaps if I could find another Sarah Jane——"
"My stars! what a thought! Poor company for 'e—the likes of me!"
"I've never seen such another, all the same."
She laughed.
"Well, why for don't you look round?"
He stood still and did not reply.
"My! how bright the moon be this evening," she said. "There they are—Daniel and Walter Agg. I see 'em long ways off.":
"Do you know that the moon was alive once?" he asked. "She was a mother; and now she's only a grave for all the things she bore. She's our picture, too—the skeleton at the world's feast of life. It will be just the same here, Sarah Jane—cold—dead—the earth and moon going round together—like two corpses dancing at a dying fire."
"What dreadful things you know!"
"Life's only conjuring with dust. I suppose we shall never find out how 'tis done. But there are clever chaps in the audience always jumping up and saying 'That's it! I see the trick!' Only they don't. Each new book I get hold of gives the lie to the last. There's nothing true that I can see. Like a boy chasing a butterfly: down comes his hat after a long run. But the butterfly's in the air."
"Proper place for it."
"Perhaps so. A butterfly pinned into a case is only half the truth of a butterfly. Words in a book can never be more than half the truth of ideas. But I'm sick of reading. I'm sick of everything—but you. Don't be frightened. You said just now I ought to go and look about. Well, I'm going. I'm going to London for a while, and then down to Kent to a cousin of mine—a hop-grower there."
"The change will do you a world of good."
"That's doubtful. I shan't be very contented out of sight of Dartmoor. Perhaps if I can't see Great Links for a while, I shall value it all the more when I come back."
"And do, for pity's sake, bring a wife with 'e."
Daniel Brendon and Agg approached, and Hilary spoke to them as they arrived.
"I'm telling Mrs. Brendon that I mean to take a holiday, Dan. Going to look at London again. 'Twill make me long to be back home pretty quick, if it does nothing else."
"You might buy one of them new mowing machines against the hay-harvest, if you be up there, master," suggested Agg; but Daniel did not speak. He had returned from chapel in a spirit very amiable, and to find Sarah Jane under the moonlight with Woodrow instantly changed his mood.
They parted immediately, and Brendon spoke to Sarah Jane as they entered their home.
"What be you doing, walking about with the man after dark?"
"I was afraid you might be vexed. We met quite by chance as I came to seek you, and he stopped, and would be talking. He said he ban't going to be a long-lived man, and I told him he wants a wife; and then he said if he could get another like me he might think of it."
"Be damned to him!" said Brendon violently. "I can't stand no more of this. I won't have this talking between you. 'Tisn't right or seemly, and you ought to know it, if you're a sane woman."
"He's never said one syllable to me you couldn't hear," she answered, believing herself, but forgetting a word or two. "All the same, I'll avoid him more, Daniel, when he comes back. He may fetch along a wife with him. But don't you be angered, dear heart. I'd rather up and away from Ruddyford at cocklight to-morrow for evermore, than you should frown. 'Tis silly to be jealous of the sun for throwing my shadow, or the wind for buffeting me."
"I am jealous. I'm a raging fire where you be concerned, and always shall be—for your soul first. I won't insult you to speak of any other thing. Any other thing's not speakable. You know I'm built so, and you don't strive to lessen it, but just the contrary. I wish you was more religious-minded and more alive to the sacredness of the married state."
"I'm myself, Dan—for good or bad."
The man was gloomy for some days after this scene, and Sarah Jane went her way with patience and unfailing good humour. She felt no anger with him on her side. She understood him a little; but jealousy was a condition of mind so profoundly foreign to her own nature, that her imagination quite failed to fathom its significance and its swift power of growth in congenial soil.
Hilary Woodrow kept his word, and presently left home for an indefinite period. He told himself that he was going away to escape temptation; in reality he went to seek it. His object was simple: to learn whether the arrival of Brendon's wife at Ruddyford had merely awakened his old interest in women generally, or whether it was she herself, and only she, who had roused him out of a long sexual apathy.
Hilary Woodrow's departure from Ruddyford made no difference to the course of events. Routine work progressed according to the prescribed custom of Dartmoor husbandry. Oats were sown during the last week of March; potatoes followed; then the seed of mangold went to ground, and lastly, in June, with the swedes, this protracted planting of crops ended.
There came a night when John Prout found himself too weary to keep an appointment at Lydford. Therefore he asked Daniel to go instead.
"'Tis the business of the water-leat," he explained. "The water's coming in autumn some time, and now Churchward and the rest are going to set about things again in earnest. The committee sits at the schoolroom this evening."
Brendon, however, doubted.
"I can't just go and say I've come to take your place," he answered. "The rest might not want me on the committee."
"Oh yes, they will," declared Prout. "You'll do a lot better than me. You'm younger and have your ideas. 'Tis about the procession and so on. A lot was done last time; but 'tis such a while agone, that I dare say they'll have to begin all over again. Anyway, I couldn't ride to Lydford to-night for a fortune. I'm dog tired."
"'Twill fit very well," said Sarah Jane, who was clearing away the tea-things in Ruddyford kitchen. "I walk into Lydford myself this evening, to take the butter to Mrs. Weekes. Say you'll go, Daniel."
"I'm willing enough. The only point is if I can serve on a committee in place of another man."
"Certainly you can," said Mr. Prout. "They'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure. Jarratt Weekes is a member, and he'll take you along with him."
"I'll go, then," assented Daniel, "and Weekes will post me up in the business, no doubt."
It happened that relations of a harmonious character existed at present between the family of Philip Weekes and Ruddyford. Hephzibah took large quantities of Sarah Jane's butter into Plymouth every Saturday; and sometimes Philip himself, or the girl Susan, came for this produce. Occasionally it was brought to Lydford by a messenger from the farm. The Brendons were now on terms of friendship with Jarratt's parents and of superficial friendship with the castle-keeper himself.
To-night Sarah Jane and Daniel heard the familiar voice raised as they entered the front gate, and, despite a loud summons, they stood some while under the dusk, with the scent of the garden primroses in their nostrils, before any attention was paid to them.
Then Susan appeared, and as she opened the door the full and withering blast of Hephzibah's rhetoric burst upon the air.
"Didn't hear 'e first time," said the girl. "Aunt's in one of her tantrums. A very awkward thing's happed just now. Awkward for Uncle Philip, I mean. He was in the street talking to Mr. Churchward; and unbeknownst to him, on our side the wall, not two yards off, Aunt Hepsy chanced for to be."
"Never mind all that," interrupted Sarah Jane. "Here's the butter, and my husband be come to see Jarratt. We don't want to hear none of your rows, Susie."
"You'll have to hear—you know what Aunt Hepsy be."
They went into the kitchen, and Mrs. Weekes, without saluting them, instantly turned the torrent of her speech in their direction.
Philip sat by the fire with his hands in his pockets and his wistful grey eyes roaming, rather like a wild animal caught in a trap; his son was eating at the table; Mrs. Weekes stood in the middle of the kitchen; her legs were planted somewhat apart, and her arms waved like semaphores to accentuate her speech.
"Your eyes be enough," she said. "You cast 'em to the ceiling, an' search the floor an' the fire with 'em; but you can't hide the guilt in 'em—you evil-speaking traitor! He'd have me dead—what d'you think of that, Sarah Jane? As a wife you can understand, perhaps. Every word I caught when I was in the garden—doing his work, of course, and picking the lettuces that he'd ought to have picked and washed and packed two hours afore. An' him t'other side of the wall telling to that wind-bag that teaches the children—though what he does teach 'em except to use long, silly words, I can't say. 'The sooner she's dead the better!' That was the thing my husband spoke—in a murdering voice he spoke it. And my knees curdled away under me—the Lord's my judge! I could almost hear him sharpening a knife to do it! 'The sooner she's dead the better.' That was what he said. Murder, I call it—black murder; and he'll hang in the next world for it, if he don't in this. Wished me dead! Knave—foul-minded rascal!—beastly coward to kill the wife of his bosom with a word! And now——"
The familiar gasp for which her husband waited came, and he spoke before she could resume.
"I'll only say this. I was speaking of Adam Churchward's old collie bitch—may I be stuck fast on to this settle for evermore if I wasn't; and when I said 'sooner she's dead the better,' 'twas in answer to schoolmaster's question. If I was struck dumb this instant moment, that's the truth."
"Truth—you grey and godless lump of horror! Truth—who be you to talk of truth? After this the very word 'truth' did ought to rust your tongue black and choke you! Not a word of that will I believe. 'Twas me you meant; an' when I heard it, I tell you the sky went round like a wheel. I catched hold of a clothes-post to stop myself from falling in a heap. And now if cherubims in a flaming, fiery chariot come down for me from heaven, I wouldn't go. Nothing would take me—I'd defy death for my indignation! I'll see you out yet, you wife-murderer, you vagabond, you cut-throat dog of a man—ess fay, I'll see you out if I've got to wait twenty thousand years to do it!'
"Here," said Jarratt Weekes to Daniel Brendon, "me and you will get from this. When she lets go, you might as well try to put in a word with a hurricane as with her."
"All the same, it was Churchward's old worn-out dog, as he'll testify to," said Philip. "The creature's suffering, and she'll be killed to-morrow morn; an' that's evidence for anybody who's got a level mind and no grudge against me. Be it sense or reason that I'd say a thing like that to a neighbour—even if I thought it?"
"How you can sit there with your owl's eyes a-glaring——" began Mrs. Weekes—then Daniel followed Jarratt.
"I'll come back along for you presently," he said to Sarah Jane. "You stop here till we're home from the committee."
A moment later he explained his purpose, and Weekes raised no objection.
"'Tis a silly business altogether," he said. "I so good as swore I'd not join 'em again myself; but if the thing's to be, 'tis well there should be a little sense among these foolish old men. You can take Prout's place and welcome. Churchward will try to talk Latin about it when he hears, and pull a long face, and say 'tis irregular or some rot. But if I tell him I wish it, he'll cave in. Last meeting was at his home; but we turned the room into a public-house bar before we'd done with it, and so his daughter won't let us assemble there again. Quite right too."
"A very fine woman she is—so Sarah Jane tells me."
"She is—and plenty of sense. In fact——"
Jarratt broke off and changed the subject; but Daniel, without tact, returned to it.
"I hope we'll all soon be wishing you joy in that matter."
Weekes made no answer at all. The thought was bitter to him that this common man, who had beaten him and won Sarah Jane, could thus easily approach him as an equal and congratulate him on his minor achievement. He hated anything to remind him of the past, and disliked to think that the fact of his rumoured engagement to Mary Churchward had reached the Brendons' ears. This girl was a promising wife enough; but she fell far short of Sarah Jane in beauty and strength and melody of voice.
"There's the schoolroom—the hour was seven-thirty, so we'm a thought late," said Jarratt Weekes.
They entered to find the rest of the committee assembled. Mr. Churchward, Mr. Spry, Mr. Huggins, Mr. Norseman, Mr. Pearn and Mr. Taverner—all were there.
Weekes explained that Daniel Brendon had come to represent John Prout, and suggested that the rest should fall in with this alteration. Some questions arose whether it could be permitted, and the schoolmaster instantly fulfilled Jarratt's prophecy by doubting if Daniel might stand for Prout—in propria persona.
Nathaniel Spry was referred to, but would express no definite opinion; then Weekes spoke again, inviting the committee to use its common sense, if it had any, and asked what earthly difference it could make to the upshot whether one farming man or another joined their deliberations.
"Me an' Mr. Prout think alike in some ways—not in all," explained Brendon. "As to such a matter as a revel, when the water's brought into Lydford, we might be of one mind. But I warn you, please, that in matters of religion we're different."
"That's all right, then," declared Noah Pearn, the publican, "for this hasn't nothing to do with religion—any more than my free lunch have."
"All the same I'll be party to nothing that can hurt religion, and well the committee knows it," declared Mr. Norseman.
"Don't you shout till you're hurt," said Weekes. "We're not heathen, I believe. I propose that Mr. Brendon takes Prout's place on the committee, and I ask you to second, schoolmaster."
None raised any further objection. Daniel took his place and Mr. Churchward turned to Nathaniel Spry.
"Read the minutes of the last meeting," he said.
The postmaster rose rather nervously and shuffled his papers.
"Keep it short as you can, Spry. We wasted a lot of time over that meeting—don't want to be here all night," remarked Jacob Taverner.
"I can't be 'urried, Jacob," answered the other. "I'm secretary, and I've done the work in a very secretarial way, and it's got to be read—all of it—hasn't it, Mr. Churchward?"
"Certainly it has," answered the schoolmaster. "In these cases the minutes of previous assemblies have to be kept carefully, including all memoranda and data. There is a right way and a wrong way, and——"
"Get on!" interrupted Weekes. "If Spry have to read out all that mess and row we had at the first meeting—sooner he's about it the better."
Nathaniel Spry rose and wiped his glasses.
"Go under the lamp, postmaster," said Brendon. "You'll see better."
"Thank you," answered the secretary. "Much obliged to you. I will do so."
"One thing," suddenly remarked Noah Pearn. "I want to ax whether among the characters in the show we might have Judge Jeffreys. I seed his name in an old book awhile ago, and 'tis clear he held his court to Lydford castle. Shall he walk with the procession?"
"We can go into that later. Wemustread the minutes first. Otherwise everything isultra viresand illegal," declared Mr. Churchward.
"Well, Spry can set it at rest in a minute by saying who Judge Jeffreys was—that is if he knows," suggested Mr. Taverner.
"We all know that," declared Mr. Norseman. "He was a regular historical Lydford character."
"Would he do to walk, Spry, or wouldn't he? Answer in a word. If he's no good—we need say no more."
"Order!" cried Mr. Churchward. "I call everybody to order who interferes with Spry. We must have the minutes!"
"You ought to know about Judge Jeffreys yourself," said Weekes shortly. "You're a schoolmaster, and should have the whole history of the man at your finger-ends."
"And so I have," declared Mr. Churchward. "Of course I have. Who doubts it?"
"Then let's hear it. Ban't for the chairman to deny information to the committee," said Mr. Pearn.
Adam shrugged his shoulders.
"I bow to your opinions, though it's very unbusinesslike and improper."
Then he turned to Spry and spoke with resignation.
"Tell them about Judge Jeffreys, Nathaniel—since they insist upon knowing. If you make any mistake, I'll correct you."
Mr. Spry dropped his report hopelessly, took off his glasses and scratched his head over the right ear.
"He wasn't a very nice man, if my memory serves me, gentlemen. A thought 'asty and a thought 'arsh. There's poetry written about him. He did his work in the time of Charles I., or it might be Charles II."
"Or the Commonwealth," interrupted Mr. Churchward.
"Very true—very true, 'or the Commonwealth,' as you say, schoolmaster. He was rather what is called a hanging judge. Still, his red robes and flowing wig would be a great addition to the scene."
"Let the man walk!" cried Mr. Huggins. "A solemn judge would be so good as a sermon to all the young youths for miles around, and show 'em what wickedness might bring 'em to at any moment."
"You don't mean that, Mr. Huggins," explained Brendon, who knew the veteran. "You mean——"
"We all know what he means," declared Mr. Taverner. "Well, you propose Jeffreys and I'll second it, Noah."
"In due course—in due course. The judge shall pass committee in his proper turn," said Mr. Churchward. "Now, Spry, read as quickly as you can, but nothing's to be missed."
"How long is the report?" asked Henry Norseman.
"Twenty-four pages of foolscap and a half," answered the secretary. "I've written it all out twice, and it filled my spare time for three weeks doing it."
"Let's take the thing as read!" suggested Mr. Taverner.
But Nathaniel objected indignantly.
"Not at all!" he said. "I won't have that. I appeal to the chair—three weeks' work——"
"Don't want to have any words with you, postmaster; but all the same, without feeling, as a member of this committee, I propose we take the minutes as read," answered Taverner firmly.
"Who'll second that?" asked Weekes.
"I will," said Noah Pearn.
Mr. Churchward sighed, shook his head tragically, and put his hand over his brow.
"I do wish, Jacob Taverner, you would bend to the law of committees and listen to the chair," he begged. "Don't you understand me? I'm pretty good at making myself clear, I believe—it's my business to do so to the youthful mind—and I tell yuu it can't be done. Legally everything we enact before the minutes are read is nothing at all—a merelapsus lingua, in fact."
"Besides," said Daniel, "I beg to say I ought to hear the minutes—else how can I know what was settled at the first meeting?"
"You're soon answered," replied Jarratt Weekes. "Nothing was settled at the first meeting."
"I beg your pardon, Jarratt," said Adam Churchward. "That is neither kind nor true. A great deal was settled—else how would it take Nathaniel Spry twenty-four and a half pages of foolscap to put it all down? And no man writes a better or neater hand. Therefore I ask you to call back that statement."
"There was a lot said—I admit. But surely you must allow there was mighty little done," retorted Weekes.
"The question is whether the minutes are to be taken as read. I've proposed that and Pearn's seconded it," repeated Mr. Taverner.
"And I rule it out of order, Taverner, so there's an end of that," answered Adam.
"The question is if you can rule it out of order," replied Jacob Taverner.
"Certainly he can. Bless the man, he's done it!" said Brendon.
"He says he's done it; but if it's not legal, he can't do it. Everybody's got a right to speak on a committee, and I never heard in all my born days that a chairman could rule a thing out of order, if 'twas properly proposed and seconded," answered the other.
Much irrelevant but heated argument followed, and none could satisfy Jacob that the chair was in the right.
Suddenly the landlord of the Castle Inn turned to Valentine Huggins.
"Let's abide by you, Val," he cried. "You'm the oldest among us. I warrant Taverner will abide by you. What do you say?"
"I say 'beer,'" piped the ancient man. "I be so dry as a dead bone along o' listening; what you talking members must be, I can't picture."
"I second," declared Weekes; "and 'tis idle for you to pretend that can't be passed, Churchward, because we're unanimous—except Norseman, who'll have his bottle of lemonade as per usual, no doubt."
Mr. Pearn had already put on his hat.
"I'll nip round myself an' tell 'em to send it in," he declared. Then he hurried off.
"I'm in your hands, of course," began the schoolmaster. "I merely remark that I don't pay again. If you had listened to the minutes, you'd have been reminded that the chairman stood liquor and tobacco last time. We must give and take—even in committee."
"I'll pay half," said Mr. Taverner.
"And I'll pay the rest," declared Nathaniel Spry,—"provided the committee will keep quiet and let me read the minutes while it's drinking."
"That's fair enough, certainly," said Brendon. "By the looks of it, this meeting won't have no time to do more than hear what fell out at the last. 'Tis near nine o'clock now, and us no forwarder."
When Mr. Pearn returned with a pot-boy and three quarts of ale, the secretary had started upon his report. Nobody paid much attention to him save Daniel Brendon; but as soon as the liquor was poured out—by which time Mr. Spry had come to St. George and the Dragon—an interruption took place.
"I ask for that passage to be given again," said Mr. Norseman. "I heard my name, but I didn't catch what went with it."
Nathaniel read as follows:—
"Mr. Valentine Huggins then proposed that the Dragon should go along with St. George, and it was suggested that Mr. William Churchward should enact the Dragon. Mr. Norseman then said that he would be party to no play-acting, because play-acting in his opinion was wickedness; and he added that if the committee persisted in this opinion, he would think it his duty to put the matter before the vicar. Mr. William Churchward was privately approached by the chairman subsequent to the meeting and refused to play Dragon——"
"If that's still your opinion, Norseman, you'd better go off the committee," said Mr. Taverner; "because to dress up to be somebody else is play-acting in a way, even though nought's said. You be in a minority of one, so you may just as well retire."
"I may be, or I may not be," answered Mr. Norseman. "I'm here to do my duty to the best of my power, and, in a word, I shan't retire."
"I don't hold with play-acting either," declared Daniel suddenly.
"Ban't sure that I do, on second thoughts," added Mr. Huggins. "Anyway, I want to say that if any other member would like to be Moses——"
"That's all settled and passed, and you can't withdraw, Valentine," replied Mr. Churchward. "Go on, Nat."
"What is play-acting and what isn't?" asked Mr. Pearn. "We'd better settle that once for all. I say 'tisn't play-acting if no speeches are made."
"If it has been carried that Mr. Huggins is to be dressed up as Moses, I'm afraid I must vote against it," said Daniel. "I'm very sorry to do anything contrary to the general wish, but I couldn't support that. In my view 'tis playing the fool with a holy character."
"Don't be so narrow-minded," said Mr. Taverner.
"You must be narrow-minded if you want to keep in the narrow way," declared Norseman. "The man's right, though I haven't seen him in church for three months."
"If we're going back on what we passed last time—'tis idle for you to read any more, postmaster," said Mr. Churchward. "I may remind the committee that Mr. Norseman himself had no objection to Moses before."
"More shame to me," answered the churchwarden frankly. "I was weak, as them in a minority too often find themselves; but now, with this man beside me, I'm strong, and I stand out against Moses tooth and nail."
"Let's drop Moses, souls!" said Mr. Huggins. "We can walk very well without him, and we don't want to offend church or chapel, I'm sure. 'Twould be a bad come-along-of-it if we had vicar and the quality against us. If I can give him up, I'm sure all you men ought to."
Jarratt Weekes had been turning over the pages of Mr. Spry's report while the rest talked. Now he suddenly rose to his feet and shouted loudly:
"Look here, Spry—what's this you've got here? Like your insolence—making me look a fool in the eyes of the committee! This stuff shan't be read—not officially. You've put words here that I spoke in heat. Not that they wasn't perfectly reasonable ones—all the same, they shouldn't be recorded. I'm not going to be written down, in cold blood, as using swear words. 'Tisn't fair to anybody's character. Here it is, neighbours, and I ask you if 'tis right—page twenty-one—"
He read as follows:—
"'The chairman then quoted the Latin language, which annoyed Mr. Jarratt Weekes, who thereupon asked him, why the hell he couldn't talk English."
"You oughtn't to have put that down, Nathaniel," said Mr. Churchward reproachfully. "It would far better have become you to leave that out. If I could forgive it—which I did do—surely——"
"There it is for anybody to see," continued Weekes; "and I propose we burn his silly minutes, for they'm nothing but a tissue of twaddle and impertinence and——"
"I rise to order!" cried Mr. Spry. "I'm not going to be insulted to my face and stand it. I claim the protection of the chair and the committee in general. What right had I to doctor the report? If people use foul language on a committee and lose their tempers and misbehave themselves at a public function, let 'em take the consequences!"
"You shut your mouth!" shouted Weekes, "or I'll make you. A pink-eyed rabbit of a man like you to stab me in the back with your pen and ink! I——"
"Order—order!" cried Pearn and Taverner simultaneously. Everybody began to talk at once, and Brendon turned to the chairman.
"Why the mischief don't you keep order?" he asked.
"Easy to say—easy to say," answered Adam wildly. "But what mortal man's going to do it?"
"'Twas you broke up the last meeting, Weekes, an' I don't think none the better of you for it," grumbled Mr. Huggins. "All the same us shan't get through no business now—an' the beer be all drunk and the time's past ten——"
"I propose we adjourn," said Mr. Norseman.
"And so do I," added Brendon. "Never knowed myself that a lot of growed-up men could make such a row and be so foolish."
"The meeting is suspendedsine die, gentlemen," declared Adam Churchward, "and I may add that I'll not be chairman again. No—I will not. The strain is far too severe for a sensitive man."
"Just like you," answered Weekes. "The moment you get into a mess, you curl up, same as a frightened woodlouse. You're not the proper man for a chairman."
"And you're not the proper man for a committee," answered Adam, very pink and hot. "'Tis all your fault, and I say it out, notwithstanding the—the relations in which we stand. You've not the self-control for a committee. And you do swear a great deal too much—both in public and private life."
They wrangled on while Norseman and Brendon departed, and Spry only stayed to see his report scattered on the floor under everybody's feet. Then, with an expression of opinion unusually strong for him, he took his hat and went home. Mr. Pearn looked after the crockery, Mr. Taverner assisted Valentine Huggins into his coat and saw him on his way.
"Out of evil cometh good, Jacob," said the ancient. "Be it as 'twill, I've got Moses off my back. But this here have furnished a dreadful lesson to me not to push myself forward into the public eye. Never again will I seek to be uplifted in company. 'Twas only the sudden valour of beer made me offer myself, and I've never had a easy moment since."
Elsewhere Mr. Churchward and Jarratt quickly settled their difference. Indeed, as soon as Spry had departed, the chairman adopted an attitude very disloyal to the postmaster, and even called him an officious little whippersnapper. This appeased the injured Weekes, and when his future father-in-law went further and invited him home to see Mary and drink some whisky, Jarratt relented.
"Us'll drop this business once for all," he said. "It don't become your position to sit over a lot of silly fools that don't know their own mind. You've got something better to do with your time, I'm sure. When I'm married to Mary, you shall help me with figures and suchlike. Anyway, don't you call them ignorant men together again. I won't have it. Let the water come and be damned to it. 'Tis nothing to make a fuss about when all's said."
"You may be right," admitted Mr. Churchward. "In Christian charity the committee meant well, but they have not been educated. There's no logic—nothing to work upon. I'm disappointed, for I had spent a good deal of thought upon the subject. However, if it's got to fall through—there's an end of it."
And Brendon, as he tramped home with Sarah Jane, made her laugh long and loud while he told of the meeting. He was not much amused himself—only somewhat indignant at the waste of hours represented by that evening's work.
Gregory Daniel Brendon was born on the first day of October, and work nearly stood still at Ruddyford until the doctor had driven off and the great event belonged to past time. Nothing could have been more splendidly successful than his arrival, or himself. There was only one opinion concerning him, and when in due course the child came to be baptized, he enjoyed a wide and generous measure of admiration.
Hephzibah, who was nothing if not superlative, attended the christening, and, after that ceremony, proclaimed her opinion of the infant. Sarah Jane, whose habit of mind led her to admire Mrs. Weekes, had asked Philip's wife to be godmother, and such a very unusual compliment awakened a great fire of enthusiasm in the sharp-tongued woman's heart.
After a Sunday ceremony, according to the rite of the Luke Gospellers, all walked on foot back to Ruddyford, and Mrs. Weekes, with Sarah Jane upon one side of her and Susan, carrying the baby, on the other, improved the hour.
"Only yesterday, to market, Mrs. Swain said 'My dear Hephzibah'—so she always calls me—'why, you'm not yourself—you'm all a-dreaming! I ax for a brace of fowls,' she says, 'and, merciful goodness,' she says, 'you hand me a pat of butter!' 'Twas true. My mind ran so upon this here child, as we've marked wi' the Sign to-day. I tell you, Sarah Jane, that, cautious as I am in my use of words, I can't speak too well of him. He's a regular right down masterpiece of a child. Look at his little round barrel, if you don't believe me. An' a hand as will grasp hold that tight! An' a clever child, I warn 'e. Did 'e mark the eyes of un when he seed parson's gold watch-chain? He knowed! 'Twas his first sight of gold—yet up his fingers went to i' an' he pulled a very sour face when he had to let go. There's wisdom there—mark me. And hair like a good angel's. True 'tis only the first crop an' he'll moult it; but you can always take a line through the first what the lasting hair will be. Curly, I warrant, an' something darker than yours, but brighter than his father's."
"He've got his father's eyes to a miracle," said Sarah Jane.
"He'm listening to every word you be saying!" declared Susan.
"A precious, darling, li'l, plump, sweet, tibby lamb!" cried Mrs. Weekes in an ecstasy. "Hold off his blanket, Susie. Yes, if he ban't taking it all in. A wonder and a delight, you mark me, mother. You've done very clever indeed, and never have I seen such a perfect perfection of a baby, since my own son Jarratt was born. Just such another he was—a thought more stuggy in the limbs, perhaps, as was natural with such round parents; but noways different else. Would fasten on a bit of bright metal like a dog on a bone."
"My little one's got lovelier eyes, if I may say so—lovelier eyes than Jarratt's," said Sarah Jane.
"'Tis a matter of opinion. Some likes blue, some brown, some grey. Eyes be same as hosses: you can't have good ones a bad colour. Taking it all round, grey eyes see more than brown ones, and little eyes more than big ones. But long sight or short, us can all see our way to glory. This here infant's marked for goodness. Mind you let him use my spoon so soon as ever he can. 'Tis real silver, Sarah Jane, as the lion on the handle will tell 'e, if you understand such things."
"I knowed that well enough the moment I saw it, and so did Tabitha. 'Tis a very beautiful spoon indeed. He's had it in his mouth a'ready, for that matter."
"Trust him!—a wonder as he is! There ban't nothing he won't know the use for very soon. That child will be talking sense in twelve months! I know it! I'm never wrong in such matters. A lusty tyrant for 'e; an' a great drinker, I warrant!"
"A grand thirsty boy for sartain," admitted the mother. "An' my bosom's always brimming for his dear, li'l, red lips, thank God!"
Mrs. Weekes nodded appreciatively.
"You've got to think of his dairy for the present. Who be looking after Ruddyford's?"
"Why, I be," said Sarah Jane. "I was only away from work five weeks."
"When do Mr. Woodrow come back?"
"Afore Christmas, 'tis said; and that reminds me: Mr. Prout wants a tell with your son. There's something in the wind, though what it is I can't say."
"I'll carry the message. I see Prout chattering to Weekes behind us now; but 'twill be better he gives me any message that's got money to it. When Philip Weekes says he'll bear a thing in mind, 'tis a still-birth every time, for nothing's ever delivered alive from his addled brain. That poor man! But 'tis Sunday and a day of grace. However, I'll speak to Prout. Susan—what—here, give me over the child this instant moment. You hold un as if he was a doll, instead of an immortal Christian spirit, to be an angel come his turn. An' that's more'n ever you can hope to be, you tousled, good-for-nought!"
Joe Tapson and Walter Agg joined the women.
"These be the two men gossips," said Sarah Jane. "I wanted for Mr. Prout to be one, but Daniel mistrusted his opinions. Dan's very particular indeed about religion, you must know."
"Quite right too," said Mrs. Weekes. "And I hope as you men will keep that in mind and never say a crooked word or do a crooked thing afore this infant hero. He's a better built boy than either of you ever was, without a doubt, and you can see—by the make of his head-bones—that he'll be a master one day and raised up above common men—just like my own son be. But never you dare to lead him astray, or I'll know the reason why. I'm his god-mother, and I don't take on a job of this sort without being wide awake. An' if there's any faults show in him presently, I'll have a crow to pluck with you men very quick."
"What about his father, ma'am?" asked Agg.
"I'll say the same to him as I say to you," she replied. "I'll stand no nonsense from his father. The child's worth ten of his father a'ready. Lord! the noble weight of him! Here, take hold of him, Sarah Jane, for the love of heaven. He's pulling my arms out of the arm-holes!"
At the rear of the party walked together the father and grandfather of the baby.
Daniel had talked about his child until he felt somewhat weary of the subject. But nothing could tire Gregory Friend. Already he planned the infant's first visit to the peat-works, and every time that his son-in-law changed the subject, he returned to it.
Daniel laughed.
"Well, you'll have two things to talk about now," he said. "Afore 'twas only peat—now 'twill be peat an' the baby."
"Yes," answered Gregory, "you'm quite right there, Daniel. I'll larn him all I know, and I dare say, if he's spared, he'll find out more than I know. But my secrets that child shall have in course of time—if he proves worthy of 'em."
John Prout and Philip Weekes walked together and discussed another subject.
"He's coming home presently," said the head man of Ruddyford, "but the doctors reckon he'll be wise to stop off the high ground and winter in the valleys. His idea be to put up at Lydford for the winter, and he's divided between taking a couple of rooms at the Castle Inn, with Noah Pearn, or renting a house if he can get one. He'd rather have the house for peace and quietness. But 'tisn't often a house worth calling one be in the market to Lydford. Now I'm thinking of your son's place—what he bought back-along from widow Routleigh before she died."
"Might suit Jar very well, I should think," said the other. "'Tis true he's going to be married to the schoolmaster's daughter; but they'm not in any hurry. In fact, there's more business than pleasure to the match, I fancy, though I wouldn't dare to say so. Anyway, the cottage is empty now. 'Twould want doing up. 'Tis the very house for a tender man—sheltered from north and east and west, wi' a face that catches every glimmer of sun that shines."
"I'll name it to master in writing. I'm sadly troubled about it all. I suppose you don't know what your son would ax?"
"Can't tell you that. The more Mr. Woodrow wants it, the higher Jarratt will rise. That's business, of course. I'm not saying nothing in praise of such a way of doing things, but merely telling you what will happen."
"Of course master may prefer Bridgetstowe or Mary Tavy. Your son mustn't think there's no competition."
"I'll name it to him," said Mr. Weekes. "By rights I ought to get a little bit of a commission if it goes through; but nobody won't think of that."
They talked further, and Prout deplored the fact that Hilary Woodrow's condition had called for a visit to the doctor. It was thought he had been exceedingly well and happy among his friends and relatives in Kent. Then came the frosty news of indifferent health. Philip shared John's regret, and they still discussed the matter when Ruddyford was reached.
Tabitha had prepared a handsome tea which all attended, and Gregory Daniel sat on his grandfather's knee and watched the eating of the christening cake. A handsome silver mug quite threw Hephzibah's spoon into the shade. The gift commanded very general admiration, and Mrs. Weekes, when appealed to, declared that it could not have cost a penny less than five pounds. It came from Hilary Woodrow.
"I'm hoping he'll lift Dan up a bit after he comes back," Sarah Jane said privately to Mrs. Weekes, as the tea progressed. "My man's worked like a pair of hosses since master went away; and everybody knows it."
"Why for do he stop if he'm not satisfied with his wages?" asked Hephzibah. "Such a mighty man he is. Why, if there was an inch or two more of him, he might a'most have got his living in a doom-show, an' never done a stroke more work. I seed a giant at Plymouth fair two or three years back—a poor reed of a man, up seven foot high, wi' death written in the great, sorrowful white face of him. But Dan's so strong as he be large."
"He wouldn't fling up Ruddyford for anything. He gets very good money, you know, though not so good as he could wish. Then there's father up to the peat-works. I promised, and Dan promised, not to go very far off from him."
Mrs. Weekes shook her head at Gregory Friend, though he did not appreciate the fact, for he was talking to Philip.
"A wilful and a silly soul, though your father," she said. "'Tis wasting the years of his life to stop up there—no better than a pelican in the wilderness. He ought to be made to drop it."
"I wish you could make him," said Sarah Jane. "Already he's planning to teach the baby all about peat."
"'Peat'!" cried Hephzibah scornfully. "I hope no godchild of mine will sink to peat. Let me make a market-man of him, and take him afore the nation, and teach him the value of money, and the knack to get it, and the way to stick to it!"
"'Tis very good of you, I'm sure," declared the mother. "I hope he'll be much drawed to you, come he grows."
"He's drawed to me already," asserted Mrs. Weekes. "We understand each other mighty well."
Going home with her husband, Hephzibah heard the news concerning Hilary Woodrow and his proposed winter lodgment. She was much excited, and even Mr. Weekes won a word of praise. But he deserved it, and, in justice, his wife dispensed the same.
When first he told her, she stood still and rated him.
"You post—you stock of a man!—couldn't you see that the first thing was Woodrow's address? Now others will get to hear tell of this, and then Thorpe will be offering his dog-kennel of a house at Little Lydford, or them Barkells at Bridgetstowe will try to get him for that tumble-down hovel by the church. Why didn't Prout tell me instead of you? If you were a man instead of a mommet,[1] you'd turn back this minute and not rest till you'd got farmer's address for Jarratt. 'Tis taking bread out of your son's mouth if you don't—mark me."
[1]Mommet, Scarecrow.
"I'll run back an' get it, if you like," said Susan, who walked beside her aunt.
"As a matter of fact, the address is took down in my pocket-book," explained Mr. Weekes with calm triumph. "An' more than that: I've got John Prout's faithful promise not to tell nobody else the address till we've had two days' start. That may be the work of a post or a mommet, or it may not. For my part, I'm pleased with myself."
"Then why ever didn't you say so?" asked Mrs. Weekes. "'Twas a very proper, smart thing to do, Philip—and a very hopeful thing in you. I always say, and always shall say, that so far as Almighty God's concerned, He've done His part in you. You've got a handsome share of intellects—in fact, more than your share, if you wouldn't be so rash and reckless."