V*4^ 1^^* 
 
 ARMINEL 
 
 OP THE WEST 
 
 JOHN TREVENA 
 
G C IS 
 
 I ; 0^ 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 Mrs. G.C. Williams 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6015.E58A7 1909 
 
 Arminel of the West, 
 
 3 1924 013 624 394 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013624394 
 
ARMINEL OF THE WEST 
 
ARMINEL OF THE 
 WEST 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN TREVENA,v.s^vxi 
 
 iV"^*i 
 
 tlTv\i!.6ir 6 
 
 ccrv«^t r^^\Viiv^vi 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1909 
 
 2. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 7AGS 
 
 I. DEMSHUR LANES I 
 
 II. DEMSHUR HEIGHTS l8 
 
 III. CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR 35 
 
 IV. CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES . . -51 
 V. A DAY OF SNOW 64 
 
 VI. TWO MAIDS 83 
 
 VII. CONCERNING IDEAS -99 
 
 VIII. CEREMONIAL TEA II3 
 
 IX. AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY 122 
 
 X. CONCERNING CIDER AND A LITTLE IMPROMPTU 
 
 MUSIC 139 
 
 XI. ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER . . -155 
 
 XII. CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT . . .174 
 
 XIII. CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES . . . .184 
 
 XIV. CONCERNING WATER I98 
 
 XV. A TRIFLE OF WIVES 213 
 
 XVI. CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH . 227 
 
 XVII. AN INOFFENSIVE OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD 
 
 STATE ........ 240 
 
 XVIII. THE INOFFENSIVE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND 
 
 TAMED 254 
 
Contents. 
 
 CHAP. PAOK 
 
 XIX. CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY . . . 268 
 
 XX. AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT . . 284 
 
 XXI. HOW ARMINEL THREW HER HEART INTO THE AIR 3OO 
 
 XXII. SPOILT LIVES 3I9 
 
 XXIir. CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY . . . 327 
 
 XXIV. THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. . , 342 
 
ARMINEL OF THE WEST 
 
ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DEMSHUR LANES. 
 
 The lanes of mid-Devon are very muddy in winter time. 
 None more so than those which descend into the old coach- 
 road between Okehampton and the village of Sticklepath. 
 They are like muddy tributaries feeding a river. There is 
 plenty of traffic along this road, especially on Saturday, which 
 is market day in Okehampton ; but the lanes are always lonely. 
 They are dark, too, and the lop-sided oaks which stretch their 
 crooked branches from one stone hedge to the other creak as the 
 wind from Dartmoor strikes them. It is that wind which makes 
 them lop-sided. When strangers meet in one of these lanes they 
 can hardly pass without a word of greeting. When one 
 stranger is a young man and the other a young maid there is 
 often a certain amount of awkwardness ; with blushes on one 
 side and bold glances on the other. Sometimes the bold 
 glances are reciprocated, which is natural enough, if foolish, 
 and dangerous — especially so when the primroses are in bud 
 and there is warm sunshine falling between the oak-branches. 
 The lanes which descend into the Okehampton road are very 
 lonely, and there are no prying Pauls behind the primroses and 
 young ferns. 
 
 Narrow and crooked ideas must have dominated the minds 
 of the folk who constructed these lanes. When two carts meet, 
 
 A.W. B 
 
2 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 one has to draw into some field gateway and stop there until 
 the other has passed ; and as for crookedness, every stretch of 
 lane appears to have been meant for a caricature of the letter 
 S. Many of the small farmers are narrow and crooked in their 
 lives and in their dealings towards each other. Perhaps they 
 cannot help themselves. They have gone up and down, and 
 to and from market, for so many years, as their fathers have 
 done before them, until their minds have become narrowed 
 and twisted like their own " Demshur " lanes. 
 
 During winter mud and water are brought into the Oke- 
 hampton road by these crooked tributaries. They bring down 
 quantities of beech-leaves, fern -fronds, scraps of spiny gorse, 
 and splinters of granite from the moor. They bring down 
 wandering ponies and wild-eyed sheep. They bring down 
 also the winds and the mists. And every Saturday they bring 
 down bearded moormen, with faces like slabs of uncooked beef 
 and hands the colour of mahogany, seated in vehicles of every 
 kind and form, which are drawn by horses of every breed con- 
 ceivable short of the best. On the first Saturday in every 
 month the lanes quite justify their existence, for that day is 
 " gurt market " in Okehampton, and every farmer or commoner 
 must go to the Square, health or weather permitting. Even if 
 not much business is being done, there is always the market 
 ordinary at one shilling the head. How the innkeepers make 
 these market ordinaries pay, seeing that every farmer is in 
 training for the event, is one of the wonders of the West; 
 although it may be suggested that whatever is lost at the 
 dining-table is more than counterbalanced by what is gained at 
 the bar. 
 
 Down the steep lane which wanders and winds between 
 Lew-on-the-Moor and the Okehampton road rattled the family 
 conveyance of John Zaple, who was more usually known as 
 Dartmoor Jack. The time of the day was a little before noon 
 and the time of the year was the first Saturday in December. 
 It was moist and mild. Clouds of mist were carried down the 
 lane by the wind which had scattered them from the tors 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 3 
 
 behind; and the same wind shook the rain-drops from the 
 lop-sided beeches which grew upon the hedge, and distributed 
 them about the venerable straw hat of Dartmoor Jack, his 
 extraordinary vehicle, and the good old mottled mare, Sarah 
 Jane. The beeches sent their branches across the lane ; but 
 on the other side, which faced the moor where the winds come 
 from, there was not a branch to be seen. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack was talking most of the time. He never felt 
 lonely. He talked to the magpies which flapped towards 
 Castle Park. He chattered to Sarah Jane. He addressed the 
 mists, and replied to the wind. He had a remark for every- 
 thing. He assured the lane that it was rough and muddy. He 
 tried to convince the beeches that they were " stout fellows " to 
 bear the buffeting of Dartmoor. He told his pipe what he 
 thought of it when the stem was choked, and in the same 
 breath apologised for speaking harshly to a faithful servant. 
 Then he addressed his watch, which was far away at the 
 bottom of his breeches' pocket, and, guessing its reply, turned 
 the conversation towards his whip, explained to what purpose 
 it was to be put, and then shook the lash gently over Sarah's 
 tail. "Us mun get on," he explained. "I'll have to hit ye, 
 Sarah Jane, if ye wun't liven." 
 
 As the mare made not the slightest response, Dartmoor Jack 
 punished her with a flick upon the back, which she probably 
 mistook for the touch of a falling leaf. " I told ye I'd have to 
 hit ye," said her master with regret. " You'm that broody 
 to-day, there be no use talking." 
 
 Sarah Jane altogether declined to improve her pace. The 
 hussy knew she could do as she liked with Dartmoor Jack. She 
 would impose upon him dreadfully. She would pretend to fall 
 lame whenever they passed a field of turnips or a crop of oats — 
 she had a weakness for turnips — and would refuse to budge until 
 her master had delighted her soul with a savoury mouthful. 
 He would climb into the field, after glancing round to assure 
 himself he was not observed, snatch a handful of oats or uproot 
 a turnip, and present the same to the pampered animal with the 
 
 B a 
 
4 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 remark, " Here be chocolate for ye." He knew that young 
 ladies like chocolates, because Maria, his daughter, had told 
 him so. He had bought a good many boxes for her, his reward 
 being a kiss — perhaps two, if the chocolates were very nice— 
 from a delicious pair of red lips, fragrant and sticky with sweet 
 breath and confectionery. The theft of oats or turnip did not 
 weigh heavily upon his mind , partly because he, too, had traversed 
 the narrow and crooked lanes of mid-Devon all his life, chiefly 
 because he had a curious belief that any farmer would be 
 proud to give Sarah Jane whatsoever the wilful beast might 
 desire. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack was called old because he had a narrow 
 fringe of hair as white as cotton-sedge about his ears, and he 
 wore big spectacles, but he was still under fifty. His red face 
 was child-like with innocence. His heart, too, was childlike. 
 He led a perfectly harmless life. He knew no blasphemy, and 
 he did not drink. He did not run after strange women, 
 although more than one had made advances to him, "dafty 
 old dear," as they called him. He had no professed religion, 
 although he admitted having tried them all, to find Methodism 
 " too rorty," the Established Church " too old-fashioned," and 
 the other sects " all money-grab," and ministers in general 
 " too much heaven for me and hell for you." So he became 
 and remained a cheerful and bland agnostic. His virtues were 
 honesty in business, love of animals, and a kindly toleration 
 for his fellow moormen. He was entirely ignorant; able to 
 sign his name with a struggle, but unable to read. His days 
 were spent in the villages and lanes. Years back he had 
 started in business as an itinerant oilman. Dips and rush- 
 candles were disappearing and lamps were taking their place. 
 It had occurred to Dartmoor Jack that he might go about the 
 country with oil and supply the villages and farm-houses. His 
 business prospered from the first. He soon bought a larger 
 cart, and furnished it with various domestic utensils and house- 
 hold necessaries, in addition to the oil-tank. This cart became 
 a regular feature of the mid-Devon lanes. Dartmoor Jack was 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 5 
 
 punctual and regular. On Monday he went to Throwleigh, 
 not by the new road which bends round the long hill where the 
 copper mines are worked, but by the lower road, at the foot of 
 Cawsand, formerly used by the coaches on the stage from 
 Exeter to Launceston. He returned from Throwleigh by 
 Goosford and Week, striking o£E at the cross-road over against 
 Zeal, and guiding his cart down to Oxenham, not with any 
 desire of viewing the possible apparition of the bird with the 
 white breast, but with the prosaic faith of finding the tenants in 
 need of oil. Tuesday found him along the dreary Sampford 
 Courtenay lanes, where the first primroses in mid-Devon flower, 
 usually about the first week in February, but sometimes early 
 in January. After visiting the scattered farms in that district 
 he reached the dreary village of Taw Green, thence to Wood, 
 and South Tawton, where the Battishills and the adventurous 
 Oxenhams lie buried ; and so home by the steep moorland 
 road. Wednesday he visited Sticklepath, most happily named 
 of villages, for its path or road runs beside the Taw river, with 
 its numerous stickles, or little falls, which turn five water-wheels 
 amid dripping ferns and flowering grasses and rhododendrons 
 of pink and scarlet; and then the oilcart clambered on to 
 Zeal ; not Zeal Monachorum, where Canute may have held 
 court during the supremacy of the Danes, but the mining 
 village of South Zeal, which, in spite of builder and restorer, 
 Istill belongs to the fourteenth century — though entirely from 
 an artistic point of view — and remains the most romantic of 
 Devon villages. That was a tiring day for Dartmoor Jack, for 
 although the distance actually traversed was not great, the 
 stoppages were almost endless. Thursday was fully occupied 
 by a local round. On Friday, Drewsteignton and Whiddon 
 Down received him ; and his return was by Gidleigh, where the 
 road was lone and dreary. On Saturday he made no round. 
 He went to Okehampton market to replenish his stock and lay 
 in provisions for the coming week. Sunday he smoked a good 
 deal and attended to his property in Blackalake Gorge. 
 Everyone knew when and where to look for the oilcart, 
 
6 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 because Dartmoor Jack made a point of calling at each house, 
 not merely upon the same day every week, but at precisely the 
 same time. Everybody could hear the oilcart approaching, 
 because there were a number of tin measures slung beneath 
 the tail-board, and these swung and clashed together at every 
 step made by Sarah Jane, or by Tom Yarty, as Zaple's other 
 horse was named. The oilman was either talking or laughing 
 or whistling as he stalked along, with a hazel switch in his 
 hand, and a flower or two stuck into the brim of his straw hat. 
 He generally walked beside the horse to save himself the 
 trouble of climbing up and down, waving a bunch of bracken 
 to keep away the flies, or cutting whistles for favoured children, 
 and sometimes a ground-ash whip for their fathers. When it 
 rained he drew a large tarpaulin over the cart to protect his 
 stock, a smaller one over Sarah Jane or Tom Yarty, and a still 
 smaller one over his own head and shoulders. While the rain 
 made the tarpaulins shine like fresh paint the tin measures 
 went on swinging and clashing, and Dartmoor Jack went on 
 talking or whistling or laughing, as he ploughed along the silent, 
 thickly-wooded lanes of Sampford Courtenay, or the high, bare 
 and wind-swept road of Whiddon Down. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack was a commoner, not by right, nor yet by 
 inheritance, but by diplomacy. As an instance of what may be 
 accomplished by a man of tact, a childlike countenance, and a, 
 good deal of quiet determination, the tale how John Zaple 
 made himself a commoner is worth the telling. 
 
 His parents were foreigners, that is to say they were not ot 
 Dartmoor, nor even of Devon, but belonged to the altogether 
 separate and independent country of Cornwall. The Zaples 
 were Redruth folk, and Jack's father had been a whim-master 
 in Gwennap parish, and had lived in a whitewashed cottage 
 amid " the deads " of the mine, until evil days came to Cornwall 
 because the English markets were flooded with foreign tin. 
 The mine was closed, and Zaple the tinner had to look for 
 other work. He decided at length to emigrate. So he left his 
 native land and went to Devon — the father and mother cried 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 7 
 
 !is they crossed the Hamoaze and left Cornwall behind, and 
 little Jack cried, too, more out of sympathy than because he felt 
 himself an exile. The miner leased a piece of land at Lew 
 with his savings, and settled down as a small farmer, choosing 
 Dartmoor because of its air, and because from the summit of 
 Cawsand, where he went every Sunday afternoon, he could see 
 the sunset tints upon Bron Gilla, which unthinking persons 
 have corrupted into Brown Willy; and thus placed he could 
 smell, as he fancied, the indigo sea sweeping round Trevose 
 and Pentire, and hear the bells of St. Endellion answering those 
 of Forth Gavorne, and the echo of Tintagel's legendary 
 music. 
 
 Old John Zaple knew just where to look for Bron Gilla, 
 however dense the mists. No clouds could hide those rocky 
 crags from him. For he was a true Cornishman ; and when 
 such a man goes from his native land he leaves his soul there. 
 Others may hark back to their native place with love, reverence, 
 or with happy memories, but it is paradise lost to the Cornish- 
 man. The man of Kent may long for his cherry orchards and 
 hop-gardens ; but his longing is nothing to the desire of the 
 Cornishman for " the deads " of Redruth, or the fishy smell of 
 St. Ives, or the desolate blue slate-hills of Pengelley. The 
 man of Kent is an Englishman, and so is the Devonian ; but 
 the Cornish folk are not English, and never will be. 
 
 Not much success attended old John Zaple in his new 
 home. He scraped a living, but that was all. In the mean 
 time little Jack was looking after himself. A sister had been 
 born. She had opened her eyes, sighed to find herself out of 
 Cornwall, and had closed them. A stone in Lew churchyard 
 marked her granite cradle with the one word " Jannifer," the 
 popular Cornish corruption for Arthur's queen, Guinevere. 
 The boy did not go to school. Education was not forced upon 
 the people in those days. He worked on his father's farm, 
 and kept his eyes open, knowing that his future depended upon 
 his own efforts, and that the old man would have nothing to 
 leave. He went about among the commoners and questioned 
 
8 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 them. His guileless face and child-like expression disarmed 
 suspicion, and the commoners talked to him frankly. They 
 told him that Dartmoor Forest belonged to the Duchy ; that 
 they had inherited their property from ancestors, whose title 
 rested entirely upon the fact that they had squatted upon the 
 land, enclosed it, tilled it, built upon it ; and they hastened to 
 add that these appropriations had taken place long before the 
 days of railways, when there were savages upon the moor, and 
 the King of the Gubbings still had followers ; and that it was 
 not possible to squat and enclose any more. Young Jack said 
 nothing. It was one of his virtues that he was able to say 
 nothing. He did not even mention the matter to his father, 
 but to himself he murmured with a child-like smile, " I, too, will 
 become a Dartmoor commoner.'' 
 
 A quarter of a mile from Lew village, Blackalake Gorge 
 made a cleft in the moor, about a hundred feet wide in its 
 broadest part, and sixty deep. The lake was high above on the 
 side of Lew tor, and during the rainy season it overflowed and 
 ran over its rocky lip and down the gorge into the Taw river. 
 It was a very lovely spot, and it was well-hidden. The bottom 
 of the gorge was smooth turf and there was very little granite. 
 Young Jack knew the place well. He perceived that a very 
 slight amount of simple engineering at the side of the Blacka- 
 lake would ensure a perpetual stream of water down the gorge. 
 That stream could be diverted to either side for the purpose of 
 irrigating the turf during the dry season. The boy said nothing, 
 but he smiled all the more. His first step towards becoming a 
 Dartmoor commoner was to procure a pickaxe and crowbarj 
 He hid them in a cleft of granite beside the Blackalake, and 
 at dawn each morning he used them. The wild ponies were 
 often startled by the strokes of a pick and the sound of iron 
 ringing upon stone. Before long it was observed by certain 
 moormen that a stream was coursing and gurgling down the 
 gorge, and this was an unusual thing, because it was late in the 
 summer and there had been very little rain. They remarked 
 upon the presence of this stream, without seeking for aa. 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 9 
 
 explanation, as it did not concern anybody ; and when they 
 had got accustomed to it and had ceased to notice it, the wily 
 boy — who was only seventeen — made his next move. 
 
 He begged for a couple of old packing-cases which were 
 lying unused in the blacksmith's shed, and when they were 
 given him he set to work and made a hencoop. There was 
 nothing remarkable about that hencoop. It was a very rough- 
 and-ready affair. Nobody would have given sixpence for it, 
 and few would have accepted it as a gift. Not a commoner 
 who saw it upon the turf in Blackalake Gorge, where it had 
 been put together, suspected that this hencoop was the begin- 
 ning of a residence, or that its position there was to imply posses- 
 sion and a good title to the gorge and to the stream which 
 flowed down it. 
 
 As it was necessary to find a use for the hencoop, young Jack 
 introduced a few chickens. Every morning and evening he 
 visited the gorge, ostensibly to look after his fowls, actually to 
 accustom the moormen to the sight of him there. Nobody 
 could object to his keeping a few fowls in the gorge ; and when 
 he introduced some ducks during the following spring, nobody 
 could object to that either. At the end of a year everyone in 
 Lew expected to see young Jack Zaple down the gorge during 
 the evening, and no one felt the least surprise when they saw 
 him there at mid-day. 
 
 With the arrival of summer, young Jack innocently discovered 
 there was no room for him in his father's cottage. He explained 
 this to the villagers with child-like pathos. He said it had 
 been suggested to him by some of the commoners that he 
 should sleep in Blackalake Gorge, only he did not like the idea 
 of it at all. He was afraid he would feel lonely. He was sure 
 he should be afraid out there by night. The commoners 
 tumbled into his trap, misled by that innocent face. They 
 told him to be a man. They suggested he should erect some 
 kind of shelter for himself, and they promised him theii 
 assistance. The boy brightened up at once. He took them 
 at their word, and borrowed planks and posts. The local 
 
lo ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 wheelwright gave him a hand, and before another month had 
 gone there was a rough wooden hut down Blackalake Gorge. 
 
 Still the boy was not happy. He complained to everyone 
 that the ponies and bullocks gave him no rest. Every night 
 they came down the gorge — so he said — and trampled about 
 his shelter, and threatened to destroy it by rubbing against it. 
 He wondered if the commoners would object if he put up a 
 few stones at the narrow inlet to the gorge, just enough to keep 
 the ponies and bullocks out. These stones could be pushed 
 down at any time. He would, indeed, pull them down himself 
 before very long. No objection was made. The boy had 
 been careful not to use the word " wall " — merely a few stones. 
 Of course, said the commoners, the boy would never dream 
 of putting up that forbidden thing, a wall. He was such a 
 harmless young fellow. They would not have permitted any 
 grown man to put one stone upon another at the entrance to 
 the gorge, because a grown man might certainly have enter- 
 tained ideas of appropriation. But no boy would ever think 
 of such a thing, least of all such a " dafty boy " as young Jack 
 Zaple. 
 
 The stones were set in position, and the commoners soon 
 grew accustomed to them. Every week the boy added one or 
 two, until the barrier grew suspiciously like a wall, only so 
 slowly that no one noticed it. By the end of the second year 
 the gorge was walled in, and there was a rough gate in the 
 centre of the wall, for young Jack had started a cow, and the 
 animal had to be driven in and out. In the meantime, a 
 gradual process of development had been taking place within 
 the gorge. The hencoop had increased both in size and 
 efficiency, precisely as a tree might have grown during the 
 same period. Various trenches appeared about the wooden 
 shelter, which was fairly well furnished by this time.' These 
 trenches, yoimg Jack explained, were to carry off the water 
 He filled them with loose stone, so that his cow should not 
 stumble and break a leg in one of them. Presently the trenches 
 disappeared. Young Jack explained that they carried off the 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. ii 
 
 water as well covered up as when they were open. But he did 
 not explain that he had been making cement, and plastering it 
 thickly over the loose stones, binding them into a solid mass, 
 which when dry he had covered over with turf ; and he cer- 
 tainly did not volunteer the statement that he had prepared the 
 foundations of his future cottage. The gorse had also been 
 cleared gradually from the gorge. Some flowers and garden 
 shrubs had been planted. Nothing lends an air of habitation 
 to a place like a few roses and lilies. The most unobservant 
 commoner on seeing the flowers blooming would reflect that 
 this was an attempt at a garden ; and a garden suggests an 
 enclosure, and an enclosure suggests a residence, and a 
 residence suggests private property; and as there was no one 
 in the gorge or near it except young Zaple, the natural con- 
 clusion would be that the place belonged to him. No com- 
 moner liked to ask such a question as to how any other 
 commoner had come by his property, because he knew his own 
 title would not bear investigation. All this time Jack continued 
 to work for his father, but each year he worked less for him 
 and more for himself ; until five years after the erection of the 
 hencoop, old Zaple received his son's services only in the fore- 
 noon. The rest of the time the boy was in Blackalake Gorge. 
 By that time a couple of ponies and some pigs had been added 
 to the stock. There was a patch of potatoes, and another of 
 cabbages. Walls of cob — a sort of concrete made with clay 
 and pebbles — were rising upon the foundations. The boy 
 explained that a cow-shed was absolutely necessary. The cow- 
 shed took upon itself the shape and appearance of a cottage, 
 but it was all done so gradually that no one noticed anything 
 out of the way. In the meantime, the old commoners were 
 hurrying into the churchyard, and the new generation was 
 growing up. The death of every old moorman was as good as 
 a title-deed to young Zaple. The young people would never 
 dispute his claim to the gorge, because they would not 
 remember the time when it had been unoccupied. The walls 
 of cob went on increasing, the roof went on, the thatch of rushes 
 
12 
 
 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 appeared, and articles of furniture went in one by one. The 
 interior became comfortable. Cob walls- are warm and durable 
 when they are whitewashed to keep the damp out. It Is a 
 Devonshire proverb that, " Good cob and a good heart last for 
 ever." 
 
 Ten years went by, and much had happened. The old 
 Zaples had joined Jannifer in the granite churchyard. Young 
 Zaple had already become known as Dartmoor Jack. He was 
 recognised as a commoner, and the undisputed owner of 
 Blackalake Gorge. There had been objections on the part of 
 the Duchy, but these could not be sustained, for even the local 
 port-reeve felt bound to insist he had seen papers which proved 
 that the Zaples had been settled upon Blackalake when William 
 of Orange landed at Brixham ; and the commoners were 
 unanimous in asserting that it was the great-grandfather of 
 Dartmoor Jack who had erected the wall at the entrance to the 
 gorge. The child-like young man made them all dance to the 
 tune he had fiddled. He was then twenty-eight and married. 
 His innocent face had found favour in the sight of Maria 
 Gorwyn, youngest daughter of Farmer Gorwyn, of Lendry 
 Marsh. He had courted her in his innocent fashion. It was 
 either a practical joke on the part of nature, or a stupid mis- 
 calculation as to time — ^for the bride-elect was a poor arithme- 
 tician — which caused her to be taken ill on the morning of the 
 very Sunday which had been fixed for the ceremony. Thus 
 little Maria Arminel Zaple was not, strictly speaking, legitimate. 
 A month later Lew Church was over-crowded. The oflSce of 
 the solemnisation of matrimony was read, although somewhat 
 shorn of solemnity ; it was followed by the public baptism of 
 the infant ; and the day concluded with customary Bacchanalian 
 orgies. The Zaples did not add to their family after marriage. 
 A few years of Blackalake Gorge satisfied Maria the elder. 
 She felt she wanted a change. She was weary of the moor, 
 which heaved on every side. " I'm purty well tinned wi' 
 Dartymoor," she said at last to her husband. " Makes me feel 
 every day as if I was going home." At another time she 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 13 
 
 enquired of Dartmoor Jack what he would dq if he were heartily 
 tired of the place and of her, and had, moreover, formed an 
 acquaintance with some young woman whom he liked better than 
 herself. He considered the matter, and in his child-like way 
 answered that, everything being convenient, he should elope 
 with that young woman. Not long afterwards a message 
 reached Dartmoor Jack to the effect that Maria was heartily 
 tired of the place and of him, and had, moreover, formed an 
 acquaintance with a young man whom she liked better than 
 himself. Everything being convenient, she had eloped. Dart- 
 moor Jack received this communication with a bland smile. 
 He said it was exactly what he should have done under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Maria had done well for herself. She had gone off with a 
 sergeant of artillery. Dartmoor Jack soon discovered that he 
 was lonely, and that Maria the younger required someone to 
 look after her. He remembered there was a buxom widow at 
 Taw Green who had a pint of oil off him every week. He 
 went to visit the widow of Taw Green, paid her various com- 
 pliments, explained that there was a legal impediment which 
 prevented him from marrying her, and suggested the alterna- 
 tive. The widow accepted the alternative, and became forthwith 
 mistress of Blackalake Gorge. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack often mentioned that he had a relation who 
 was an officer in the British army. He alluded to the sergeant 
 as his brother-in-law. Even he admitted that the relationship 
 existing between himself, the sergeant, the two Marias, and the 
 widow of Taw Green was in something of a tangle. 
 
 Little Maria was not pretty as a young child, but she 
 blossomed amazingly after entering her teens. She soon 
 began to develop in other ways. She was a wilful lass, not 
 much given to obedience in those days, and she showed no 
 pride in having Dartmoor Jack as the author of her being and 
 the widow of Taw Green as a demi-stepmother. As she 
 became prettier she got what her father called " ideas." She 
 wanted to go to a good school and learn everything. She 
 
14 ARMINEL OF THE WEST 
 
 desired admiration and good clothes. Dartmoor Jack's child- 
 like face did not go down with her. She mocked and slapped 
 it. She had her way. She went to Plymouth, and learnt how 
 to paint, play the piano, and sing ; how to dress and dance ; 
 and how to do most of the things which make the world a 
 pleasant playground enough while youth and health and fine 
 weather continue. By the time she reached twenty she was a 
 dangerous minx ; not a lady, of course, but with a lady's 
 accomplishments; clever and witty, with a sweet face and 
 figure, dainty ways, and bewitching little mannerisms ; not at 
 all the sort of girl who would dream of marrying into her own 
 class. " Maria be a fine maiden," said Dartmoor Jack ; and 
 he would hasten to add, " Her be mine, not sergeant's." 
 
 For the last two years the girl had been teaching in Devon- 
 port. She was then leaving the school to which she had been 
 attached for some time ; or, rather, she had been dismissed, 
 because it was believed she had taught the children who had 
 been committed to her charge somewhat more than it was con- 
 sidered advisable they should know. On that damp Satur- 
 day in December Dartmoor Jack was crawling down the 
 lanes on his way to meet the erring damsel at Okehampton 
 station. 
 
 His family vehicle was a strange-looking object. It con. 
 sisted of a large old-fashioned invalid chair made of wicker- 
 work, mounted upon a set of carriage- wheels. The oilman had 
 taken the chair in settlement of a bad debt, and had picked up 
 the wheels and odd fittings upon various occasions. There 
 were many quaint objects upon the mid-Devon lanes, but, 
 on the whole, the wicker-work chair-carriage belonging to 
 Dartmoor Jack was the quaintest. 
 
 The lane made its last curve. Sarah Jane broke into a 
 sharp trot, and out into the Okehampton road went the vehicle 
 with jolts and rattlings, and almost collided with a high dog- 
 cart driven by an asthmatic giant wrapped up in a horse- 
 blanket. Around him were piled dead geese for the Christmas 
 market. Behind him a young man, white and clean-shaven, 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 15 
 
 hung on in an obviously uncomfortable position, his eyes staring 
 vacantly at the driver's head. 
 
 "How be ye ? " called the giant in a high-pitched voice. He 
 was Farmer Badgery, of Drewsteignton, the richest and worst- 
 dressed farmer in mid-Devon. 
 
 " Fine, and how be yew ? " replied Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 " Purty middling," came the answer, accompanied by wheez- 
 ing and various distressing symptoms. " Here be my nephew," 
 he went on, with a jerk of his head towards the horse. " My 
 brother's son. Eli's son and heir. He'm called David." 
 Farmer Badgery tapped his head several times with the butt of 
 his whip, intending to indicate that David's intellect was not of 
 the strongest, while Dartmoor Jack, without turning— Sarah 
 Jane was fractious at that moment — shouted in the direction of 
 the leafless beeches the customary words of greeting, " How 
 be ye?" 
 
 David Badgery turned his eyes from nis uncle's neck and 
 stared at Sarah Jane. 
 
 " She looks well," he said in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Her's fine," said Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 " A bit pluffy," wheezed Farmer Badgery. " Too many 
 oats, my dear." 
 
 " She'm artful. Takes 'em when I bain't looking," said 
 Sarah's master. 
 
 The two vehicles began to descend the hill side by side. 
 
 " Going to market ? " asked the farmer. 
 
 " Going to the station. Maria's coming home from Devon- 
 port." 
 
 " Maria coming home ? Going to the Gorge .' What wilt 
 du wi' she, my dear? " 
 
 " Make she wash and cook, and mind the fowls," said 
 Dartmoor Jack sternly. 
 
 The farmer tried to laugh, but the attempt ended in a fit of 
 coughing. When he had recovered, he said, " Not her. Make 
 her wash and cook? All she'll wash will be her face and 
 hands. Her be full of book-laming, my dear." 
 
l6 ARMINEL Ut 1 nJi vvi:.oi. 
 
 " Full on't," was the answer. 
 
 "Her wun't du nothing," said the farmer. "Folks that be 
 book-lamed don't work. Books upsot them. I never read but 
 one book, and that 'twas Bible, and that upsot me. Least it 
 would have upsot me if I hadn't been too artful for 'en. Her 
 won't mind the fowls, my dear," he concluded with hilarious 
 wheezes. 
 
 " Her plays music, and sings songs, and paints flowers on 
 bits of cloth," Dartmoor Jack went on. 
 
 " Her won't cook," snorted Farmer Badgery. 
 
 " And them clothes she wears — not them you see, so much as 
 them you don't see." 
 
 " What sort of clothes ? " came in a hoarse whisper from the 
 back of the cart. 
 
 " Nuthing like her mother used to wear, nor yet my mother," 
 said the oilman. " Flannel stufE was all they got. Maria, now 
 her wears a heap of white lacey stuff wi' a funny French name, 
 all Httle bits o' holes, and bunches o' frill, and pinky ribbon. 
 Says 'tis the fashion. Her showed me. Her's got a leg as fine 
 as any maid's." 
 
 David Badgery was displaying a certain amount of direct 
 interest. 
 
 " I know, my dear," said the farmer. " Young ladies come 
 down to Fingle and paddle in the Teign. I've watched 'em 
 many a time. When they du get a chance to show their 
 clothes, they du. What be going to du wi' Maria ? " 
 
 " Make she cook and wash " began Dartmoor Jack, but 
 
 was silenced by the farmer's asthmatical laughter. 
 
 " Don't ye get any notion that Maria's going to work. Her's 
 going to enjoy herself," he said bluntly. " You've brought she 
 up wrong, my dear. You mun marry her before any harm's 
 done — marry her to soihe steady chap, wi' a chin on 'en, and a 
 bit o' brass. Marry her quick. Her wun't like it at first, but 
 when there's a baby to mind her'll settle down, and do dairy 
 work, and go to market, same as other women. Be firm wi' 
 the maid, my dear. Give her the curb, and hold 'en tight." 
 
DEMSHUR LANES. 17 
 
 They had entered East Street, and traffic was approaching 
 them, so with a last word of advice, and a final wheeze, the 
 farmer drove on, leaving Dartmoor Jacls and Sarah Jane to 
 proceed to the station in their own leisurely manner. 
 
 Okehampton station was full of farmers, their buxom wives, 
 and lusty daughters, bringing produce to the market. On that 
 part of the platform which commanded a view of the station 
 hill stood a dark, pretty girl, guarding her luggage, and watch- 
 ing the bend of the road beneath. She was much the best 
 dressed young woman upon the platform, and a porter, deceived 
 by her appearance, hovered in attendance, not in the least 
 aware that he was fishing for a tip from a girl of his own class. 
 She was of medium height and beautifully shaped. Her eyes 
 were very dark, her hair was a shade of deep brown, and there 
 was a wonderful peach bloom upon her cheeks. She frowned 
 as she watched the brow of the hill ; and presently the frown 
 became a nervous smile. 
 
 "Here you are, little girl," she murmured. " There's poor 
 old harmless fright of a father I " 
 
 A.W. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 
 
 The construction of the railway between Crediton and Oke- 
 hampton opened up what was then one of the most uncivilised 
 parts of the country. At that time the people of mid-Devon 
 were not much better than savages. There were villages in 
 which a stranger was certain to be pelted with sticks and stones ; 
 the children were as rough and unruly as the ponies of the 
 moor ; the men were so'dull as to be unable to learn which 
 was their right hand and which their left (they wore straw tied 
 to one leg and hay to the other, and their employers would 
 guide them by calling " hay " or " straw ") ; the women did not 
 know what constituted virtue or what vice. These people lived 
 in half-ruined cottages of cob. Every village had its witch, 
 and every small town its witch-doctor. The clergy made 
 hardly an effort to reclaim them. 
 
 Few people outside Devon know much about its centre, with 
 its copses and combes and swamps. The tourist does not 
 penetrate there. The guide-books practically ignore it. The 
 finest trees in the west grow there ; the soil is frequently a rich 
 red, so red that if a painter ventured to represent it upon canvas 
 he would be accused of exaggeration. The damp heat of the 
 lanes and valleys is stifling. Many of the villages are in a 
 wretched state. Cottage walls gape and crack like the houses in 
 Hogarth's " Gin Lane." Thatch crumbles off, or sags lower every 
 year. The name of "Beer"or "Bere" recurs constantly, and other 
 common names in that part are "Ash " and " Nymet." Ten shil- 
 ings a week is reckoned good pay, and well-dressed children mean 
 starvation. There would be a thriving business for Mr. Pinch, 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 19 
 
 the pawnbroker, in these villages, if the inhabitants had anything 
 to pawn. 
 
 At the edge of this district, about seven miles north of Dart- 
 moor, the village of Tordown stands on the top of a hill. The 
 village itself is compact, although the parish is large and strag- 
 gling. The system of small holdings has been tried here with 
 a good deal of success. Most of the inhabitants farm a few 
 acres of land, and none of them are in actual want — with the ^ 
 possible exception of the rector. 
 
 Tordown rectory is entirely hidden by trees, chiefly beeches 
 and sycamores, with long avenues of immense laurels which 
 have not been cut for generations. The garden is large, weedy, 
 uncared for. The unpainted gates are rotting away. The lawn 
 is like a field. The worst farmhouse in the parish is in better 
 condition than the rectory; the most comfortless cottage is at 
 least as comfortable. A long, low house appears among the 
 beeches, windows hanging awry, door-posts rotten all through, 
 roof breaking away, and plaster crumbling off. The house is 
 always damp. Even a hot summer cannot dry it. The trees 
 keep the sun ofE. The rain and the mist from Dartmoor strike 
 upon the house, for it stands upon the extreme summit of the 
 hill which faces the moor. The wind is always blowing ; a 
 roar in winter, and a moan in summer. The church opposite 
 is in much the same condition as the rectory ; surrounded by 
 trees; always damp, its roof rotting away, its churchyard like 
 a field. The rain penetrates the roof and drips upon the broken 
 tiles of the chancel ; and the cracked music of the harmonium 
 may cause an owl to flap sleepily across the nave. Not long 
 ago a notice was posted in the porch inviting the parishioners 
 to subscribe towards a restoration fund ; but there was no 
 response. Education had done its work in Tordown as else- 
 where, and the farmers had discovered that mediagval teaching 
 was out of date. A bright, new chapel went up at the other end 
 of the village, and the inhabitants filled it every Sunday, and 
 on weekdays, too. Sermons were addressed them there by plain 
 men who understood them, not by a scholar with his head full 
 
 c 3 
 
20 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 of Latin and Greek, who did not know how to reach their sym. 
 pathies. Prayers were said in simple language and soft Devon- 
 shire dialect, and not in harsh and unintelligible early English, 
 with an ecclesiastical twang. Speaking frankly, neither church, 
 rectory, nor rector are required in Tordown. Were a gale from 
 Dartmoor to sweep them all away some winter's night the parish 
 would be no worse off. Only antiquaries would mourn, for it 
 is said there is a quaint inscription upon the timbers of the 
 chancel which nobody can decipher. 
 
 The Reverend Stephen Wistman was appointed to the living 
 of Tordown thirty years ago ; and for the greater part of those 
 thirty years he had sat in his low-roofed study, with the plaster 
 crumbling upon him, and moisture discolouring the walls, 
 buried in books and compiling endless notes. He read nothing 
 that was modern and little that was English. He delighted in 
 Latin, revelled in Greek, struggled with Arabic, and conde- 
 scended to Italian and Spanish. He was undeniably a scholar, 
 but his knowledge was of no practical use. His actual religious 
 beliefs were known only to himself. He preached intensely 
 orthodox sermons to his wife and daughter. Whenever he 
 was able to get away he went to Oxford and spent his holiday 
 among manuscripts in the Bodleian. He was deeply interested 
 in his parish so far as it concerned the middle ages ; indeed, he 
 found it of interest down to the commencement of the nine- 
 teenth century, but after that he lost touch with it, and the 
 modern village appealed to him merely as a survival. Thus 
 he would note quaint expressions and compare them with those 
 used by the Elizabethan dramatists, and he would take a 
 detached interest in a certain family because he found their 
 name mentioned in ancient records. He could not understand 
 why the villagers kept away from church, but he attributed it to 
 indifference and unbelief. He was a narrow-minded man and 
 a mediaeval priest at heart. Could he' have been given the 
 power of an Inquisitor he would probably have handed over 
 all his parishioners to the secular arm, with the charitable 
 euphemism that their blood should not be shed. As he had 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. ar 
 
 no power at all, he sat in his study and read Greek ; and the 
 villagers flocked to Zion Chapel ; and thistles grew about the 
 church. 
 
 " Parson hain't like the devil," said a witty old farmer one 
 day. " The devil be always after us, but parson lets us bide." 
 
 Mrs. Wistman lived and moved. That was all. She rarely 
 spoke. She was indifferent to everything. She was absolutely 
 torpid with misery. Had she seen the roof falling upon her it 
 is doubtful whether she would have moved away. She presented 
 the curious phenomenon of a human being rusting to death. 
 
 She was an oflBcer's daughter, aind in her youth had enjoyed 
 a bright life. In the midst of gaiety her father died, and 
 Stephen Wistman came across her path. She was penniless, 
 and he was a handsome curate. She disliked the clergy, or 
 rather she disliked the life they led, but young Wistman 
 bewildered her with his learning; and, feeling that he was 
 certain in time to capture one of the prizes of the Church, she 
 consented to become his wife. She made a thoroughly bad 
 bargain. Her husband was a complete failure. He suffered 
 from a curious inability to live up to his surroundings. He was 
 always floundering mentally among the shadows of the past. 
 He was out of touch with everything and everybody. So far 
 from being able to command influence, he alienated it. She 
 had never been in love with him; before long she actually 
 disliked him, and finally grew to detest him. They were 
 terribly poor, and he considered it his duty to lay the burden of 
 motherhood heavily upon her. 
 
 There was nothing new in that — ^the bringing into the world 
 of children who could not be maintained, but her soul revolted 
 against it. She had been a bright young girl, full of life and 
 high spirits, when he married her, and ever afterwards she 
 was condemned to be a drudge and an invalid. At thirty she 
 was a shadow of her former self. Each year brought an 
 addition to the family. She bore altogether eleven children, 
 each more of a weakling than the preceding one. She rarely 
 left her home even for a walk. She could not. There was no 
 
23 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 money to keep a nurse. In addition to the cares of mother- 
 hood she had to do most of the housework. Fortunately — the 
 word was her own — the children died, with the exception of 
 two, a boy and a girl. Some died a day or so after birth ; 
 others lived for a month or even two ; but none, except the two 
 survivors, exceeded that period. The doctor — a feeble old 
 man, past work, and with very little practical knowledge — ^put 
 down " heart failure " in every case, and the poor little bodies 
 were consigned to the weedy churchyard. The rector never 
 mentioned them. His wife shuddered whenever she thought 
 of them. The old doctor had his turn of heart failure and 
 went to his grave; and the thistles went on growing in the 
 churchyard. 
 
 Barbara Wistman had not even such consolations as religion 
 is said to bring. She was not a free-thinker, simply because 
 she did not think at all. She did not reject the orthodox 
 creed, neither did she accept it. She attended the church in 
 exactly the same frame of mind as she walked in the garden. 
 She played the harmonium, and was conscious of nothing 
 except that the instrument was horribly out of tune. If she 
 had enough spirit left ever to express a wish it was that she 
 might be taken to some place where she could never see a 
 church or a harmonium, never hear a parson preaching or 
 a cracked bell ringing, and never smell the blossoms of the 
 lime trees. She had to walk beneath the limes from the gate 
 of the rectory to the church porch. She could not walk far 
 because she was too weak. She could not read much because 
 her eyesight was failing fast. She spent the greater part of her 
 time sitting in her dreary, ill-furnished drawing-room, with her 
 thin, trembling hands clasped upon her lap. Stephen Wistman 
 would have been very much surprised had he known how 
 many tears had fallen upon those thin, clasped hands during 
 the last thirty years. 
 
 The surviving children were the first-born, a boy, and the 
 ninth, a girl. The boy had gone when quite young to America, 
 and had supported himself ever since. Nona, the daughter, 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 33 
 
 always lived at home. It was fortunate for her she was not the 
 eleventh, as in that case her father would certainly have 
 burdened her for life with the name of Undecima. Stephen 
 Wistman looked upon Nona with pride — it was hardly possible 
 for him to look upon anything with love — not because she was 
 fair-haired and pretty, but because she was what he had made 
 her, a triumph of manipulation, a snow-white virgin, a creature 
 of perfect innocence. Dartmoor Jack looked upon Maria with 
 the proud reflection, " Her be mine, not sergeant's." Wistman 
 looked upon Nona with the exalted thought, " She is mine, 
 not Nature's." 
 
 His she was. So soon as she could speak and think he had 
 undertaken the forming of her mind. He asked his wife to 
 teach her nothing ; to betray none of Nature's secrets ; and only 
 to speak to her upon the most ordinary topics. Barbara 
 Wistman complied with her usual indifEerence, and the rector 
 started his work. Come what might, Nona should be innocent. 
 She should not know what human passion was, how it checks 
 ambition and retards progress, how it reduces men and women 
 to the level of animals, and how it dims the spiritual vision. 
 She should become a perfect woman. She should know 
 nothing beyond what he chose to tell her. She should not be 
 allowed the opportunity of teaching herself. 
 
 His task was easy at first, but when Nona reached the age of 
 puberty difficulties came and increased. There were two 
 sources by which she might learn those things she was not to 
 know : contact with others, and the reading of books; He did 
 not send her to school, of course, and he would not permit her 
 to see other girls unless he was present, nor to walk in the viliage 
 without him. She was put upon her honour not to speak to the 
 general servant except upon matters of housekeeping. As for 
 books, most of the rector's were in tongues unknown to the 
 girl ; those in English that might have been harmful were kept 
 under lock and key. The Bible she was certainly allowed to 
 possess. Her father had thought at first of giving her a 
 bowdlerised version, but he remembered she would be often in 
 
24 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 the church and have access to the Bible there, so he refrained. 
 When Nona asked for an explanation of some awkward passage 
 he was careful not to excite her curiosity by a refusal, but 
 explained it in a manner satisfactory to both and without 
 divulging the actual truth. The girl was now twenty, and there 
 was no doubt about the success of his methods. She was 
 entirely innocent. She had never seen her father in her 
 mother's room; she did not know that married people slept 
 together ; and she implicitly believed that a baby was brought 
 by some obliging and invisible angel and deposited beside the 
 door of the damsel for whom it was intended. She often woke 
 up at night wondering if she had become a mother ; and 
 she was always disappointed when she looked outside her 
 door. 
 
 Nona was deeply religious in a strange way. She believed 
 that if she told her father a deliberate lie she would be struck 
 dead. He had, indeed, admitted this was probable, and had 
 quoted the story of Sapphira in support of his statement. Nona 
 spent much of her time in the church. She kept the flowers 
 fresh, cleaned what little brasswork there was, and attended to 
 the lamps. She swept, she scrubbed, and she cleaned. She 
 was the only person in Tordown who took any interest in the 
 church. This fact was not the least of the problems which 
 presented themselves to her mind as she approached woman- 
 hood. Why did nobody come to church ? Her father was the 
 only person she could ask; and his reply that the villagers 
 were infidels by no means satisfied her. Like the Gentiles of 
 old, she was astounded by such doctrine. How was it that 
 her father permitted the souls of those entrusted to his care to 
 be lost before his eyes without making an effort to save them ? 
 That they would be lost, that the chapel was a place where the 
 true religion was burlesqued and blasphemed, he admitted at 
 once. What was he there for, if it was not to bring sinners to 
 repentance ? Nona was aware that missionaries were sent to all 
 parts of the world to reclaim the heathen ; and she wanted to 
 know why some of them were not sent to Tordown. Her 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 25 
 
 father frowned at this, told her she was concerning herself with 
 matters which she could not be brought to comprehend, and 
 went back to his Arabic without another word. Nona went 
 into the church and prayed that a missionary might be sent- 
 It was not long before her prayers were answered. 
 
 The kitchen-garden of the rectory stretched beside the village 
 road for close upon two hundred yards. A high wall of cob 
 cut it off from a yard, which contained a few out-houses nearing 
 the last stage of dilapidation. Grass and thistles grew waist- 
 high in this yard, which was littered with all manner of rubbish 
 deposited there by the wheelwright to whom this space belonged. 
 There were stacks of wood; great roots of trees, which had 
 been grubbed up and thrown there to rot ; iron pipes and 
 railings, broken and red with rust; chimneys, tiles, and bricks; 
 wire, planks, hurdles, and packing-cases ; old-fashioned carts 
 and machines, past work and of no good to anyone; old doors 
 and garden-frames, picked up for nothing at some sale, put 
 away in the yard for future use, and then forgotten; and a 
 quantity of scrap-iron, which the wheelwright thought might 
 come in useful some day. He never took anything away from 
 the yard, but he was continually adding to the rubbish. 
 
 Beyond this yard was a narrow and densely-wooded path 
 leading down to Stokey moor. Then came another yard, 
 cobbled and weedy, but in a tolerable state of repair, and upon 
 the far side of this yard jutted part of the thatched roof of Miss 
 Challacombe's residence, a long, two-storied building which 
 had been once a manor-house. Topiary hedges of sweet- 
 scented box lined the stone path leading from the garden gate 
 to the front door. Inside there was wonderful old furniture ; 
 hardly any of it was less than a hundred years old. In the 
 principal bedroom was a four-poster of black oak dating from 
 the sixteenth century, and curiously carved with birds, bunches 
 of fruit, and grotesque faces. The complete history of the 
 bed was unknown. Carved upon it, in floriated letters evidently 
 of a much later date than the bed itself, was the motto, " Cave 
 Amicum." Perhaps part of the history of the bed was suggested 
 
26 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 by that warning, which was not the motto of the Challacombes. 
 It appeared again upon a very ancient clothes-press in the 
 dining-room. This was probably of the same date as the bed, 
 for it was decorated after the same manner ; and there, too, the 
 motto appeared to have been carved at some later date. 
 
 Miss Challacombe lived in the manor — which modern luxury 
 would have called a cottage — six months of the year. The 
 other six she spent at Falmouth. She hated the Wistmans, and 
 only rarely visited them. She was herself a Roman Catholic, 
 like the rest of her family, and she made a point of attending 
 Mass at least once a year. 
 
 On the first Saturday in December, the day on which Dart- 
 moor Jack went to Okehampton station to meet Maria, the 
 village was surprised by the startling appearance of Betsey, 
 Miss Challacombe's old housekeeper. She drove down the 
 street, stiff and prim, like an idol on its car, dismounted at 
 Stokey, as the manor was called, and promptly disappeared. 
 That afternoon the shutters were taken down, the windows 
 stood open, and clouds of smoke ascended from every 
 chimney. 
 
 That same evening Nona was sitting in the drawing-room, her 
 pretty face puzzled by an arithmetical problem which her father 
 had set her, when the door opened, and the loutish shape of 
 Lucy, the servant, appeared. 
 
 " Little Saint James have gone to bed, miss," she 
 announced. 
 
 Nona rose at once and put the problem from her with a 
 sigh, not because she was sorry to leave it, but because the 
 duty to which Lucy had called her was very distasteful. She 
 crossed the passage, looked into her father's study, and 
 asked : 
 
 " May I go with Lucy to kill Saint James ? " 
 
 The rector was sitting at his table, scribbling and frowning, 
 and thumbing a big book. He threw himself back in the chair 
 when he heard Nona's voice, cleared his throat noisily, smacked 
 his white forehead several times, and muttered, "Dear me I 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 27 
 
 dear, dear me ! Yes, to be sure. It must be that way and no 
 other. What a simple matter it is after all." 
 
 Nona was accustomed to her father's eccentricity when he 
 was summoned from ancient Athens, Babylon, Memphis, or 
 wherever his mind might chance to be wandering. She merely 
 repeated her question, which had the effect of bringing him 
 back for a few moments to mid-Devon, Tordown, and the 
 damp, leaking rectory. 
 
 " Kill him by all means," he said. 
 
 Nona went away with Lucy to procure the knife with which 
 the deed was to be done. It was nothing very frightful after 
 all. Nona kept chickens and ducks, and made a little pocket- 
 money out of them. St. James was only a young cockerel, 
 upon whom sentence of death had been passed, so that he 
 might fulfil his destiny of supplying the family with a Sunday 
 dinner. He was called St. James by the girl because he had 
 emerged from the egg upon the day which is sacred to that 
 apostle. The fowl-house was full of saints, apostles, confessors, 
 martyrs, and virgins. 
 
 Nona carried the lantern, and Lucy had the knife. Lucy was 
 executioner, and seemed rather to enjoy it, while Nona would 
 clench her little hands and shudder pitifully, but always looked 
 on to satisfy herself that the deed was performed as humanely 
 as possible. It was very dark, but quite mild and the wind 
 from Dartmoor was as soft as the touch of spring-water. 
 
 " Miss Challacombe — she'm here," burst forth Lucy, as they 
 walked towards the fowl-house, where St. James was dozing, 
 unconscious of his doom. 
 
 " Be quiet, Lucy," said Nona, sharply. 
 
 Lucy became quiet. She knew it was not lawful to address 
 her young mistress upon any subject apart from her 
 domestic duties. There were times when she wilfully tempted 
 Nona, always to find her, as then, incorruptible. It was as much 
 as her place was worth to give any further information. Nona 
 was longing to hear more, but she knew it would be a sin to 
 listen. If she disobeyed her father she would be struck dead 
 
28 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 at once. She was sure of that, and although her life was not 
 happy, she did not want it to end. 
 
 Not another word was spoken. St. James was put to the 
 sword, while Nona, half crying, held the lantern aloft. Then 
 they went back to the house ; the dead saint was slung up in 
 the larder, while Nona went to her father's study, and brought 
 him out of Egypt with the confession, " Lucy has just told me 
 that Miss Challacombe is here." 
 
 "What ! in the drawing-room ! with Mrs. Wistman ? " cried 
 the scholar, when he had grasped the intelligence. He never 
 referred to his wife as "Barbara," or as "your mother." " What 
 is she doing here ? " 
 
 " I think Lucy meant to say she has come back to Stokey," 
 said Nona, primly. 
 
 For a moment the rector's gaze fell upon his daughter, as 
 she stood beside the door, her body in shadow, her face and 
 hair and bust just within the rim of lamplight. He felt with a 
 thrill that she had changed a good bit of late. It seemed to him 
 that her limbs were larger and rounder than they had been^ 
 that her bust was much more developed. He could hardly 
 help observing that her colour came and went quickly, her eyes, 
 which used to look at him coldly, were becoming soft and shy, 
 her speech was more timid, her mouth was swelling like an 
 opening rose, and the lower lip was drooping. Looking at her 
 then he had an uncomfortable idea that she was conscious of 
 new feelings and sympathies, of new desires which were sweet, 
 and which she could not know were wrong. He wondered 
 whether Nature had been doing anything to her. 
 
 " Lucy told you nothing else ? " he said. 
 
 " Nothing at all," she replied. She had never been taught 
 to call him "father," lest by continual repetition of the word she 
 should be led to ask herself disquieting questions. 
 
 " Whenever she has spoken to you on any subject, you have 
 always reported the matter to me ? " he went on. 
 
 " Yes, always. I have tried to tell you her exact words." 
 
 The rector smiled and stroked his beard. He became 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 29 
 
 satisfied, and his only idea then was to return to Egypt. But 
 Nona remained by the door. 
 
 "Will you explain something to me ? " she said. 
 
 " Certainly," the rector replied. He was generally patient 
 with her, and always ready to explain, although he was aware 
 his explanations sounded more hollow as her questions became 
 more daring. 
 
 " When I was among the fowls just now, I was wondering 
 why some are cocks and some hens," the girl began ; but before 
 she could resume her father broke in cheerily, "You do not 
 wonder why some of us are men and some women ? " 
 
 " But I do," cried Nona. 
 
 " Then I will tell you. Women are made to be the com- 
 panions of men, to keep home, to prepare meals, and to help 
 and comfort with sympathy and affection. This is to a certain 
 extent repeated in the animal world. The males protect the 
 females, find them food, and assist them in various ways." 
 
 " I protect my hens and give them food," said Nona quietly. 
 " The cocks seem to me to do nothing but worry and frighten 
 them." 
 
 " We need not discuss that point," said the scholar. " The 
 answer to your question is simple. We keep the cocks for our 
 table, and we keep the hens that they may lay us eggs." 
 
 " Then the cocks are of no use except for eating ? " she asked. 
 
 "No doubt they fulfil their part in the general scheme of 
 Nature. They may perform duties which to us are incompre- 
 hensible. We are very ignorant, Nona. I have often sought 
 to impress that fact upon you. We must learn gradually. I 
 have been learning all my life, and yet I know very little. I 
 cannot even tell you why this world was made, or why we were 
 placed upon it." 
 
 " I am always wanting to know things," said Nona, flushing 
 hotly. "I feel there are some things which it must be possible 
 to explain. I want to know why I have certain feelings of 
 love — what they are, and what they mean. I think it is not 
 altogether the love of God-' " 
 
30 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Take care," he interrupted with a noisy cough. " You will 
 be talking sinfully if you say anything more. Remember that 
 anything which seems to come between you and my teaching 
 is sinful. To enquire deeply into the marvels of creation is 
 undoubtedly a sin. Go to your bedroom, Nona, and pray that 
 these thoughts may leave you and not return." 
 
 The girl did not say another word, but her rich, red lower 
 lip trembled and her bosom heaved. She turned and left the 
 study. The rector heard her making her way upstairs to her 
 cold, damp bedroom, and once he fancied he heard something 
 like a sob. Then he stroked his beard, and smacked his 
 forehead, and hurried back to ancient Egypt. 
 
 In the meantime Lucy was regaling her mistress with the 
 latest intelligence. 
 
 " Miss Challacombe have come back to Stokey for Christ- 
 mas. She'm there now. Betsey came in the afternoon, and 
 Miss Challacombe drove up at dimpsy, and now the cart's 
 come wi' all the boxes, and they say visitors be coming tu. 
 Sal Lampey to the Challacombe Arms have got an order for 
 beer and cider, and Miss Challacombe don't drink beer nor yet 
 cider. And Coneybear says a gentleman's coming Monday, 
 and he'm going to have the best room and sleep in the old bed, 
 and he'm to drink a lot of milk, Coneybear says. Mrs. Isaacs 
 to Barton be going to send 'en milk twice a day reg'lar. 
 Coneybear be fair 'mazed, he says, 'cause his missis be come 
 home all to once and nothing ready, and Miss Challacombe 
 be that broody, and Betsey be ready to die wi' work. The 
 garden be weedy, Coneybear says, and the house be all nohow, 
 and Mrs. Sobey be to go in to-morrow, though 'tis Sunday, to 
 tidy, 'cause there be a gentleman coming Monday, Coneybear 
 says, and they be all 'mazed." 
 
 These words pelted upon Mrs. Wistman's indifferent ears 
 like hailstones upon an iron roof. She was not interested to 
 learn that Miss Challacombe had come back to Stokey. She 
 only wondered why the old spinster had left Falmouth. How 
 could anyone who was free deliberately leave the world and 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 31 
 
 come to Tordown ? How could anyone with money choose 
 that dreary prison ? She had always envied Miss Challacombe. 
 She was free. She had not bound herself to a penniless man. 
 She had not been sentenced to servitude for life. She could go 
 and come as she pleased. She had a warm and comfortable 
 residence, not a cold, damp house, very nearly as frightful as 
 a mediaeval dungeon. Probably Miss Challacombe had not 
 been pretty and charming as a girl. What a blessing for her ! 
 
 The family were at supper, and the meal was being rendered 
 a feast of entertainment by a lecture from the head of the table 
 upon the evolution of Grecian drama, when Lucy appeared 
 with a note, which Coneybear, Miss Challacombe's young man, 
 had just brought. As an answer was required, the rector ceased 
 his discourse and became fairly modern. The mistress of 
 Stokey wished to know if he could make it convenient to call 
 upon her that evening, when she would explain to him the cause 
 of her leaving Falmouth in the middle of winter. The rector 
 returned a polite verbal message, which Lucy conveyed to 
 Coneybear in the form, " Sends regards to the missis, and says 
 he'll be there"; and which Coneybear presented still more 
 laconically to Betsey, " He'm coming " ; and which Betsey, who 
 was in a bad temper, gave to her mistress under pressure, 
 " ' Drat 'en,' he said, ' what du ye want wi' I ? ' " 
 
 Later on Wistman arrived, and was advised by Betsey to wipe 
 his boots. He complied, Betsey pointed to a closed door, 
 announced " Her be inside," and shuffled away, presenting to 
 his gaze a broad and uncompromising back. Then Miss 
 Challacombe, who understood Betsey's little ways after having 
 been managed by her for nearly forty years, appeared, gave him 
 a cold right hand of welcome, and took him in. After a few 
 polite remarks, which meant nothing and were intended to 
 mean nothing, the old lady tackled her subject. 
 
 " I have returned to Stokey to receive my nephew, who is 
 coming here on Monday. He is in weak health at present. 
 The doctor has discovered that his lungs are not all that they 
 might be. There is no disease — merely weakness. The 
 
32 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 doctor considers this will pass away entirely if he submits to a 
 certain amount of treatment, as recommended by him. He 
 has advised my nephew to leave London, and lead a quiet, 
 healthy life upon high ground, preferably in this part of the 
 country." 
 
 The old lady paused, that she might deliver herself of three 
 sneezes in rapid succession. The rector tried to think of some 
 suitable remark, but just then could think of nothing better 
 than the saying of Menander to the effect that those who are 
 well are always quite ready to give advice to the sick. Rightly 
 considering that Miss Challacombe would not appreciate the 
 classical purity of this utterance, he satisfied himself by 
 exclaiming, " Dear, dear mel " and by smacking his forehead 
 with some severity. 
 
 " My brother wrote to me at once," the mistress of Stokey 
 went on, when she had done sneezing, " to ask me if 1 could 
 receive Brian here. As the weather is so mild, I decided to 
 return and try and make the boy comfortable. This place 
 should suit him well enough. The house stands over nine 
 hundred feet, I believe. I know from experience that the 
 winds of Dartmoor are always blowing upon it. I think he 
 ought to get strong and well here." 
 
 " I think," the rector replied, making himself her echo, " he 
 ought to get quite strong and well here." 
 
 " I sent for you to ask whether you could make it convenient 
 to give Brian some tuition during his stay," continued the old 
 lady. " Neither the doctor nor my brother consider it advis- 
 able that Brian should be altogether idle. He is a clever 
 boy, and I think you will appreciate him. But he wants 
 his mind improved. The choice oi subjects would be left with 
 you." 
 
 The rector was thinking of Nona, her innocence, and her 
 budding womanhood. He shook his head as he replied, "I 
 could not receive him in my house." 
 
 "I don't ask you to," replied Miss Challacombe, with some 
 asperity. " Brian wM have his rooms here." 
 
DEMSHUR HEIGHTS. 33 
 
 " Yes, I might come here," said Wistman. 
 
 "Two hours a day would be sufficient. Perhaps you will 
 write to my brother and arrange terms. Thank you very 
 much, Mr. Wistman. I am sure you will like Brian. He's a 
 bright, handsome boy, just twenty-one, though he doesn't 
 look it. You will find him clever, and he will bring the 
 atmosphere of town life to you." 
 
 The rector walked home in the mist beside the church- 
 yard and its wind-swept trees. He groped between the high 
 laurels, and let himself into the house. A smoky 'amp gave 
 light enough in the drawing-room for him to see Nona reading 
 by the fire. Her mother had gone to bed already. He 
 approached the girl, bent over her, and saw that she had a 
 prayer-book open at the marriage service. 
 
 " What are you doing, Nona f " he asked. 
 
 " Trying to understand," she said. " It's not wicked I " 
 
 " To try and understand too much is always wicked," he 
 answered. " Matrimony is a sacrament, and a sacrament is a 
 mystery." 
 
 " If it is wrong, I can't help it," she cried, as she clasped 
 and unclasped her fingers. " All the time I was upstairs I 
 could not pray. I was thinking and wondering. I cannot 
 understand all this service, but I feel I ought to. The explana- 
 tion seems to be in me. I think I should know if I tried again ; 
 and when I try, the answer still seems in me and quite near. 
 It is like trying to think of something which I have forgotten. 
 Couldn't you help me a little ? " 
 
 " I cannot help you," said Wistman firmly. 
 
 " Will you explain to me these few words ? Here they are," 
 she said, holding the book up. " I have been looking in the 
 dictionary, but the definitions are as puzzling as the words. 
 Surely you must be able to explain them." 
 
 She looked up at him, as he took the book, and she pointed 
 out the words which she could not understand. Her eyes were 
 moist and passionate. He could see the strong blood filling 
 her lips and cheeks, and feel the warm nature which he had 
 
 A.W. D 
 
34 ARMINEL OF THE WESl'. 
 
 conquered proceeding from her body. Hardly knowing what 
 he was doing, he bent and kissed her. 
 
 "Is that it?" she murmured, her eyes half closed, flushing 
 more, and yet innocently. 
 
 " It is love, Nona," he said half angrily. " It is love for one 
 another that makes us thrill and want to live, and gives us the 
 desire to know more." 
 
 "But what is love?" she urged. "I feel it is something 
 more than the desire to live." 
 
 Stephen Wistman was a scholar. He knew well how to 
 wrap up a truth in words so that it should become unintelligible. 
 Plenty of words came, but there was no help in them. It only 
 remained for the Lord Chief Justice of mankind to pass 
 sentence and to punish, as all authorities in all places shall 
 punish where false evidence has been given, and where justice 
 has been withheld. 
 
 For the first time in her life, Nona's spirit rebelled ; and she 
 hardened her heart when she went to bed. 
 
 " I believe he knows, and will not tell me," she whispered ; 
 and when no lightning fell from heaven to consume her, she 
 whispered again, " I believe he has been deceiving me." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 
 
 The least romantic month of the year is December, 
 November in mid-Devon finds the foliage still upon the trees, 
 the bracken golden, a few late flowers in the lanes, a bunch or 
 two of sodden blackberries, sometimes a ripe strawberry. But 
 December, in the words of Bacon, "mars all." In January 
 Nature does not awake, but she moves, her breathing is heard, 
 and consciousness is suggested by the snowdrop and the prim- 
 rose. There is more romance in one gleam of Spring sunshine 
 than in all Christmas-tide. Christmas is a failure as a holiday. 
 It is the saddest "time of the year, and that is why so many 
 Christmas stories have been written. No stories are written 
 about Easter-tide. It is Spring then, wet and cold perhaps, 
 but still Spring, and Romance is alive again, and no stories are 
 required. 
 
 That is why a pleasure fair at Christmas is a failure. It 
 comes at the wrong time. There is no romance about it. 
 Young people must have sunshine for a fair. Their blood 
 must be warmed, not chilled. There must be an air of 
 abandon, a surrender of self to pleasure which is not necessarily , 
 evil. The Spring and Autumn fairs of Devonshire are not 
 degenerating. On the contrary, they have improved very 
 much during recent years, although there are many who would 
 abolish them altogether, as the village dance and the Maypole 
 were abolished. Nobody who knows the origin of the Maypole 
 could wish to see its ancient rites revived; but the mobern 
 pleasure fair has no Pagan symbolism. The contrary rather, 
 for it was originally a Church holiday, and as such was 
 
 D 3 
 
36 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 dedicated to some saint. There is the fair of St. Thomas at 
 Exeter, for instance. The saint is still solicited for his 
 patronage, although the religious idea has been decidedly lost 
 sight of. It would not be easy to imagine the Dean and 
 Chapter attending the fair ceremonially, to ride upon the steam- 
 roundabouts, or to watch the scantily-attired ladies dancing 
 before the booth where living-pictures are displayed. 
 
 The word "pleasure" in connection with Okehampton Giglet 
 Fair is a misnomer. It is the saddest affair of its kind to be 
 found an3rwhere. This is so simply because it is held upon the 
 first Saturday after Christmas. If it were held upon the first 
 Saturday in April it would prove a popular attraction. It offers 
 frivolity at the saddest time of the year, when Nature is sleeping 
 and Romance is dead, and therefore it is a failure. 
 
 Ask any rustic maiden what " giglet " means, and she will 
 giggle and say she does not know. She has, however, given the 
 correct answer, although her questioner may not be aware 
 of it. 
 
 Fore Street was full of country-folk. Christmas had been 
 very wet, and the first Saturday after the festival, or within the 
 octave, as Church people would say, was fine and bright. 
 Whiskered men, buxom dames, and strapping wenches with 
 cheeks like nectarines or wooden dolls, had come in from all 
 parts of mid-Devon to celebrate the " giglet." The heads of 
 families spent most of the holiday in the public-houses. For 
 most of them a fair day began and ended with beer. The 
 stout dames met others equally well proportioned. They stood 
 together upon the road laughing consumedly. The most 
 ordinary remark upon the weather was a sufficient excuse for a 
 flood of mirth. As for the daughters, they stood like well-filled 
 sacks, their arms hanging stiifly as though bereft of elbow 
 joints, smiling stupidly at every young man who passed. 
 There appeared to be no meaning in those smiles, no passion 
 and no invitation, simply because their eyes were entirely 
 lapking in expression. The young men smiled back in exactly 
 the same way. 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 37 
 
 A tall, handsome young fellow — looking like a well-bred 
 horse at a donkey show — stood at the Fore Street end of the 
 Arcade, watching the passing pleasure seekers. He wore no 
 hat, and his fai. hair was ruffled upon his forehead. Those 
 who went by perceived he was a gentleman, because he wore 
 his clothes well and was soft-handed. That is the great 
 distinction in the country. The workman could have good 
 clothes if he liked to pay for them ; but he would only appear 
 awkward in them, and he would be sure to give himself away 
 by outrageous boots or an impossible tie. As for his hands, 
 there would be no doing anything with them. The toiler must 
 have his hard palms and black-rimmed nails. He cannot 
 escape from them. The wenches did not dare to smile at the 
 young gentleman who stood at the end of the Arcade. They 
 would as soon have smiled at the vicar of the parish. Had he 
 smiled at them they would have been dazed and speechless. 
 
 The young stranger was Brian Challacombe. He had come 
 in from Tordown because he already felt that the life there was 
 pretty dull. He hoped there might be some fun to be had 
 at Giglet Fair. Near him stood Coneybear in a respectful 
 attitude. 
 
 " Better run away and enjoy yourself," said Brian. " Plenty 
 of girls here, if you want one." 
 
 " I don't want 'em. I don't hold wi' maidens," Coneybear 
 answered with a fine aloofness. 
 
 " I wouldn't trust you among them," said Brian. " What 
 were you doing last night about nine o'clock ? " 
 
 Coneybear looked unhappy. He scratched his head, and 
 when that failed to assist him he kicked one boot against the 
 other. That did not help him either, so he sought to loosen 
 his collar, and finally committed himself to the brief statemei^t. 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " A very good occupation, and one much followed in this 
 part of the country," came the answer. " Well, I'll tell you 
 what you were doing. I was walking by the yard, and I thought 
 I heard voices on the other side of the hedge. Of course, I 
 
38 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 may have been mistaken, but still that was my impression. My 
 idea was that you were one of the speakers and Lucy, the Rectory 
 servant, was the other. Where are you off to, Coneybear ? " 
 
 " To see my old granny. Her lives up East Street," said 
 Coneybear, who could tell a lie as well as most men. 
 
 " Graimy can wait five minutes. I want to tell you about 
 those two strange voices," Brian went on. " One of them said, 
 ' Let go, or I'll scream.' The other said, ' Wun't ye kiss your 
 little Willie ? ' Then the first voice said. ' I'll give you some- 
 thing, you toad.' Then followed what I should have described 
 as a struggle, then a smack, which might have been caused by 
 a cheek being slapped or a mouth being kissed ; another 
 struggle, more smacks, and finally the first voice, which seemed 
 to have forgotten its promise to scream, whispered, ' If ye du 
 I'll bite.' You're a dangerous fellow when you are in the mood 
 for doing nothing." 
 
 " It wam't me," said Coneybear. " Nine o'clock I were — I 
 were polishing them boots you'm wearing now. Me wi' Lucy 1 
 I wouldn't touch she. Why I be afraid of she. Her's a proper 
 devil." 
 
 " Well, that's a nice thing to say after your little idyll in the 
 lane. You seemed to conquer your dread of her then all right. 
 Never mind, Coneybear. I'm just as human as you are, and 
 sometimes nearly as untruthful. Before you run away to 
 visit your dear little granny, who I suspect is not yet out of 
 her teens, you might tell me why all these people have left 
 their happy homes and driven along miles of muddy lanes 
 to visit Okehampton on this particular day." 
 
 " 'Tis giglet," said Coneybear in a somewhat injured tone. 
 
 " I know. But where is the fair ? Where are the swings 
 and roundabouts ? " 
 
 " Bain't none," cried Coneybear, his voice becoming shrill. 
 
 " Nothing but these ? " said Brian, indicating with a nod the 
 row of shabby stalls which lined each side of Fore Street. 
 " What are the people here for, then ? To walk about, and 
 stare at each other, and drink beer f " 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 39 
 
 " 'Tis giglet," said Coneybear again, this time with a queer 
 cackle of laughter. 
 
 As he spoke Brian noticed a young man of about his own 
 age looking at him. This young man wore riding-breeches 
 and splashed gaiters, a bowler hat rather too large for him, 
 and a white stock fastened tightly round his long neck. He 
 was very thin, his face was entirely without colour, and his eyes 
 protruded slightly. He smiled in a weak-minded fashion when 
 his eyes met Brian's. Then he parted his lips as though he 
 would like to speak. 
 
 " Perhaps you know where the fun of the fair comes in ? " 
 Brlrn said. 
 
 " Aw, yes," said the young man. " I was here last year, and 
 the year before — and the year before that," he added with his 
 weak-minded smile. "I've been here a lot of times. I'm 
 David Badgery, of Drewsteignton." 
 
 " Indeed," said Brian politely ; while Coneybear seized the 
 opportunity to escape and pay the long-deferred visit to the 
 lady whom he was pleased to style grandmother. 
 
 " I rode over on my old mare," went on David eagerly. He 
 spoke in a strange way, chopping his words in two, hesitating 
 as if he did not know how to complete them, and slurring 
 every other syllable. " Like to see Topsy ? I bought her in 
 Bideford, and she'm a booty — ^the bootiest in the county. Come 
 and have a look at her." 
 
 " Thanks," said Brian, wondering who this extraordinarily 
 simple creature might be. " I should like to see her ; but just 
 now I should like to see the fair." 
 
 " Aw, the giglets," muttered David, his strange white face 
 becoming a crease of smiles. " There's one." He pointed 
 to a well-developed maiden standing a few yards away. The 
 girl heard him and saw his pointing hand. She turned scarlet 
 and began to giggle. "Fine fat one," David added, with 
 another crease of smiles. " Bain't ye, my dear ? " 
 
 " Iss," murmured the trembling girl, turning more towards 
 them. 
 
40 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " You can talk to any of 'em to-day," went on David. " It's 
 giglet, and that means you can speak to any girl you like. 
 When you speak to her she giggles. See ? That's why they 
 call it Giglet Fair." 
 
 " And that's why every girl pretends she doesn't know what 
 the word means ? " Brian suggested. 
 
 " Aw, that's it. That's it, my dear. Come and see the old 
 mare. She'm a real booty, she is. I've got her in the stable 
 at the Plume. Come and see what a fine winter's coat she's 
 got." 
 
 "I'll come presently," said Brian. He had an excellent 
 reason for not going at once. " I suppose the winter's coat 
 will last another hour or so ? " 
 
 " Aw, yes," said simple David. " It'll last till Spring. I 
 groom her myself, two hours every day. I put in a lot of 
 work on her. Uncle says I don't groom her properly, 'cause I 
 don't hiss over her. Uncle is Farmer Badgery. I'm David 
 Badgery, of Drewsteignton. I did try to hiss, but I can't, 
 'cause my throat is bad. He says a horse can't be groomed 
 unless you hiss over it. Think that's right ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it must be," Brian answered with perfect gravity. 
 "Nobody would waste their breath, hissing, if it wasn't 
 necessary." 
 
 " Everyone says the same. I must try to hiss," David went 
 on. " Topsy's coat looks as smooth as satin and as bright as 
 glass, but I suppose there must be something wrong about it." 
 
 " You might get a boy to stand by and hiss while you groom 
 her," Brian suggested. 
 
 " Aw, yes, so I might. So I might, my dear. Never thought 
 of that," said David, his crease of smiles returning. " That's 
 what I call a fust-rate idea. I'll get a boy for a shilling a week 
 to come and hiss for me. Come and see old Topsy," he 
 pleaded. " She'm such a booty, and we might have a drink o' 
 cider at the same time." 
 
 " All right," said Brian. " Lead the way." 
 
 He had not been anxious to stir until then, for a good reason. 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR 41 
 
 While David had been speaking, Brian observed that his eyes 
 were wandering. At first he thought this was due to 
 nervousness, but presently he guessed David was looking for 
 someone. Brian followed his gaze, and it was not long before 
 he discovered its object. Of course, it was a girl, but it was a 
 girl quite unlike the lusty maidens of the district. She was 
 prettily dressed, and sensibly, which could not be said of the 
 farmers' daughters. They must have their open-work stockings 
 and lace-edged white petticoat for fair-day, whether it fell in 
 December or June. This young girl was dressed for the winter 
 in a dark-green plaid skirt, with coat to match, a fur toque, and 
 irreproachable tan shoes. She was walking alone in Fore 
 Street, glancing at the stalls, and sometimes pausing beside 
 one. She took not the slightest notice of the young men or 
 their remarks. She did once glance at the end of the Arcade 
 as she passed down the road ; and Brian flattered himself it 
 was upon him, and not upon David, that her eyes rested. It 
 was only when he looked for her in vain that Brian consented 
 to make David happy by paying a visit to his mare. 
 
 David led the way, his quaint, thin figure lurching through 
 the crowd. He stopped at a gateway opening on the pavement, 
 made an abrupt motion of the head to Brian, and lurched in, 
 his boots slipping upon the greasy cobbles. A gang of 
 pleasure-seekers came by at that moment, and Brian permitted 
 himself to be carried along with them, past the gateway which 
 led into the yard of the inn, and along the street to the turning 
 into Station Road. There he was left in the comparative peace 
 of the corner, while the pleasure-seekers went revelling on. 
 
 He stood there for some minutes, not in the least knowing 
 what to do, until he became almost sorry he had given the slip 
 to David. The pretty girl had disappeared. There were 
 plenty of others, but Brian did not feel in the mood to take 
 advantage of the privilege of Giglet Fair and address himself 
 to one of them. They looked too dull and stupid. 
 
 People were brushing by him in front and behind as he stood 
 at the turning with his hands clasped against his back. 
 
42 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Suddenly he felt a slight pressure upon his little finger, a mere 
 touch, but unmistakably intentional. He started round. 
 There was nobody except an elderly farmer, none the better 
 for liquor, leaning against the railings and eyeing him with a 
 wondering stare, possibly in consternation at finding a man 
 quite sober upon fair-day. Obviously it was not the farmer 
 who had pinched his finger. Brian turned again. Then he 
 saw the pretty girl in the green plaid frock disappearing 
 beneath the portico of the White Hart Hotel. She was walking 
 quickly ; she did not look back ; she might have been the 
 most proper yoimg lady in Christendom hurrying home to her 
 mother. 
 
 " It must have been she," Brian gasped. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated. Then he acted as any young 
 man who had no special vocation for holy orders would have 
 done. He followed her. She had disappeared again, but he 
 knew she must have gone up West Street, because there was no 
 other opening in that direction. He strolled up the street until 
 he came near the bridge which spans the West Okement. The 
 girl was upon the centre of the bridge, her arms resting upon 
 the parapet, her eyes fixed upon the river. She appeared 
 oblivious to her surroundings and wrapped in thought. A 
 young farmer came across the bridge and spoke to her, but she 
 neither stirred nor answered. 
 
 Flushed and awkward, Brian approached. He paused near 
 her, but she did not look up. He, too, leaned against the 
 parapet and tried to contemplate the river, but she did not stir. 
 She did not seem to know that he was near. her. For quite a 
 minute they stood thus, and then Brian could just hear a pretty 
 voice reciting softly, thoughtfully, either to the water or to 
 herself, " There is a tide in the affairs of men . . . ." 
 
 Brian plucked up his courage, and without the least hesitation, 
 and without removing his gaze from the white river, added, 
 " which taken at the flood leads on to fortune." 
 
 Then they looked at each other. 
 
 " I suppose you think 1 am a giglet?" said she. 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 43 
 
 Brian looked at her closely, and admiringly when he dis- 
 covered that his first impressions were correct. She was very 
 pretty, and she wore her clothes well. He was surprised not to 
 hear any trace of dialect in her voice, and to find no vulgarity in 
 her manner. He could not persuade himself that she was a 
 farmer's daughter. She combined the smartness of the London 
 girl with the soft voice of Cornwall and the beauty of Devon — an 
 irresistible combination. One glove was off. It was to show, 
 Brian thought, that she, too, was soft-handed, and her little bur- 
 nished nails shone from fingers as pink as almond blossoms. 
 She might have been a lady. Certainly she could have passed 
 as one, with that delightful voice and the ability to quote Shake- 
 spere for her purpose. Only, a lady would not walk up and 
 down Fore Street unaccompanied during the fair ; nor would 
 she steal behind any young man whose appearance was pleas- 
 ing to her and invite him to join her by pinching his finger. 
 
 " I don't know what a giglet is. Do you ? " he asked. 
 
 " Why, yes. A giddy girl." 
 
 " But surely you're not giddy ? " 
 
 " To-day I am. I may be. It's allowable on this one day." 
 
 " I expect you are the same every day of the week," Brian 
 ventured. 
 
 " Oh, no. If you were to see me to-morrow, you would never 
 know me. To-day I may speak to you if I like, or you may 
 speak to me. That's the custom. There's no harm done. 
 It's not naughty. Presently you will go one way, and I shall 
 go another, and we're not in the least likely ever to see one 
 another again." 
 
 " At present we might go the same way," he suggested. 
 
 "If you like," she said. 
 
 " Let's get away from the town." 
 
 " Yes, it is rough and noisy there. Shall we go to the 
 castle ? It's along here." 
 
 She swung round in a distracting manner. They set off up 
 the hill, past a few houses and the stone quarry, until they 
 came to a narrow path which led down from the road. The 
 
44 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 girl slipped on ahead, ran lightly along the path, and turned 
 her bright face to greet Brian with the statement, " It's muddy 
 and ghostly down here, but I'll take care of you." 
 
 They were in a lane narrow and rough to walk upon, and 
 overshadowed by the branches of large trees. 
 
 " This way to the castle," said the girl. " Down there you 
 go to the river, and Lovers' Meet, and the moor. Oh, I hate the 
 moor. Don't you hate it, too ? Please say you do." 
 
 "I've had no experience of it," Brian said. "I've not been 
 down here long, and this is the first time I have been actually 
 on Dartmoor." 
 
 " Never mind. Say you hate it." 
 
 " Of course I do, with all my heart . and soul," Brian 
 declared, when he saw her pleading face. 
 
 The girl laughed delightedly. He had an idea she was happy 
 because she had made him obey her request. They passed 
 through a gate, and began to ascend towards the castle, 
 beneath the leafless trees. They went by the ruins of the 
 banqueting hall and reached the dreary remains of the chapel. 
 There was a mist rising from the walls, suggestive of the incense 
 which had once been offered there. The girl shivered, and 
 declared the ruins were horrible, and that she hated them, and 
 she made Brian say he hated them, too. They came out at the 
 summit upon the ruins of the keep, and looked over the wild 
 prospect of moor, river, and tor, where the wind was spreading 
 the wintry mists northward. 
 
 " This is where the big, black dog comes every night to pick 
 a blade of grass," said the girl. " And with him comes the 
 skeleton of a lady drawn in a carriage by two skeletons of 
 horses. If I were here at night I should imagine worse things 
 than skeletons. And right over there is my home," she went 
 on, pointing up to the cloudy tors. "That's where I live, 
 among the bogs. Oh, it's beastly. How would you like to 
 Jive in a bog, like a toad ? " 
 
 " Not much," Brian owned. " But why do you live there if 
 you hate it ? " 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 45 
 
 " Must," she sighed. " Still I haven't lived here much. I 
 only came back a few weeks ago. They seem like years. I 
 was in a school at Devonport. I was supposed to teach young 
 minds to shoot, and — but you don't want to hear. I'm only a 
 girl you have picked up, and you will have forgotten all about 
 me by to-morrow." 
 
 " Don't talk like that," said Brian. " You know introductions 
 are dispensed with to-day. It's the custom of the fair." 
 
 " It's nice of you to say that. You don't mean it, but still 
 it sounds nice," said she. "Now, I want to get up there," 
 pointing as she spoke to a sloping shelf which had been once 
 part of a window. It was still sheltered by an arch broken in 
 half and protruding from the ruin like a flying buttress. " It's 
 dry and sheltered there," she explained. 
 
 "I'll help you up. Give me your hand," said Brian eagerly. 
 
 " My foot you mean. You don't want my hand," she laughed. 
 
 " Your foot, then." 
 
 She lifted it and placed it in his hand with a saucy motion. 
 As Brian hoisted her upon the rocky ledge he made the dis- 
 covery that she wore a silk underskirt and that she had a 
 charming ankle. When he had settled himself beside her he 
 had opportunities of finding out more. She was well-made and 
 graceful. She was delightfully proportioned. She was not 
 slender ; her bust and hips were broad and squarely built ; her 
 waist was strong and full ; her shoulders were almost horizontal 
 and by no means sloping ; and her figure tapered gracefully 
 towards the knees, and terminated in fragile ankles and short 
 feet. Her eyes were large, with long lashes ; the nose straight, 
 with curving nostrils; the mouth bow-shaped over a slightly 
 pointed chin ; and the ears were baby-like and pink and almost 
 buried in dark-brown hair. Brian concluded that the girl 
 might congratulate herself upon being anatomically correct. 
 
 " Go on where you left off," he said. " You were in a school 
 where you taught young minds to shoot." 
 
 " And those who were in authority over me decided I was 
 teaching them to shoot the wrong way — crooked instead of 
 
46 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 straight," she went on. "But it wasn't true. I was too 
 original for them — that was all. Anyhow, I got the order to 
 pack my box and vanish. And now I am at home again, and 
 I have nothing to do, and I don't in the least know what is 
 going to become of me. I can't teach again, because they 
 won't give me a character. At least, they would give me a bad 
 one, but that isn't of much use. It's very hard, because I am 
 not bad. I am quite good, only I talk too much, and I suppose 
 I do stupid things, but I am not a bad girl. ' 
 
 " How were you stupid ? Why won't they give you a 
 character ? " Brian asked. 
 
 "Partly because I went about with a young naval officer. Why 
 shouldn't I ? Mustn't a girl enjoy herself when she is young ? 
 Is she to stop in her dreary lodgings and nurse a cat? There was 
 nothing wrong between us. He took me about, and gave me 
 a good time — and he was fond of me. Then, of course, the 
 wretched people declared he came and stopped with me in my 
 lodgings." 
 
 " That wasn't true ? " 
 
 " Honesty, truly it wasn't. He did come to see me sometimes, 
 and I used to make cigarettes for him, and brush his hair — he 
 loved having his hair brushed. He had beautiful, thick, fair hair, 
 like yours. And of course I flirted. But any girl of his own class 
 would have done just what I did, if her parents had not been 
 looking. If I had been a girl of his own class nobody would 
 have said a word, but just because I was only a school-teacher 
 they thought I must be — ^well, a giglet." 
 
 " Where is your naval officer now f " Brian asked rather 
 jealously. 
 
 " He is mine no longer. He's far away in the sea of China. 
 The funny part of it all is that he was dreadfully good and 
 religious. He gave me a gold cross to wear. He used to go 
 to church every Sunday and confess his sins." She turned to 
 him suddenly with the eager question, "Are you a naval officer ? " 
 
 " I thought you might be, as you're clean-shaven," she said, 
 as Brian shook his head. " What are you ? " 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 47 
 
 "An invalid," he answered. 
 
 " Oh, but that's not bad, either," she laughed. " Don't you 
 want a nurse ? Wouldn't you like a really nice nurse, to walk 
 by your bath-chair, and give you medicine, and fuss about you ? 
 But I shouldn't do. I'm too lively. I should send your 
 temperature up like anything. Still, if you should require 
 quite a plain and respectable person to give you medicine 
 every three hours, perhaps you will remember Sossi-possi is 
 disengaged at present, or, in the language of the stage, is resting.' 
 
 " Who ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Sossi-possi. That's what Bob used to call me. He said it 
 was Italian for 'sweetheart,' but I expect he was laughing at me." 
 
 " What is your real name ? " 
 
 " Too horrible. I won't." 
 
 " Yes, tell me." 
 
 " Why ? What's the use ? You will never see me again." 
 
 " Never mind. Tell me." 
 
 " Well," she hesitated. " Don't blame me, I never chose it. 
 Be brave, for I am going to hurt you. It's Maria." 
 
 " I shouldn't have chosen it, certainly," said Brian with 
 a paternal air. 
 
 " Of course you wouldn't. My other name is Arminel, and 
 my surname is Zaple. Add them up, and you get Maria, 
 Arminel, Zaple." 
 
 " I shall not call you Maria," said Brian decidedly. 
 
 " Oh, oh I " she murmured. " You will never see me again. 
 Tell me yours, anyhow." 
 
 Brian did so, and she was delighted. " What 1 The real, 
 live Challacombes of Tordown ? " she cried. 
 
 " The same," he replied. 
 
 " And you sitting here, talking to poor me ! Why, the Challa- 
 combes are big landowners. They own seven hundred acres." 
 
 " Mostly swamp," Brian grumbled. 
 
 " Doesn't matter. I could live in a swamp and be happy if 
 it was my very own. Are all the swamps yours ? " 
 
 " They will be some day, I suppose." 
 
48 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " How lovely," she sighed. 
 
 Brian was feeling glad it was a damp December afternoon. 
 Had it not been so he might have lost his head. The girl was 
 dangerous even then. Perhaps it was foolish to have told her 
 his name. As that thought occurred he looked at her, saw the 
 white curves of her dainty neck and her saucy chin; and 
 immediately he decided to persevere in folly at least for that 
 day. 
 
 However, Maria soon showed him she was not such a free- 
 and-easy girl after all. She would not allow any liberties to be 
 taken. She would not permit him to kiss her. "It's so stupid," 
 she declared. " There's nothing in it, unless you're fond of 
 each other, and it leaves a bad taste the next day. If I kissed 
 you, what would you really think of me ? You would pretend 
 to be pleased, but in your heart you would think me common 
 and vulgar. No man can have the least respect for a girl who 
 lets him pick her up in the street and kiss her. I suppose you 
 have picked up girls before to-day ? " 
 
 Brian admitted that he had done so. 
 
 " And made violent love to them ? " 
 
 This also was not denied. 
 
 "Is there one of them you have ever wanted to see 
 again ? " 
 
 This time the answer, although doubtful, was in the negative. 
 " But I am not to see you again," he reminded hen 
 
 " Of course not. But I don't choose to be just another, or your 
 last," said Maria, loftily. " I may be a poor girl, I may be a 
 giglet, but I'm not a kissing-post. If that was all you wanted, 
 why didn't you get hold of one of those farm girls in Fore 
 Street — or two, if one wasn't enough for you ? '' 
 
 " Don't be cross," Brian said softly. 
 
 She smiled at once. "All right. I won't. Only tell 
 me — why did you follow me and stand beside me on the 
 bridge ? " 
 
 " You pinched my finger," he said. 
 
 " I can clear myself now," she said with a sigh of relief. 
 
CONCERNING GIGLET FAIR. 49 
 
 " I don't want you to leave me with the idea that I forced myself 
 upon you like that. I did not pinch your finger. I confess I 
 was dull and lonely, and I did come along there to see if you 
 wanted to take any notice of me. And just as I came near you 
 I saw two girls between you and that drunken farmer. One of 
 them pinched your finger, and then they both ran away. You 
 looked in the wrong direction, saw innocent me, and said to 
 yourself, ' she looks just that sort of girl.' My bad character 
 must be marked on me somehow, if it is as obvious to you as it 
 was to the wise men of Devonport." 
 
 " I'm so sorry," said Brian penitently. " Won't you forgive 
 me?" 
 
 " Not yet," she said. 
 
 " If I take you back to the town, and give you tea and a box 
 of chocolates, will you ? " 
 
 " I won't be bribed," she declared. 
 
 However, she consented to be taken back to the town, where 
 they had a snug tea together in a private room, and Maria was 
 very charming as she presided daintily over the teapot mysteries, 
 and she chatted prettily until Brian became infatuated. He 
 would not have liked her half as well had she allowed him to 
 have his way with her. After tea he told her he must go, and 
 she did not seem glad. She said he might take her for a little 
 walk. They went down the Arcade, and Brian bought her the 
 largest box of chocolates he could procure ; and then they 
 walked on, past the gasworks, and up beside the mill, and so 
 on into the quiet pathway beneath, Bald Hill, little Maria 
 cuddling her big box of confectionery, and saying nothing for 
 some time. 
 
 " When am I going to see you again ? " said Brian at 
 length. 
 
 " Tordown is seven miles from Blackalake Gorge, where I 
 have to live," said Maria. " I thought you did not want to see 
 me again." 
 
 Brian did not take any notice of that. " We might meet 
 half-way — South Tawton quarries ? " he suggested. 
 
 A.W. 2 
 
50 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Perhaps. Above the lake ? " 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " Tuesday ? Half-past three ? " 
 
 " I shall be there. You will come, Arminel ? " 
 
 " Why do you call me that ? " she asked quickly. "I have 
 never been called by that name before." 
 
 " Well, I felt I wanted to call you Arminel then. I shall 
 always call you Arminel when you look like that." 
 
 " Oh, but how was I looking ? I have a Sossi-possi expres- 
 sion, a Maria expression, and now — what is the Arminel 
 expression ? " 
 
 " Say first if I am forgiven." 
 
 " Very nearly," she murmured. " Not quite." 
 
 " I must be forgiven quite before I tell you." 
 
 "Very well then. I absolve you from all your sins. How 
 was I looking ? " 
 
 " Sweet," said Brian. 
 
 Maria made a little movement, but she did not laugh. She 
 fixed her eyes upon the rushing water, and said rather wearily, 
 he thought : 
 
 "I'm only a poor girl, a poor girl with a bad character, and 
 my father goes about with a cart selling oil. But I have Cornish 
 blood in me, and Cornish blood is proud. Don't make a fool 
 of me, not for your sake, but for mine." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES 
 
 CuTHBERT Challacombe, the father of Brian, belonged to 
 that exceedingly large class of men which respectable people 
 call immoral. He had always been controlled by primitive 
 desires. Most men have these desires, but those who are 
 respectable subdue them. Cuthbert gave way to them. There 
 are numbers like him ; only nothing is heard of them, because 
 they live to themselves, and hide in the solitude of a London 
 street, where they can ^e as wicked as they like. It is the aim 
 of respectability not to kill primitive desire, for that is impos- 
 sible, but to keep it out of sight. It is a curious reflection tlial 
 primitive impulse — the very thing which makes a man what he 
 is, and a woman what she is — should be the least respectable 
 thing in social life. When a young woman observes a baby 
 screaming for his bottle, she calls the child " a sweet angel." 
 When she observes an elderly gentleman screaming for his 
 bottle, she very probably thinks him " an old devil." Yet it 
 is precisely the same instinct in both cases. 
 
 Cuthbert always wanted to do what was right' and proper; 
 but, unfortunately, wherever he went a barrier presented itself. 
 He would tread firmly along the road of respectability for a 
 time, and then primitive desire would start up and head him 
 off as it were. The Challacombes were Roman Catholics, and 
 prided themselves upon having a priest always in the family. 
 This eminently respectable duty devolved upon Cuthbert, and he 
 accepted it, although, as he somewhat loosely explained to his 
 father, "asceticism is no joke." He was soon to find that 
 celibacy is also "no joke." In a celebrated letter to his 
 
52 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 superior, when stating his intention of abandoning the priest- 
 hood, Cuthbert wrote : — 
 
 " The evils resulting from a life of celibacy are too great to 
 be overlooked. Such a sacrifice should not, and cannot be, 
 required of us. To deny the body is to defy Nature. The 
 disordered minds of many priests and nuns who live in a state 
 of enforced celibacy are facts of my own observation. Celibacy, 
 in the abstract, is far from being an evil ; but it is an ideal state, 
 and like any other absolute ideal is impossible of realisation. 
 A purely spiritual condition cannot be maintained in a material 
 state. The attempt to do so must be productive of evils so 
 serious as to be unmentionable, evils quite as terrible, to my 
 mind, as prostitution itself." 
 
 Portions of this heretical epistle leaked out, and a bowdlerised 
 version was published in the press, where it made no small stir. 
 For a time Cuthbert was a hero, and he received more than one 
 invitation from certain publishers, who work in dark corners, to 
 write some such book as "Revelations of Celibacy,'' with a 
 sub-title, as " The entire system unveiled by an ex-priest." Of 
 course, these invitations were refused. Cuthbert left the church 
 of his fathers, and was admitted into that of England. The 
 Church press sounded trumpets ; and Cuthbert, notorious rather 
 than famous, was speedily offered a living by a gratified Bishop, 
 who ■ saw in his defection a staggering blow dealt at the 
 pretensions of the Romish church in this Protestant country. 
 
 Cuthbert liked the Church of England. It was easy and 
 comfortable after the discipline of Rome and obligatory daily 
 services. It was like exchanging a hard seat upon a bench for 
 a well-padded armchair. In his new church he could do as 
 little as he liked. It was only those who did too much who 
 were regarded with suspicion. Better still, he could marry. 
 He did so, and Brian was one of the results, the only one so 
 far as children were concerned. Mrs. Challacombe was a 
 worldly woman, who preferred living in London. It was easy 
 for Cuthbert to run up every Monday, and return to his country 
 living on Saturday evening. He did so, while the Wesleyan 
 
CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES. 53 
 
 minister was obliging enough to attend to the spiritual 
 requirements of his flock. 
 
 Brian was twelve years old when his mother was seized with 
 appendicitis, and an operation became necessary. It nearly 
 deprived her of that life of gaiety to which she clung with her 
 whole soul. " Tell me I'm going to live. Tell me I'm not 
 spoilt," she whispered piteously to the doctor, so soon as she 
 regained consciousness. "You will live to be eighty," said 
 the cheery doctor, " if you're careful," he added. " But, of 
 course, you will have scars." " Oh, well," she murmured, " I 
 don't wear my evening frocks quite so low as that." With such 
 humour she assisted herself to recover. She went back to the 
 coimtry, and for the first time made the acquaintance of the 
 parishioners, and busied herself among them until she became 
 too well for that sort of thing. She went back to London, 
 plunged into gaiety, broke down again, and became a confirmed 
 invalid. She went about from one health resort to another, 
 only to become more ill and querulous ; and after two years 
 she died, while Cuthbert remained in his quiet country living, to 
 fall into the appalling obscurity which such an existence entails. 
 
 Unfortunately, he fell also into an evil habit. It was inevit- 
 able that primitive desire should appear again and head him 
 off. This time it was a craving for strong drink, and, as usual, 
 he succumbed. Being too much alone, with far too little to 
 occupy his mind, he sank. He was a conscientious man, and 
 perceived he must give up either the drink or the Church. So he 
 gave up the Church. It was a pity, for he was really a capable 
 man. Possibly the systems under which he had worked were 
 more to blame than himself. Had matrimony been allowed by 
 the Catholic Church he would have made a useful priest, 
 because he was clever, and in that Church there is scope for 
 cleverness. Had there been any discipline worth mentioning 
 in the English Church, he would have attended to it rather than 
 to the wishes of his wife, and not have neglected his parish, 
 which was already, like many in the west country, almost 
 entirely devoted to Nonconformity. 
 
54 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Cuthbert Challacombe and Stephen Wistman had not met 
 for a great number of years, although the former owned jointly 
 with his sister extensive property in Tordown parish. The two 
 men had nothing in common. Wistman was by far the most 
 able man intellectually, although he had never perceived that 
 he was an extremely angular peg in a round hole, or that he 
 was as much out of place in his living as one of his small 
 farmers would have been as head of a college. His application 
 to dead languages was in its way as great a vice as Cuthbert's 
 weakness for old liquors. At all events, it tended towards the 
 same results, even though Wistman's habit was perfectly 
 respectable, while Cuthbert's was the reverse. No small voice 
 had ever whispered to Wistman that he ought to resign his 
 living. He could not have done so on account of his poverty ; 
 and yet his sense of duty was stronger than Cuthbert's. It had, 
 however, developed in the wrong direction. It had grown 
 sideways instead of straight. 
 
 Cuthbert had his son, and Wistman had his daughter. 
 Cuthbert had come to the conclusion that there was no such 
 thing as an age of innocence. He defined it as a period of 
 suppressed emotion. Wistman, on the contrary, maintained 
 that the age of innocence not only existed, but was an age of 
 ignorance which could be extended indefinitely. So he 
 guarded Nona like a rare plant, kept her shut up, turned her 
 away from every fountain of knowledge, and tried to persuade 
 himself he had kept her mind free from every emotion. 
 Brian, on the other hand, was a man of the world at fifteen. 
 His father taught him, warned him, and let him loose. The 
 boy kept perfectly straight. He was not forbidden to smoke, 
 so he did smoke, made himself ill, and did not smoke again. 
 He was not forbidden to drink, so he did drink, became 
 intoxicated, and resolved not to touch liquor again. As he 
 was not forbidden these things there was not much pleasure in 
 them. His father only jeered, so he had no inclination to 
 repeat his exploits, for there is nothing a boy dislikes so much 
 as being laughed at. As he grew up he did little to abuse his 
 
CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES. 55 
 
 liberty. It is restraint which produces desire, and Brian could 
 do what he liked. Being free, he preferred innocent amuse- 
 ment to illicit pleasure. At twenty, a cricket match was more 
 to him than all the young women upon the streets of London. 
 Had he been kept under restraint, he would not have preferred 
 the cricket match. His father's advice was, "Hold up your 
 head, walk along the street as though you owned it, and don't 
 be soft with women." On the whole, Brian followed these 
 instructions fairly well. 
 
 Cuthbert rarely came to mid-Devon. His lawyer in Exeter 
 and his sister managed the property between them. The old 
 gentleman clung to his old-fashioned chambers in Great James' 
 Street. In Devonshire he was Mr. Challacombe. In London 
 he was nobody. Every summer he made up his mind to come 
 down to North Beer, but at the last moment he would go to 
 Brighton or Margate instead. At these seaside places he was 
 still nobody, but at North Beer he was the head of one of the 
 oldest families in mid-Devon. 
 
 It is not easy to find North Beer. It is doubtful whether the 
 ordinary traveller would discover it at a first attempt without a 
 guide. There is a lane leading to it, but it is difficult to find, 
 because it starts abruptly from the side of a field, and carts can 
 only get into the lane by being forced through what appears to 
 be an ordinary gap in the hedge which in summer is choked 
 with bracken and brambles. There are a great many old 
 farm-houses in mid-Devon thus hidden. There are none older 
 than North Beer, and none so interesting. In the days of 
 simplicity, it was called a mansion. Now it would be regarded 
 as a cottage. Very much of the original building remains, and 
 the garden is much the same as it was when Frank Drake and 
 Admiral Hawkins visited it as the guest of old Ben Challacombe, 
 who, so tradition says, challenged the sea-dogs to a game of 
 bowls on the beautiful alley of North Beer, and brought out a 
 barrel of his old cider as a reward for the winner. Homeric 
 prize that, and the struggle was also Homeric. It grew dark 
 upon the bowling-green, and old Ben's servants were summoned 
 
56 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 with lanterns that the players might see where to roll their 
 balls. Report further stated that Hawkins was the winner; 
 and that he chaffed his opponents in broadest Devonshire ; and 
 sitting astride the barrel, swore that it should be emptied that 
 night. The lantern-bearers had their share, for the players 
 were not fine gentlemen, but plain Devon folk, who thought it 
 no shame to share with their servants. Admiral Hawkins loved 
 the cider of his county, which was rough and harsh, but good 
 sound stufE for all that, like the old hero himself. The barrel 
 was preserved at North Beer until it rotted away. 
 
 Most of the ancient manors boast of having received Queen 
 Elizabeth during one of her frequent progresses through the 
 land. It was the boast of North Beer that Queen Elizabeth 
 had not slept there. It was on record that she had intended to 
 do so, but for some unknown reason had altered her plans. 
 Possibly she lost her way among the perplexing lanes. There 
 was a rumour, entirely unsupported by evidence, that she had 
 passed the night at Stokey, sleeping, or awake listening to the 
 wind from Dartmoor, in its famous bed which was later to bear 
 the significant warning, " Cave Amicum." That motto appeared 
 also in the house of North Beer, which was six Devonshire 
 miles from Tordown. It was carved upon an oak chest which 
 stood in a dark corner of the dining-room — for North Beer was 
 partly furnished, although uninhabited — ^but for some reason 
 or other the initial " C " had been omitted, or had been removed, 
 for the motto upon the oak chest read, " Ave Amicum," 
 which meant something quite different, although it could not 
 be regarded as good Latin. 
 
 "I can't go to North Beer," Cuthbert would say at the last 
 moment. " The place is full of ghosts." The ex-priest knew 
 the history of his family. Every breath of wind that passed 
 across North Beer seemed to say to him, "the place is haunted." 
 He knew by name those mid-Devon worthies, his own ancestors, 
 who had done much for their country in her time of need ; 
 who had helped to defy Philip of Spain and the Pope, though 
 they were Catholics; who had fought for their queen and 
 
CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES. 57 
 
 country, and got small thanks for doing it. They did not push 
 themselves forward, and North Beer was out of the way even 
 then. There were so many heroes in Devon that the smaller 
 ones were overlooked. No knighthood had ever fallen to the 
 Challacombes. They had a way of going home when their 
 work was done, and not talking much about it. The old farm- 
 house was filled with memories of these worthies. Cuthbert 
 could not help comparing himself with them. What a poor 
 creature they would have thought him. But times had changed. 
 There was not the same necessity for taking things seriously. 
 The spirit of war and the spirit of religion had altered entirely. 
 War was no longer directed against personal liberty. It was 
 gun against gun no longer, but money-bag against money-bag. 
 Religion was hardly a thing to die for. It was more a thing to 
 argue upon. Cuthbert persuaded himself that his ancestors 
 would not have lived in opposition to himself, had they been 
 able to return. They would have grumbled at the taxes, and 
 cursed free-trade, which was making mid-Devon a garden of 
 thistles. They would have put religion on and off, just as it 
 suited them. Certainly they would not have found it very 
 profitable to farm at North Beer. Probably they would have 
 given up the attempt ; have emigrated to Canada, and started 
 afresh there. Cuthbert had such thoughts as these, whenever 
 he did pay a visit to North Beer. He wondered how many 
 budding Drakes and Hawkinses had left mid-Devon and 
 become American citizens, because a tithe-grabbing Church 
 and a free-trade majority would not permit them to live upon 
 their land. 
 
 Miss Challacombe made a point of visiting North Beer once 
 a year, to see that nothing was missing, and to superintend 
 necessary repairs. She declared it was a lovely old place, but 
 all the same, nothing would have induced her to live there. 
 It was too lonely and out of the way. Once a month during 
 the winter Coneybear went there and lighted fires of peat in 
 the great hearths. Miss Challacombe was always trying to 
 induce her brother to live there; and she quarrelled with 
 
58 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 him every time they met because he steadfastly refused to 
 do so. 
 
 " Brian, you must go and see North Beer," she said to her 
 nephew. It was at breakfast on the morning after Giglet Fair. 
 " It will be yours some day, and I want you to live there. 
 Should you by any chance desire to please me, you will marry 
 some nice girl with a little money, and then improve the place. 
 The first thing you will have to do is to make a proper approach 
 to the house across that field." 
 
 Brian replied that he desired to please his aunt in all things, 
 but doubted if " the nice girl with a little money" would con- 
 sent to live at North Beer. " She would have to," replied 
 Miss Challacombe, griml> . " Of course, you must marry a 
 girl of some family, with a proper amount of pride. I don't 
 mean for herself, but for her family. I don't care how decayed 
 the family may be, as long as it is good and old. But then 
 she wouldn't have any money, and that would be a nuisance. 
 These dreadful times," went on the old lady sadly, " there 
 is hardly one of the old mid-Devon families left. They are 
 scattered to the four winds. Look at Oxenham, West Week, 
 Zeal, and North Beer, only to mention a few. Two of them 
 mere farmhouses, with fowls running in and out of their doors, 
 one of them a village beer-house, and the other unoccupied, 
 and not even saleable. Not that your father would sell North 
 Beer if he could, but I know there wouldn't be an offer for it, 
 if it was advertised in every paper in the kingdom. I can't 
 understand this craze for new houses." 
 
 " Aren't they more comfortable ? " Brian suggested. 
 
 " Rubbish," snapped his aunt. " What could be more 
 comfortable than Stokey or North Beer ? " 
 
 "There's no room for a dance, or anything of that sort," said 
 Brian. 
 
 " And no billiard-room, no smoking-room, no breakfast-room, 
 no morning-room," added Miss Challacombe noisily. " Go on. 
 How many more rooms do you want ? One for every hour of 
 the day, I suppose. Stuff and nonsense. Our ancestors were 
 
CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES. 59 
 
 satisfied with one living-room. The gentlemen sat on one side 
 of the hearth, the ladies on the other, and the children played 
 between them. Now everyone has a room to himself or herself, 
 like a lot of prisoners in jail. I detest modern houses. I 
 went into one near Falmouth which has just been built by a 
 brewer. There was a room for everything. A room to stand 
 in, and a room to sit in. A room for reading in, and a room 
 for talking in. A room to eat in, and a room to digest in. I 
 dare say there was a room to sneeze in, and a room to blow your 
 nose in. And every room looked like the inside of a shop, and 
 everything smelt of beer, even the flowers. Call that comfort. 
 I call it misery, vulgarity. I call it a desecration of home life. 
 There's no butter. Shout for Betsey. The bell is broken." 
 
 The butter-dish was under the old lady's nose as she spoke, 
 only she was far too excited to notice it. 
 
 "If you live in a new house I'll never forgive you," Miss 
 Challacombe went on. " If you take the thatch o£E North Beer 
 after my death I'll haunt you, or die in the attempt. Laughing, 
 are ye ? Well, you know what I mean. I suppose if I wasn't 
 a Challacombe people would think me no class, as they call it, 
 because I live under thatch. The Challacombes have always 
 lived under thatch. There's your father — he's not a true 
 Challacombe, never was. Two days here and he's restless 
 Don't you be like him, Brian. Wretched man. To live in 
 London, and let North Beer go to ruin." 
 
 Brian promised his aunt to consider her wishes. He didn't 
 mean it, but any young man would have done the same. He 
 was not much of a talker. He preferred to observe ; and he 
 had done a good deal of that since coming to Tordown. 
 
 He had been given ample opportunities for observing the 
 rector, who came to read with him for two hours every morning- 
 Brian discovered that his tutor was pedantic and bigoted ; but 
 he was interesting, even when most eccentric. He had studied 
 the works of every author known to fame and seemed to have 
 forgotten nothing. His stream of knowledge never ran dry. 
 Yet in some things he was curiously perverse. For instance, he 
 
6o ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 contended that the world was not round, and defended his 
 argument by a mass of what he called evidence, until .his 
 listener became lost and bewildered. He maintained also that 
 the Creation of the World occupied a mere week of seven short 
 days, and he was bitterly opposed to such accepted theories as 
 evolution and vast geological periods. 
 
 This spirit of contradiction was cropping up in him con- 
 tinually. One day he would assure Brian mathematics were of 
 little theoretical use, and would prove to him by a maze of 
 symbols that two and two make five. The next day he would 
 assert with positive violence that figures could not lie. When 
 engrossed in lecturing he would perform the most extraordinary 
 antics. He would sit by the fire and fling his feet upon the 
 mantel ; he would pull off his coat, turn it inside out, and put 
 it on again ; he would roll up his trousers to the knees, and 
 not discover his plight until the lecture was over. And he 
 would slap his forehead and tug at his beard until all the skin 
 on his face must have smarted. Brian had not seen Nora. He 
 had been invited to ceremonial tea one afternoon, but the girl 
 had not appeared. He did not know that she was shut up in 
 the dining-room with an innocent book until he had departed. 
 Barbara Wistman tried to smile and be pleasant ; but failed 
 and returned to her corner with clasped hands. The rector, 
 delighted to have a listener, discoursed learnedly upon the 
 style of Thucydides, while the wind groaned around the rotten 
 windows and shook the shabby curtains. Brian was not sorry 
 to get away. He felt that there was a mystery about Nona, 
 and he determined to get to the bottom of it. He could not 
 gather much from his aunt. Miss Challacombe did not like 
 the Wistmans, and said so. She had been sorry for them on 
 account of their poverty, but when her somewhat tactless 
 advances had been repelled she gave them up to their own 
 devices. " The old woman is mad, and the girl is a skulking 
 minx," she told Brian. To this information was added the 
 wisdom of Coneybear, " Her be dafty, and he'm half-dafty. 
 But the missie bain't dafty. Not her. Her be fair mazed." 
 
CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES. 6i 
 
 Brian remembered this saying as he stepped into the road 
 after breakfast. A bell was clanging for morning service. 
 There were five bells in the tower, but there were not five men 
 to ring them. There was no one in sight. The villagers had 
 gone in the opposite direction towards Zion to await the 
 minister, who was often late because he had to come on his 
 bicycle across Whiddon Down. The wind was cold that morn- 
 ing, and there was a promise of snow in the clouds. Brian 
 waited about near the lich-gate, and presently saw Mrs. 
 Wistman cross the road and enter the churchyard by the private 
 way. Lucy went across, then Wistman, coughing and mutter- 
 ing to himself. Nona did not follow. An old farmer, a cripple, 
 and a few children crawled apologetically up the avenue. 
 Brian went after them. The door was shut ; the harmonium 
 began to wheeze and give forth harsh music. The rector's 
 voice reached into the porch, "The sacrifices of God are a 
 broken spirit. . . ." There were hurried footsteps in the 
 churchyard. Brian turned to meet Nona hurrying to the 
 door. 
 
 " Miss Wistman, I think ? I am your father's pupil," he 
 said at once. 
 
 The girl's distress was painful. She was more than 
 frightened ; horrified at being addressed by a man, alone, in 
 the porch, with her father's deep voice in her ears. She 
 became perfectly white and drew back with a shiver. She 
 thought her father could see her somehow through the door. 
 She could not speak. That was forbidden. If she did reply, 
 she would have to confess to her father ; and he might think 
 she had been late for church with an object. 
 
 Somehow it did not occur to Brian to move aside so that she 
 might pass. He began to feel awkward when he saw she was 
 frightened, and yet he had done no wrong. She knew who he 
 was. He could not help feeling resentful at not having been 
 properly introduced to her. Why had she been kept out of 
 the way when he went to' the Rectory.? He was quite good 
 enough for her. The Wistmans were ordinary people, and he 
 
62 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 was a Challacombe. The heir of North Beer might surely 
 speak to the rector's daughter. 
 
 " I suppose you are going to church," he said very foolishly. 
 
 Nona looked away, but he could see she had clenched her 
 hands as though she was in pain ; and in the silence which 
 followed his remark he could hear her troubled breathing. 
 Then, in a far-away, frightened, scarcely audible whisper came 
 the monosyllable, " Yes." 
 
 Well, she's not deaf and dumb, thought Brian. Only 
 frightfully shy. 
 
 He made a movement, and Nona looked round, dreading, 
 perhaps, lest he might be approaching her. Their eyes met, 
 and she shrank back trembling. The rector's voice came 
 again, it seemed to her in anger. He had missed her. 
 He might send Lucy out to look for her. Suppose the 
 door should be opened, and he should see her standing 
 with Brian. She made an eflEort to speak, but not a sound 
 came. Another effort, and something resembling, " Please let 
 me pass," escaped from her lips. It was enough. He was 
 moving aside, with wonder and a little indignation in his eyes. 
 She fled past him, struggled with the door, but could not open 
 it. An arm came across her, a hand touched hers, and she 
 nearly screamed. The door was opened for her, she passed 
 through, and turned to close it. Then she saw him again. 
 He smiled respectfully as their eyes met. Had she, out of 
 sheer nervousness, smiled back? The door closed. How 
 cold and dreary it was in that almost empty church ! She 
 covered her hot face with little cold hands and tried to pray. 
 But somehow she found herself still praying to Brian to let her 
 pass ; and as the service went on she sat dreaming about him, 
 until to her horror she found herself wondering whether she 
 could ever meet him again. 
 
 After service Nona went to her father to explain why she had 
 been late. She had discovered, poor girl, that Lucy had for- 
 gotten to clean her only decent pair of boots, so she had 
 been compelled to clean them herself. Then she mentioned 
 
CONCERNING THE CHALLACOMBES. 63 
 
 the meeting with Brian, and told the rector all that she had 
 said. 
 
 Wistman looked at his daughter's flushed face, and pulled 
 his beard angrily. He was sorry already that Brian had come 
 to Tordown. He had made up his mind long ago that Nona 
 should marry no one. She was to be wedded to the Church. 
 It was his duty to protect her from the storm and trouble of 
 the world, and to give her true peace and happiness. 
 
 " Mr. Challacombe was wrong to speak to you," he said in a 
 kindly voice. " I will mention the matter to him, and I will 
 see that he does not trouble you again." 
 
 Nona made no reply. She rather wanted to be troubled. 
 She went to her room, and wished she could see the windows 
 of Stokey. Perhaps she cried a little. Perhaps she read the 
 marriage service, and wondered again what it all meant. Per- 
 haps for the first time she realised dimly a sinister meaning in 
 the monkish phrase which her father had been shouting at the 
 empty pews when she saw Brian standing in the porch, " The 
 sacrifices of God are a broken spirit." 
 
 That evening Brian was in church. He sat opposite Nona, 
 poor, quivering, flushing Nona, and looked at her far more than 
 was necessary. As they went out she looked at him, and this 
 time she knew she had smiled. But she did not know how 
 plaintive, beseeching, and passionate that smile was. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DAY OF SNOW. 
 
 ToRDOWN reached into the snow-line that Sunday night. 
 There was none within the combes or upon the swamp-lands, 
 but the few cottages, the church, and Stokey caught the eloud. 
 The white-headed tors of Dartmoor had lost their ruggedness. 
 The snow-dust could be seen streaming from the peaks at 
 every pufE of wind. Wistman reached Stokey a few minutes 
 late, forgot to shake the snow off his boots, and had his atten- 
 tion drawn to the omission by Betsey, who was in a worse temper 
 than usual. The snow-cloud in the Dartmoor district usually 
 upsets health and temper. Miss Challacombe remained in bed 
 and pined for Falmouth. The rector was also under the cloud. 
 So much so, that he almost dared to answer Betsey back. He 
 thought better of it, however, and hurried upstairs to Brian's 
 sitting-room, where he was presently joined by his pupil, whose 
 first remark was that he did not feel in the mood to undergo a 
 lecture that morning. 
 
 "Ah, yes. It is as well, perhaps. The snow is disconcert- 
 ing," the rector remarked, blinking as he turned to face the 
 white glare. 
 
 " Living up here may be pleasant in summer, but it's beastly 
 this time of year," said Brian, kicking at the peat which sent 
 out more smoke than heat. 
 
 "The hill-dwellers are better men, stronger ill mind and 
 body, more fierce, more developed," Wistman went on absently. 
 " They have greater abilities, greater troubles, greater tempta- 
 tions." 
 
 " And more self-reliance," Brian added. 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 65 
 
 " That is due to the keen air, which strengthens the nerves. 
 I do not think anyone has noticed the effect produced upon 
 the human disposition by continual strong wind. Men become 
 taciturn, even morose ; women become impatient and irritable. 
 A craving for strong drink or for drugs is produced. Above a 
 certain altitude the majority of men, and women too, are 
 drunkards." The rector was balancing a paper-knife upon his 
 finger as he spoke. " I thought the snow was coming. We 
 were unsettled yesterday. Up here that is a sure sign of snow. 
 Were you unsettled?" he asked, throwing back his head and 
 beginning as usual to beat his forehead. " I ask the question, 
 because I saw you in church." 
 
 Brian smiled, though he had no idea what was coming. He 
 was amused at the rector's naive admission. There had been 
 only about half-a-dozen people in church, and Wistman had 
 stared at him all the time. The young man explained he had 
 not known what to do the previous evening, and had felt 
 curious to see what the service was like. 
 
 " Ah, yes, you were unsettled," said Wistman, laughing and 
 shading his eyes from the glare. " I thought so when I saw 
 you. Like most of us, you felt the snow coming. You wanted 
 to do something different from usual. Even the animals 
 wander restlessly when they scent the snow. Knowing you to 
 be a Roman Catholic, I was surprised to see you in the church. 
 I was pleased, of course, for I had never seen a member of 
 your family in my church before." 
 
 " Why don't the villagers come ? " asked Brian ; not that he 
 was anxious to know, but he wanted to lead the conversation 
 from himself. 
 
 " They are Wesleyans," came the answer. " They let me 
 baptise, marry, bury them ; but they won't let me preach to 
 them. I am their registrar, not their priest. They are all 
 blackguardly dissenters," he concluded, with that curious twitch 
 of his mouth which suggested that the spirit of the Inquisitors 
 was alive in him. It was Nona that the rector was thinking 
 about. It was towards her that he was trying to steer the 
 
 A.W. F 
 
66 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 conversation, only Brian would not be led. Wistman's task was 
 not an easy one. To offend Brian would be to antagonise Miss 
 Challacombe. He had done that once before, and the maiden 
 lady had set the entire neighbourhood against him, and had 
 actually bribed the children out of her own pocket to abstain 
 from church and Sunday-school. He had been compelled to 
 make an abject submission, and to acknowledge that it was she 
 who ruled the village. He did not want any repetition of that 
 open hostility. Miss Challacombe was not friendly to him 
 then. The Challacombes were people of some importance in 
 mid-Devon. He was a nobody. 
 
 Wistman cleared his throat nervously. He rose as if he was 
 about to go, then walked to the window and watched Coney- 
 bear shovelling away the snow. With an effort he remarked, 
 " I think you know I have a daughter ? " 
 
 " I saw her yesterday. She passed me in the porch," said 
 Brian easily ; and then pricked up his ears to hear the next 
 remark. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Yes, of course — she told me. I hope you 
 won't mind — at least, I expect you were surprised not to see 
 her when you called at the Rectory. The truth of the matter is 
 Nona does not go into society. Under ordinary circumstances 
 there would be no reason why she should not be a — well, 
 friendly with you, but there are reasons, exceptional reasons, 
 which make it inadvisable for her to form acquaintanceship 
 with young men, or indeed with other young women. I expect 
 you know what I am about to say," the rector proceeded, his 
 voice becoming steadier. " Nona has led the religious life in 
 its strict sense. She is about to enter a community with a view 
 to becoming an avowed sister of the Church. As she will 
 shortly be instituted, it would be neither wise nor kind on our 
 part to encourage her to see people, who, however good they 
 may be in themselves, cannot be in complete sympathy with 
 the religious life, and might, with the best intentions in the 
 world, be the innocent means of unsettling her mind and turn- 
 ing her thoughts aside from the beautiful and saintly career 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 67 
 
 which is already opening before her. Now you understand 
 her position, I am sure." 
 
 Just then Brian felt rather ashamed of himself. What a 
 brute the girl must have thought him for speaking to her in the 
 porch, and for attending service in the evening and staring at 
 her ! Still, it was not his fault. How was he to know that she 
 had decided upon the religious life ? It was foolish of her, 
 he thought. A girl with such eyes and hair a Sister of Mercy ! 
 But she had a perfect right to seek her heaven that way, and he 
 had equally no right to intrude upon her privacy and disturb 
 her mind. 
 
 " I am sorry I intruded upon Miss Wistman." He meant 
 what he said. " It was an accident, my meeting her. I thought 
 it would seem rather boorish not to speak, as she knew who I 
 was." 
 
 " Dear me ! Do not blame yourself. You must not do 
 that," the rector said. " You behaved quite properly. Do 
 not think I am blaming you. I am apologising for Nona, 
 explaining her awkwardness. She is not used to strangers, and 
 they frighten her. Thank you for listening to me. Do you 
 see how fast the snow is going ? There will be little left by 
 the evening. Good-bye," he concluded in his most genial 
 manner. " We shall all be better to-morrow — when the snow 
 has gone." 
 
 Certain thoughts began to disturb Brian when he was left to 
 himself. Wistman had given him a definite set of impressions. 
 He had not behaved properly to Nona ; the girl was offended 
 with him for having forced himself upon her ; she had chosen 
 the religious life and her parents approved of her choice ; it 
 was through her desire that she lived in seclusion. So much 
 the rector had intended to convey. But he had done more. 
 Brian fancied he could detect a reproof of himself for attending 
 church and placing himself where he could watch Nona. Well, 
 he deserved it. He was willing to admit he had behaved badly. 
 
 Then he remembered other things. Nona had been pain- 
 fully nervous at that unexpected meeting, but she had not been 
 
 F2 
 
68 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 offended. She had smiled when she turned to close the door 
 It was not the sort of smile that he would associate with the 
 religious life. And during the evening service she had been 
 conscious of his glances. She was in a hot flush all the time, 
 and she never took the precaution of hiding her face from him. 
 More vividly than anything else he recalled the final incident 
 when leaving church. He saw again her hot, troubled face, 
 her longing eyes, and her passionate smile. Brian did not 
 know much about the religious life ; but he felt pretty confident 
 that any young novice who might be detected in the act of 
 smiling at a young man in church would hardly be encouraged 
 to take the veil. 
 
 That afternoon, when the house was warm and comfortable, 
 Miss Challacombe came downstairs, and Brian had a talk with 
 her concerning Nona. 
 
 " Going to be a nun, is she ? " remarked the old lady, un- 
 sympathetically. " Well, I'm sure I don't obj ect. But I'll tell you 
 one thing, Brian, and that is she's completely under her father's 
 thumb. She's terrified of him. If she's going into a convent 
 it's because he has told her to. If he told her to be a barmaid, 
 she would obey him. I'm not going to say anything against 
 Sisters of Mercy. They are noble women, and they do a lot 
 of good, but I don't think Nona Wistman is cut out for one. 
 Not that I've seen anything of the child. Really, I know nothing 
 about her, as she's not allowed to visit a wicked old woman like 
 me, and that's one reason why I hate the Wistmans. They are 
 as proud as they are poor, and that is saying a good deal. 
 Objectionable people ! I wish I could get them out of 
 Tordown." 
 
 " Why don't you do something for the poor old lady ? You 
 might try and cheer her up a bit," Brian suggested. 
 
 " I have tried," snapped his aunt. " Lots of times. I used 
 to bring her in here — ^years ago now — and feed her up. I tried 
 flattery ; I tried abuse. It was no good. Then I tried insults. 
 I sent her some clothes and boots. She said nothing, but I 
 believe she wore them. Betsey declares she saw Nona in a 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 69 
 
 frock which had been a petticoat of mine. A thunderbolt 
 wouldn't wake up Mrs. Wistman. Whenever I speak to her 
 she sighs and bleats. I always feel that I want to step on her 
 and put her out of her misery. Really, I'm glad the child is going 
 into a convent. She will be far happier there than she would 
 be married to some daft curate." 
 
 " She's pretty. Why shouldn't she marry someone nice?" 
 Brian suggested. 
 
 " Yourself, I suppose,'' said the old lady, taking him up 
 sharply. " The child is not pretty, and you're an idiot. If 
 you were to marry Nona Wistman not a penny of my money 
 nor a brick or blade of grass of my property would ever come 
 your way. When you want a wife I'll choose one for you. 
 What was that ? " she exclaimed, starting up and menacing 
 Brian with her stick. 
 
 " Only the snow sliding off the thatch." 
 
 "Go and see will ye, my dear? And tell Coneybear to 
 sweep it away." 
 
 Brian went out. He heard sounds of merriment on the 
 other side of the topiary hedge, and paused to listen. There 
 was an ancient lifting-stock four steps in height just outside the 
 garden, and it was evident that a game was being played there. 
 Brian peeped round. He saw Lucy run up the steps of the 
 lifting-stock and fall into the arms of Coneybear, who stood 
 cackling joyously to receive her. There was a struggle, a slap, 
 and a kiss, then Lucy ran up the steps and tumbled again into 
 the expectant arms. Coneybear succumbed beneath the fat 
 and freckled burden, and they rolled together upon the snow. 
 There was more in this rough-and-tumble game of courtship 
 than was apparent at first sight. 
 
 Brian went back into the house. It was a pity he had so little 
 to occupy his thoughts. The little game about the lifting-stock 
 made him feel lonely. Why should Coneybear have all the 
 fun ? He remembered Nona's flushed face as she went out of 
 church. That girl in a convent! That hair and those eyes 
 under a Sister's veil 1 From his window he could see the 
 
70 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 decayed roof which partially sheltered the lonely girl. He 
 thought of her sitting in the raw light struggling with a mathe- 
 matical problem. Her father was fond of giving Nona such 
 problems. They kept her engrossed. They were so eminently 
 non-instructive and innocent. Why shouldn't he send her a 
 message to cheer her up ! Lucy might take it for him. 
 
 Brian did not feel inclined to write a note. Nona might take 
 it to her father. Besides, Lucy would be sure to read it. But 
 he might send her an indirect message which would show the 
 girl that he wanted to see her. A reference to some passage 
 in a book would do. Then he remembered she had no books, 
 Brian set himself to think out a plan. In such cases the human 
 invention is much to be admired. The diligence with which 
 a man will apply himself to the business of love-making would 
 probably make his fortune if applied in other directions. Brian 
 soon hit upon a plan. The rector was a learned man, but pos- 
 sibly he had not read Apollodorus ; or had found it convenient 
 to forget how the comic Greek poet had declared that no black- 
 smith could forge bolts and bars which could exclude a lover. 
 
 Brian went down to the kitchen, discovered Betsey, and asked 
 her if she had a Bible. Of course Betsey had a Bible. Did she 
 not sit in the front seat of Zion twice each Sunday ? Brian said 
 he wanted to borrow it. Betsey was delighted. Then she began 
 to search diligently for the book. 
 
 Of course, as Mr. Brian knew, things in constant use had a 
 curious knack of disappearing. There were her glasses, for 
 instance. She was always searching for them, and yet they 
 were never far from her hand. Wasn't that the Bible upon the 
 dresser.? She generally kept it there because it was handy 
 when she wanted it. No, it was a manual upon plain cookery. 
 But there it was under the old crockery in that corner. Yes, it 
 was rather dusty, but there was no keeping anything clean in 
 that kitchen. She had been reading it only that morning — ^the 
 story of Jane and Cicero. How the lady had hammered the nail 
 in the gentleman's head while he was asleep, and she wondered 
 however she could have done such a thing. She remembered 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 71 
 
 in her young days that a woman of Ashreigney, her native 
 village, had tried to do very much the same sort of thing to her 
 husband when he was lying drunk, but the magistrates had 
 seen nothing to admire in her conduct. On the contrary, they 
 sent her to prison, which showed that things were very different 
 from what they used to be. By this time Brian was out of the 
 kitchen, so Betsey had to hobble across the stone floor that she 
 might call after him, " Search the Scriptures, Mr. Brian. Seek 
 and ye shall knock. Find and it shall be given unto ye." 
 Betsey was not very accurate in her quotations. 
 
 It was getting dark, but there were still voices beside the 
 lifting-stock. Presently Brian came out and called Coneybear, 
 who could not help looking sheepish, but had not learnt how to 
 be ashamed. Brian gave him a half-sheet of notepaper folded 
 across once and a shilling. Coneybear pocketed the sWUing 
 at once, and looked aggrieved when told that it was not for 
 him. 
 
 " It is for Lucy. Ask her to give that piece of paper to Miss 
 Wistman." 
 
 Coneybear's eyes became like those of an excited pug-dog. 
 He obeyed without comment, and Brian moved off to an 
 accompaniment of inarticulate murmurs. He knew Lucy 
 would do as she was told. Shillings were not plentiful in 
 Tordown, and she would know that the hand which had given 
 one might give more. What was written upon the piece of 
 paper would convey no meaning to her. Brian heard Coneybear 
 declare he was " fair and proper mazed," but there was nothing 
 very remarkable in that. 
 
 Brian's judgment was more correct than his conduct. Lucy 
 knew her duty, but she got no extra shillings from the rector 
 for doing it. There was nothing written upon that piece of 
 paper except, " Song of Solomon, 2, xiv." ; nothing else of any 
 kind, not even an initial. Lucy went at once, found Nona 
 brushing out her hair in her bedroom by the smoky light of a 
 lamp, and put the paper in her hand with a few hurried words 
 of explanation. 
 
72 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 The girl's looks were cold enough ; but not so her feelings. 
 
 "There is some mistake," she said, trying to control her 
 voice. " This is for my father. How stupid to bring it here. 
 Take it down to him." The poor girl was thankful of the gloom. 
 " It's something to do with their work." 
 
 " Best tak' it yourself," said Lucy stolidly. Then she drew 
 nearer and whispered, " Gave I a shillun for bringing it." 
 
 For a moment Nona was speechless. Then she tore the 
 scrap of paper into fragments which she flung upon the carpet, 
 turned her back upon the astonished Lucy, and, with a choking 
 statement that she should tell her father, went on combing her 
 hair as though she would have torn it out. Lucy disappeared 
 with a sneer. She did not care. Dismissal did not mean much 
 to her as long as she had the patronage of the Challacombes. 
 She closed the door and tramped heavily down to the kitchen. 
 
 As for Nona, she had come at last to her cross-roads. It was 
 a rough and barren way straight on. There were no flowers, 
 there was no music, and no light. But the road that crossed 
 ahead seemed to be full of all manner of pleasant things. The 
 flowers were there. She could not name them ; she had nevei 
 seen them before — at least not so close ; she did not know 
 their names. Only she knew vaguely that she wanted them. 
 The straight road was full of rocks, like one of the tracks across 
 Dartmoor. The cross-road was like the lane which led down to 
 Pasture Water when it was Spring ; the lane which was choked 
 with honeysuckle, foxgloves, rose of Sharon, and filled with the 
 music of running water. There was snow upon the ground 
 outside ; there was the shower of white paper on the floor. 
 She associated the snow with the cold moorland track; the 
 fragments of paper with the warm lane to Pasture Water. 
 Which was it to be — stony moor, or flowery lane ? Obedience, 
 or heart's desire ? 
 
 It was the first time Nona had contemplated an act of 
 rebellion. Her father had made her, taught her, shaped her ; 
 until the time had come when he had in a sense lost control 
 over that subtle mechanism which he had called into being. 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 73 
 
 He had fallen into the error of believing he had created, which 
 is what no man has ever done. Everything that he makes is 
 obedient, not to him, but to Nature. The most trivial machine 
 may do what he requires of it, but subject always to natural 
 laws. What he calls losing control over his handiwork is 
 merely Nature asserting herself. The rector had called Nona 
 into being. But she belonged to Nature and not to him. He 
 did not know that. Perhaps he would not know it. 
 
 Wistman had brought up his daughter on the old Sunday- 
 school model, which is to religion what melodrama is to the 
 stage. Both teach that immediate punishment is the result of 
 wrong-doing. The bad boy who robs the orchard will fall and 
 break his neck, or be caught by the farmer's dog. The villain 
 will be exposed in the last act. To overstrain the truth is to lie. 
 The good boy returns from school to find the bad one munching 
 the stolen apples. When he discovers that the branch repeatedly 
 refuses to break, and that the farmer's dog is more inclined to 
 wag his tail than to bite, he may decide on refusing to be 
 bluffed into the paths of rectitude. Nona was possessed by 
 that feeUng. She had begun to- suspect her father when he 
 continued to answer her straightforward questions with vicious 
 rhetoric ; and when her little misdemeanours had not been 
 followed by direct punishment. She had harboured suspicions 
 concerning him and she had not been punished. She had 
 kept back part of the truth lately, like Sapphira ; but no Sapphira 
 punishment. She had flirted with Brian, and in church — it was 
 flirting for her — again no punishment. And now she had to 
 make her choice between the rough moorland track and the 
 lane to Pasture Water. 
 
 It was not necessary to put those pieces of paper together. 
 She knew what had been written. She wanted to forget, and 
 yet she kept on repeating, " Song of Solomon, chapter two, 
 verse fourteen," lest she should forget. She went at length to 
 the side of the room, and to the shelf which held her poor 
 little library, chiefly devotional works, some books of milk-and- 
 watery poetry, and several pitifully harmless children's tales. 
 
74 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 She took down her Bible, which was finger-marked upon those 
 paees which are not read in churches, and turning to the 
 Aramaic love-song she read the verse which was for her the 
 first call into the flowers and sunshine of the forbidden way. 
 
 The door opened and Wistman came in. It was his custom 
 to steal upon his daughter unawares, to satisfy himself that she 
 was doing no wrong. Nona gave a little cry and started up. 
 She had not heard his steps ; she had not expected him ; she 
 was frightened. As a child she had believed he knew what 
 was in her mind. She had not freed herself entirely from that 
 idea. Possibly, she thought, he had some knowledge of the 
 conflict within her then, and he had come to punish. Still, he 
 did not appear very terrible. He looked as mild as usual as 
 he walked up to her, his white beard wagging, and his 
 breath showing in the chilly atmosphere of the bedroom. 
 
 " Dear, deary me 1 " said the amiable old scholar in his 
 simple way. " Why are you sitting up here in the cold ? It is 
 nearly supper time. What are you doing ? Reading ? Ah, 
 yes ! What are you reading ? " 
 
 " The Song of Solomon," whispered Nona. 
 
 The rector slapped his forehead in despair. Why was it she 
 selected the most amorous passages, in spite of all his 
 teaching ? 
 
 Confused, excited, and hardly knowing what she was doing, 
 Nona read aloud that fourteenth verse of the second chapter ; 
 and as she concluded, " let me see thy countenance, let me 
 hear thy voice : for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is 
 comely," the rector stepped forward and took the book from 
 her. There was that in her voice which he did not like. Nona 
 saw that he was angry. She looked at him with rebellious eyes, 
 vaguely conscious then that he could have made her life so 
 much less miserable than it had been ; still more conscious 
 that he had withheld from her much that she should have 
 known. He had deceived her. Why should she not deceive 
 him ? Forbidden books of philosophy had been left out some- 
 times and she had peeped into them. She had read that 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 75 
 
 mutual regard between man and woman tends to improve them 
 both ; that man would be a rude, wild creature were there no 
 women for him to please; that it is desire of pleasing the 
 opposite sex which gives to a woman her charm, her soft voice, 
 her grace and delicacy. She had seen Coneybear kissing 
 Lucy. It had made her feel restless. Why hadn't she some- 
 one to kiss her ? 
 
 " What is written upon the top of that page ? " her father was 
 saying, as he held towards her the open book. 
 
 "The Church's victory," Nona read, in a scarcely audible, 
 and wholly incredulous, voice. "The graces of the Church." 
 
 " It is a sacred allegory. It is a beautiful spiritual song 
 dealing with the intense love of the Divine Bridegfroom for His 
 Bride the Church. The manner in which you read made me 
 suspect that you had missed this point." 
 
 " Why do you not read it in church — if it has to do with the 
 church.?" 
 
 " Because people would not understand it, just as you cannot 
 understand it." 
 
 "But is the meaning which my own mind suggests 
 nothing ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing at all," he replied lightly. 
 
 " And does this song suggest to you the church, our church 
 of Tordown, and its damp walls, and the old harmonium, and 
 the bell-ropes ? " 
 
 " Dear me, child. How tiresome you are ! It is the altar to 
 which we look when in church, and this beautiful song is all 
 about that altar." 
 
 " Father," she exclaimed. " You know the lane to Pasture 
 Water?" 
 
 " Well, it is that lane which the song describes," she went 
 on, in reply to his wondering assent. "It is that lane on 
 a summer's evening. The soil is red and when it rains the 
 water is bright pink. The clouds are pink, too, and so are the 
 wild roses and the foxgloves. The rose of Sharon and wild- 
 apple tree grow there, and they are mentioned here. You can 
 
76 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 see the big hills on the other side of the combe, and there are 
 cedars on them. It is Pasture Water which this song describes, 
 not Tordown church. I heard a girl singing down there one 
 day. She was a farm-girl singing for her lover. Did she 
 think she was singing a hymn in church ? Father, when am I 
 going to have a lover ? " 
 
 Nature had taken possession at last. Nona went blindly to 
 her bed and began to sob. Wistman made some queer move- 
 ments, but not any articulate reply. He knew it would be 
 hopeless to oppose that torrent. He v/ould have to wait. He 
 had indeed lost control ; he was beaten ; he came near to 
 believing he had made a mistake. He had done what he 
 believed to be right. He had not meant to be cruel. He 
 wanted Nona to be happy, and be believed he was putting her 
 into the way of happiness by keeping her an ignorant child, 
 with the purpose of devoting her ultimately to a life of religion. 
 He went out of the room as quietly as he had come, and left 
 Nona sobbing upon the bed. 
 
 The wind arose on Dartmoor, came howling against the 
 window, and aroused her. She approached her glass, held up 
 the smoking lamp, gazed at her reflection and smiled. It was 
 not an unpleasant pictmre. The countenance was comely. 
 Her hair was still down and wrapped her face in mist. The 
 eyes were burning. The moist lips were red as wine. Her 
 teeth were clenched. She looked different; older, wiser, 
 stronger. She was not even aware that the struggle was over, 
 and that she had made up her mind to turn aside at the cross- 
 roads and go down to Pasture Water. The rector had gone 
 too far. Her hot blood rejected all his answers. It was not 
 love for the cold church which had inspired the poet. It was 
 the sweet love-sickness of desire. It was the Spring call of 
 Nature, the longing cry of the lonely or the mateless bird for 
 that which the waters cannot quench, neither can the floods 
 drown. 
 
 In the meantime, Brian was uncomfortable. The cold 
 twilight brought him to his senses, and he wished then he could 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 77 
 
 recall that piece of paper. He felt restless and irritable. He 
 was so unsympathetic towards Miss Challacombe that he very 
 nearly succeeded in getting his ears boxed. The old lady ran 
 him into a corner, pushed a table before him, and slapped a 
 couple of packs of cards upon the table. She had invented a 
 new game of Patience, and he wasn't going to escape from that 
 corner until he had mastered all its intricacies. Miss Challa- 
 combe was always inventing games of Patience which nobody 
 could comprehend except herself. She would pursue her 
 friends and relations, armed with packs of cards and garrulous 
 with details. There was no peace for them until they sub- 
 mitted to be taught. She made a number of enemies that way. 
 Brian fidgeted in the comer like a sulky bear, scowled at the 
 cards, and remarked that there were two or three hundred 
 games of Patience already in existence, and he didn't see the 
 use of inventing any more. 
 
 " Shut your noise," said his aunt pleasantly. She would use 
 strange language over her cards. "I call this Love Patience," 
 she went on. " You stack the cards this way. Now, you have 
 to manipulate them in proper sequence, red and black alter- 
 nating, until you get king of clubs, queen of hearts, knave 
 of spades, and ace of diamonds, side by side." 
 
 " What's the good of that ? " Brian grumbled. 
 
 " That's the marriage — husband, wife, baby, and cradle. 
 But that's only the first combination. You have to get all 
 four families out. Then the next stage is Intrigue Patience. 
 It's all part of the same game. You have to give the king of 
 diamonds a fair wife, and give the queen a black baby and a 
 red cradle to put him in. This intrigue has to be worked out 
 in all four families. Then the next stage is Divorce Patience. 
 It's all part of the same game.'' 
 
 " Naturally," Brian muttered. 
 
 " After that comes Reconciliation Patience." 
 
 " Why not Decree Nisi Patience ? " observed the unwilling 
 pupil. 
 
 " Hold your noise. This is my invention, not yours. Here's 
 
78 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 the queen of diamonds, and her baby is all the way down here. 
 She won't get it for a long time." 
 
 " She's not even a respectable married woman yet," Brian 
 objected. 
 
 " Forgotten the king, have I ? Well now, you keep on muddling 
 me," said Miss Challacombe, far too excited to be abashed. 
 "This is the best game I have ever invented, and you can work 
 out the whole thing in three hours if the cards run nicely." 
 
 Fortunately for Brian the summons to the evening meal 
 came long before he had mastered the first principles of the 
 opening stage. Miss Challacombe would not permit him to 
 disturb the cards. She said they could go on with the game 
 at any time. There was no hurry. She would teach him if 
 it required the rest of the Winter. She suggested he should not 
 go for his usual walk that evening, as it would be very unpleasant 
 underfoot. He might smoke as much as he liked in the sitting- 
 room if he would only attend seriously to the game. Brian 
 reminded her that the doctor had instructed him to walk after 
 every meal. Miss Challacombe was not able to deny it, but was 
 gdod enough to promise she would continue the lesson directly 
 he returned. 
 
 Nearly all the snow had melted when Brian came out. There 
 were a few leprous patches upon the turf, but the trees were 
 free, and so was the thatch. Away from those patches the 
 night was black ; but the wind was upon Dartmoor and increas- 
 ing. Brian left the road, and wandered into the wheelwright's 
 yard, where all the unsightly paraphernalia of that man of many 
 trades lay rotting and rusting. He ploughed through slush, 
 stumbled over iron pipes, and hit his head upon a woodstack 
 before he consented to acknowledge that he was persevering in 
 his folly, and had started out with the idea of reaching the old 
 wall of cob which bounded the kitchen-garden of the Rectory. 
 There was a crazy door in the wall. It was supposed to be 
 kept fastened, but the bolt had fallen, and the padlock was too 
 much encrusted with rust to be of any use. Lucy escaped that 
 way to conduct her amours with Coneybear. 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 79 
 
 Brian reached the gate. It was half-open. He could see 
 nothing, but he could hear the wind rushing through the laurels 
 in the garden. He advanced a step, and inclining his head 
 into the partial shelter afforded by the doorway struck a match 
 to relight his pipe. He dropped it at the same instant and 
 gasped. 
 
 Not a yard away from him Nona was standing. She was 
 upon the inner side of the door, and seemed to be leaning 
 against the cob. She was in black and her head was uncovered. 
 Her eyes were staring ; her face was horribly white ; her hands 
 were clenched in front of her. She looked dead, except for her 
 eyes, and'there was not much life in them. The quick flash 
 of light showed that much. It was not a pleasant sight. 
 
 Brian became inanimate, too. Somehow he was afraid to 
 
 move, lest she should hear him. He went on listening — not a 
 
 sound except the wind in the laurels. If she would have 
 
 scraped her boot, sighed, shaken the crazy door, done anything 
 
 to show him she was conscious, he could have responded and 
 
 treated the matter as a joke. For that was all it was. He had 
 
 nothing to do in Tordown. It was only natural to indulge in a 
 
 little clandestine flirting with the rector's daughter. But if she 
 
 was going to regard the meeting as something serious, almost 
 
 as a tragedy ; why, then he had better steal back to Stokey and 
 
 have his aunt's idiotic game of Patience inflicted upon him. 
 
 Still he could not move. He became colder and more nervous ; 
 
 and there was still not a sign of life upon the other side of the cob. 
 
 He did not guess how Nona suffered. She had slipped out 
 
 of the house, and come to the door — she hardly knew why, 
 
 except that she must — some time before she had heard those 
 
 dreadful footsteps crossing the yard. They were dreadful to 
 
 her, although she was waiting for them. She wanted to escape, 
 
 but she could not. She heard Brian's boots slushing in the mire 
 
 and stumbling among the rubbish, making for that door by the 
 
 same instinct which had led her there. She was like an animal 
 
 caught in a trap hearing the approach of the poacher who had 
 
 set it. By the time he reached the door she was in a state of 
 
8o ARMINEL'OF THE WEST. 
 
 absolute terror. When he looked at her by the sudden glow of 
 the match she nearly fainted. Her limbs were powerless. 
 Her tongue could neither scream nor speak. She could use 
 nothing except her eyes, and she could only stare fixedly with 
 them. And yet if she could have spoken she felt she would 
 not have said, " Go away." Or, if she had said it, she would not 
 have meant it. 
 
 At last Brian spoke in what he hoped was a lively and 
 indifferent voice. " Miss Wistman. Is that you ? " The first 
 syllable of her name seemed to strike the same doleful note as 
 the wind, which was all the answer he got. Still, it was some- 
 thing to have spoken. He took hold of the door. It opened 
 towards him, lurching upon its rotten hinges. He called her 
 name again. Then he struck another match boldly. She 
 was in the same position ; still dazed and terrified and nearly 
 fainting. 
 
 " I'm afraid you are not well. I am so sorry," Brian went 
 on, in a strained voice. " I only sent you that message for a — 
 I mean, because I thought it would be rather nice to know 
 you. It is lonely for me here, and I should think it was lonely 
 for you, shut up in there and not seeing anyone. It was wrong 
 of me, as I suppose your father wouldn't like it, but I don't 
 care so long as you are not angry. I thought we might meet 
 sometimes and have a chat — cheer each other up a bit, you 
 know." 
 
 Brian went rambling on in this fashion, excusing himself, and 
 making light of the incident, until he became incoherent. Not 
 a soimd, not a movement, came from rigid Nona. He was 
 afraid to light another match. The second momentary glimpse 
 had shown him a wax-like face and two eyes fixed in terror. 
 It had also shown him that she was wearing an old cassock, 
 and he could guess there was little beneath it. He did not 
 know how she had schemed to come to the cob wall ; how that 
 she could only manage it by going. to bed — for it had always 
 been her father's custom to come and pray by her bedside 
 after she had retired, and then he would shut himself in his 
 
A DAY OF SNOW. 8i 
 
 own room and for the time forget her; how that, when the 
 rector had left her with his solemn benediction, she had slipped 
 on the old cassock, which served -her for a dressing-gown— 
 they were poor folks, those Wistmans — and had flitted like a 
 ghost down the back stairs, and so into the wind and among 
 the laurels, feeling sure somehow that Brian would come to the 
 door in the cob wall. Neither could he know that it was 
 absolute terror of discovery and terror of punishment that made 
 her so white and motionless and dumb. 
 
 Brian nerved himself to approach, feeling for her. He 
 touched her, felt for her arm, then down it for her hand. He 
 drew her gently from the wall. She tottered. How cold she 
 was, he thought. He put his arm round her and said, " I will 
 take you back." It seemed to him she would have resisted, 
 so he added, " No one can see us. It is too dark, and I won't 
 pass any window." He thought she came on more readily, 
 and once he fancied she caught her breath. But she said 
 nothing, and her hand was like wet seaweed. 
 
 They reached the end of the wall. It was not far from there 
 to the back door. Brian released her, but she did not move 
 away. She did not appear to want to go in and back to the bed 
 which she had warmed and left. 
 
 " I had better leave you now," said Brian, desperately. " I 
 hope you will forgive me for having brought you out, and for 
 having frightened you so. I don't suppose you will consent to 
 be friendly with me now ; but, if you like, I will come to the 
 gate to-morrow night. I won't come unless you want me." 
 
 The girl stood there invisible. He knew she was there 
 because she was conscious at last, and he could hear her rapid 
 breathing. 
 
 " Won't you say something ? " he pleaded. 
 
 There was a pause. Then he felt Nona against him. Her 
 arms went round his neck. A cold mouth was upon his. 
 Then she was gone. 
 
 A.W. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TWO MAIDS. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack was harnessing Tom Yarty with words of 
 affection. Maria was beautifying herself in a bedroom about 
 the size of a railway compartment. The widow was peeling 
 potatoes and turnips. The sky above Blackalake Gorge was 
 steel-blue, and sunshine flooded the moor. A perfectly fine 
 Winter's day on Dartmoor, with plenty of sun and no wind, is 
 one of Nature's most agreeable blunders. 
 
 " If I was a lady I wouldn't peel taties, nor yet turnips," said 
 the widow. This was a hit at Maria ; not a spiteful one, for 
 the widow liked the girl. She admired Maria, and was proud 
 to call her daughter, although she was no relation. "My 
 husband, he'm a fine feller, and my daughter be bootiful," she 
 would say, forgetful of the fact that neither of them was any 
 connection of hers. 
 
 " What would you do ? " called Maria, from her compartment. 
 It was one of the advantages of the house in the gorge that its 
 occupants could converse freely however invisible they might 
 be to one another. 
 
 " I'd drive out in my carriage, and tak' a drop o' gin along," 
 said the widow. 
 
 " Oh, but you couldn't do that," laughed the girl. 
 
 " If I was a lady, I'd dress myself from morn to dimpsy," 
 went on the widow, indulging in another hit at the girl. 
 
 "What would you do, father?" called the girl from her 
 window. 
 
 " If I was a lady," said Dartmoor Jack, in his innocent way, 
 'I'd marry." 
 
TWO MAIDS. 83 
 
 "I mean if you were a gentleman," laughed Maria. 
 
 " Same answer," said her father. 
 
 " Anyone can marry," she objected. 
 
 " A gentleman has more to choose from," he reminded her. 
 
 " You're a wicked old person," she cried. 
 
 " Two best things in life are marrying and riding a good 
 horse," said Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 " Marrying and nice clothes," called the girl. 
 
 " Marrying and a drop o' gin," said the widow. 
 
 " Come along down," shouted Dartmoor Jack. " Half the 
 morning be gone, and me waiting whiles you'm curling your 
 hair. Us ought to be down Sampford Lane 'fore now." 
 
 At that Maria came running down. Tom Yarty evidently 
 thought she was good to eat, for he pulled off towards her, 
 making the oil-measures beneath the cart jingle merrily. 
 Dartmoor Jack beamed at her blandly through his spectacles, 
 while the widow volunteered a fresh statement as to what she 
 would do if she was a lady, and went on to ask Maria why she 
 was going forth girded with all her earthly possessions. 
 
 " Trousers," answered Dartmoor Jack, in his child-like way. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" demanded his daughter 
 angrily. 
 
 " When a maid goes out dressed up, 'tis for trousers. When 
 a man wears a rose in his coat, 'tis for a petticoat. When a 
 horse has his tail plaited wi' ribands, he'm for sale," quoth 
 Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 " And when men are coarse, they are beastly," Maria added. 
 
 " Don't ye be cross, my dear. I know you've put on all them 
 purty clothes so as you can go to Tawton quarries and look at 
 yeself in the lake. No chance of finding anyone there, 'cause 
 'tis a lonesome place. If us don't get off, us won't be to the 
 quarries 'fore dimpsy, and there wun't be enough light for ye 
 to see them purty clothes in the water." 
 
 " Leave teasing the maid, Jack Zaple. Her's a good maid, 
 and means no harm," said the widow, as she started upon a 
 fresh turnip as big as her head. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Oh, I can stand it," said Maria, lifting her dainty nose 
 about two inches above its normal altitude. 
 
 Then Tom Yarty put his ears forward, and rattled the cart 
 out of the gorge. They went down the lanes towards the 
 village of Taw Green. Maria looked entirely out of place upon 
 the seat of the oil cart, and that was one of the thoughts of two 
 small farmers who passed near Ball's Turning. Said one 
 dubiously, " Her's his maid." Said the other decidedly, "So 
 be I." Small Devonshire farmers have a knack of suggesting 
 a good deal in a few words. 
 
 A little before the appointed time, Maria tripped along the 
 wet lane leading gradually down into the artificial scenery of 
 South Tawton quarries. These limestone quarries have been 
 worked from time immemorial. They cover a large extent of 
 ground. Great hills, which it is hard to believe were not 
 thrown up by natural causes, extend in an almost circular 
 chain, composed entirely of refuse excavated from the pits 
 below. All these hills are green with turf, and many of them' 
 are thickly covered with larches. Sheltered nooks and won-! 
 derful little dells appear suddenly as these hills are crossed. 
 Not even Capability Brown, with all his cunning, ever planned 
 a landscape as striking as that which the quarrymen have 
 produced by sheer accident. There are glades, and copses,' 
 and leats running between banks of ferns. There are quaint 
 stone arches and crumbling ruins. There are precipices. 
 There are picturesque paths and soft banks. Above all, there 
 are the lakes. The largest is a stately sheet of water, very 
 deep, bright blue, and almost entirely surrounded by densely- 
 wooded cliffs. In Autumn the foliage appears to take fire. 
 The flaming branches stream down towards the water, dropping 
 their red and gold upon it until the lake seems to take fire, too. 
 The tower of Tawton Church may be seen quivering along the 
 surface of that bright blue mirror. And when the bells are 
 ringing, the tower in the water appears to quiver still more. 
 
 " Not here," said Maria, as she came above the lake. 
 " Of course not. Why should he drag all the way fron 
 
TWO MAIDS. 85 
 
 Tordown just to see a stupid little thing like me ? I'll go for a 
 walk just to warm myself, and then I'll run home." 
 
 She went across the quarries in the direction of the hilly road 
 which led towards Tordown. She might have chosen a much 
 pleasanter walk than that, but somehow she seemed to prefer 
 going that way, though she did not expect to see Brian. She 
 had not even dressed herself in all her best, and hastened there 
 with the least idea of seeing him. She wanted a walk, and 
 there was no prettier place, even in Winter, than the quarries. 
 She thought she would go right across and look up the long 
 hill towards Tordown, just to see if it was as steep as she 
 thought it was. 
 
 She reached the other side, tripped round the bend, and 
 glanced prettily up the hill. There was Brian coming down 
 as hard as he could. The girl was so pleased that she laughed 
 outright. After all, she had come there to meet him. How 
 well he looked, thought she, and how handsome and well-built 
 he was, and how strongly he walked, and how he was hurrying 
 towards her. Miss Maria had a number of new impressions 
 when she discovered she was not going to be lonely. 
 
 " I'm so glad," she murmured. " How good of him to 
 come all this way." 
 
 Then she became grave, drew herself up into the full 
 magnificence of five feet and four inches, and called " Good- 
 morning ! " in a manner that was positively severe. 
 
 " Isn't it the afternoon ? " Brian reminded her, as they held 
 hands. 
 
 " I always say 'good-morning' down to the last thing at night," 
 said she. "There's not much time to think when you meet 
 anyone. It fuddles one so to remember what part of the day 
 it is, when one has to be smiling and looking nice at the same 
 time. Once I blurted out ' good evening ' just as the sun was 
 rising. After that, I thought it best to stick to one thing. 
 Now do tell me why you have walked five dreary miles this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 " To see you, of course." 
 
86 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " But why do you come to see me ? " 
 
 " My dear girl," said Brian. " If you ask such plain questions, 
 you will get plain answers." 
 
 " That's what I like," said Maria. " You wouldn't tell me 
 the truth, anyhow. Men and girls don't tell each other the 
 truth, except when they quarrel. You wouldn't tell me what 
 you said to yourself before you started." 
 
 " What do you suppose I said ? " 
 
 " You said to yourself, ' That's not a bad little girl I picked 
 up at Giglet Fair. As I have nothing to do, I may as well go 
 down to the quarries and have some fun with her.' Those 
 were your very words." 
 
 Brian's negative was accepted with doubt and derision. He 
 had said something of the sort. The day before, he had almost 
 determined not to meet Maria, in order that he might devote 
 himself to Nona. But he had waited beside the gate in the 
 cob wall in vain. Brian was an inflammable young man. A 
 pretty face and figure set him alight at once ; and the pretty 
 face that was present always extinguished for the time being 
 every pretty face that was absent. Just then he determined to 
 forget Nona, and devote himself to Maria. 
 
 " Now, you shall show me through the quarries, then we will 
 go into Zeal and have tea," he suggested ; and the girl being 
 quite agreeable they set off. 
 
 " I have found out all about you," he began, as they threaded 
 their way among the white-seamed blocks of limestone. 
 
 " More than I know myself," she said blithely. " People 
 about here are not very clever, perhaps, but they can study 
 character. What have you heard ? Was there one redeeming 
 feature ? " 
 
 "It is admitted you are pretty and clever, but neither of 
 these things are placed to your credit," Brian told her. "The 
 prettiness is not your fault, and the cleverness is attributed to 
 the fact that your mother was overlooked by a certain wise man 
 just before you were born. So you see you have no virtues of 
 your own, but your vices are many in number." 
 
TWO MAIDS. 87 
 
 " Tell me a few," she pleaded. " Only I don't want you to 
 tire yourself." 
 
 " You over-dress, you flirt, /ou impose on your father, you 
 smoke, you drink, you have no religion, no conscience, no 
 scruples, no affection, no trust " 
 
 " Stop ! I'm losing count." 
 
 "Those are only your minor vices," he laughed. 
 
 " I won't hear the others." Then she turned upon him and 
 said seriously, " Isn't it strange how some girls lose their char- 
 acter for nothing at all .' I have never done a thing that I am 
 ashamed of. People would say I can't be ashamed, but that is 
 another of their lies. Whenever a girl tries to lift herself out of 
 her class she loses her character. Why shouldn't she try ? It's 
 a perfectly proper ambition. When a man of my class does 
 well for himself, and becomes what is called a gentleman, no 
 one says anything against him, though he may not be able to 
 speak his own language correctly. But if a girl tries to better 
 herself everyone is down on her. I am wicked because I talk to 
 you, but why shouldn't I ? I can't talk with men of my own 
 class. I don't know how to, and I don't feel at home with 
 them. I feel perfectly easy with you. You don't mind my 
 talking Uke this ? " she added somewhat shyly. 
 
 " I like it," said Brian with great relish. 
 
 " Father has spent a lot upon my education, but he has never 
 had to stint himself," she went on. " He is proud of his clever 
 maid, as he calls me. I dress well, but wouldn't any girl with 
 a decent face and figure do the same when she can ? I flirt a 
 little. So does everybody. It's just a matter of opportunity. 
 You try any prim lady of your acquaintance with a few pretty 
 words, and see how she will jump about like a cat in a bonfire. 
 It seems there is one unpardonable sin, and that is to allow a 
 man whom you don't know to speak to you. If you commit that 
 sin you will do anything. I've done it, and I'm not ashamed. 
 But young ladies do it, too. I've seen them at home — young 
 ladies, respectable daughters of most respectable people, 
 behaving as I would never behave upon Dartmoor, just because 
 
88 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 they think nobody knows them there. They don't care about 
 the principle of the thing. As a matter of fact, I do. But then 
 I'm not a young lady, so I don't count. And they say I drink I 
 I have been a teetotaler all my life, not because I want to be 
 thought good — I don't care — but simply because I prefer it." 
 
 " Never mind, my dear. I believe in you," said Brian. 
 " Be thou as chaste as snow thou shalt not escape calumny in 
 Devonshire." 
 
 " As chaste as ice, as pure as snow," she corrected. " Don't 
 be angry at me for putting you right. I'm not an educated 
 lady, only a little school-teacher. And don't call me ' my 
 dear,' " she went on with a frown. " I won't have it." 
 
 By this time they were upon the cliff above the lake, and the 
 big blue sheet of water was unbroken below. Brian looked at 
 the girl, partly in admiration, a little in affection, and a good 
 deal in doubt. He wondered if she was genuine. Whether 
 her modesty was assumed for the time, so that she might lift 
 herself higher in his estimation ; or whether she was at heart, 
 as he had heard she was, a girl of the giglet market. Certainly 
 he liked her better because she refused to be treated as he was 
 accustomed to treat girls of her lowly birth. 
 
 The sun went down behind Cawsand as they stood above the 
 lake, and the colours changed at once. One minute the long 
 mountain was dull grey, the next, dark purple with a hoary 
 edging of snow upon its sky-line. Exactly the same trans- 
 formation took place in the water, the church tower, and the 
 limestone. The country assumed the complexion of evening, 
 and the wind from the tors began to moan. 
 
 " Hateful short days," murmured the girl. " Mist, two hours 
 of sunshine, mist again, gloom, wind, and rain. That's the 
 Dartmoor day. Let's go to Zeal." 
 
 To the old mining village they went by the winding road. 
 As they entered it they heard the creaking of the tireless 
 machinery at the copper-mine above. They went into the old 
 manor, which has still retained its outward appearance, although 
 the good Burgoyne family knows it no more, and it has become 
 
TWO MAIDS. 89 
 
 the Oxenham Arms, a poor wayside inn. The)' passed through 
 the mediseval gateway, across the uneven stone floor, and 
 aroused the drowsy occupants with the startling request for tea. 
 ^Maria's laughter was soon ringing through the old dining-hall 
 making the sleepy spiders in the roof wonder if Spring had 
 come again. If any of them peeped out to see they soon 
 scuttled back into their holes. There was only a pretty, dark 
 girl and a fair young man sitting beside a lamp, one playing 
 . with the tea-things, the other looking on. " Pretty, dark girls 
 don't make a Summer to us," quoth the wise spiders. " Only, 
 sunshine and fat flies can do that." ■ 
 
 " It's dark early to-day,'' the girl was saying. " This is what 
 father would call a black wind. Remember that. It's a Dart- 
 moor expression. The teaching habit is strong upon me still. 
 What would my father call this sudden change of weather? 
 Take your finger out of your mouth, please, and look at me." 
 
 " It is a wind which has blown his pretty daughter 
 
 Brian began, but was cut off in his sins. 
 
 " Quite wrong. Go and stand in the corner, and don't move 
 until I give you leave," said she. 
 
 "Arminel! That's the Arminel expression again, ' he cried 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Very well. Now I'm Maria, in whose mouth the buttei 
 melteth not." 
 
 With that she lowered her eyes and looked demure. But it 
 seemed to him there was a tiny pulse of laughter beating upon 
 each corner of her mouth. 
 
 " Aren't we flirting ? " he laughed. 
 
 " Rather ! But it's fun, and that's what you came to meet 
 me for. I have put on the Maria expression now." 
 
 " I like the Arminel the best. I wonder why your father 
 gave you that name ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you," she said primly. " In days of old there were 
 only three names for girls in use about these villages. They 
 were Joan, Alice, and Arminel. If you get Mr. Wistman to 
 show you the old registers of Tordown you will find this is 
 
go ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 trae. These names still survive, though Arminel is not much 
 used, and Joan has become Jane. I'm sorry I'm so learned," 
 she added naughtily. "It's one of those minor vices that I 
 cannot help." 
 
 " I don't understand why people should speak badly of you 
 just because you are clever," said Brian. 
 
 " I can. People are pretty primitive in mid-Devon. They 
 can't understand literary and artistic gifts even in people of 
 gentle birth, and when they suspect a young creature of my 
 low estate possessing them they put it down to witchcraft. I 
 don't know myself why I am cleverer than other girls of my 
 class, so how should they? Most daughters of commoners 
 find it hard to learn to read, and many of them forget even that 
 after they have left school. Everything came to me quite 
 easily, and I didn't find it hard to learn French, and now I'm 
 teaching myself German, and then — opening her eyes widely — 
 I shall know nearly as much as you." 
 
 Brian began to reflect that the girl was just as seductive in 
 her solemn mood as when she was frivolous. Possibly Maria 
 guessed something of his thoughts, so she said, " I'll put on my 
 gloves, if you have finished playing with them. It is time I 
 went." 
 
 " When am I to see you again ? " Brian asked. 
 
 " But you don't want to," she hesitated. 
 
 " Yes I do, Arminel." 
 
 She laughed delightfully, but quickly put on her serious 
 expression to remind him, "My father is poor old Dartmoor 
 Jack, who goes about the country selling oil. My mother is — 
 I don't know where. I came to meet you to-day upon the oil- 
 cart. Don't I smell of it ? " 
 
 " Not in the least," he said. 
 
 " Perhaps if you met me again I should, or you might think 
 so. I ought not to have any pride, but there is some here," 
 touching her breast lightly ; " I suppose I am common, but I 
 should not like you to tell me so. And there is something 
 else. I must get work. I am not going to sponge on my 
 
TWO MAIDS. 91 
 
 father after all he has done for me. Then I hate Dartmoor in 
 |Winter. I am Maria to everyone, and the young men want me 
 to walk out with them, and my character gets worse because I 
 won't. You don't want to see me again ? " she finished 
 somewhat wistfully. 
 
 Their eyes met, and she looked aside quickly. She had so 
 much colour that it was not easy to tell whether she had flushed ; 
 but it seemed to him that her colour had altered, just as 
 Cawsand had altered when the sun dropped down behind it 
 while they stood upon the cliff of the quarry above the lake. 
 
 "It is a long way for you to walk," he said, somewhat 
 tenderly, and ignoring her question. " Shall I drive over on 
 Saturday and pick you up somewhere ? " 
 
 " Don't come all the way. I'll be on Sticklepath Bridge." 
 
 They had become very decided all at once. The arrange- 
 ments were soon made. They went out, and while ascending 
 the steep hill out of Zeal Brian took her arm. She drew her- 
 self free at once, but in so gentle a manner that he could not 
 ,be offended. " People will see us and talk about me worse 
 than ever," she said. 
 
 At the cross-roads above it was lonely enough, and there 
 they said good-bye. Brian's way went to the right, while the 
 moor, and the dark gorge which Dartmoor Jack had annexed, 
 were on the left. The girl did not seem anxious to be off. 
 She did xiot mind walking in the dark. She felt safer then, 
 because no one could see how pretty she was. Her hand was 
 in Brian's, and he drew her suddenly towards him until they 
 touched. "Do let me kiss you," he said eagerly; but she 
 only shook her head with a smile. 
 
 " Why not ? Nobody can see us." 
 
 " I won't be common," she said. " I won't have you meet 
 me on Saturday with the idea of getting kisses from me." 
 
 " I should never think you common. I don't care what your 
 father is. You are quite sweet, Arminel." 
 
 " Maria, if you please, kind sir," she whispered, trying to 
 release her hand. " And perhaps she'll have to take a situation 
 
92 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 as a housemaid, in spite of all her learning, and wear a cap 
 and apron, and scrub the front doorstep." 
 
 "You shall not do anything of the sort," said impulsive 
 Brian. " You are much too sweet and beautiful. If you 
 would only let me kiss you, darling " 
 
 " Well then, you may," said she, looking down and not up, 
 because she did not want to tempt him. " But if you do kiss 
 me you shall never see me again." 
 
 He knew that she meant it. He pressed his lips fervently 
 upon her gloved hand and let her go. She tripped away, with 
 the tenderest and most delightful " good-night " that the 
 lips of a maid had ever uttered, or that the ears of a man had 
 heard. 
 
 To return to a cold village after being with a warm pretty 
 girl was to descend from life to mere existence. Tordown 
 seemed a wilderness upon a hill-top to Brian when he saw the 
 lonely street spotted with blobs of lamplight in the narrow 
 windows of the thatched and cob cottages. Stokey was the 
 only house which made a respectable show of light. 
 
 Brian could see the dark sycamores about the Rectory. 
 Immediately his thoughts went out to Nona. He was not 
 much more fickle than most young men, but now that Maria 
 had sunk beneath the horizon he desired Nona to appear in 
 Perigee. Few men on the reckless side of thirty have much 
 stability or scruple in anything which concerns the passions, 
 and Brian was quite an ordinary young man. Nothing mattered 
 very much so long as he was enjoying himself. Men have 
 long ceased to be heroes in the old and somewhat melodra- 
 matic sense of the age of chivalry. If Brian had been a 
 soldier he would have gone to be shot. He would have 
 plunged into dangerous waters to save anyone from drowning. 
 He was neither more or less of a voluptuary than most youths. 
 If a girl tempted him to follow her he would go, but not unless. 
 He did not hang about the secret corners of the streets. When 
 temptation came he yielded ; but that is the way of men and 
 women all the world over and always will be. 
 
TWO MAIDS. 
 
 93 
 
 Coneybear was in the linhay, cutting turves into portions 
 suitable for the sitting-room grate. Miss Challacombe liked 
 her fire to be composed of peat and wood. The sight was 
 pleasant to her eyes, and the odour agreeable to her nostrils. 
 Many of her subtle games of Patience had been inspired by the 
 blended virtues of peat and wood smoke. Coneybear was 
 whistling a hymn tune, and sometimes singing about a river 
 pronounced by him " Jor'n," the difficulty connected with 
 crossing the same, and the Tannhauser-like pleasures to be 
 anticipated upon its opposite shore. When Brian appeared he 
 did not cease his vocal efforts immediately. He merely altered 
 the key to denote pleasure or surprise. Then he made various 
 sibilant noises to express secrecy. Finally he spoke in mysterious 
 accents : 
 
 " The pullet to the Rectory — ^they calls 'en Saint Barnabas — 
 he'm laid an egg." 
 
 This was not particularly interesting, and Brian said so. 
 Coneybear cackled in reply, and turned the light of his lantern 
 upon the corner of the linhay. His coat was lying upon an 
 old long-disused cider-press, and upon the- coat reposed 
 something white. 
 
 " Pick 'en up," directed Coneybear. " Mind now. Her be 
 proper heavy." 
 
 " I don't want the thing," said Brian. 
 
 " Lucy gave it I, and 'tis for yew," said Coneybear. 
 
 Brian became attentive when he heard that. He stepped 
 across and took the egg. It was, as Coneybear had said, 
 remarkably heavy, and fastened around it was a band of 
 adhesive stamp-paper. Before he could say anything the 
 querulous voice of Betsey could be heard threatening to knock 
 Coneybear's dafty head against the door-post if he didn't bring 
 along the peat immediately. Coneybear replied in a manner 
 similarly effusive, then said to Brian, " He'm a cunning little 
 Saint Barnabas to lay thic egg, hain't her ? " With that he went 
 off peat-laden, and Brian heard him adding such fuel to Betsey's 
 chronic ill-temper as, " Ye loves little Willy, don't ye ? You'm 
 
94 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 broody for your little Willy. Tak' the peat, ducky, and don't 
 ye knock your face in the dark, 'cause you'm a proper booty 
 duck you be." 
 
 Brian went to his room. He cracked the egg over his basin. 
 It was filled with sand, and in the midst of the sand was a slip 
 of paper. A hole had been made in the side of the egg, through 
 which the contents had been withdrawn, and the adhesive paper 
 had been wrapped round to cover the hole. Upon the piece of 
 paper was written : 
 
 " I will come to the church porch at midnight. I am sorry 
 I was like that the other night. I was so frightened. If you 
 will come put a light in your bedroom window at nine o'clock. 
 I cannot see the window, but the light comes through the 
 trees." 
 
 So Nona had rebelled and broken loose at last. The woman 
 in her had appeared. Through the one little pin-prick made 
 by Nature in the severe religious armour, with which her father 
 had tried to encompass her, issued all the longings comprised 
 under love of life and desire of love : everything that was sweet, 
 tender, and sickly, but not the safeguards of knowledge, pru- 
 dence, and moderation. Nona was coming out to the world, 
 like the foolish virgin, without oil for her lamp, or as the knight 
 of La Mancha, without knowing how to fight or what to 
 fight for. 
 
 Brian put the light in his bedroom window, and at the time 
 appointed he passed out of the house, into the intense calm of 
 a still Winter's night. 
 
 The churchyard was just across the road. Trees were every- 
 where to hide its ugliness. They crowded about the church, 
 surrounding it with the damp pressure of their boughs. The 
 graves were in disorder; even the piteous series of mounds 
 recording the number of Nona's brothers and sisters were so 
 many heaps of greasy turf headed by cheap wooden crosses, 
 which were coated with bright green mildew. Brian went up 
 the rough path quaking horribly, feeling himself surrounded by 
 ghosts, almost sorry he had come. He found a difficulty in 
 
TWO MAIDS. 95 
 
 breathing as he approached the porch. It was empty. He sat 
 down and underwent a fit of shudders. There were noises 
 upon the other side of the door, the rusty handle creaked, a 
 cold breath came from the church, and with it a voice, which 
 any haunting spirit might have envied, whispered, " I'm here." 
 
 Any sort of voice was better than that silence. Brian sprang 
 up, shook the shivers off him, felt towards the open space, found 
 the door and Nona at the same time, and became bold when 
 he discovered that she was tangible. 
 
 " Why did you ask me to meet you here ? " he said in the 
 liveliest manner he could muster. " Among the graves and 
 ghosts. What a place to choose. I can't even see you now 
 I have come." 
 
 Some faltering sounds reached his ears, but conveyed no 
 meaning. As they died away Brian became aware of quite a 
 different sort of sound. He was shocked when he realised that 
 it was caused by the wild beating of the girl's heart. 
 
 " Nona — ^you don't mind me calling you Nona, I am sure," 
 he said quickly, in his easy-going way. " I should never have 
 come if I had thought it would upset you. There is nothing 
 to be frightened at. Why shouldn't you meet me ? It's the 
 most ordinary thing in the world for men and girls to meet, and 
 — and have a good time together. You needn't be afraid of 
 your father. If he does find out we are meeting I shall have a 
 straight talk with him. I'll stick up for you, and I'll tell him 
 I have a perfect right to meet you. Of course I have. And 
 he's a brute to shut you up." 
 
 Nona recovered rapidly under this sort of treatment. Her 
 heart became, if not normal, at least less like a smith's hammer 
 upon an anvil. She felt she was going in the right way to 
 attain happiness. She had a champion. At that moment her 
 father became a wicked ogre who had been imprisoning her 
 against her will, and Brian was the valiant knight who had come 
 to set her free. This was a poetic way of looking at the dull 
 prose of life, and a very foolish way; for the ogre was only 
 wicked in a bigoted sense, and as for the valiant knight, he had 
 
96 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 more than half a heart devoted to the cause of pretty, dark- 
 haired Maria of Dartmoor. But Nona's only unmonastic books 
 were fairy-tales, and stories of young people who behaved as 
 young people never have behaved yet, and never will while 
 passion lasts ; and these had only given her the wrong kind of 
 knowledge, which is worse than ignorance. 
 
 " Let's light a candle or a lamp," said Brian. 
 
 Nona exclaimed in horror. Then she found strength and 
 courage to ask, " Is it wrong to love one another in church ? " 
 
 This was a downright question, and it took Brian unawares, 
 Nona and Maria were two such very different girls. The bad 
 maid of Dartmoor was far easier to understand than Nona of 
 all the virtues. One knew how to protect herself, the other 
 did not ; one knew that kisses might be dangerous, the other 
 thought of them as something necessary for existence. 
 
 " The better the place the better the deed," he said care- 
 lessly. 
 
 "We must lock ourselves in," she whispered, thankful of 
 the darkness which made her burning face invisible, and yet 
 longing for light that she might behold the physical perfections 
 of the missionary who had been sent in answer to her prayers. 
 
 She locked the door. They were as much alone in that 
 tree-surrounded church as if they had been upon a desert 
 island. Nona had changed out of all knowledge in those few 
 minutes. Terror had departed, and so had her painful shy- 
 ness and reserve. She forgot everything except that which she 
 had come for. She had seen village couples slink away on 
 Sunday evening ; go down to Stokey Moor, or into fields of 
 standing corn, or the rosy lane to Pasture Water. She knew 
 they went there for love, whatever that was. She felt they were 
 enjoying something more satisfying than church services. She 
 had seen the birds mate, and even dull earth-worms lying in 
 couples. If it was wrong to love, everything in Nature seemed 
 to be sinning except herself. She had come out that night to 
 join the huge majority and sin, too. She was no longer Nona 
 of the Rectory, the spiritual Nona, ^ed upon doughy manuals 
 
TWO MAIDS. 97 
 
 of religion and unsubstantial fairy-tales. She was Nona of the 
 earth. She was a young alchemist longing to find the elixir of 
 life, desiring to transmute her base metal into gold. She 
 yearned for that learning which should make her acquainted 
 with the boundless extent of Nature, and discover to her both 
 heaven and earth. What better school than the church, which 
 represented the heaven, and where marriage services were 
 performed ; with the trees, and hills, and lanes, and moor of 
 the earth around ? She was in love wildly and blindly, not so 
 much with Brian as with the sex he represented. Ten minutes 
 with Maria would have done much for her ; would have taught 
 her more than the rector had done during twice that number 
 of years. But Maria was a girl of no character, and Nona was 
 to be a sister of the Church. Intimacy between them was 
 therefore impossible. 
 
 It was Nona who played the leading part. She quite under- 
 stood she was acting naturally in being alone with a man. 
 They were no longer individuals, such as Nona Wistman and 
 Brian Challacombe, but deities representing the two sexes. 
 ■She stood for womanhood, and he for manhood. She was 
 Danae, the earth, and he was Zeus, the golden shower of rain. 
 It was Nona who suggested they should go up to the belfry. 
 No one could ever find them there. She groped through the 
 darkness towards the narrow door at the west end which opened 
 into the tower. They went up the spiral stairway, clasped 
 together, and if Nona trembled at all then it was only with a 
 sense of pleasure. They came out among the bell-ropes. 
 They could hear the wind rushing against the tower, and the 
 trees outside groaning. In one corner was a heap of musty red 
 cushions which had done their duty in the church and had been 
 put there to be out of the way. At Nona's suggestion they 
 seated themselves upon these cushions. It was for Maria to 
 refuse kisses, and for Nona to demand them. She told him 
 how cunning she had been ; the lies she had told that day and 
 the plans she had made ; how terrified she had been at first to 
 deceive her father, but when nothing had happened, when she 
 
 A.w. H 
 
98 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 was not struck dead as he believed Sapphira was — though she 
 didn't — she had no more fear, and deceit became an easy 
 trick ; how she had planned to meet him at midnight, after her 
 father had retired, when she could slip unobserved out of the 
 house ; how she had thought of sending him the message in 
 the egg. And all this time she sat upon his knees, with her 
 arms about his neck, and her body on fire, kissing him with 
 swelling, moist lips, like some starving animal devouring its 
 natural food. 
 
 " If you hadn't come I should have died," she said. 
 
 What Brian said was incoherent. To do him proper justice 
 he was sorry he had come. The fault was with him. He had 
 kindled the fire. He was not normal ; his senses were confused, 
 certainly, but he was not beside himself like she was. He knew 
 what he was doing ; that the intense surrounding darkness was 
 caused by the walls of the tower which was part of a church ; 
 not a church of his religion, it was true, but still a place dedi- 
 cated to some higher purpose than profane love. He could 
 hear water dripping through the roof. It was always damp in 
 that building, and the night air and the trees above were charged 
 with moisture. Big drops splashed continually upon the boards 
 with a dull, melancholy sound. 
 
 " This is the wickedest thing I have ever done," he muttered, 
 and Nona's ears caught the one word with which they were 
 most familiar. 
 
 " What is wicked ? This wicked ? It is not. It cannot be. 
 It is too — ^too heavenly, far too much like heaven to be wicked. 
 Are you going to be like my father and say every pleasure is 
 wicked ? " 
 
 Brian did not protest again. There was fever in him, and 
 the sound of the splashing went further away, until the drops 
 might have been falling into the blue water of the lake at the 
 quarries, or even upon the roof of the cottage in Blackalake 
 Gorge, where pretty Arminel — ^would she wear that expression 
 in her sleep ? he wondered — might be troubled in her dreams 
 through him. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CONCERNING IDEAS. 
 
 Miss Challacombe often had ideas. Most of them fizzled 
 out at once like damp squibs ; a few spluttered for some con- 
 siderable time ; sometimes one would burn with a steady and 
 permanent lustre. Her leading ideas were associated with 
 games, card-games usually, although she did not disdain out- 
 door pastimes. She had lived at North Beer as a young girl, 
 and had played bowls in its classic alley. She still asserted she 
 could beat any other woman of her own age at the game. 
 This was a safe claim, as nobody was likely to dispute it. 
 Elderly maiden ladies prefer as a rule to play at worrying the 
 poor and baiting the parson. The mistress of Stokey had a 
 cupboard filled with dingy trophies, which she declared were 
 prizes won in her youth for archery and swimming. From 
 time to time she made additions to these trophies ; she would 
 present herself with a prize for any particularly good idea ; and 
 then she would have to invent a chapter of bygone history to 
 account for its presence. 
 
 Coneybear's father, who was champion skittle-player of the 
 village — ^the skittle alley was one of Miss Challacombe's ideas, 
 and she presented a barrel of ale to be played for every revel 
 week — was accustomed to boast that he had a new idea every 
 time he drained a mug of beer. If that had been strictly true 
 his mind should have been the most prolific one ever known. 
 It was to be feared, however, that the idea which presented 
 itself was not original, and was always the same, and could be 
 resolved into the simple intention of having the mug refilled. 
 The mind of the younger Coneybear was equally fertile. He 
 
 H2 
 
loo ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 too had ideas. A long period of incubation was necessary, 
 but when they did emerge they were sound practical ideas. 
 They were speculations, but not altogether dreams. They 
 were good ideas. They concerned himself and his future, and 
 the intense problem of how to live without undue energy. There 
 comes a time in the life of most rustics when love is no longer 
 a leading pleasure, and when even the fascinating prospect of 
 attaining some day to such a topmost pinnacle of affluence as 
 is represented by twenty shillings a week ceases to charm. 
 Nothing in life is of much account then except the long low 
 room with huge fireplace, cobbled floor, quaint hunting-prints, 
 trestle-tables, and long rows of blue and white mugs decently 
 inverted. That is the place to which the old man turns his 
 thoughts when he is mistboimd upon the moor. Coneybear 
 the younger was many years removed from that stage. He, 
 like his father, worshipped af the shrine of the blue and white 
 mugs, but with a very different object. The father loved the 
 contents of the mugs. The son loved the money of the widow 
 who handled the mugs. The widow herself he was not called 
 upon to love, because she was quite old enough to have been his 
 mother ; but he knew he had no more chance of getting the 
 widow's money without her than his father had of drinking the 
 widow's beer without paying for it. 
 
 A touch of Spring sunshine at the end of Febrifaiy awakened 
 everything. It freshened up the inhabitants of Tordown. 
 They said there had never been such a season ; but they made 
 that remark every year. The first two weeks of "fill-dyke" 
 rain had fallen continuously, drap-drapity-drap-drap as old 
 Betsey expressed it. The folks said they had never heard of 
 such rain ; and when the sunshine came they declared its like 
 at that period of the year had never been known before. 
 
 The premature Spring lured the trees into bud and made the 
 lanes yellow with primroses. It turned the minds of buxom 
 maids towards matrimony and made the youths smarten them- 
 selves like cock-chaflBnches. It sent its quickening power into 
 souls so far apart as Miss Challacombe and Coneybear. It 
 
CONCERNING IDEAS. loi 
 
 procreated ideas in each. The mistress of Stokey invented 
 a new form of croquet. Coneybear resolved to marry the 
 widow. His father entertained the idea — never entirely carried 
 out owing to shortness of funds — of draining his own particular 
 blue and white mug, which had his name scratched upon 
 it with a nail and reposed when not in use at the end of the 
 second shelf nearest the window, more frequently than had been 
 the case during the recent wet weather. 
 
 Brian as usual was the principal sufferer from his aunt's 
 sporting zeal. He was the vile body upon which she experi- 
 mented. There was a stretch of turf behind Stokey as old as 
 the house, half lawn and half orchard. A number of apple- 
 trees grew there, only cider apples, and never gathered because 
 they would not ripen at that height. The old lady would not 
 have the trees removed because they recalled her childhood 
 when she had frequently been sent to bed with grievous pains 
 in various parts of her anatomy after consuming a handful of 
 the hard bitter fruit. She hoped some day to see Brian's 
 children suffer in the same way ; and to enjoy the satisfaction 
 of sending them to bed to undergo precisely the same pangs 
 which had convulsed her at their age. These trees would have 
 deterred the ordinary croquet player. They inspired Miss 
 Challacombe. She routed about in the barn, discovered a set 
 of hoops belonging to a past age, called Coneybear, and 
 ordered him to take them upon the lawn. She followed after 
 an interval and found him against a tree, with an expression of 
 melancholy upon his face, as if he too had partaken of the 
 apples which never ripened. He was thinking of the widow ; 
 but his mistress's sharp tongue came to remind him that he was 
 not yet landlord of the Challacombe Arms and in the proud 
 position of being able to refuse credit to his own father. 
 
 " What be I to du wi' the arches ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Stick 'em in the turf," said Miss Challacombe. Then she 
 went off to find her nephew. When she returned with Brian, 
 who was not successful in his attempt to appear interested, Coney- 
 bear had set up the hoops in an avenue and a circle, like the 
 
I03 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 stone remains upon Dartmoor. Having remedied this artistic 
 but mistaken effort tlie mistress went on to explain the rules of 
 the game. 
 
 " We start from this tree, and we have to make every hoop 
 and every tree on the ground. The dead grass over there is 
 rather long, but that will add a fresh interest to the game. We 
 can follow the ball by the movemei>t of the grass. The trees 
 are so many sticks. We have tf' make one between every 
 hoop. First a stick — I mean tree — then a hoop, and so on. 
 
 It's quite simple. If we start now " " We may finish next 
 
 week," said Brian, disgustedly. 
 
 " Oh, we shall be round by this evening," said Miss 
 Challacombe, hopefully. " The exercise will be good for us, 
 and will keep you out in the air all day. And that's what you 
 came here for. I used to be good at this game. I won 
 several prizes when I was a girl. I expect I shall beat you 
 now." 
 
 "I am sure you will," said Brian. "I'll give it you, if 
 you like." 
 
 " Don't be such a chicken," said the old lady, wrathfully. 
 " Here am I having you here at great inconvenience to myself, 
 and inventing games for you, and running the risk of neuralgia 
 and rheumatism to keep you occupied, and — don't look so 
 bored, you miserable toad, or I'll hit you over the head with 
 this mallet." 
 
 "Oh, my! 'Twould hurt young master," exclaimed 
 Coneybear, who remained an interested spectator; lost in 
 wonder that people, who were free to sit by the fire all 
 day, should come out upon a sloppy lawn and knock balls 
 about. 
 
 He was soon made to understand that speech had not been 
 given him for criticising the actions of his mistress, and he 
 presently departed in tears. Coneybear always wept when his 
 mistress abused him. He sobbed like an overgrown baby, 
 and with his customary expression of grief, " I be upsot — I be 
 upsot cruel and proper," he made his way towards the 
 
CONCERNING IDEAS. 103 
 
 kitchen, where Betsey did everything in her power to " upsot " 
 him still more. 
 
 Miss Challacombe secured her many- coloured skirts at what 
 she considered to be a necessary altitude with numerous safety- 
 pins, and paddled happily in the grass with flat-soled boots. 
 Brian tried to look submissive, though he could not feel 
 grateful, because he knew that his aunt was bent upon amusing 
 herself at his expense. She was a kindly old creature when 
 she was stroked the right way, but she didn't know she was a 
 bore. The game was horribly tedious, but the mistress enjoyed 
 it thoroughly, and capered across, or rather through, the grass 
 like an irresponsible kitten. The mallets were shadows of 
 their former selves. The balls were decidedly not spherical. 
 One indeed showed a lamentable tendency to become conical. 
 The grass was littered with sticks and the remainder of last 
 autumn's apple crop. Progress was therefore slow, and 
 depended largely upon chance. Whenever a difiSculty arose 
 Miss Challacombe met it by making a new rule, which was 
 not destined to become law, for if the same difficulty cropped 
 up when she was playing, and the rule happened to be in her 
 disfavour, it was promptly revoked. She explained she was 
 the weaker player. This was not satisfactory, as she won the 
 first stage of the game with ease. She informed Brian he would 
 probably win the next stage, which was to be played immedi- 
 ately after lunch. It was absurd that outdoor games should 
 only be played during certain periods. Croquet could quite 
 easily be played in winter if the weather was fine. It was 
 really more enjoyable than in summer. As for the difficulties, 
 they merely added zest. She was afraid Brian had not got the 
 sporting instinct quite so strongly as his ancestors. They 
 always played bowls in the winter at North Beer. How did she 
 know ? She was sure of it. She should have done so, and 
 she was a Challacombe, and it was notorious that the 
 Challacombes always thought and acted alike. Brian was 
 an exception, perhaps, but then he had foreign blood in him. 
 His father would go out of Devonshire for a wife — not that he 
 
104 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 ought to have married at all ; but since he had made up his 
 mind to do so, it was his obvious duty to have encouraged 
 home industries. That wasn't the right expression, of course, 
 but it was an insult to his name to have married into a family 
 which had no connection with Devon. A Northumberland 
 family, she believed. Whoever had heard of Northumberland ? 
 A place somewhere in the wilds, where the snow never melted, 
 and the sun did not shine, and people went about in furs, and 
 explorers had to go and dig them up and write about them, so 
 that civilised folk might know what strange places there were 
 in the world. 
 
 The game was continued that afternoon, and was well 
 advanced by evening. Miss Challacombe said they would 
 finish it next day, and, calling Coneybear, charged him not to 
 remove the balls, and then gave him permission to spend the 
 evening as he liked, as a recompense for having abused him 
 earlier in the day. This was what Coneybear wanted. He 
 retired into the yard, and presently water might have been 
 heard splashing from the pump, and the youth might have been 
 seen with his head in a foam of soap, scrubbing good red 
 Devon soil from the backs of his hands. Coneybear was going 
 courting. He was by no means an amateur at the game. He 
 was more skilful at courtship than his mistress was at croquet. 
 But it was his first experience at wooing money, and it made 
 him nervous. He felt he must be extravagant for once with 
 soap and water. 
 
 This was not his first devotional visit to the widow. He had 
 sat by the big fireplace, in close proximity to the rows of mugs, 
 and had charmed the lady with brilliant conversation. He had 
 read the paper to her, and interpreted abstruse passages. He 
 had taken flowers from his mistress's garden, and had likened 
 her face to them, not always happily, for pansies were in season 
 then. He had followed her about the village, cackling to her 
 like a hen; he had broken a good deal of crockery in her 
 kitchen in his anxiety to render services ; and he had hindered 
 her in every possible way while she was drawing beer. 
 
CONCERNING IDEAS. 105 
 
 Coneybear senior emerged from the Challacombe Arms, 
 aromatic of malt, as his soap-scented son was about to make 
 his solemn entry. They knew each other well. They were 
 indeed such excellent friends that farmers from adjoining 
 parishes would hardly believe they were so closely related. 
 The old gentleman was wiping his mouth. He did this so 
 often that the act became mechanical. It had worn a smooth 
 passage upon his coat-sleeve. When he saw his son he laughed 
 with a succession of short explosions punctuated by hee-haws. 
 There was nothing much to laugh at, but it was the old gentle- 
 man's way of saluting his friends. It expressed all that speech 
 could, and was far easier. 
 
 " Be there a lot inside 1 " inquired the son. " 'Cause, if 
 there be, I hain't going." 
 
 " Her be alone, sure 'nuff. Now be the time to du squeezy 
 trade. Her be proper tender, by dimsies, and yew be gitten a 
 gurt larripin' boy," said the father, who knew all about his son's 
 intentions, and quite approved of them, because they brought 
 before his imagination quite a new idea : an idea of an unin- 
 terrupted vista of brimming blue and white mugs stretching in 
 geometrical progression from that doorstep to infinity. He 
 felt that he would not have lived in vain should the Challacombe 
 Arms pass under the entirely new management of his son. 
 
 " I'll work she proper," said that youth. " What be I to call 
 she ? Shall I say her face be like a pat o' butter wi' a purty 
 stamp on't ? " 
 
 " Call she Rosy. ' You'm my Rosy ' ; say that," the father 
 instructed. "And tickle she, Willy. Tickle she under the 
 chin. Have a proper May-game wi' she." 
 
 "Her might get tedyus," said the son. 
 
 " Her wun't," the sage declared. " When you goes courting 
 call she Rosy and tickle she. Fayther told I, and I tells yew. 
 Be artful wi' her face, Willy. Butter wun't du. Might make 
 she maggity. Bain't an easy face,'' he continued euphem- 
 istically. " Might say 'twas like a dish o' cream. Best not, 
 though. Best let 'en bide." 
 
io6 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Be I to kiss she ?" asked the pupil. 
 
 " Ah," said the father. " Don't ye ask she. Kiss she and 
 say you'm sorry, and if her tries to scat yew kiss she again. 
 Don't ye be coy, Willy. 'Tis money you'm after. Call she 
 duck," he added. "And tickle she. Wimmin be got by 
 tickling, siu-e 'nuff." 
 
 After this lesson in the art of courtship the old gentleman 
 wiped his mouth and departed, while the complete lover went 
 along a dark passage, turned off into the kitchen, and immedi- 
 ately found himself in the presence of his lady. There was no 
 doubt about that presence. It overflowed. There was not 
 much wall space to be seen behind it. Women of no greater 
 bulk had secured an honest livelihood by exhibiting their corpu- 
 lence at fairs. Even Coneybear had a vague feeling that the 
 lady was not exactly in proportion with himself. The prospect 
 of " tickling she " appeared formidable. 
 
 The widow's name was Sal Lampey. Her exact age was 
 fifty-four. As Coneybear had sinned for exactly half that 
 period a fresh sense of disproportion ought to have been 
 established. Because love is blind — it was certain that the 
 landlady was well-to-do — Coneybear saw no serious lack of 
 homogeneity in the alliance. However, he stood in some fear 
 as to how his overtures might be received. The widow looked 
 capable of taking him across her knee and of inflicting the 
 kind of punishment which frequently follows precocity. After 
 all, he intended to pay her the greatest compliment men can 
 offer women, that is to say, he was about to ask permission to 
 spend her money. 
 
 " 'Tis Will, sure enough," said the widow, beaming upon the 
 well -soaped and vacant face of the boyish lover of her bank 
 account. " Please to sit down, Will. Have a drop o' cider ? " 
 
 The widow gave away cider because it was cheap, and she 
 kept a special barrel for suitors which was very cheap indeed. 
 She did not give away beer, because that was expensive. Sal 
 Lampey was a thrifty soul. That was why all the eligible 
 loafers in the district were after her. 
 
CONCERNING IDEAS. 107 
 
 Coneybear refused the cider. He had tasted it already. He 
 preferred the sloe-gin which the lady prepared herself. The 
 sloe-gin only appeared on special occasions, or on cold nights 
 as a stirrup-cup for some favoured suitor beside the lifting-stock. 
 Coneybear sat down and breathed heavily. He wondered if 
 the widow would like him to sing to her. He could sing " The 
 Farmer's Boy," though he was not certain of the words, and "The 
 Tithe Pig," with variations, and " Widdecombe Fair," and "Jeru- 
 salem the Golden " ; or he could whistle her the tunes if she would 
 prefer that. 
 
 " Be ye out to-night ? " the widow inquired. 
 
 Coneybear replied that he was not just then engaged in 
 manual labour at Stokey. This fact should have been obvious, 
 but it made conversation, and anything which accomplished 
 that was a stepping-stone on the way to matrimony. He went 
 on to inform the lady that his mistress and her nephew had 
 been engaged that day in " gurt vulishness." They had been 
 in the orchard hitting balls with wooden hammers through 
 arches. He could not understand what pleasure or profit 
 accrued to them by so doing, as they did not apparently make 
 the pastime an excuse for consuming liquor, and he had failed 
 to discover any signs of gambling upon the result. Skittles 
 Coneybear comprehended and could appreciate. It consisted 
 of beer-drinking and gambling. It also gave those men who 
 bore each other a grudge an opportunity to quarrel or fight. 
 Skittles was legitimate sport. But to hammer balls through 
 arches — what folly could be more amazing than that ? 
 
 Sal Lampey was sympathetic. She pitied the mistress of 
 Stokey and her nephew, but explained that every allowance 
 must be made for them. They were only gentlefolk. They 
 knew no better. They had nothing to do all day. She 
 reminded him that even gentlefolk fulfil some useful purpose. 
 They had money which she and others of her class found no 
 difficulty in accepting. They paid others for doing what they 
 were too ignorant to do for themselves, and they were as a rule 
 easy to impose upon. 
 
io8 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Where would yew be without the missis ? " she concluded, 
 to add point to her argument. 
 
 " Here, washing they gurt mugs," said Coneybear bashfully. 
 
 He imagined this was something like a declaration of his 
 secret passion, and the thought made him cackle. Not that 
 his ambition was to cleanse mugs. When he was promoted to 
 the position of landlord he intended to stand in the porch all 
 day and smoke his pipe. He waited for the answer, which he 
 hoped might amount to an invitation to assume the apron at 
 once. When it came it was depressing. 
 
 " Tearing 'em abroad more like," said the widow. 
 
 Coneybear scratched his ear. He was not getting on fast 
 enough, and very soon the outer room would be filled with the 
 clattering of nailed boots and loud demands for beer. He 
 looked at the widow. She was searching for beetles beside the 
 range, and when she discovered one she descended upon it 
 with a certainty of foot which must have been quite painless to 
 the beetle. Coneybear did not know what to do. Any attempt 
 at surrounding her waist with his arm would end in ridiculous 
 failure. To reach her chin, for the purpose of complying with 
 his father's injunction, would require an effort of gymnastics 
 of which he considered himself incapable. To draw her upon 
 his knees would be certain to invite paralysis in that region, 
 and might bring upon him a fate not unlike that which had 
 befallen the beetles. He wondered how gentlefolk made love, 
 because he had an idea that genteel wooing would appeal to 
 the widow. He fancied they assumed an air of indifference, 
 and suggested matrimony as a sort of afterthought. Should he 
 ask boldly, " Shall us get married ? " That would mean a 
 direct answer and an end of the difficulty. Only that sort of 
 question required nerve. Coneybear reflected, " Her be a gurt 
 big woman and might tak' the stick to I." He did not look 
 far enough ahead to guess what would be his fate after 
 matrimony if she would belabour him before, because the 
 belief that marriage makes a woman submissive is entertained 
 by most m^n until the wife shows them their mistake, 
 
CONCERNING IDEAS. 109 
 
 Coneybear thought he might at least venture upon calling her 
 Rosy. He did so. 
 
 " Who be yew a-calling ? " cried the astonished lady. 
 
 "Yew," said Coneybear. 
 
 " My name be Sal. 'Tis a good name," said the widow. 
 
 " Rosy be better," explained Coneybear. 
 
 The widow considered the matter, and the verdict was in his 
 favour. "It hain't bad. Seems to suit me somehow," she 
 observed. 
 
 *' It du," said the suitor ardently, while ideas chased one 
 another through his brain : the board above the porch bearing 
 his name ; himself beneath it issuing orders ; money in his 
 pocket, and more at the bank ; W. Coneybear, the big man of 
 Tordown, licensed to sell wines and liquors, the ofl&ce of 
 churchwarden at his mercy, chairman of local meetings, 
 defender of the village rights, and lord also of the local 
 constable. His father was a genius. He knew how women 
 could be won. " Call she Rosy," he had said. Rosy she had 
 been called, and the result had already proved the height and 
 depth of the old man's wisdom. 
 
 "Have old Jonadab been to see yew?" the young man 
 continued in a somewhat contemptuous manner. 
 
 He referred to a certain small farmer, who was one of the 
 widow's suitors, and according to report a favoured one. 
 Being somewhat past work on account of age and infirmity, he 
 too was applying for the position of landlord. It was here that 
 Coneybear made a mistake. He lacked courage. He should 
 have attended to his father's instructions, and followed up what 
 success he had attained by the use of the name Rosy with those 
 acts which the sage had recommended as being profitable in 
 courtship. Instead of doing so he went off upon a side track, 
 and he did not know how to get back to the main line. Some 
 villagers came in and the widow became busy; and after 
 Coneybear had assisted her by breaking two mugs and spilling 
 nearly a pint of good beer, he went into the presence of 
 his father, and was lectured for his want of courage, which, 
 
no ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 as he was reminded, would never win him the fat lady's 
 money. 
 
 Sal Lampey knew what the men were after. They wanted 
 her savings, and she was the legal encumbrance attached to 
 them. The old lady was something of a wanton, and she had 
 a moist eye for young men. She did not object to Coneybear. 
 He was a stupid and awkward fellow, but she thought it would 
 not take long to thrash reason into him and to cure him of the 
 distressing habit of breaking things. She wanted a strong 
 young man about the place to save her the expense of hiring 
 labour. Coneybear would suit very well. It was true he did 
 not know what hard work meant, as Stokey was an easy place, 
 but she could soon show him. He would be a cheap husband. 
 He would, indeed, be an actual saving. She did not intend to 
 give him much to eat, and for drink he could draw upon the 
 inferior cider. She would not allow him pocket-money ; a 
 couple of ounces of twist weekly, a clay pipe occasionally, a 
 suit of clothes once a year — that would do him very well. The 
 advantage would be with her. She would have a husband who 
 would cost her nothing. If he wanted a little money for him- 
 self he could make it by odd jobs when his day's work at the 
 inn was over. Coneybear's idea of annexing Sal Lampey and 
 property was not so very brilliant after all. 
 
 Later on business became slack. It was getting near the 
 end of the week and money was scarce. The slate was already 
 filled, and every man's credit was exhausted. The widow went 
 to the door. Both the Coneybears were there, the younger 
 obviously depressed, the elder anxious for the one thing which 
 could justify the spasmodic movements of the right arm across 
 his mouth. The widow called them in. She led the way to 
 the kitchen, and produced a bottle of sloe-gin, another of 
 cherry-brandy, and another of port. She favoured the last- 
 named liquor. Glasses were produced and the bottles were 
 uncorked. That containing cherry-brandy was passed into 
 the gnarled hands of old Coneybear, who clutched it as though 
 he feared it might struggle to escape. The sloe-gin went to 
 
CONCERNING IDEAS. iii 
 
 his son. They drank with a good deal of gravity and still more 
 smacking of lips ; and then the silence was broken by the old 
 gentleman, who was heard to mutter hoarsely that he was 
 spoilt for beer. 
 
 " It du warm a person," the hostess admitted. 
 
 " 'Tis a brave searching warmth what touches every bone to 
 once and makes 'em prickle," said old Coneybear. " I could 
 drink a barrelful of thic trade. I could, sure 'nuff." 
 
 " How be the sloe-gin, Will ? I made 'en wi' berries from 
 Stokey moor," went on the widow, who was just then, and for 
 that night only, the most amiable creature in Tordown. It 
 was very little choice liquor the Coneybears would taste when the 
 proceedings which would give her their name had terminated. 
 
 " It be easy to swallow," was the answer. 
 
 Then Sal Lampey turned to business. She sat down and 
 helped herself to a second glass. Two others followed her 
 example : and one of them, who was of an age to know better, 
 seized the opportunity which was afforded him by a vision of 
 the lady's ample back to place the bottle to his mouth at an 
 angle which should have caused a considerable portion of its 
 contents to escape. The other covered this movement by 
 edging between him and the hostess. 
 
 " Yew be a fine set up young man," said the widow 
 pleasantly. 
 
 "That's what I tells 'en," exclaimed the old gentleman, 
 with rather more mirth than was necessary. " A gurt larripin' 
 boy. I ha' seed fine boys, ah, and fine maids tu, ah, and fine 
 wimmin. I ha' seed cruel fine wimmin, and I ain't seed none 
 better than Will. I ain't seed no finer wimmin than landlady. 
 If I said contrariwise, I'd be a gurt vule, sure 'nuff. You'm a 
 couple of fine volk, you be. I ha' seed lads and wimmin " 
 
 " Why don't ye be quiet, fayther ? " broke in Coneybear the 
 younger, with some emphasis. 
 
 The old gentleman went ofi into joyous hee-haws, nodded 
 and grinned at his son, and went through a pantomime of 
 tickling himself under his stubbly chin. 
 
112 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Old fayther be amoosing," said the suitor apologetically. 
 The lady agreed, and added, " Bain't bashful neither, same 
 
 as some volk." 
 
 " That's -what I tells 'en. ' Don't ye be coy. Will,' I ses," 
 cried the old gentleman. 
 
 " Now what's he talking about, I wonder ? " said the widow. 
 
 " Me and you, likely," the suitor gurgled. 
 
 " Well I never!" she exclaimed. "What will yew be saying 
 next ? Have another drop o' sloe-gin, won't ye ? " 
 
 Old Coneybear took this remark personally. After doing 
 so, he did his best to explain matters with what little remaining 
 gravity he possessed. 
 
 "Will be coorting," he announced; while to himself he 
 observed, "dalled if I bain't coorting for 'en." 
 
 "Coorting, be he?" exclaimed the astonished hostess. "And 
 who would he be coorting ? " 
 
 " Yew," said the old gentleman with appalling frankness. 
 
 Sal Lampey became consumed with mirth, which continued 
 for some time, and seriously strained the structure of her chair. 
 The dumb suitor's face bore a striking resemblance to an over 
 ripe tomato ; while the father who was courting for him 
 dropped his head back against the wall, and made the house 
 clamorous with hee-haws. 
 
 "Anyone might think I was a young maid," gasped the 
 widow, as she wiped her streaming face. 
 
 " It be true," cried old Coneybear. " Bain't it true. Will ? " 
 
 Not without difficulty the suitor found the monosyllable he 
 required, and gave it utterance. 
 
 " Want to marry me, du ye .' " asked the lady, with the 
 astonishment which was only decent upon such an occasion. 
 
 " I du," replied the young man with piteously staring eyes. 
 
 " Well, I'll have ye," said the lady of business. 
 
 " I be witness," cried the old gentleman, making a vigorous 
 use of his coat-sleeve. 
 
 " Oh my ! " gasped the suitor. 
 
CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 CEREMONIAL TEA. 
 
 Brian did not see Nona again. He knew she was in the 
 Rectory, but she sent ho more messages, and gave no sign of 
 her presence. He gathered from Coneybear there had been 
 storms ; father and daughter had quarrelled at last. During 
 the heavy rain of early February, Lucy told her fickle swain that 
 Nona had disappeared. One evening she had retired as usual, 
 and the next morning she was nowhere to be found. The 
 rector did not show any astonishment. He told Lucy that 
 Nona had gone away, but he did not say for how long. It 
 was strange that the girl should have gone alone — she who 
 had never been allowed outside the garden unless her father 
 was at her heels. It was also strange that she should have 
 disappeared in the night. 
 
 At first Brian felt relieved. Excuse himself as he might, the 
 fact remained that he had acted the part of serpent in that 
 garden. There was no love between them ; only that passion 
 which turns to hatred. So he was glad she had gone. But as 
 he turned the matter over in his mind during the long evenings, 
 when even Miss Challacombe had tired of Patience, he 
 wondered, and then he grew suspicious. When Wistman 
 came to lecture, he looked critically at the white simplicity of 
 his face. It was ridiculous to imagine that the simple old 
 scholar was a villain ; but Brian was unable to set aside the 
 fact of his intense bigotry. He did not know to what lengths 
 excessive zeal might bear a man, who, despite his learning, 
 was nearly as weak in mind as Nona herself. He found him- 
 self wondering whether his tutor's eccentricity bordered upon 
 
 A.w. I 
 
114 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 insanity. This suggested an unpleasant picture of Nona 
 struggling in a dark corner of the garden, with that white, 
 gaunt figure striking at her like another Eugene Aram, sacri- 
 ficing his daughter to save her from the world. He com- 
 mitted these thoughts to nobody except Maria. He told her 
 everything. Maria's mind was not a morbid one, and she 
 laughed away his fears. 
 
 " What a grim and awful person," said she. " I suppose 
 when 1 disappear mysteriously, to become a housemaid, or 
 what is known as a lady-help, which is really a little bit lower 
 than a scullery-maid, you will think father has cut my poor 
 little throat from ear to ear, and has buried me in the lowest 
 depths of Blackalake. It's perfectly simple. Old Wistman 
 has found the girl too much of a handful, and has packed her 
 off. You know they have quarrelled. She disturbed his 
 studies, just as you are disturbing mine, so he has sent her 
 away to eat the bread of repentance. When 1 send you away, 
 you can go and find her, and then you will live happy ever 
 afterwards." 
 
 " It would be no good sending me away. I shouldn't go. I 
 should follow you," Brian declared. 
 
 " That will be nice. You can scrub the floors for me," she 
 laughed. " But you will have to go soon. You can't go about 
 with me for ever. We can't live happily ever afterwards, for 
 I'm a little mongrel and you are ptore-bred. Don't it sulk, now. 
 It shall have butter on its bread of repentance, perhaps," she 
 said somewhat fondly. 
 
 " But why did she go away at night ? And where has she 
 gone to ? " 
 
 " Oh, Miss Wistman I What a lucky girl you are I He 
 can't think of anyone but you," she said. " Do try and bear 
 up. You shall meet her again some day, and then you will 
 love her all the more. No, no ! " She snatched at the fingers 
 which he had put upon her lips. " There ! I won't be saucy 
 any more. And you must not ask me impossible questions. Go 
 to a witch — there's one not far from Tordown. She'll tell you. 
 
CEREMONIAL TEA. 115 
 
 How do you know she went away by night ? She might have 
 gone in the evening, and it so happened nobody saw her." 
 
 " Lucy said she had been to bed." 
 
 " Lucy is not to be depended on. Very likely the bed had 
 not been made that day. I don't make mine until the last 
 thing. I am sure you think the poor girl has been made away 
 with. I expect you will go to-night and dig about behind the 
 laurels " 
 
 "Don't," exclaimed Brian. " If you only knew what a wild 
 and dreary place it is you wouldn't suggest horrors." 
 
 " You little monkey," laughed she. " You suggest the 
 horrors, and then blame poor me." 
 
 " I didn't suggest them," said Brian. 
 
 " You did — pig," she pouted. " You ought to be driven to 
 market with a rope round your leg, and sold, and killed, and 
 cut up. And I would come and beg the nastiest butcher in the 
 place to buy you." 
 
 " Dear little Arminel," he said tenderly. " You are sweet 
 even when you are cross." 
 
 " But I'm not," she said. " I was only defending myself 
 against your vile insinuations. I shall probably never see you 
 again, so you might say you are sorry, and that it was all your 
 fault, and that it was you who suggested all the horrors. Will 
 you ? " 
 
 Brian did so of course, and then tried to secure her arm, but 
 she drew herself free as usual. And then she said, " You are 
 quite wrong, for it was my fault really. You shan't go to 
 market and be sold yet. You shall stop with the farmer's 
 daughter and be fattened for a little longer. And when I tease 
 you," she went on, with a sweet moisture in her dark eyes, 
 " you must remember it is only Maria, the girl without a 
 character, and it's not worth while being cross with her." 
 
 The next morning Brian assumed his most indifferent man- 
 ner, and asked Wistman, as he was about to leave the room, if 
 it was true that Nona had departed. Evidently the question 
 had been expected, for the rector was ready with his answer, 
 
ii6 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 or at least as ready as he could be, because he always required 
 a certain amount of preparation in the form of coughing, beard- 
 pulling, and forehead-smacking. " Dear me ! Ah, yes," he 
 said. " My daughter has gone to complete her education. I 
 have taught her all I can, and the rest of her training is more a 
 matter of discipline than anything else. I think she will be 
 happy in her new home. It will be strange at first, but she will 
 grow accustomed to it. She will have companions where she 
 has gone. I trust they will be congenial. I think they will — I 
 hope they will." 
 
 There was a sound of uncertainty in his voice which Brian 
 did not like. He had the idea that Wistman was fencing with 
 him ; giving the shell of the truth, but withholding the kernel. 
 The scholar's steel-blue eyes were fixed upon the window, and 
 he was muttering to himself, a trick of his which was some- 
 times dangerous. Brian distinctly overheard, "Dear, dear 
 me 1 How foolish ! how tiresome," before the mutterings 
 became again inarticulate. 
 
 " You must miss her," Brian suggested, hoping to obtain a 
 little more information. 
 
 " Yes," said the rector quickly. He repeated the word 
 several times, then changed his note, and went on, "It is 
 good for her, much better than being here. Sh? will find her 
 strength and learn how to use it. She will do more than I have 
 done. Nona is practical, and goes straight to her end. She 
 will be happy, I think, in that life. She must see vice and come 
 in contact with it, but she will be protected. 1 have trained 
 her well. Nothing was wanting except the discipline. Dear, 
 dear me," he said, with his curious smile. " What am I saying ? 
 This is of no interest to you. Come and see Mrs. Wistman 
 when you have nothing to do. She will be glad. She thinks 
 too much of the past. She has become very quiet. Good- 
 bye." He stumbled out of the room, and Brian heard him 
 coughing down the stairs. 
 
 The sense of mystery was only increased. Wistman was 
 inexplicable to Brian. He appeared so gentle, simple, and 
 
CEREMONIAL TEA. 117 
 
 harmless. But was he ? Brian felt sure that he acted according 
 to the dictates of his spirit. He did what he thought was right, 
 and he meant well. But religion is a riddle to which every man 
 has his own answer. The answer of Cuthbert, Bishop of Lin- 
 disfarne, for instance, was very different from the answer of the 
 Dominicans of the Inquisition. They preached much the same 
 creed, but while the one taught it by love, the others enforced 
 it by torture. Wistman was a Churchman of the old school. 
 He read his Bible literally. He believed in a heaven of harpists, 
 and a hell of fire. It was true he neglected his parish, and 
 made no practical effort to restore his church. That was because 
 he could not fight against difficulties. He thought he could 
 not get the money to restore the church — he could not get it 
 to buy respectable boots for himself ; and if his flock preferred 
 a Wesleyan shepherd he could not drive them back. Nona, 
 however, was his own. He could do what he liked with her. 
 He had determined she should be safe. Hence his teaching. 
 To remove whatever might endanger that safety he would not 
 have shrunk from persecution. It was all for her good. 
 Better that her body should perish than her soul be cast into 
 hell. 
 
 Brian decided he would visit Mrs. Wistman. Evidently the 
 doors of the house were to . be thrown open to him now that 
 Nona had departed. He went that afternoon, and found the 
 poor lady sitting near the fire, her soiled cap on the back of her 
 grey head, her thin hands clasped as usual over a piece of work 
 which had been commenced so long ago that it was soiled too. 
 She was going blind rapidly. An operation might have pre- 
 served her sight, but there was no money for that, and she was 
 too proud to resort to charity. Her mind was going with her 
 sight, only more gradually. Sometimes she longed for the 
 mind to go first. People who are insane must enjoy a weird, 
 natural kind of happiness. They forget everything, and they 
 know nothing. 
 
 She rose, and stood leaning forward when Lucy announced 
 her guest. She put out her hand with a groping movement, 
 
ii8 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 and said she was glad to see him, though she was not. Nothing 
 made her glad. Brian sat down and talked ordinary social 
 nonsense. He looked at the stains upon the wall-paper, the 
 carpet worn into holes, the faded curtains, the mean furniture 
 the pictures with cracked glasses, the clock upon the mantel, 
 which had announced eleven o'clock for some years, the poor 
 handful of peat and coal-dust which made the fire. No attempt 
 had been made to make the room look comfortable. It was 
 not even clean. It was damp and full of chills. 
 
 They were talking of the walks about Tordown. Suddenly a 
 sound came into the room. It was a subdued murmur, some 
 thing like the wind, but Mrs. Wistman knew it was not. She 
 glanced up, and a ghostly animation came upon her face. 
 
 " A train," she said. 
 
 Brian felt an inclination to laugh. She was like a mother 
 trying to attract the attention of her child. Certainly it was a 
 train. Deep down in the valley, several miles away beyond the 
 combes and copses, the railway passed. He did not know 
 how she listened for those trains. 
 
 " It is a sign of civilisation," she said, in the sort of voice he 
 might have expected her to use if she had said, " I have a very 
 bad headache.'' 
 
 " You do not often go away ? " .he ventured. 
 
 " Hardly ever," she replied, " I am getting feeble. It is 
 nice to be at a station, to hear the sounds, to see the people, to 
 feel in motion." 
 
 " You must find it very quiet now that your daughter has 
 gone," he continued, half hoping she would throw some light 
 upon Nona's disappearance. 
 
 " It is always quiet in Tordown. Sometimes the sun shines, 
 but still it is dull." 
 
 She did not refer to her daughter. Nona had never belonged 
 to her. She would have taught the girl to dance, flirt, and love. 
 She would have made a worldly young woman of Nona. But 
 her husband had taken her away, just as he had taken everything 
 from her, pleasures, ambitions, health, sight, and mind. She 
 
CEREMONIAL TEA. 119 
 
 had little affection for the girl, never having forgiven the incident 
 of her birth. She was wiser than her husband. She knew 
 Nona would break free some day. 
 
 " It is very healthy here. It has done me a lot of good," 
 Brian went on. 
 
 " I have heard it is a healthy place," came the answer. The 
 poor old thing would have preferred the most unsavoury slum 
 to that healthy hill if a congenial life could have been added 
 to it. " How long have you been here ? A long time, I think," 
 she said. 
 
 " I came just before Christmas." 
 
 " Was that before the man with the barrel-organ came ? Oh, 
 no. That must have been a long time ago. A man came with 
 a barrel-organ one day, and played upon the road until 
 Mr. Wistman sent him away. He was playing music-hall 
 tunes, and Mr. Wistman does not approve of them. I don't 
 know what brought the man here." 
 
 "You didn't object?" said Brian lightly. 
 
 " I saw no harm in it," she replied, in just the voice he would 
 have expected her to use had she been describing some past 
 pleasure. 
 
 Brian was about to go — the atmosphere of the place was so 
 depressing — ^when Lucy appeared with tea, and at her heels 
 came the rector, fresh from his studies, blinking and hungry. 
 He was a ravenous person and unpleasant at table. He had 
 heard the clattering of tea-cups and the sound brought him 
 from his study at once. He had snatched apiece of bread and 
 butter from the tray as Lucy passed him. As he entered the 
 drawing-room he was devouring it noisily. He did not know 
 Brian was with his wife, but was not abashed when he saw him. 
 He merely transferred the bread and butter from his right 
 hand to his left, and extended the greasy fingers to his guest, 
 with an invitation to stay and join them in a cup of tea. 
 
 It did not look tempting. Five rather thick slices of bread 
 and butter were left upon a plate, and there was nothing 
 else in the way of edibles. Lucy had cut the usual allowanr- 
 
I20 , ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 — ^two slices for each person. The tea was thin and poor. 
 Mrs. Wistman made no apology for it. She did not care. 
 Good, bad, or indifferent tea, it was all alike to her. She 
 poured it from a little china pot with a thin, shaking hand, 
 which spilt a good deal into the saucers. 
 
 " Spring will soon be here now," said Brian, feigning a 
 cheerfulness which he could not feel. 
 
 " Indeed," murmured Mrs. Wistman. She seemed to him 
 to be trying to remember what Spring was. 
 
 " There are a lot of primroses in the lanes towards South 
 Tawton," he went on. 
 
 " Primroses ? " she repeated ; and again she seemed to be 
 trying to remember something. 
 
 " Primula vulgaris, Mrs. Wistman," exclaimed the scholar. 
 "An herbaceous perennial exceedingly common in our 
 Devonshire lanes." He took another piece of bread and 
 butter, and began to cram it into his mouth with both hands. 
 Brian had not been offered any. There was no romance about 
 Wistman. The first pale primrose was not a thing of beauty to 
 him, no herald of Spring, no joy at all. It was merely primula 
 vulgaris, an exceedingly common herbaceous perennial. 
 
 " Few people know the country," Wistman continued, pacing 
 the room, his big white head dropping upon his chest. " The 
 tendency is to crowd into towns. The majority leave their 
 work and go on holiday at the end of the summer. By that 
 time the country is done for. It is worn out, drab, and dus'ty. 
 The sweet o' the year is over. There are no flowers to speak 
 of, and the sourness of autumn is in the air. The vast majority 
 of townsfolk never see the country, although they may visit it 
 every year. In July the country begins to be sad. The year 
 is middle-aged. Its strength is over." 
 
 He took another piece of bread and butter. His wife had 
 relapsed into her usual condition, and had apparently forgotten 
 the presence of her guest. 
 
 " It is a foolish age when men of letters work in towns," the 
 scholar continued. " The result is deplorable. There were 
 
CEREMONIAL TEA. 121 
 
 surely never so many foolish books as now ; never half as many 
 foolish papers. I suppose their nonsense appeals to their 
 readers' nonsense. There is no other explanation. And yet I 
 wonder if these London people ever dream how greatly we 
 despise them. Can these makers of weekly illustrated papers, 
 for instance, imagine how we quiet country folk, who live slowly 
 and think clearly, sigh in pity and scorn at their infantile ideas 
 and their puerile English ? These productions may suit the 
 towns, but they do not suit the country. Perhaps it is a matter 
 of atmosphere. That which seems sense in the smoke becomes 
 folly in pure air. I am afraid the intelligence of the nation is 
 being choked by town smoke." 
 
 Brian said nothing. He let the rector talk on and eat the 
 bread and butter. There was only one piece left, and that went 
 the way of the others. Then the scholar changed to philosophy, 
 and Brian thought it was time to go home for tea. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mrs. Wistman," he said, approaching the poor 
 old creature. 
 
 She started into consciousness when she heard his voice. 
 She looked up and he started, too. Whether she had been 
 asleep or dreaming he did not know ; but there was for a 
 moment an expression in her eyes which horrified him. He 
 could not explain it. Then the half-blind eyes went out, as it 
 were, and became cold and suffering ; and the shaking hand 
 came into his ; and the quavering tongue said she was sorry he 
 had to go. She was not sorry. She did not care. But as 
 Brian went away he could not forget that expression in those 
 half-blind eyes. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 
 
 There was no mystery about Nona's disappearance after all. 
 The girl had gone to bed one evening rather earlier than 
 usual, and was greatly astonished when her father came and 
 told her to get up, as she was going away. She received no 
 answer to her questions. All the information given was that the 
 carriage which had been expected to arrive from North Tawton 
 station — she thought he mentioned that station, but was not 
 sure afterwards — during the early evening had only just put in 
 an appearance. The driver had lost his way. Nona ofiered 
 no objection. The prospect of change was a breath of new 
 life. It suggested freedom. No place, she thought, could be 
 more dreary, more hopeless, than her home. 
 
 The lights had been put out when she came down. Her 
 father stood at the foot of the stairs with a bedroom candlestick 
 while an anaemic man brought down her box. The hall- 
 door was open and the wind troubled the flame of the candle. 
 Nona could hear the rattling of harness. Wistman kissed her 
 on the forehead, muttered his intention of visiting her before 
 long, drew her outside, and helped her into the carriage. He 
 closed the door quickly. The carriage moved off, and was 
 soon descending into the valley. 
 
 Two women were in the carriage. Nona knew they were 
 women, although she could not see them. Each of them had 
 grasped her by the hand in a perfectly friendly way, and she 
 thought one murmured a few words of welcome. Nothing 
 more was said. Nona was content to sit still and wait. One 
 of the mutes sat beside her ; the other opposite. They stirred 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 123 
 
 from time to time, and sometimes sighed, but otherwise gave 
 no sign of life. 
 
 Nona was half asleep when the carriage stopped. Opening 
 her eyes she saw the coloured lights of the railway ; heard a 
 bell ring, the roar of a distant train, the voice of one of her 
 companions saying, " We are only just in time." Then she 
 saw them by the station lamp. They were nuns. 
 
 She was too tired to think much, so she did not trouble her 
 head concerning her future. They looked simple, foolish 
 women. Her prevailing thought was one of pity that they 
 should seek needlessly to add to the necessarily unpleasant 
 objects in the world. Those faces might have been womanly 
 and pleasant had they been surrounded with the soft hair which 
 nature had given them. Her next thought was one of amuse- 
 ment. Did they suppose, she wondered, that she would con- 
 sent to mutilate herself by cutting off her pretty hair, or to 
 cover her roimded limbs with those funereal wrappings ? Nona 
 had learnt a good deal of late. Once she had believed in the 
 doctrine which teaches the sanctity of luring the body into 
 consumption by fasting ; of destroying such things of evil as 
 beauty, grace, charm, and laughter; and of living in an 
 atmosphere of " dreadful night." She saw the folly of it by 
 then. 
 
 " What is your name, please ? " asked Nona, addressing the 
 nun who sat beside her when they were in the train. 
 
 " Sister Cecilia," came the answer. 
 
 " And yours ? " she went on, turning to the other. 
 
 " Sister Louise." 
 
 Then the ladies enlivened the journey by saying a few psalms. 
 The de profundis appeared to be their favourite. 
 
 Nona did not know what station it was they got out at. A 
 conveyance was awaiting them. They drove into the heart of 
 the country, along dark, winding lanes. It seemed interminable. 
 At last they stopped at some place which might have been 
 described as nowhere. It was the bottom of a valley, swampy, 
 and filled with trees. Out of the darkness loomed a house. 
 
124 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 The door was open, and the interior was cold and bare. The 
 stone floor was uncovered, and the walls were whitewashed. 
 It was the Convent of the Sisters of the Cross. 
 
 " You are tired. You would like to go to your cell at once," 
 said a voice. " You can see Reverend Mother in the 
 morning." 
 
 The cell was more comfortable than Nona had expected, or 
 rather the bed was, as there was not much else. A crucifix 
 was hanging on the white wall, and there were several unframed 
 pictures of saints, which, however useful they might have been 
 as aids to devotion, were at least deplorable specimens of art. 
 The window looked out upon a blank wall. 
 
 It was not until she was in bed that Nona remembered she 
 had forgotten to say her prayers. It was curious that this first 
 omission should have occurred on her first night in the convent. 
 She was accustomed to say them to her father, and she had not 
 done so before coming away. While she was reflecting that 
 she had never got anything she had asked for during all her 
 years of devotion she fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning she made the following discoveries : — 
 
 The convent stood well away from every other house and at 
 some distance from the nearest village. It had been a farm- 
 house of some architectural beauty, but the Sisters of the Cross 
 had soon brought it into line with their views. They had 
 hidden the fine oak-beams, and covered up the dark panelling, 
 with plaster and whitewash. All that could have been done to 
 destroy the old-fashioned beauty of the interior had been done. 
 Outside, in marked contrast. Nature tried to restore the lost 
 picturesqueness. The walls were covered with creepers, the 
 tiles with soft mosses. There was a large garden, uncared for, 
 but beautiful, and a fine lawn which was covered with wild 
 flowers in Spring. Beyond was a long orchard of old apple- 
 trees, their mossy trunks leaning in every conceivable ans;le, 
 some resting their lower boughs, crooked like elbows, upon the 
 turf. There was a summer-house in this orchard, and here the 
 resident priest would sometimes hear the sisters' confessions 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 125 
 
 The furniture was scanty. There was no comfortable chairs, 
 nothing to lure the body into sloth. One of the rooms had 
 been turned into a chapel. The whole place was spotlessly 
 clean. The ladies were always scrubbing. There were six 
 sisters, the Reverend Mother, and the priest. They occupied 
 themselves, when not in chapel, with making vestments and 
 altar-clothes, and preparing a special kind of bread for use in 
 churches. They worked hard, and the income derived from 
 their labours was sufficient for their support. 
 
 The priest. Father Bernard, was an old friend of Wistman's. 
 He was a short, flabby man, with fleshy face and restless eyes. 
 He was not a learne4 man. Had he been so, it is probable 
 he would not have been there. He had poor health, and had 
 searched for easy employment until he had found it at the 
 convent. 
 
 The Reverend Mother Mercy was a pattern of goodness. 
 There was no doubt about her sanctity. No scandal-loving 
 rustic could find any tales to publish of her. She was an ugly 
 but gentle-faced old lady, somewhat in need of a razor, often 
 austere, but seldom lacking in the quality which was her con- 
 ventual name. Possibly she was mistaken in attempting to 
 restore a condition which all moralists and philosophers must 
 condemn as selfish and vicious. Probably it was mistaken zeal 
 which had prompted her to revive a system of monasticism 
 perilously akin to that which the people of old had the sense to 
 abolish ; but there could be no question about her sincerity or 
 her piety. She belonged to the middle ages, not to the present. 
 That was all. 
 
 Nona had been only two days in the convent when Mother 
 Mercy sought out Father Bernard, and said in that calm, deter- 
 mined voice of hers, " The postulant has no vocation." 
 
 Nona was the postulant. When she had taken the veil she 
 was to become Sister Angela, her father having decided upon 
 that name, the wish suggesting the thought perhaps, because 
 there was absolutely nothing of the angel about the girl. 
 "She has no real religion in her," the Mother went on, 
 
126 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "no desire for the veil, no love of the life, no zeal for the 
 order.'' 
 
 Father Bernard entered upon an explanation. He began by 
 saying that a complete change would soon come upon Nona. 
 He seemed to think that the vocation would follow a course of 
 training as inevitably as darkness is succeeded by light. Her 
 reverence knew little of the correspondence which had taken 
 place between Father Bernard and the rector of Tordown. 
 They were very different from the letters she had received. 
 Eccentric in everything, it had not even occurred to Wistman 
 that he had been guilty of deceit in telling the Mother one 
 story and the Father another. He had done it for his daughter's 
 sake. She was a weak creature. It was necessary that she 
 should be supported by the strong minds of others. Mother 
 Mercy had been told that it had been always Nona's intense 
 desire to take the veil. Father Bernard had been assured that 
 it was imperative for the girl's welfare that her spirit should be 
 subdued, and hints were given as to how that end might be 
 secured. The end justified the means. Wistman was con- 
 vinced Nona would be happy if that rebellious spirit could only 
 be removed. He had acted in what he thought was the true 
 spirit of love, and yet his attitude was very much like that of the 
 Dominicans, who handed over impenitents to the secular arm 
 with the request that their spirits should be subdued without the 
 shedding of blood. 
 
 " I have questioned the girl. I find she has no vocation. 
 She does not even believe in the Real Presence," said her 
 reverence, in hushed and frightened tones. 
 
 This remark showed that the best of women could be bigoted 
 and blind. Nona was right, for her Church regards the doctrine 
 of the Real Presence as a dangerous fable. The Convent of 
 the Sisters of the Cross was supposed to be in full communion 
 with the Established Church. It was therefore the saintly 
 mother who was guilty of heresy, and not Nona. If the girl 
 had no right to be a member of the convent, her rever- 
 ence had equally no right to be a member of the Church 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 127 
 
 of England. Somehow this had never occurred to Mother 
 Mercy. 
 
 " She can be trained to the religious life as to any other pro- 
 fession," said the priest, in a voice which might have sounded 
 flippant to any ears except those of her reverence, who trusted 
 him implicitly. 
 
 " I am old now," she said ; " I may also be growing foolish. 
 Perhaps novices are not so ready to show their vocation as I 
 was. You must examine the girl carefully. You may find I 
 am mistaken. I hope you will. But I seldom make a mistake 
 in these things." 
 
 It was Friday, and a fast-day. Nona was very hungry, as 
 one dry piece of bread with butter scraped upon it and a cup 
 of sugarless coffee had not proved satisfying. At breakfast she 
 had cried, but nobody took any notice of that. Conversation 
 was not allowed, and the silence was only broken by the reader 
 who intoned a chapter of the Imitation of Christ in a voice 
 which would have ruined the digestion of an ostrich. Then 
 there was chapel again — it was always chapel, and the tolling 
 bell, and the de profundis — and then Nona escaped to her cell 
 and wept bitterly. 
 
 Presently she heard footsteps, and the youngest of the nuns. 
 Sister Teresa, entered. Nona went to her, clung to her, and 
 would not let her go. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " asked Sister Teresa, in cold, matter- 
 of-fact tones. 
 
 " I can't bear it," sobbed Nona. " The silence, the imprison- 
 ment." 
 
 "Every novice is weak and stupid at first," said the sister. 
 " You will soon get accustomed to it. I felt like that once. 
 When the weakness wears off you will be quite happy, and you 
 will wonder how you could have been so silly." 
 
 "You are happy — happy.?" gasped Nona. "Don't you 
 want to escape, to see the world, enjoy yourself, to — to get a 
 husband ? " 
 
 " You must not say that. It is very wicked." Sister Teresa 
 
128 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 winced and turned very white. Her heart knew its own longings. 
 She had tried to expel nature with cross and creed, but in the 
 silence of the night — she knew she was still a woman. " You 
 must pray. That is the only remedy. Pray for strength." 
 
 " I won't pray," moaned the girl. " I have been brought up 
 on Church, fed with Church, choked with Church." 
 
 She would have said more, but the look on her companion's 
 face made her silent. Sister Teresa pushed her away, as if 
 she had been unclean, and regarded her with eyes which did 
 not suggest the Christian virtue of charity. " I do not know 
 why you are here," she said. " You have no place among the 
 Sisters of the Cross." 
 
 Back in her cell, Nona tried to think calmly. Had she 
 become an utterly worthless young woman ? She did not 
 know. The sister had just repulsed her. Was it because 
 she was unfit for the society of the godly ? TJiere was nobody 
 to tell her. She was still overwhelmed with ignorance. She 
 still hardly knew right from wrong. She judged that to 
 obey her inclinations was to do right ; to go against them was 
 to do wrong. She knew that to remain in the convent would 
 mean to lose her reason. She must escape somehow, go any- 
 where, do anything, to get into the sunshine and feel the joy of 
 life. She could have cried even for Lucy, for her fowls, for 
 the dark garden of her wretched home, for one glimpse of the 
 chimneys of Stokey. He was there, he who had taken her 
 into the pleasant ways. He would help her if he could, and if 
 she could face him. He would rescue her from that misery 
 and take her away, marry her, make her happy. She would 
 write to him, and he would come and take her away, and save 
 her from her father. She did not care about her soul. She 
 had a body, too, and that call was the loudest. Her soul had 
 been stuffed, satiated, sickened. Her body had been starved. 
 It had cried out and not been satisfied. The soul had been given 
 more than its fill. It was the turn of the body. Nature came 
 in a flood, wiping out the teaching of years, as the wave of the 
 sea wipes out a writing upon the sand. 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 129 
 
 It seemed an easy thing to walk out of the convent and 
 escape. No restraint was placed upon her movements. The 
 nuns were at work. She had only to go downstairs, cross the 
 garden, reach the gate, and so into the lane. It was the 
 thought of that narrow lane which made the girl feel she had 
 not the courage to run away. She did not know where it 
 would lead her, to what primitive village, among what sort of 
 people. She had heard the rustics of mid-Devon spoken of as 
 somewhat wild folk, with a touch of the savage in their nature. 
 Even if unmolested, she could not continue to walk indefinitely. 
 She had no money. The only plan which suggested itself, was 
 to kick against the pricks with sufficient insistence to make 
 her removal necessary. 
 
 For the rest of that day she was left to herself. In the chapel 
 that evening she caught the eyes of Sister Teresa fixed upon 
 her in horror. She turned up her nose and hardened her 
 heart. She was impenitent, and in secret was rather proud of 
 the fact. It made her feel superior to the others somehow. 
 She listened to the eternal de profundis with a sense of scorn. 
 She marvelled that these people should think it a virtue to add 
 to the difiiculties and sorrows of life. There were, after all, 
 not many pleasures. Why reject what there were, and put 
 fresh dolours in their place ? Nona was adding to her know- 
 ledge ; her character was being formed fast, but not at all in 
 accordance with her father's teaching. 
 
 It was the rule to retire early, and to rise at what less holy 
 people would have regarded as a decidedly unholy hour. 
 There were no farewells at parting, no welcomes at meeting ; 
 no kindly "good-night," no cheerful "good-morning.'' Tongues 
 were regarded in that community as one of the mistakes of 
 Providence. Nona escaped to her cell, and began a letter to 
 Brian. She did not quite know how she could get it posted, 
 but it would be time to think of that when it was written. 
 There was, however, no peace for her. A knock came 
 presently upon the door, and the head of Mother Mercy 
 appeared, to administer the rebuke, " Child, you must go to 
 
 A.W. K 
 
I3P ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 bed. You are burning the lamp too long, which is contrary 
 to the observance of holy poverty." 
 
 Nona did not wish for poverty in any form, and she might 
 have said so had the mother been less mild. Kindness won 
 her at once, and she promised obedience. Her reverence was 
 deceived. Nona's manner just then suggested all the virtues. 
 The old lady went away, happy with the thought that the 
 postulant was settling down. 
 
 In the morning there was a mild excitement, for it was a 
 holy day of obligation in the Roman Church. It was not clear 
 to Nona what that had to do with the Church of England, but 
 it was obvious that the day was to be observed with a ceremony 
 and wealth of detail which no Catholic convent could have 
 exceeded. Nona felt done to death by chapel-going. When 
 it was near the time for the service, which was alluded to 
 as " solemn mass," she slipped out of the house and hid herself 
 in the garden. Presently the little bell stopped clanging. 
 Sister Teresa was the bell-ringer. The sharp, vicious jerks 
 were like her. Nona slipped out into the air with a curious 
 sense of freedom. She was entirely alone at last. The good 
 white sheep were gathered into the fold ; she, the black one, 
 was straying outside. She went with fearful steps towards 
 the gate. 
 
 There is nothing more monotonous than a mid-Devon lane; 
 and that was all there was for Nona to see. Two stone hedges, 
 covered with fern and stonecrop and topped with holly and 
 brambles ; a few bare ash trees ; heaps of red mud and puddles 
 of red water — she shrank at the sight. Even the convent was 
 preferable to the unknown horrors of the lane. Nona's geo- 
 graphy was hazy. She was not at all clear how the convent 
 was placed in relation to town and railway. Both were far 
 distant, she knew. She wanted to reach the railway, though 
 she hardly knew why, except that it suggested possibilities. 
 She had no money to pay her fare. As she stood looking into 
 the lane, hearing the wheezing of the harmonium in the chapel, 
 she heard something else. A horse was trotting gently along 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 131 
 
 :he lane. The girl looked first to one side, then to the other, 
 ready to spring back into hiding directly she saw the rider's 
 dead above the holly-bushes ; but when she did see it, she was 
 io surprised that she forgot to spring back; and that same 
 (noment her heart quickened. The rider came on. He was a 
 veiry thin young man, with a head as round as a bullet and 
 I face as white as a turnip. His mount was a black mare 
 ;uriously blotched with white patches, and with pink, hairless 
 :ircles round her eyes. She was the incomparable Topsy, 
 md her rider and constant companion was David Badgery, of 
 Drewsteignton. 
 
 Nona knew David by sight. He had often ridden over to 
 Tordown, and on certain occasions had called on her father 
 mth a view to obtaining the right of shooting over the glebe, 
 indeed, everyone in Devon, north of Dartmoor and including it, 
 knew David by sight. There was no escaping from him. He 
 spent his life riding Topsy about the county. There was hardly 
 1 lane he had not traversed, not an isolated patch of moor he 
 lad not crossed. Wet or fine, he and Topsy were about, up 
 ;he hills and down the valleys, through mist and sunshine, from 
 morning to night. To meet David and Topsy was an experi- 
 ence everyone had to go through at some time; and now it 
 yas Nona's turn. 
 
 Of course David knew Nona by sight. He knew every good- 
 ooking girl in mid-Devon ; he went about looking for them ; 
 md had tried to kiss most of them. David Badgery was not a 
 jentleman, and had no reputation to maintain. His curious 
 iyes saw her and bulged. What was she doing at the convent 
 ;ate? He had come that way for the express purpose of 
 oitering about outside the house. Fearful stories were told 
 ;oncerning the conduct of its inmates, and he had often thought 
 hat a love affair with a good-looking novice, or even with a 
 ull-blown sister, would be a considerable addition to his already 
 'aried experiences. So far he had received no encouragement. 
 A^hen he had seen a lady in the garden he would make a sweep- 
 ng flourish with his hat, which had been received in a manner 
 
 K 2 
 
132 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 which might have crushed a more sensitive spirit. The 
 daughter of the rector of Tordown had not been in his thoughts ; 
 and he had decidedly not expected to see her there. 
 
 "How be ye, my dear?" he called, with the appalling 
 familiarity which is somehow more successful than any timid 
 method. He had picked up his uncle's habit of calling every- 
 one " my dear," regardless of sex or position. " What be doing 
 here ? " 
 
 Nona had lost the greater part of the shyness which had 
 made her first meeting with Brian so painful. She had every 
 inducement to welcome this deplorable specimen of knight 
 errantry. And yet she drew back and could not answer. 
 David was not abashed. He slipped off Topsy and approached 
 the gate, leading his cherished mare by the curb rein, smiling 
 grotesquely, and swishing at the brambles with his ground-ash. 
 
 " Never thought to see you," he went on. " Kept you locked 
 in the loose-box up to Tordown, didn't 'em ? Been here long ? 
 I haven't been this side since cub-hunting. I'm coming from 
 Bideford. Out on Exmoor yesterday, put up to Bideford for the 
 night, and now we're making for home. Good ride — Bideford 
 to Drewsteignton, ain't it? But 'tis nothing for the mare. 
 Booty, ain't she ? Look at her. Not another like her in the 
 county. Come over and pass yoiu: hand down her leg, my 
 dear. She's like a lamb for temper. Ain't she a booty, 
 now ? " 
 
 Nona did not even glance at the fascinations of the mare. 
 The harmonium in the chapel was making unmusical religious 
 noises, and she became mindful that her time of freedom was 
 short. Fighting down her fear and repugnance, she began to 
 gasp out her story in short sentences for the edification of that 
 bullet-head and grinning turnip-face. She explained she had 
 been sent to the convent against her will, and that she 
 had determined to escape, but did not know how. She little 
 knew how she was avenging herself upon her father by telling 
 that windbag of the pressure which he had put upon her. David 
 would publish her story with additions of his own throughout 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 133 
 
 every village in mid-Devon. Wiierever Topsy went, there 
 would the story of Wistman's persecution of his daughter be 
 known, with ten per cent, of lies added in one place and twenty 
 per cent, in another. Nona concluded by entreating David to 
 carry a letter to Brian. 
 
 " Dalled if I will," he answered. " That young Challacombe 
 wants all the pretty maids in Devon. Got round that little 
 piece of Jack Zaple's Saturday after Christmas, and carried her 
 off, and meets her twice a week in Tawton quarries. I was 
 after her, too, but she won't look at me, now she's got him. I'm 
 not going to take any letter to him, my dear. Let him come 
 for them himself." 
 
 Nona had turned pale when she heard that Brian had other 
 feminine interests in life. But there was no time to worry about 
 that. They would be soon out of chapel. David was a 
 miserable champion, but she was not likely to get a better one. 
 The chance of sending a message to Brian would not occur 
 again. With tears in her eyes she went on pleading, but all the 
 answer she received was, " If you want to get away, my dear, 
 jump up, and I'll take you. The old mare will carry us easy. 
 Uncle and me will be glad to have ye. Come on, my dear. 
 Leg up ! We'll get to Drewsteignton before dark." 
 
 " I can't do that. Everyone would see me," said miserable 
 Nona. " I have no money. If I had I would go away by 
 myself." 
 
 " Us don't want money. Uncle and me have plenty," said 
 David. 
 
 " They are coming out of chapel," she cried. 
 
 David drew back. He had a hazy idea that it might be an 
 indictable offence to be discovered with the postulant. Nona 
 was beating her hands together and sobbing. The prospect 
 of life-long confinement presented itself before her imagination. 
 David ceased grinning, and his queer white face puckered into 
 lines. 
 
 " Coming ? " he muttered. " Look sharp ! 'Tis now or 
 never I " 
 
134 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "Can't you, won't you help me in some way? Tell 
 Mr. Challacombe." 
 
 " What can he do ? " muttered David. " I can do as much 
 as him. You bide here quiet for a bit, and I'll be round again 
 in a day or two. 'Tis a long way to come, but nothing for 
 Topsy. Booty, ain't she ? Bless us ! Here they are in their 
 black nightgowns. Get along, old gal ! " This was to the 
 mare. He added for Nona's benefit, " Look out for me in two 
 days." Then he was off, while the girl ran into the bushes to 
 hide herself. 
 
 The first village that he came to, David pulled up at the inn 
 for his usual glass of cider. He told the landlady that the 
 people of the convent had got hold of a young woman, and 
 were keeping her against her will, with the intention of making 
 her a nun. The landlady wagged her head, and said she quite 
 believed it. She had heard worse stories than that about the 
 people in the convent, and she told some of them, after remind- 
 ing David that she was a respectable married woman. She 
 went on to suggest that Nona was ill-treated, and David replied 
 that he was sure of it. She was flogged every night and morn- 
 ing ; she had to wear horsehair next her skin ; and she slept 
 upon a heap of stones. The landlady wondered what the 
 police were doing, and promised she would inform everyone 
 in the neighbourhood, though she feared it was of little use, 
 because " they be gentlefolk, and us can't fight them." At the 
 next village David had another glass of cider, and told a far 
 more original story. And so he worked his way on, until by 
 evening the greater part of mid-Devon had received a more or 
 less fanciful version of the young lady who was being slowly 
 tortured to death in the convent of the Sisters of the Cross. It 
 made something pleasant to talk about, but very few believed 
 it, chiefly because the report had emanated in the first instance 
 from David Badgery; and it was well known what an unreliable 
 tongue his was. 
 
 When Nona returned to the house she met Sister Louise, 
 who had evidently been looking for her. " I must ask you to 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 135 
 
 come with me," she said, in the ordinary voice of saint address- 
 ing sinner. Nona made no remonstrance. She thought it 
 would be best to reserve herself. The sister led her to Father 
 Bernard's study, knocked at the door, ushered her in, and 
 departed. There was an uncomfortable pause. The priest 
 was rude enough to continue writing, and took no notice of the 
 girl. Possibly this was done to impress upon her the fact of 
 her lowliness. It did not succeed. Nona felt he might be an 
 excellent Christian, but as a gentleman he was a failure. So 
 she said curtly, " Well, do you want me ? " 
 
 Father Bernard looked up with a frown. He was in authority 
 there, accustomed to implicit obedience, and here was this 
 unruly minx of a postulant, not only speaking before permission 
 had been given, but speaking sharply. It was a thing unheard 
 of. He recalled Wistman's letters of advice with a very clear 
 perception that the time had come for him to act upon the 
 hints therein given. 
 
 " Sit down," he said in a bullying voice. 
 
 Brian had done something for Nona. He had made her 
 brave. A few months before she would have cringed in sub- 
 mission at Father Bernard's feet, in the belief that he could 
 make or mar her eternal future. She was very different then. 
 She was afraid and shrinking ; but she had discovered that the 
 occult power of the priesthood was a " dangerous fable " ; and 
 she comprehended the doctrine of free-will. She knew she 
 was an ordinary weak, rebellious girl; that he was a very 
 ordinary man. 
 
 " You absented yourself from holy mass this morning," said 
 the priest. " This is one of our days of obligation." 
 
 "Our Church knows nothing of such things," she interrupted. 
 
 "Obedience is the first rule of this order," he continued. 
 " It is not for you to say whether things are right or wrong. 
 That is a matter which is settled for you by wiser minds. It is 
 your duty to attend mass and come to confession. The rules 
 of our order provide punishment for recusants. To neglect a 
 day of obligation is a grievous sin." 
 
136 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 They celebrated something every day in that convent. Their 
 calendar was overstocked with quaint names and episodes. 
 They celebrated the entrance of Noah into the ark, and the 
 particular day on which Adam was created. They celebrated 
 the festivals of obscure saints, who may have been verj- holy in 
 their lives, or who may not have lived at all. They celebrated 
 the Chair of St. Peter, and the awakening of the seven sleepers 
 of Ephesus. Their religion was a quaint mixture of paganism 
 and mythology. 
 
 " I have letters here from your father," Father Bernard was 
 saying, in the style of grand inquisitor. " We are friends of 
 long standing. We spent much of our early manhood together, 
 and I had opportunities then for studying and admiring his 
 strength of character. He has committed you to our charge, 
 prayerfully and tenderly, confident that by so doing your peace 
 and happiness will be secured. He mentions that you are self- 
 assertive, that your mind is too much given to inquiry, and that 
 you have a fondness for relying upon your own judgment. He 
 admits these are obstacles to your progress in the religious life, 
 for which he has trained you with his loving care, but he con- 
 siders they may be removed by the discipline which is the rule 
 of our order. When you are able to realise the security, peace, 
 and happiness which are offered to you with the Sister's habit, 
 he believes you will find that which he confesses he has failed 
 to find in his struggle with the world, a mind settled and free 
 from care. That also is my opinion," said Father Bernard. 
 
 " My father has made a mistake," said Nona quietly. "It 
 is partly my own fault. I thought once I should like to become 
 a sister. I knew he wanted it, and I thought then I wanted it, 
 too. But my mind has changed lately. I — I have learnt 
 something. Now I want what the world has for me. I have 
 had enough of religion to last me for the rest of my life, and 
 I'm not going to believe in anything now, except what I want 
 to, and if I did want to become a sister, I wouldn't stop here," 
 cried poor Nona. "Because this place has a religion of its 
 own. I would rather be a Roman Catholic, and go into one of 
 
AN ODOUR OF SANCTITY. 137 
 
 their convents. They don't persecute girls, and they send 
 them away if they see they have no vocation " 
 
 " My dear child, you are talking wildly," said Father 
 Bernard in a milder voice. " Of course, you will not 
 be permitted to remain, once we are satisfied you have 
 no vocation. We are not satisfied of that at present. 
 Even Reverend Mother admits that her first impressions 
 may not have been correct. Postulants are usually 
 excitable and despairing at first. At the present you do not 
 know your own mind. I am persuaded that your father's 
 calmer judgment is to be relied on. You, with your ignorance 
 of the world, little dream of the parental love which would 
 shield you against the dangers and temptations of the world. 
 What do you know of the life of cities, of the villains prowling 
 in search of youth and innocence, of the wretched girls, far 
 younger than yourself, living in open vice, into which they 
 have fallen from sheer want of protection, such as is afforded 
 you here, and which will be increased when you don the habit 
 of the order ? What do you know of the blind passions which 
 rage outside this peaceful retreat ? Had your father died, and 
 left you poor and destitute, you, too, might have fallen. The 
 daughter of a poor clergyman is not of much account. From 
 the possibility of such a fate he has saved you. What return 
 are you going to make ? Are you going to bless him for his 
 love and care, his thoughts for your spiritual welfare, his pro- 
 vision for your bodily comfort ? Or are you going to set up 
 your judgment against his, your low standard of living against 
 his high one, your inclinations against his devotion ? Are you 
 going to practise holy submission, or will you prefer to continue 
 in obstinacy and persevere in the evil spirit of rebellion ? " 
 
 Father Bernard had a neat trick of rhetoric which, as a rule, 
 impressed people. It did not impress Nona. She caught the 
 word rebellion, and it happened to suggest an idea which wa^ 
 just then congenial to her. In that strain she replied : " I am 
 not going to stay here. I shall go away by myself if father 
 will not take me away." 
 
138 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 A pause followed this statement. Then Father Bernard 
 rose, and told Nona to follow him. She felt she had no choice 
 in the matter, that for the time she must be submissive to the 
 stronger hand, so she obeyed. 
 
 On the top of the stairs was a wide landing. At the end 
 was a door. This Father Bernard opened, and, taking the 
 frightened girl by the arm, drew her in. It was a small, bare 
 attic, absolutely empty, except for one terrible object, the sight 
 of which caused Nona to put her hands before her eyes. It 
 was a large black cross bearing a life-sized figure dreadfully 
 besmeared with red paint. 
 
 "Consider yourself at the foot of the cross until that 
 rebellious spirit has gone from you," said Father Bernard. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 CONCERNING CIDER AND A LITTLE IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 
 
 David Badgery drank so many glasses of cider, and told 
 such lengthy tales concerning Nona, that it was dimpsy before 
 he reached North Tawton. Something like ten dreary miles 
 separated him from Fingle and Teign Gorge, and David was 
 already weary. It was a long stretch from Bideford. A slight 
 drizzle set in. The rugged northerly ranges of Dartmoor were 
 swept by whirling vapour. It was getting whist. Unkind 
 people might have said David was slightly intoxicated. He 
 did lurch a trifle, greatly to Topsy's disapproval, and she 
 stumbled once or twice just to wake him up. David did not 
 like to think about those ten miles to Drewsteignton. The 
 little town of North Tawton looked rather snug. He thought 
 he would put up there for the night. 
 
 David was one of those idle, unmoral young men who seem 
 to be Nature's works of supererogation. His uncle, on the 
 other hand, was a hard-working, industrious soul. There was 
 plenty of money in the Badgery family, though no one would 
 have imagined it after seeing the farmer in his shabby clothes, 
 and Mrs. Badgery attending to her pigs in garments even worse. 
 If the farmer had given away twenty thousand pounds he would 
 not have been left destitute. Yet he lived in the simplest 
 fashion, rarely spending as much as a pound a week. The 
 elder Badgery, David's father, had opened a small draper's 
 shop in London as a young man. This had gradually developed 
 into one of those enormous businesses which have become a 
 feature of the Metropolis during the last half-century, and was 
 in due course converted into a company. The brothers 
 
I40 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Badgery were shrewd, long-headed Devonshire yeomen. 
 They were common people, but so were most of the sea-dogs 
 of famous memory. Old Sir John Hawkins was much more 
 at ease fighting Spaniards than writing his name, and his 
 dialect was so broad that nobody outside the county understood 
 what he said. Badgery, the draper, was made of much the 
 same kind of material as Hawkins the Admiral. Badgery 
 would have gone against the Spaniards, and made himself 
 famous, had he lived in the days of Elizabeth ; and Hawkins 
 would have gone up to London, and made a fortune behind 
 the counter, had he lived in the nineteenth century. 
 
 David, however, was a failure. It was not his fault altogether, 
 because he was mentally deficient. He was the rotten branch ; 
 the dead limb among the sturdy growths. Every tree has its 
 blemish, and David was the blemish of the Badgery stock. He 
 was physically unable to work; his poor brain could not bear 
 the strain of serious thought ; he had been detained in an 
 asylum for a few months, and was then discharged as being 
 capable of looking after himself. His father allowed him a 
 liberal income — how to dispose of his money was a sore 
 problem to old Badgery, because he could not cultivate 
 expensive tastes, although he tried to — and David spent his 
 life riding about the county on Topsy, drinking cider, and 
 making violent love to all the young women he could find. 
 He was an inveterate and dangerous chatterbox. His devotion 
 to Topsy was the one redeeming quality in his character. No 
 woman would have obtained from him half the care and 
 attention which he lavished upon the mare. 
 
 David had an idea he had partaken too frequently of strong 
 cider as he passed across the Torridge and struck the road 
 between Meeth and Iddesleigh. The river was in flood. The 
 path beside it was submerged, and there might have been a 
 drowning fatality for the newspapers had it not been for 
 Topsy's sobriety. As it was, David felt the cold water on his 
 knees, and muttered something about the sharpness of the 
 wind. Then he saw the white torrent of the Okement pouring 
 
CONCERNING CIDER AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 141 
 
 down between Monk Okehampton and Hatherleigh, and he 
 began to comprehend that it was not air, but water which was 
 responsible for the chilliness. It was water without and cider 
 within. Torridge roared and Okement boiled. The crease of 
 smiles appeared on David's turnip-face, and he shouted the 
 local couplet as a compliment to anyone within hearing — 
 
 " Iddesleigh rats and Monkoketon mice, 
 Hatherleigh rumps and Meeth poor stumps." 
 
 The Taw was the next river to be crossed, and that was in 
 flood, too. Then came " Cheping " Tawton, and David rode 
 to the Gostwyck Arms, trusting to find the cider in flood 
 there. 
 
 A comfortable room, a good fire, a pair of carpet-slippers, 
 and a coquettish waitress might be considered evils from a puri- 
 tanical aspect ; but from David's point of view they were things 
 to be desired. He got them and made the most of them, not 
 being an ascetic ; and while he was drinking cider with the true 
 zeal of a Badgery for business, he heard familiar voices, and in 
 came Brian, his good-looking face bathed with moisture of 
 mist from Dartmoor, and after him Coneybear, the faithful 
 squire, his simple face tomato-red, his knees slightly in advance 
 of the rest of his body, the eyes protruding from his head. The 
 young man had been buying a ring for the widow, and whiskey 
 for himself. It was a serious lapse from grace, for Coneybear 
 had always been a sober person ; but the voice of tradition had 
 been too strong for him. There are three occasions when it is 
 the duty of every true Devonian to drink the strongest liquors 
 obtainable : when he buys an engagement-ring, when he has 
 been legally wedded, and when he buries a relation. Who was 
 Coneybear that he should fight against tradition ? He had the 
 ring, a massive circlet containing a rather low percentage of 
 the precious metal, and jewelled with three fragments of cut- 
 glass ; and he had done his duty in the other matter. 
 
 " How be ye ? " cried convivial David ; and when Brian 
 gazed at him blankly, he went on, " Met you in Okehampton 
 
143 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 to Giglet Fair. Asked you to come and see the old mare. 
 Lost you in the crowd. Come and see the old mare now. 
 She's in the stable. I'll get a lantern. She's worth seeing, I 
 tell ye. Booty, ain't she, Willy ? " 
 
 "Proper booty," Coneybear assented in a whisper, being 
 afraid to trust his voice. 
 
 " Glad to see you," Brian said. " Didn't recognise you at 
 first." 
 
 " David Badgery. You've heard of us. You've seen us 
 about the country, I know. Aw, yes. Me and Topsy. David 
 Badgery and Topsy, of Drewsteignton." 
 
 " I remember you. Lost you in the crowd that day in 
 Okehampton," said Brian. " What are you drinking ? " 
 
 " Same as usual. What are yew ? And what's little Willy 
 having ? " 
 
 " Little Willie has finished," said Brian. " He has got to 
 drive me home." 
 
 " Been at it, has her ? " said David, becoming dialectic in 
 his admiration. "Lord love ye, little Willy. I'll tell the 
 folks." 
 
 He jumped up, kicked off the carpet-slippers, and pattering 
 into the passage in socks and riding-breeches — ^he had dis- 
 carded his gaiters — collared the waitress round the waist, and 
 carried her into the room to receive Brian's orders for refresh- 
 ment. Coneybear was seated rigidly against the wall, staring 
 at the fuzzy-haired girl, and comparing her with the widow in 
 many ways. What a pity it was, he thought, that young, fuzzy- 
 haired girls had no money. This particular specimen was 
 grossly impertinent. She chaffed Coneybear, called him rude 
 names, and assured him that one glass of Kirton cider would 
 settle his business. 
 
 " What are you a doing in here ? " David asked, when he and 
 Brian were settled by the fire. " You ain't come to Tawton to 
 see Grade's grave, I reckon. 'Tis some Gracie a bit younger 
 and fresher you'm after. Aw, now. Ain't it ? There's the little 
 dark piece to Blackalake Gorge, and there's parson's bit to 
 
CONCERNING CIDER AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 143 
 
 Tordown. Where be she now, I wonder. What ? I was the one 
 wi' the maids before you come along. 'Twas David Badgeiy, of 
 Drewsteignton. I be beat now. Wholly beat." 
 
 By Grade's grave David was referring to the monument to 
 an old parishioner, one Grace Rogers, who died half-a-century 
 ago at the age of one hundred and one. 
 
 Brian did not much care for David's familiarity, although he 
 did not take exception to the charge of excessive gallantry. He 
 explained that he came into the town every week to execute 
 commissions for his aunt, and he was usually driven by Coney- 
 bear, who on this occasion had an important purchase of his 
 own to make. This led to questions being put to Coneybear, 
 and the truth about the widow was extracted. David became 
 improperly hilarious. He explained that he had not heard the 
 news, as he had been hunting and cider-drinking in north 
 Devon. The tidings of the engagement had not reached 
 Bideford before his departure. He demanded to see the ring 
 and made merry over its dimensions. He requested Coney- 
 bear to reduce the widow to pounds, shillings and pence, 
 also to pounds avoirdupois, and then to estimate the value of 
 each pound of flesh in cash. He became so coarse in his 
 remarks that Brian had to remind him that there were other 
 listeners. This brought weak-minded David within reasonable 
 limits of speech ; but still he could not refrain from taunting 
 Coneybear upon his choice ; and this was the more ungenerous, 
 as the bridegroom-elect was unable to defend himself. 
 
 " Dear old granny ! Ain't her got purty whiskers round her 
 chin?" cried David in vast delight, while Coneybear swayed 
 miserably to and fro like the pendulum of a clock. David 
 was a vulgar person, although he was destined to be the 
 richest man in mid-Devon, if his life and reason lasted long 
 enough. 
 
 Brian had intended to remain only a few minutes in the 
 Gostwyck Arms. David had fully decided not to tell his 
 rival — so far as Maria was concerned, though that young lady 
 elevated her delightful nose at the sight of him — about Nona's 
 
144 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 position, or how she wanted to communicate with him. Both 
 young men broke their resolutions ; Brian because he wanted 
 to, and David because he had to. Topsy's master was the 
 worst gossip in the county. He could not carry a tale a dozen 
 yards without spilling some of it. It would leak from him at 
 every step. Very few men, and less women, can pass on a tale 
 precisely as it has been given them. David altered every detail. 
 His brain subjected it to a kind of crushing process, from which 
 it escaped to his tongue in an absolutely unrecognisable form. 
 He had already published a dozen different versions of Nona's 
 troubles, and he was then contemplating a thirteenth for Brian's 
 benefit, wholly unlike any of the preceding ones. He was 
 quite unconscious of having spoken anything that day which 
 was not circumstantially true. 
 
 Weak-minded persons are generally grotesque in their 
 behaviour when they have anything of importance to impart. 
 David began by making horrible grimaces at Brian. Then he 
 picked up the ground-ash, without which he never stirred, bent 
 it, drew it through his hands, tapped it upon his bullet head, 
 and poked it deferentially into Brian's ribs. He winked 
 towards Coneybear, who was staring into vacancy, wishing he 
 had not swallowed that third glass of whiskey, and that he 
 was going to marry the fuzzy-haired waitress instead of the 
 widow. He whispered, " Aw, I say,'' several times, and iinally 
 splashed some cider upon the table, and traced sloppy characters 
 with a stunted forefinger. All this aroused Brian's interest. 
 He was therefore astonished when David merely asked after 
 so much preparation, " Ever seen her ? " 
 
 " Seen who ? " asked Brian. 
 
 " You know. The churchy little bit to Tordown," whispered 
 David. 
 
 His indirectness and slang were still puzzling to Brian, who 
 again asked for an explanation. David could not continue 
 without some cider. After drinking he volunteered the state- 
 ments that he had ridden across country from Bideford, which 
 Brian knew already, and that he was extremely weary, which 
 
CONCERNING CIDER AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 145 
 
 was not interesting. " And as I came along the lane on Topsy 
 I saw her standing by the gate," he continued. 
 
 "Who — Topsy? What are you driving at?" Brian asked, 
 partly amused and partly bored. 
 
 David considered that his companion was singularly obtuse. 
 There he was breaking the news gently and Brian was too dull 
 to comprehend. He had told the story so many times, and the 
 numerous versions occupied so much of his brain, that he had 
 come to regard the merest hint as all-sufficient. It was there- 
 fore with rather an injured manner, and without his crease of 
 smiles, that he said, " At the gate of the nunnery." 
 
 This was not very luminous either, but David's last word 
 flashed the truth into Brian's mind, and he exclaimed at once, 
 " What ? Miss Wistman ? " 
 
 " Haven't I been telling you all about her ? " exclaimed 
 David. 
 
 Brian denied gently and encouraged David to proceed, which 
 he did after fortifying himself with more cider, and gradually 
 warmed to his subject for the thirteenth time. David had a 
 weird kind of imagination and a forcible way of expressing 
 himself when fully aroused ; and the details concerning convent 
 life which he gave to Brian might have been taken from the 
 glowing pages of Foxe's Book of Martyrs. His manner became 
 more excited. He drew attention by his voice and gestures. 
 People heard him and left the bar to stand at the door and 
 listen — honest whiskey-drinking townsmen, who were quite pre- 
 pared to raise the popular war-cry, " Men of England, how long 
 shall these things be ? " apropos of anything or nothing. The 
 cry went about that David Badgery was drunk and worth seeing ; 
 but David was not drunk. He knew what he was doing. 
 There was not a word of truth in what he was saying, but that 
 did not matter. He was denouncing a system. He knew 
 nothing about it, but again that was no matter. " 'Tis only 
 David Badgery. He'm dafty," proclaimed a voice at the door ; 
 but though it was only daft David Badgery, more and more 
 came in from the street, until the people who had been at the 
 
 A.W. L 
 
146 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 door were pushed into the room ; and Brian sat tight, feeling 
 awkward at finding himself the man addressed. And Coney- 
 bear's eyes and knees became more aggressive, while his 
 unmanageable tongue muttered, " Oh, dear life ! " in every tone 
 conceivable. 
 
 David had been standing for some time. Encouraged by 
 murmurs of applause he mounted upon his chair and turned to 
 face the audience. It was the first time he had been given an 
 opportunity of addressing his fellow-countr3Tnen. ^nd he meant 
 to make the most of it. The news went abou. the town that 
 David Badgery was preaching, and the crowd thickened. 
 Habitual water-drinkers added a leaven of white faces to those 
 which wore perpetual autumn tints. There were black coats 
 and white ties denoting professional preachers. These men 
 listened to David's mis-statements and applauded. The business 
 of the house was at a standstill while David talked. 
 
 It was not a scene to be easily forgotten. There was half- 
 witted David standing upon the chair, clad in a loose coat of a 
 loud pattern, bright-red waistcoat, tight riding-breeches, short 
 socks, and carpet-slippers ; fighting the air with his ground- 
 ash ; shouting his fiery sentences. His little bullet-head rising 
 from the white stock looked like the knob on the top of a 
 post. His face was no longer turnip-like. It seemed to be 
 nothing but a mouth and a pair of eyes. There was David the 
 degenerate, who had less religion than a South Sea Islander, 
 haranguing the townsfolk upon the horrors of monasticism and 
 the evils of priestcraft. Quaint as his phrases were there was 
 no laughter, because he spoke to men who were in sympathy 
 with his ideas ; and nobody jeers at an orator, however 
 grotesque, with whose opinions they agree. 
 
 When David broke down, hoarse and inarticulate, one of 
 the black coats and ties took David's place, and a calm, 
 measured voice began to review what their brother had said ; 
 while next in order stood a Colebrook farmer, itching to 
 mount the chair and give his opinions upon the Government. 
 This was more than Brian could stand. A meeting was 
 
CONCERNING CIDER AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 147 
 
 in full swing. The debate which David had started would roll 
 on heavily until the house closed, although its semi-religious 
 character would not be maintained after the sheep-farmers 
 and wool-buyers had ascended the chair. Brian made signs 
 to Coneybear which were perfectly useless, so he had to 
 cross the room as best he could and pull the young man to his 
 feet. David was leaning against the wall in a tearful state, a glass 
 of cider in one hand, a half-made cigarette in the other, and a 
 completed one in his mouth ; his ground-ash held beneath one 
 arm, his tobacco-pouch beneath the other. He was trying to 
 talk, smoke, and drink at the same time. Brian saw him open 
 his mouth to say something, put the glass to his lips instead, 
 and drop the cigarette. David did not see Brian's departure, 
 and his subsequent hoarse cries for Mr. Challacombe to address 
 the meeting were therefore spent in vain. That young gentle- 
 man was on the uphill road leading to Tordown, preventing 
 Coneybear, who was more than half-asleep, from pitching head- 
 long, and talking to him severely. Nona was not a pleasant 
 memory to Brian. She was not often in his thoughts, chiefly 
 because he was afraid to think of her. Arminel of the gorge 
 was the girl he was generally thinking about. 
 
 " Oh, my I " exclaimed Coneybear, as Brian thumped him in 
 the back. Then he woke up. 
 
 " Did ever hear such talk ? 'Twas brave, searching talk. 
 Where be us ? " 
 
 " In the brambles," said Brian angrily. " If you don't wake 
 up, I'll chuck you out of the cart." 
 
 Coneybear was feeling helplessly all about his body, and 
 presently he began to whimper. 
 
 " Where be the ring ? I've lost 'en. Scat goes dree shillun 
 and drippence. Said he'd give I real diamonds for drippence. 
 I've a-lostthe ring and my dree shillun. I be upsot." 
 
 As a testimony that he was " upsot " Coneybear wept 
 copiously, and would have lurched out of the trap had Brian 
 not been holding him. The ring was all the time plainly visible 
 secured by a large safety-pin to his coat. 
 
 L 3 
 
148 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Serves you right," said Brian. " I told you not to buy an 
 expensive ring. Why didn't you get a cheap one? Three 
 shillings and threepence is a ridiculous lot of money to spend 
 on an engagement-ring." 
 
 " Her wanted jewels," sobbed the youth. 
 
 " It is your duty to check her expensive tastes. She will 
 ruin you if you don't. There are no less than three large 
 diamonds in that ring, and they must be worth quite a penny 
 apiece." 
 
 " Said he'd give I big diamonds for 'nother drippence," 
 repeated Coneybear. 
 
 "You should have resisted that temptation," said Brian. 
 " Ladies who own beerhouses don't wear real diamonds. A 
 brass ring with a few bits of glass would have been quite good 
 enough." 
 
 " Her wouldn't have I if I gave she that. Real eighteen- 
 carrots gold and jewels, her told I, and vaither told I the like. 
 ' Mun spend money on she, Will,' he said. ' 'Tis what they 
 calls setting a whale for to catch a sprat.' " 
 
 " Don't cry any more, you idiot," shouted Brian. " Here's 
 the ring upon your coat. I saw you fasten it there 
 yourself." 
 
 " Oh, my ! " said Coneybear. " So her be. Dree shillun 
 and drippence be a cruel sight 0' money, but jewels bain't sold 
 for less." 
 
 Then he resumed his blameless slumbers, and Brian had to 
 thump him again, because he was not sure of the road, and the 
 pony appeared to be dragging the trap among furze-bushes. 
 
 " What be yew drumming I for ? " enquired Coneybear 
 plaintively. 
 
 " To keep you awake. Where are we ? " came the answer. 
 
 " Did ever hear such talk ? 'Twas brave, searching talk," 
 went on the exasperating youth, his mind casting back to the 
 scene in the Gostwyck Arms. 
 
 For that he was drummed again and more severely ; and in 
 the middle of it the trap lurched into a ditch and Coneybear, 
 
CONCERNING CIDfiR AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 149 
 
 wide-awake and terrified, anticipated events by crying, " I be 
 upsot." 
 
 It was true on this occasion, for Brian let him go, and he 
 went crashing through the furze and brambles to the bottom of 
 the ditch. The fall sharpened his intelligence, for when he 
 felt the prickles, he shouted, " Us be on Coditon Hill. The 
 brimmles be proper pricky on Coditon Hill, and I've a-been in 
 thic old ditch afore." 
 
 Brian dragged him out, covered with prickles like a hedge- 
 hog, and after assuring himself that the ring was safe, Coneybear 
 took the pony's bridle and with some difficulty got the trap 
 into the middle of the road. The remainder of the journey 
 was accomplished without incident, although Brian had a bad 
 quarter of an hour with his aunt when he got home. The old 
 lady had the Patience cards all ready for an entirely novel 
 demonstration, and she was extremely annoyed with him for 
 remaining out so late. She had also been lecturing Betsey, 
 which had not improved her temper. Betsey had long ago 
 persuaded herself that Stokey was her exclusive property. 
 The state of her mind regarding perquisites was peculiar. 
 She had relations in the village who required feeding, and Betsey 
 fed them liberally. Miss Challacombe had not objected openly, 
 so long as her requirements were satisfied ; but when she had 
 to go upon short commons because of the voracious habits of 
 Betsey's kindred, she felt justified in explaining that as the one 
 who purchased and paid for the provisions she was fairly 
 entitled to her share. Betsey resented such interference. She 
 gave her mistress to understand that she had no business in the 
 kitchen ; and when Miss Challacombe unwisely lost her temper, 
 Betsey followed suit and observed bitterly, " Ain't a poor old 
 woman to have a few taties if her wants 'em ? Her's going to 
 have 'em." This was unanswerable. It was no use giving 
 Betsey notice, for she would have declined to contemplate such 
 a preposterous idea. Miss Challacombe retreated in disorder, 
 and vented her indignation upon Brian. She had some excuse, 
 as one of her parcels had been lost in the ditch upon Coditon 
 
I5P ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Hill. Brian lost his temper, too, and so far forgot himself as to 
 tell his aunt to hold her tongue. Then the mistress sent for 
 Coneybear, who came, was conquered, and departed "upsot" 
 for the second time, complaining, " My missis don't love I. If 
 her talks to I angry again I shall die." Nor was this the end 
 of Coneybear's troubles. Lucy met him near the lifting-stock, 
 learnt that he had purchased a costly engagement ring for Sal 
 Lampey, losther temper, too, and slapped his face without mercy, 
 accompanying each slap with the sobbing cry, "Ye gnrt 
 coward to hit a poor girl." This was distinctly unkind, as 
 Coneybear did not even offer any resistance. Consequently he 
 was " upsot " again. 
 
 Brian felt very unwilling to think over what David had told 
 him. He knew the truth was exaggerated, but he could not 
 know how much. Nona was miserable ; that much was cer- 
 tain ; but surely if she disliked the convent she had only to 
 leave it. They could not keep her against her will. Then he 
 remembered how helpless the girl was ; and he remembered 
 also her ignorance. If her father refused to remove her, she 
 would never be brave enough to depart alone. Obviously he 
 could not interfere. He might go and tell Wistman that he 
 wanted to marry his daughter. He was horribly aware that 
 this was indeed what he ought to do, but he did not love the 
 girl. He did not even care for her. She had flung herself at 
 him recklessly ; and no man gives his heart to a girl who 
 beckons to him wantonly. Brian's last thoughts that night 
 were not of Nona ; but of sweet-faced little Maria — though he 
 had ceased to call her by that name — the pretty daughter of 
 old Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 The next morning when Wistman came Brian searched his 
 face again for signs of cruelty, but found none. The face 
 was troubled and anxious — it was the face of a man in hope- 
 less debt — but it was innocent and simple. Again Brian was 
 convinced that Wistman was a good man according to his 
 lights. What others might have called tyranny he thought 
 was kindness. He had acted according to his nature. A few 
 
CONCERNING CIDER AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 151 
 
 sentences that morning displayed his nature. The subject of 
 Evolution cropped up, and Wistman became at once heated, 
 and even vindictive. He denied the theory entirely. He 
 would not admit the truth of one single sentence written in its 
 favour. He called all the philosophers who had written upon 
 the subject, from Aristotle to Darwin, blackguards and fools. 
 He would have liked to see their books burnt publicly. That 
 was Wistman's nature. He was so supremely narrow-minded 
 that he refused to contemplate the works of men with whom he 
 disagreed, and he could see in them nothing but evil. He was 
 a man unable to use his own powers of investigation, and he 
 would not accept the results of the labours of others unless 
 they fitted in with his own ideas. All his mistaken actions, all 
 his unnatural thoughts, sprang from the one root of evil in 
 him — his hopeless and incurable bigotry. 
 
 For the crowning act of that bigotry — the detention of Nona 
 in the convent— the one act which could not be concealed 
 behind the laurels of the Rectory garden, but which had 
 become known to the countrjffolk, and had been grossly 
 exaggerated by them, Wistman was to receive that immediate 
 punishment with which he had often threatened his daughter. 
 
 David Badgery was up early, but he did not return to 
 Drewsteignton. He and the redoubtable Topsy went about 
 mid-Devon stirring up the people. Topsy did her share, for 
 the foolish youth had bought a strip of linen, had got a painter 
 to smear across it in big scarlet letters the words, " No Popery," 
 and had secured this strange device about the mare. David 
 was a quaint champion of Protestantism, but the Wesleyans 
 rallied to his standard nevertheless. He had the same message 
 to deliver in every village. He issued instructions, and in 
 most cases received a definite promise of assistance. And 
 when he had left a village the urchins of the place were kept 
 busy in the yards and ditches collecting all the battered pots, 
 kettles and saucepans they could lay their hands on. 
 
 Towards evening David arrived in Tordown, very hoarse and 
 weary; and after seeing to Topsy's requirements at the 
 
152 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Challacombe Arms, he went on to Stokey and enquired for 
 Brian. 
 
 " Come out and see the old mare," he said at once. " She's 
 in the stable, and there's just light enough. We've been half 
 over the county to-day, and she's as fresh as a trout. Booty, 
 she is. Come along and see her." 
 
 As Brian had no excuse ready, and as he did not want to 
 ask David into the house, fearing his aunt's displeasure, he 
 went ; and on the way he naturally asked David what brought 
 him to Tordown. 
 
 ' You'll know soon enough. Be out by the church at half- 
 past eight," came the answer. Then, after a struggle with 
 himself, David's nature prevailed and out came the whole 
 matter. 
 
 " I'll have nothing to do with it," said Brian firmly, when 
 David had finished. 
 
 " Us don't want ye," was the cold retort. David did not 
 appreciate any lack of enthusiasm in a good cause. " There'll 
 be plenty without ye. A hundred men will be up along 
 presently." 
 
 David exaggerated as usual, for the number of men and boys 
 who did arrive in Tordown shortly after eight o'clock certainly 
 did not reach forty. They came in carts of all descriptions; from 
 Winkleigh, which boasted once of two castles and contained 
 "many a pretty tale remembered of dragons and fairies"; 
 from Broad Nymet, with its desecrated chapel of the Manor 
 of the De Brode Nimet family, the smallest parish in Devon- 
 shire save one; from Sampford, where the rebellion against 
 the first prayer-book broke out; from a dozen other places 
 came the carts, bringing men and boys in holiday humour, 
 all laughing, and joking, and careless. They had come to 
 show their hatred of a religious system ; to proclaim their 
 independence of the Established Church ; to punish a weak 
 and foolish old man ; and to do so much, like thieves, in the 
 dark. 
 
 David was leader, David who did not care twopence what 
 
CONCERNING CIDER AND IMPROMPTU MUSIC. 153 
 
 the religion of any man was. He it was who marshalled the 
 men and arranged the details. The meeting-place was upon 
 Stokey Moor, the courting-ground of Tordown. Every mar- 
 ried woman in the place, except Mrs. Wistman, had been 
 courted on Stokey Moor. It stretched downhill behind the 
 house of that name, and was connected with the road by 
 means of the narrow lane which divided Miss Challacombe's 
 yard from the wheelwright's refuse-ground. A few lanterns 
 were necessary. The night was very dark, but there was a 
 deep red glow upon the sky from Dartmoor, where some moor- 
 men were swaling. It was very quiet. There was hardly any 
 wind. 
 
 Brian had taken up his station opposite the Rectory, beneath 
 the trees of the churchyard. He felt depressed and miserable 
 when he heard the tramp of feet, and felt, rather than saw, the 
 procession of men and boys passing him. The lanterns had 
 been extinguished. Those men did not realise what they were 
 about to do. , They did not know, as Brian did, what pain they 
 were about to inflict upon the poor old scholar. He felt he 
 ought to have warned Wistman, but it was too late then, and 
 he had felt bitter against him for treating Nona so harshly, 
 more bitter, perhaps, because he feared he too might have to 
 suifer for the girl's ignorance. But this was too low a punish- 
 ment. He followed the procession into the garden, which was 
 as dark as night could make it. 
 
 The men formed themselves into a long arc upon the lawn 
 facing the house. David went and knocked upon the door. 
 When Lucy came he asked to see the rector. Then he stepped 
 back and waited with the rest. 
 
 Wistman appeared, saw no one, and gazed out, calling. 
 He could see nothing, but everyone on the lawn could see him 
 standing at the door with the lamplight of the hall behind him. 
 Some of them could see the poverty of that interior. A gruff 
 voice gave the signal, and immediately din uprose. Pots and 
 kettles were beaten together or banged with sticks. It was not 
 so much the horrible tumult as the manner of it which was 
 
154 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 dreadful. Brian felt that at once. He had crept round to the 
 side of the house and had edged near the door. He was very 
 close to Wistman ; could see his face by the light in the hall, 
 and could hear him. He saw the poor old man stagger and 
 put out his hands; and he heard him mutter in a dazed 
 fashion as he struck his white forehead : 
 
 " Oh, dear me I Dear, deary me ! What is this ? How 
 very awkward ! How tiresome ! What a dreadful noise 1" 
 
 The din continued without mercy. None of the persecutors 
 dared to speak. They were safe in the dark. They banged 
 away lustily. Brian saw a change in the rector's figure. His 
 shoulders seemed to come more forward, the breath came in 
 gasps, and Brian could see some big tears trickling down the 
 white cheeks and losing themselves in his beard. He was 
 muttering scraps of Virgil relating to storms and wind and 
 noise. 
 
 " Loca feta furentibus Austris . . . ventos tempestatesque 
 sonoros . . . contremuit netnus. Oh, dear ! Oh dear I What 
 shall I do ? . . . magna cum murmuve mantis civcum claustra 
 jremunt." 
 
 David, who had hidden in the shadows hard by, had no idea 
 what he was talking about, but had no difiBculty in making up 
 his mind that the rector was cursing them all in priestly Latin. 
 
 Wistman had admitted to himself he was a failure. And 
 this seemed to him to be the practical summing-up of his life's 
 work. After that night the people of the village noticed a 
 change in the rector. He had been accustomed to walk with 
 a steady martial air, holding his head up. Ever afterwards he 
 had his head down, and he walked like a man who had lost 
 something and was looking for it with his eyes upon the 
 ground. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 
 
 The early Spring was tempestuous; rain, wind, and an 
 occasional frisk of snow from Dartmoor. The daffodils were 
 blown to pieces. The blustering days and boisterous nights 
 were healthy, but very dreary, for a continual high wind 
 increases the sense of loneliness in a remarkable way. People 
 went about like windmills, whirling round and round, and 
 flapping their arms. Girls with neat figures and ankles were 
 not called upon to object to the wind, because it helped them 
 to display their natural advantages. Everyone else lost their 
 temper over it, and kept as much as they could off the stormy 
 heights. The trout rivers were in flood, dashing noisily sea- 
 ward, north and south, by. Torridge and Tamar. A few 
 enthusiasts were out fishing, more for the love of being near 
 the water than for the hope of catching much. Rushing water 
 excites with its motion and life. It has the effect of the wind 
 without the violence. It sets the blood and the spirits in a 
 glow. And there is no water more exhilarating than that which 
 goes down to the sea from central Devon. 
 
 Miss Challacombe's ill-temper continued. She hated Tor- 
 down in Winter, but she had faced it for her nephew's sake ; 
 and now that it was time for Spring, and there was no Spring, 
 she fretted for a warm aspect and calm weather. The wind 
 was too wild for croquet in the orchard. For the time she was 
 weary of Patience. She wrote to her brother, suggesting she 
 should remove Brian to Cornwall, but there was no answer. 
 This was so typical of Cuthbert that the old lady could not feel 
 surprised. Six months later, when there would be no need for 
 
156 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 a reply, one would come. The head of the Challacombes 
 always replied to his sister's letters in due time ; but before 
 doing so he permitted his mind to lie fallow for a season. 
 
 One morning a letter came for Brian from Arminel. She 
 had never written to him before. Although he knew she was 
 an accomplished young lady, he was astonished to find how 
 well she wrote. The letter was so pretty, clean, and fresh ; so 
 suggestive of her dainty self. She wanted him to meet her 
 that afternoon at the foot of Tordown hill. " You won't mind," 
 she wrote, " because this will be the last time we shall ever 
 meet in this sad, sorrowful world. Really the last time, 
 honesty-truly." Brian read the letter a dozen times, and 
 came to the conclusion she was serious. She never used her 
 quaint phrase, " honesty-truly," in jest. She wanted to see 
 him for the last time. That made him think about her a good 
 deal, and poor, broken old Wistman found him a dense pupil 
 that morning. 
 
 Brian was early at the place appointed, and so was Arminel. 
 When half-way down the hill he saw her, and she was not 
 alone. David was riding upon Topsy at her side. For a 
 moment Brian felt angry. He did not like David, and the fact 
 of his being with the girl almost made him mistrust her. Then 
 he saw that David's attentions were not pleasing to Arminel, 
 She was trying to get away from him, by crossing first to one 
 side, and then to the other. David was not easily discouraged. 
 He stuck to her like a burr. When Brian appeared he was not 
 dismayed. Dartmoor Jack's daughter was fair game. He had 
 done his best to get hold of her, had failed, so now it was 
 the other fellow's turn to try his luck. That was David's idea 
 of chivalry. He waved his ground-ash to Brian, shouted some 
 more or less vulgar familiarity, wheeled Topsy into a side-lane, 
 and went off to prowl about the county until dark. 
 
 " At last," sighed the girl, as she and Brian met. " He's 
 gone, the beast. He met me as I came out of the quanies, 
 and has followed me all the way. He is always following me." 
 
 Two things were apparent to Brian ; she was really angry, 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 157 
 
 and she was looking very pretty, with a sort of fresh Spring 
 prettiness, which had been in bud at their last meeting, and 
 was then in full bloom. The indignation upon her face did 
 not detract from its beauty, any more than the thorns detract 
 from the sweetness of the rose. 
 
 " And you have walked all the way from Dartmoor," Brian 
 exclaimed. 
 
 •' All the way," she said, brightly. " Seven long miles, and 
 I'm not tired. My father was going in the other direction 
 to-day, so I couldn't get a lift." 
 
 " I'll drive you back later on," Brian promised. 
 
 " Will you really ? How kind of you. But you are always 
 nice to me. Do you know anything, I wonder, of a brooch — 
 but here it is." She parted the white fur at her throat, and 
 caressed a trinket which was there with white-gloved fingers. 
 " It came last week from Exeter. I know you sent it. But I 
 rather wish you hadn't," she said, smiling rather sadly. 
 
 " Why ? " he asked, quickly. 
 
 " That means you did send it. Well, I knew. It's a dear 
 present, and I'm proud of it. Now, will you take me along 
 the combe to Pasture Water ? " she went on hurriedly. " I 
 have never been, and this is my last chance." 
 
 " Tell me first what you meant by your letter." 
 
 " Presently," she murmured. " Not now. Let me get out 
 of the wind and walk among the trees, and laugh and be happy 
 for once in my poor little life." 
 
 She would not say an)fthing more then, although Brian went 
 on pressing her. She hurried on, and he had to hurry, too, to 
 keep at her side. He did not believe any longer that she was 
 Dartmoor Jack's daughter. She was not Maria of Blackalake 
 Gorge. She was Arminel of the Round Table. She was the 
 swan-maiden, who for the time had doffed her gold necklace 
 and her bird-skin that she might be with him ; and because he 
 had not asked her to be his wife, she knew that the time was 
 near when, in the words of the legend, she must be " transmued 
 in an instaunt to a faire white swanne, and begin to flee in the 
 
158 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 ayre through the forest, making a piteous and lamentable crye." 
 That was what she meant when she said she had come to meet 
 him for the last time. 
 
 " I know ! " she exclaimed. " We will go and see the witch. 
 She lives down by Pasture Water, and she shall tell us our 
 fortunes." 
 
 They went along the side of the hill and into a lane where 
 the stone hedges were almost as high as the sides of a house. 
 Brian could see the big firs tossing their heads upon Stokey 
 Moor. They came to a rotten gate, which he opened tenderly, 
 for it threatened to fall in pieces in his hands, and passed into 
 the deep combe which led down to Pasture Water. It was 
 very silent there and they were sheltered from the wind. 
 Arminel said nothing at iirst ; then she remarked shyly, " I am 
 so glad you are going to drive me back. I should be tired 
 
 after another seven-mile tramp. And besides " She 
 
 stopped and shook her head, as though she was reproving 
 herself for some indiscretion. "Now we'll talk about the 
 weather," she said. 
 
 "We will talk about nothing of the kind," said Brian 
 keenly. "You are the most exasperating girl. Finish what 
 you were going to say." 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn't. My tongue nearly slipped, but I held it 
 up in time. It was of no importance, anyhow. Aren't the 
 primroses lovely ? " 
 
 " Shall I pick you some ? " 
 
 "Yes, and I'll wear them. But no — no!" Perhaps you 
 had better not," she said, with the wistful look he had seen 
 before. " You see you would want to put them in my coat 
 your own self, and I might like you to do it — and it would be 
 foolish," she went on decidedly. " I might possibly think of 
 you when I took them off this evening, and I might want to 
 keep them as a sort of stupid memento of our last walk, 
 and that would be simply idiotic, for this is our last walk 
 together — honesty-truly it is — our very last walk. No — ao, 
 please 1 " 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 159 
 
 Brian had taken both her hands, and he kissed first one and 
 then the other. 
 
 " Not a step further," he said. " Not one step until you have 
 told me everything." 
 
 " Let me have my own way — for the last time," she pleaded. 
 "I'll tell you presently. You know you have always given way to 
 me," she said sweetly. "Do it again — once more. And 
 then — then " 
 
 " What, sweetheart ? " he miurmured. 
 
 " You may kiss me," she cried, with a little gasp, putting up 
 a flushed, tender face. " Here — on my mouth." 
 
 The next few moments were spent in dreamland ; and that 
 is a land which nobody has yet succeeded in describing, 
 although most people have been there. 
 
 " I'll have the primroses," sighed the swan-maiden. 
 
 Girl-like she had broken down and given way at the very 
 moment when she thought she was strongest. 
 
 The place in which they dreamed was quite suggestive of 
 such kind of pleasures. It was the largest and most beautiful 
 of the mid-Devon combes. It was an unvisited place, known 
 only to the locals and those who had shooting rights over it. 
 There are many such combes between the two moors, and 
 none are frequented, although some have a far softer beauty 
 than the gorge of the Teign and much-vaunted Fingle. They 
 are filled with flowers, and there are oaks which have no equals 
 in the country. To walk along the combe to Pasture Water 
 was to witness every kind of landscape. There were swampy 
 depths covered in summer with lush grass and rushes ; with 
 scented reeds, peppermint and meadowsweet. Clouds of 
 little blue butterflies arose when those scented growths were 
 disturbed ; and towards evening the heavy perfume suggested 
 sleep, and to the imaginative mind dreams and fairy tales. 
 There were wild paths, made by cows and ponies, winding 
 through a tangle of undergrowth ; now up into keen air, then 
 down into green and scented valleys; to sparkling water- 
 courses which had to be crossed by stones or by a fallen tree ; 
 
i6o ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 between bushes and huge ferns which met overhead, shelter- 
 ing from rain, and below had to be swept aside ; sharply down 
 natural steps of turf, as though into a mine, or to a cave 
 festooned with green seaweed and dripping just as the receding 
 sea had left it. There were steep banks of trees, chiefly oak, 
 beech, ash, and rowan. The undergrowth was a jungle of 
 bracken seven feet in height, and brambles like lengths of 
 barbed wire. No fugitive could have run a dozen yards 
 through that undergrowth. The first bramble would have held 
 him like an octopus with a single tough and thorny tentacle. 
 Those fierce brambles were a feature of that combe, with their 
 red shark's-teeth thorns ; and the sweet wild spiraea blossomed 
 among them like white doves in a cage. There were larch 
 copses covering brown knolls of springy peat, cross-hatched by 
 quaint fairy pathways made by the rabbits as they ran to and 
 fro. A larch copse upon a brown knoll of peat is the most 
 romantic thing in Nature, with its apparently endless vista of 
 straight slender stems, the dome of green plumes above, and 
 below the bare smooth coating of dry thread-like leaves. It is 
 there, if anywhere, that the pixies may be seen and heard by 
 moonlight. It is the sweetest place on earth for lovers. It 
 seems to have been designed for whispers and kisses and soft 
 words. It would be impossible to imagine lovers quarrelling 
 in such a larch copse. 
 
 Along that combe were also redstone clifEs, half-covered 
 with hanging ivy and spotted with tufts of fern. There were 
 park-like stretches dotted with big oaks. The grass was often 
 too bright and green between ; the hidden water was hinted at 
 by cotton-sedge and by the shy osmunda with golden dust, so 
 much sought after by witches and soothsayers of old. Just 
 beyond, where the bank of trees ran down to the grass, were 
 in the season beds of dead-man' s-fingers or pink foxgloves — 
 called also cow-flaps by the children, because they pick the 
 flowering stalks, which are as tall as themselves, and drive the 
 cows home with them — not a few clumps, but dense masses 
 forming a sheet of pink. The sides of the combe were big, 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. i6i 
 
 rounded hills, billowing up one after the other, their summits 
 bare and tonsured, their sides patched with copper-beech and 
 rowan. Between each hill a stream trickled to make the bogs 
 at the bottom of the combe. Here and there a path was seen, 
 springing apparently out of the jungle below, and ascending to 
 the summit. These paths were a bright yellow — the soil was 
 clay — and by an optical delusion they looked absolutely per- 
 pendicular from the opposite side of the combe. Arminel 
 described them as " the sort of paths one sees in a dream," 
 and no idea could have expressed their apparent steepness better. 
 
 The slopes were covered then with primrose blooms, pin- 
 eyed and thread-eyed, nestling among crinkled woolly leaves. 
 Cowslips do not grow in mid-Devon, which is strange, because 
 the two flowers are sisters of the same family, and are so much 
 alike that the pollen of the one is able to fertilise the other. 
 There was nothing tidy about the combe. It was a wild 
 garden, and perhaps was more beautiful for the want of 
 arrangement. Later the slopes would be white with starry 
 stitchwort ; the swamps red with ragged-robin. All the year 
 it had its fierce brambles and its unsympathetic thistles. They 
 were the drawbacks of that pleasant way to Pasture Water. 
 
 Half-way down the combe appeared the witch's cottage in a 
 small enclosure where the old lady grew her vegetables and 
 the wild flowers grew themselves. It was a very old cottage. 
 Tradition connected it with a monastery of which not even the 
 ruins remained. There was a rumour that it had stood empty 
 for a long time, and one day the witch came along and appro- 
 priated it. When the owner tried to eject her she overlooked 
 his catde with disastrous results. People with " seeing eyes " are 
 awkward folk to deal with. The cottage could not have been 
 of much use to its owner. It was altogether out of the way, 
 and it was said to be haunted by clerical gentlemen of a past 
 age, with a taste for chanting psalms in the small hours. The 
 witch lived there alone with her cow and chickens. She baked 
 her own bread. Once a month she tramped to Nymet Tracey 
 for supplies. If anyone followed her she turned herself into a 
 
 A.W. M 
 
i63 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 hare and scampered back to the combe ; and when the children 
 were insulting she adopted the sort of method practised with 
 some success by the bald-headed prophet Elisha, and promptly 
 converted them into toads — so the people said. They called 
 her Aunt Cherry. 
 
 Brian and Arminel came along the path, walking on prim- 
 roses in more senses than one. They were behaving respec- 
 tably just then, although she was hanging rather too fondly to 
 his arm, and was looking up and making pretty mouths rather 
 more than was necessary, and her silky hair was not quite tidy. 
 A celibate could hardly have looked upon her winsome face and 
 soft eyes without thinking upon matters contrary to his vows ; 
 and the sound of her voice in that dream-like combe ought to 
 have prevented the most ascetic of men from going on quietly with 
 his asceticism. She was at her prettiest ; his kisses had brought 
 the flower into full bloom; and she was just then the most 
 dangerous little person outside — and yet not quite out of — ^the 
 land of dreams. 
 
 " She's at home,'' said Brian, as he pointed to a small figure 
 bobbing beside the linhay. He sniffed at the strong peat smoke 
 and coughed. 
 
 " But, what a witch I " said Arminel. " No cats, and not 
 even a broomstick." 
 
 "There's a cat! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Marmalade and cream," said she, in reference to fjie 
 animal's colour. " It ought to be black. 1 don't believe she's 
 a witch at all. Shall I ask her, 'Are you a witch, auntie ? ' But 
 she might be angry and turn me into a toad. And then you 
 woiild have to put me into the bog, and I should only be able 
 to croak and wobble my eyes." 
 
 The old lady nodded at them and approached the gate. She 
 was not beautiful ; a dentist could have improved her appear- 
 ance ; but she was not in the least repulsive. She was a quiet, 
 grey little body, with just a suspicion of malevolence about her. 
 She dropped a curtsey to Brian, and at once began to chat in 
 an ordinary way as though glad to have someone to talk to. 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 163 
 
 " Is this your pretty lady, sir ? " asked Aunt Cherry. 
 
 Arminel became shy at once, and drew back ; while Brian 
 laughed an undecided negative. 
 
 " Will you tell her fortune ? " he said. 
 
 "Fortime, sir? Us don't tell fortunes," cried Aunt 
 Cherry. "You'm a Challacombe," she went on. "There 
 never was a Challacombe who could bide against a pretty 
 face." 
 
 " So you know something about us ?" said Brian. 
 
 "Know something, sir.? Aw, yes. More than you du, I 
 reckon. Stokey will be your'n, some day, and so will Beer, and 
 so will all the land about— and so will the beds to Stokey and 
 to Beer." 
 
 " What do you mean ? '' he asked ; while Arminel came a 
 little nearer to him. 
 
 " You know the gurt bed to Stokey ? " 
 
 " I sleep in it," said Brian quickly. 
 
 " Aw, now ! Sleep in him, du ye ? There be two Latin 
 words on him — I don't know what they be, but I knows what 
 'em means. 'Beware of the friend.' That's what 'em means. And 
 to Beer — North Beer ye calls it now — there be another gurt bed, 
 took to bits now, and the Latin words be on him tu. You know 
 the stoiy, du' ye .'' No ? Well, it ain't for an old woman to tell 
 ye. You'm a Challacombe. There never was a Challacombe 
 who could bide against a purty face," she repeated. " A poor 
 girl's purty face." 
 
 " I think she's horrid," whispered Arminel. 
 
 " Be her ? " cried the sharp old woman. " No, purty dear ; 
 not horrid, but truthful. 'Twas one like you who had them 
 two Latin words put on them beds. Hundreds of years ago 
 it was. He'm a Challacombe. Be he your friend ? " 
 " Why, yes," said she, flushing. 
 
 " Then go your ways, my purty maid, and don't come nigh 
 they beds. For he'm a Challacombe, and you'm darter of Jack 
 Zaple to Dertymore, a poor girl with a pretty face." 
 "That's enough," said Brian quietly. 
 
 M 2 
 
i64 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Aw, yes. A little be enough when I talks," laughed the 
 witch. 
 
 Without another word, they left her and walked on. There 
 was a cloud upon the primrose way. Aunt Cherry was the 
 snake in that garden. Thejr felt as if the poisonous old creature 
 had bitten them. 
 
 " If this was my property, out she would go," said Brian. 
 
 " Is she a witch ? Do you think she is really ? " said the 
 girl anxiously. 
 
 " I don't know anything about witches. I believe she is only 
 a beastly old woman, who has heard a lot of scandal about my 
 family and remembers it all." 
 
 " Will she hurt me ? " pleaded a piteous voice. 
 
 " No, dear. If she tried, I would burn her, cottage and all.'' 
 
 " I felt horrid. Quite toadyish," said she. " I began to get 
 clammy, and my eyes felt loose, and my mouth seemed to be 
 going round to my ears, and I was afraid to speak lest I should 
 only croak. She's spoilt our afternoon, the beast. And it is 
 my fault, because I wanted to visit her. Well, we must try 
 and forget all about her now." Then she looked up roguishly 
 and said, " Will you forgive me ? " 
 
 Brian recovered his spirits at once, and wanted to know what 
 he had to forgive. When Arminel began to remind him that 
 she had led him to the witch's cottage, he replied by squeezing 
 her, and when she went on to assure him that he was most 
 lucky not to find himself at that moment an amphibious natter- 
 jack, he silenced her in the most pleasant and foolish way 
 imaginable. 
 
 " You must not kiss me," she sighed. " I ought not to let 
 you. I shan't any more," she went on, as though it was rather 
 a brilliant idea which had just occurred to her. 
 
 The path between the bushes was at that point so narrow 
 that a fair-sized person could not have gone along it without 
 some inconvenience. They managed it side-by-side somehow. 
 
 "I am angry with you," she declared. "You are not 
 behaving nicely — properly," she amended. " Walk behind — 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 165 
 
 no, in front. Won't you ? Well, you don't do anything that 
 I tell you, and you are generally so obedient. But it's for 
 the last time, and so perhaps I ought to humour you a 
 little." 
 
 " Now, you must explain yourself," he said. 
 
 " Yes, I'll tell you now. Only another hour, and then we 
 must be going back. You will drive me home ? " 
 
 " Of course I will, and we won't hurry either," he replied. 
 
 The path dropped down with almost perilous suddenness 
 into a green cave, across the bottom of which a stream bubbled 
 over round stones. They crossed by means of a fallen tree. 
 Beyond, the path went up as sharply as it had descended, 
 round a corner, and out beside a beautiful larch copse upon a 
 brown knoll of peat, with fairy paths threading it through and 
 through. Brian stopped. Arminel had to obey the laws of 
 dynamics, and stop, too. They were too young to know what 
 a perilous place it was. The sun was warm, and the peat was 
 dry ; and the primroses were in flower. Arminel stood in a 
 rabbit path, and raised both hands to play with the coral-like 
 cones. 
 
 " I am going away to-morrow, away for ever," she said 
 carelessly. " I must work for my living. This is the last day 
 
 of my freedom, and to-morrow " She picked a tender cone 
 
 and bit it rather cruelly. She did not finish her sentence. 
 
 " You have got something to do ? " Brian said slowly. He was 
 standing a little away from her, fascinated by her soft neck. She 
 nodded, but without looking at him. She was too busy. There 
 were a number of little pink cones on th^ branch she was 
 holding, and they all had to be picked and bitten. Brian began 
 to feel the atmosphere of the larch copse. He did not like 
 the idea of that girl working for her living. 
 
 " Tell me about it," he said abruptly. Somehow, he did 
 not feel much inclined to talk. 
 
 "Plymouth," she said. "Long hours. Bad pay." Then 
 she completely divided a poor innocent cone with her savage 
 little teeth. A new idea came and made her say, " I haven't 
 
i66 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 got a character." The next cone was only nibbled, and it 
 brought the inspiration, " So it is good-bye this evening." 
 
 " It's not," he answered warmly. " I shall come down and 
 see you. You talk as if you were going to the other end of the 
 earth. I shall come down next week, and the week after that," 
 he went on recklessly. 
 
 " You won't see me," she said coldly. " I was very silly 
 when I said you might kiss me. It was the thought of going 
 away — and the life. It made me feel — that doesn't matter. I 
 won't be silly any more. There, I've told you. We had better 
 go back." 
 
 Her voice became rather uncertain, and she began to look 
 for another branch of pink cones to play with. 
 
 The larches seemed to be giving out a very strong smell — 
 a sweet. Spring-like smell. 
 
 " It won't do, dear little girl. I am not going to be thrown 
 over," said Brian. He advanced towards her, and she shrank 
 back along the rabbit path, rather pale and frightened. 
 
 " I trust you," she murmured. "We are dreadfully alone 
 here, so you must be nice to me, though I'm only a poor girl 
 wi' a purty face," mimicking the witch. " Oh, how silly I was 
 to let you kiss me," she went on quite viciously. " You think 
 I am common, now. It serves me right ! I am common . . . 
 public property. Don't think of me again. But if you must — ■ 
 sometimes — ^think of me as Arminel who tried to bring you up 
 properly, not as Maria who picked you up in Okehampton, not 
 as Maria — the barmaid." 
 
 She looked at him then with honest dark eyes that never 
 flinched. 
 
 " I must work," she said. 
 
 That larch copse was settling Brian's business. It was so 
 warm and scented ; and the primroses were in full bloom. His 
 one idea just then was to see that pretty face light up again. 
 His swan-maiden behind a bar, slopping out beer, the butt of 
 rude jests and suggestive remarks; that pretty face in the 
 seeking atmosphere of a bar-room; those little hands smelling 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 167 
 
 of liquors ! It was a bad dream, and he wanted to wake up and 
 forget it. Tile smell of the larches was overpowering. By Venus 
 and son Cupid, he swore she should not go to the bar. 
 
 " There's nothing else," Arminel was saying to a little red 
 cone before being cruel to it. " My education must be thrown 
 away. I have no character. Barmaids don't want characters. 
 They mustn't steal, but they may do anything else. I have 
 tried to get something better, but it was no use. If a poor girl 
 gets a bad name there isn't much chance for her. She's 
 trodden down. Let's go. I'm getting tired." 
 
 "You are going to-morrow.? " he said. 
 
 " Early in the morning. Father's going to drive me to the 
 station. Stay where you are. I'm too tired and worried to 
 play any more.'' 
 
 She turned suddenly, and in doing so struck her head 
 against one of the larches. She put up her hand with a little 
 cry. The next moment she was in his arms. 
 
 "You are not going to-morrow. Darling, you shall not," 
 he whispered passionately. The perfume of her hair was 
 better than the sticky smell of the larches. " You must stay 
 with me. I can't lose you, sweetheart. Oh, you sweet 
 girl!;' 
 
 " I'm hurt," was all she had to say. 
 
 Already there was a bump upon her forehead, or he imagined 
 there was, a tiny pink mount of Venus which he kissed and 
 fondled. Her head was dizzy, and she rested for a few 
 moments ; while the larch copse, and the Spring sunshine, and 
 the open primroses did all else that was necessary. " Love 
 one another," they said. " You are the first young couple who 
 have ever been in love. Others have pretended to be, but they 
 were not really. Keep the discovery to yourselves. Don't 
 talk about it, or we shall have everyone crowding here. It 
 will be worse than a gold rush." The larch copse, the Spring 
 sunshine, and the open primroses were cynical ; but then they 
 had seen this sort of thing so often. They had been tired of 
 seeing it long before there was any philosopher to frown at it. 
 
i68 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 The emotional goddess must have been the first mother, and 
 love was her child. 
 
 "No — no!" sighed Arminel, waking up. "This is 
 dreadfully foolish. Think what it will mean to-morrow." 
 
 " There isn't going to be any to-morrow," said the sophist. 
 
 "How cold and dreary it will be then," she shivered. 
 " There will be rain and mist, and I shall want to die as I drive 
 to the station." 
 
 " You are not going to the station," he said. 
 
 " How you will hate yourself in the morning,'' she went on, 
 as though he had not spoken. " I can see this copse then — 
 wet and dripping, smelling sour, and all the primroses shut. 
 You will think how unkind you were to hold me like this, kiss 
 me, try to make me fond of you — ^when I am gone to be a bar- 
 maid. I wish I had not met you. I wish — it would snow and 
 be. freezing cold. Hateful primroses I I never want to see 
 them again. Let me go. Please let me go. I want to cry. 
 I shall make you all wet." 
 
 Something had happened. Brian hardly knew what, but he 
 felt happy and restful. The larches had done their work. 
 That was about the only thing that was absolutely certain. She 
 was breathing so quickly that she could not speak. 
 
 " Darling, say yes," he whispered. 
 
 " I mustn't," she gasped at length. " What would your 
 father say ? " 
 
 " Don't bother about him, sweetheart." 
 
 " Yes, I must. Let me go. Don't you see how tired and 
 unhappy I am ? I can't go on resisting — and your arms are 
 like tight ropes. You shall not see my eyes. There I I have 
 shut them. Oh, you will choke me." 
 
 " Darling, I mean it," said Brian. 
 
 " I can't say it," she sighed. " This time to-morrow I shall 
 be opening beer-bottles." 
 
 He tried to laugh, but ended by holding her more tightly. 
 
 " If I say yes, it will be because you have squeezed it out of 
 me," she said rather prettily. 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 169 
 
 " That's more like yourself. Now, darling I " 
 
 " What am I to do ? " she said innocently. 
 
 " Open your eyes and say, ' yes.' " 
 
 " Two things at the same time ? I can't. What would ' yes ' 
 mean ? " 
 
 "That you will be my wife. You know that," he said 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " And if I won't open my eyes ; and still say ' no ' ? " said she. 
 
 " Then you shall be kept here." 
 
 " Make me miss my train ? " 
 
 " I am going to do that, anyhow." 
 
 " Ogre ! You want to take me to your castle and eat me. 
 But you shan't. I am expecting a good knight along here 
 presently." 
 
 " David Badgery and Topsy ? " he suggested, to humour her. 
 
 " Yes, Don David and Rosinante," she laughed, quite her 
 merry self again, but with her eyes rebelliously closed. 
 
 " Don't play any more, sweetheart," he pleaded. " Be the 
 dearest little girl in the world and give yourself to me, and we 
 will live happily ever afterwards." 
 
 He looked down, and saw that her eyes were open. They 
 were shy and soft and loving ; and the answer that he wanted 
 was in them both. So he kissed her, and she did not resist 
 any more. 
 
 " But you don't love me ? " she declared. 
 
 " Of course, I love you — ^torment." 
 
 " How am I to know ? You never told me," she objected, in 
 the prettiest way imaginable. 
 
 " Let me kiss you till you believe." 
 
 " I won't accept kisses as evidence. Say it. Look at me — 
 eyes ! That will do. Say after me — ' Maria, daughter of 
 Dartmoor Jack " 
 
 " My darling Arminel ! " he said. 
 
 " That's all wrong," she cried, with a charming gesture of 
 despair. " Let's try again. ' You are a horrid little toad ' — say 
 that." 
 
I70 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " You are the dearest little angel ! " 
 
 " Oh, well ! If you will be so perverse ! You shall have one 
 more chance — ' and I hate you.' Have you got that ? " 
 
 " And I adore you ! " he said. 
 
 " I would slap you if I thought it would do you good,'' said 
 she. " But I rather think I had better try what kindness will 
 do first. There ! " Then she kissed him for the first time. 
 " Now take me home." 
 
 " But you haven't said ' yes,' " he reminded her. 
 
 " I won't say ' yes,' " she murmured, with her soft teasing 
 laugh, " because you bothered me so. But I will say that you 
 are very dear to me, and I won't go to Plymouth, and I will be 
 yours if you want me." She stopped, looked up at him, and 
 then putting up her arms just as she had done to pick the 
 cones, she drew his face down to hers and murmured tenderly, 
 " You have made me so happy. Let's kiss and be friends." 
 
 After that they came out of the copse. 
 
 At first they hurried because it was getting late, but they soon 
 forgot about the time and dawdled pleasantly. The arrangement 
 of their arms was not exactly respectable, but it was probably 
 agreeable. Arminel was on Brian's right side, with his arm about 
 her waist. His left hand was holding her right, and that the con- 
 tact might be direct she had taken off her glove. Her left hand 
 was upon his right shoulder. It was quite simple and natural ; 
 a pretty entanglement. It was also easy to kiss in that position. 
 They made that discovery when they had gone only a few 
 steps. Once Arminel begged for her right hand that she might 
 hold up her frock ; but Brian quite sensibly pointed out that she 
 could brush her frock when she got home, while it was obvious 
 he could not be holding her hand then. So they dawdled on, 
 and let the sun set and the evening clouds rise without much 
 thought of the seven difficult miles to Blackalake Gorge, 
 But after a while the girl halted, and became very grave 
 indeed. 
 
 "It has only just occurred to me," said she, "we are 
 idiots." 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER, 171 
 
 " Why shouldn't we be ? " asked Brian serenely. 
 
 "We can't possibly be married. Your people will never 
 hear of it." 
 
 " That's just what I am hoping," he said. 
 
 " Don't be provoking." 
 
 " And don't you look like that." 
 
 " I will if I like." She made a mouth at him ; and the 
 result was : 
 
 " You mustn't fight, darling. You belong to me." 
 
 " I belong to my own self. And you made me bite my 
 tongue." 
 
 " Poor Miss Sweet-lips," he murmured. 
 
 " What language ! We must get on. I shan't be home 
 till midnight," said she. 
 
 That set them off at a reasonable pace for something like 
 fifty yards ; and then they dawdled again. 
 
 " You know perfectly well what I mean," she went on. " You 
 must get your father's consent, and of course he won't 
 give it." 
 
 " I am going to marry you without his consent and without 
 his knowledge," said Brian. 
 
 " Won't that be wicked .' " she murmured. " No — I mustn't 
 let you," she hurried on. " Your father would be sure to find 
 out. He might take you away from me. It would be rather 
 
 annoying to lose you now ; but if I was your wife '' she broke 
 
 off, looked up, and smiled shyly. " What a pretty word that 
 is ! I had no idea it sounded like that. Such a little word, 
 too. W — i — ^f — e, wife. No, 1 won't stop for even one second. 
 My mouth aches — and we shall never get out of the combe. 
 We never got to Pasture Water after all. What was I trying to 
 say? I never get to the end of anything. If I was your 
 wife — ^wife — it would be rather a nuisance if your father took 
 you away." 
 
 "Darling, how could he?" Brian said. "I am going to 
 marry you next month, and no one is going to know any- 
 thing about it except your father." 
 
172 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "Shan't I know?" asked a plaintive voice. "But next 
 month ! Oh, no 1 " she cried. " You silly little monkey, what 
 do you know about a girl's clothes ? " 
 
 " Never mind about clothes. You will be ready in a 
 month ? " 
 
 " I won't," said Arminel to her small shoes. Then to him, 
 " Shall we live anywhere when we are married ? " 
 
 "North Beer," he said at once. 
 
 For a moment the girl had nothing to say. She was 
 astounded at his audacity. Why hadn't he said Stokey at 
 once? And why didn't he suggest that Miss Challacombe 
 should give a wedding breakfast, and subsequently keep house 
 for them ? 
 
 " It's the very place,'' said Brian eagerly. " It's furnished, 
 not very well, but well enough, and you will soon make it 
 look nice. It stands out of the way, and nobody visits it except 
 Coneybear. My father hasn't been near the place for years. 
 I think you will be happy there, sweet." 
 
 " I should love it," said Arminel. " Only I don't see how 
 it could be managed. What excuse would you make ? " 
 
 " That's the easiest part of the whole thing," he answered. 
 " My aunt is dying to get away from Tordown, only she won't 
 leave me. I can tell her this place has done me so much 
 good that I want to stop altogether, and then I shall suggest 
 going to North Beer, settling there, and trying my hand at 
 poultry-farming. My father isn't likely to object, and I don't 
 see why my aunt should. If they agree, we can be married 
 and go to North Beer " 
 
 " And be quite happy until we are found out," she finished. 
 
 "We shall not be found out," Brian declared, with the 
 confidence of youth. " Sweetness, say ' yes ' to my plan." 
 
 She made a pretty sound which was satisfactory, even if it 
 was not capable of being translated into intelligent speech. 
 
 " And next month ? " 
 
 " I must do what you wish," she sighed. 
 
 It was long after dark when the couple turned up at 
 
ON THE WAY TO PASTURE WATER. 173 
 
 Blackalake Gorge. Indeed, Dartmoor Jack was thinking of 
 going to bed, and it was chiefly anxiety for his daughter that 
 kept him from doing so. When he heard wheels along the 
 track above, he went up the gorge with a lantern, and was 
 exceedingly astonished to find his Maria being petted by young 
 Mr. Challacombe. Dartmoor Jack knew his place, even when 
 he was offended, and he touched the brim of his hat respect- 
 fully. By way of reply Brian stepped up, shook him by the 
 hand, and informed him that he was going to marry Arminel, 
 and that he, the father, was not to mention the fact to anyone. 
 
 " B'est going to marry Maria ? " gasped the old gentleman. 
 
 " With your consent," said Brian. 
 
 " Say ' yes ' prettily, father," commanded the young lady. 
 
 " Iss," muttered Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 " And say you are pleased and honoured." 
 
 " I be that," said the old man, wondering all the time what 
 sort of a game Mr. Challabombe was playing with his Maria. 
 
 Brian seemed in no hurry to depart. He assisted his sweet- 
 heart down the gorge, and after saying good-night a great 
 many times entered the house of cob for a few words with the 
 father., Dartmoor Jack had partly recovered by then. Brian's 
 earnestness impressed itself upon him, and he recognised that 
 the young gentleman did indeed mean to marry his daughter. 
 She stood by laughing and wonderfully pretty. The father 
 perceived she was good enough for anyone, and he felt 
 exceedingly proud of her. He promised he would be secret. 
 The widow was in bed and asleep. She should not get to hear 
 of it. And then he went to the old sideboard, produced two 
 glasses and a bottle of sloe-gin, and asked Brian politely if he 
 would drink with him. The answer being favourable he 
 poured out the rosy liquor, and stood glass in hand, beaming 
 with child-Uke innocence above and below his big spectacles. 
 
 " I'll give ye the old Dartmoor toast," he said. " Here's to 
 them we love. Here's to them that love us.'' 
 
 " To the girl that I love," Brian whispered to Arminel. 
 
 " The girl that loves you," said she. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT. 
 
 The conduct of Widow Lampey and young man Coneybeat 
 had become a public scandal. Tordown folk were shocked. 
 The local courting-ground was Stokey Moor, but the lovers 
 rejected tradition and refused to follow custom and conduct 
 their amours among the firs. They courted in the village 
 street, right in front of the Challacombe Arms. When she saw 
 her young man approaching, the fat lady would gambol forth 
 like a Brobdingnagian kitten. She would frisk up to Coney- 
 bear and clap her hands in his face, while he would respond 
 with cackling noises which expressed approbation. Then they 
 would embrace. There was not much poetry about that court- 
 ship. It was sound, realistic prose. It was a mercenary 
 business altogether. Old Coneybear spent his days in 
 chuckles and his nights in dreams. He would not go to the 
 Workhouse when past labour. He would have his cushioned 
 chair beside the fireplace in the Challacombe Arms, and devote 
 the winter of a blameless life to strenuous beer-drinking. He 
 kept his son up to the mark — the young man continued his 
 games with Lucy about the lifting-stock when no one was 
 looking — with wild romances of the widow's wealth, and 
 reminded him every day that " faint heart never won fat lady." 
 Old Coneybear was not very accurate in his quotations. 
 
 Sal Lampey had a sister, Ann Rakestraw, who was also a 
 widow, and had obviously been turned out of the same mould. 
 Devonshire heights produce corpulent ladies. They made a 
 fine couple side by side, and were colossal features upon the 
 landscape. Once, when travelling together by an excursiop 
 
CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT. 175 
 
 train, they occasioned a good deal of ill-feeling and appeals to 
 officials, because that side of the compartment which they had 
 selected would not accommodate the proper number. Ann 
 Rakestraw had a daughter named Bessie, who gave every sign 
 of attaining some day to the standard of adiposity which her 
 mother and aunt had established. The Rakestraws often 
 assisted at the Challacombe Arms when there was pressure of 
 business, or when the proprietress went away. No pay was 
 ofEered for these services, because it was understood that the 
 beerhouse was to pass to Bessie when her aunt's solid flesh 
 had been placed in the churchyard. 
 
 Sal Lampey was prone to mild attacks of pneumonia, and on 
 such occasions she would lie in bed, groan, and think, not of 
 her sins, but of her money. She would have her Bible on one 
 side of her and her books of business on the other. After 
 refreshing herself with a chapter concerning those kings who 
 " did evil in the sight of the Lord " — it was encouraging to 
 think what a lot of bad people had lived — she would turn to 
 her accounts and reckon up her financial position to the last 
 farthing. When she woke in the momipg she would say to 
 Bessie or her sister — for the Rakestraws were assiduous in 
 their attentions upon those occasions — " Where's my purse ? " 
 And when she had been satisfied upon essential things she 
 would ask for her Bible. 
 
 Jonadab Rodda had been a favoured suitor of the landlady's 
 for some time. He was a very small farmer, merely a cottager, 
 who rented a few acres and was his own master, and he had 
 been favoured because it was rumoured he had saved two 
 hundred pounds. Jonadab was modest upon the subject. He 
 never boasted of his wealth, but on the other hand, he did not 
 deny it. His age, he was past seventy, only made him more 
 eligible in the eyes of the fair sex, because, as they reasoned 
 quite soundly, his decease might be looked for at any time, and 
 then the two hundred pounds would pass to his sorrowing 
 widow. Jonadab did not consider his eligibility in that light at 
 all. He had already buried two wives at thirty shillings a 
 
176 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 head, and he lived in the joyous hope of burying a third at the 
 same price. Jonadab had aspired, like many others, to the 
 position of landlord at the Challacombe Arms. When Coney- 
 bear appeared to have received the appointment, he refused to 
 abandon hope altogether. He had lost Sal Lampey, but he 
 could still place himself in the direct line of succession by 
 marrying her sister. He was wiser than Coneybear & Son. 
 He knew that Mrs. Lampey would leave the inn to Bessie, and 
 dismiss little Willy with a curt legacy, or perhaps with nothing 
 at all. Then his turn would come. As Bessie's father-in-law, 
 he could appoint himself innkeeper. There are more ways 
 than one into every house, reasoned the small farmer. It never 
 occurred to him that Sal Lampey was considerably younger 
 than himself, and would in all human probability take a lead- 
 ing part in the festivities which would follow his own obsequies. 
 Jonadab did not know that he was an old man. He smartened 
 himself, pinned a bunch of flowers to his coat, and began to 
 court Ann Rakestraw with some violence. 
 
 The first line of fortifications fell at once. Jonadab battered 
 them down with abuse of Coneybear. Ann Rakestraw was 
 furious with her sister. The small farmer was welcomed as an 
 ally. He was given every encouragement and a chair beside 
 the fire. He was asked for his opinion, and he gave it. He 
 said Mrs. Lampey was old enough to know better, and her 
 sister agreed. So did Bessie. The three became as friendly 
 as bees in a hive. 
 
 One Sunday Mrs. Rakestraw announced to her daughter that 
 she was going to put on her hat. Bessie knew what that 
 meant. When her mother said she was going to chapel the 
 remark was to be taken literally ; but when she said she was 
 about to assume her hat, it meant a visit to Sal Lampey. So 
 Ann Rakestraw put on her hat. It had been intended for a 
 basket, and as such had been purchased for threepence and a 
 piece of bread and cheese at the door from a gipsy. The 
 widow had cut off the handle, inserted a ribbon in its place, 
 and by adding a pennyworth of second-hand artificial flowers 
 
CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT. 177 
 
 and a few feathers from her poultry-yard, had converted the 
 basket into a very serviceable and not altogether unstylish 
 chapeau. Fully attired, Ann Rakestraw set off for the Challa- 
 combe Arms, taking the middle of the road, and swaying from 
 side to side like a vessel with all sails unfurled. It was a good 
 day for a fight. Country people usually have their squabbles 
 on a Sunday. They have leisure upon that day. 
 
 Bessie's mother arrived upon the scene of action at what was 
 for her a propitious moment. Coneybear had just dropped a 
 case of sweet cider intended for Stokey upon the cobblestones 
 in front of the inn, and had converted it into a disgraceful mess 
 of broken glass and spicy streamlets. Coneybear had reduced 
 the art of breaking things to a science. When anything of a 
 fragile nature came into contact with him, it appeared to obey 
 some obscure law of hysteria and would separate at once into 
 fragments. The lost case of cider raised a problem of a par- 
 ticularly poignant nature. Miss Challacombe would not pay 
 for it ; Coneybear could not ; the firm which had supplied it 
 would look for payment to the widow, and she would decline 
 in no uncertain fashion. Somebody would have to suffer, and 
 Coneybear considered that person might possibly be himself. 
 So he scratched the extreme tip of his left ear and informed 
 the lady with the basket-hat that he was " upsot." Receiving 
 no sympathy, be went on to explain that he was also " fair 
 mazed." This statement produced the reply that he was a 
 " gurt vule," an opinion which had been expressed frequently 
 with equal directness, but which he had somehow never been 
 able to bring home to his mind. 
 
 Ann Rakestraw staggered inside, and in a great voice 
 announced to the one who was principally concerned, that she 
 had seen men mentally " dafty," and others wilfully " dafty " ; 
 but she had never before that day beheld one who combined in 
 his own person both aspects of " daftiness." " And he'm your 
 Will," she said. 
 
 At that moment the landlady was not in a mood to protect 
 her lover. He had just struck a blow upon her purse, and she 
 
 A.w N 
 
178 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 required time to recover. She went outside — her movements 
 were more deliberate than her sister's, for she was nearly thirty 
 pomids heavier — and so far forgot herself as to shake Coneybear 
 as a mastifiE might have shaken a terrier, and at the same time 
 to utter words which were not amorous, and not even Sab- 
 batical. She threatened, indeed, to treat litde Willy precisely as 
 he had treated the case of cider. Coneybear's eyes protruded, 
 and his tongue protested, " Oh, my ! Bain't her lusty ? " But 
 he did not offer to defend himself ; and when the punishment 
 was over he went aside and wept. 
 
 Two old gentlemen were interested spectators of the scene. 
 The name of the one was Jonadab Rodda ; he had hobbled up 
 to the village to see how things were going. The other was 
 old Coneybear ; he was coming round in the hope that his son 
 might procure for him the means of relieving a distressing 
 thirst. They met where the lanes entered the village street. 
 They witnessed the shaking of Coneybear. Gratification was 
 upon the face of the one ; anger upon the countenance of the 
 other. They did not forget their manners. They turned 
 and wished each other good-morning. Jonadab hoped old 
 Coneybear had passed a good night ; and old Coneybear 
 expressed an unusual amount of solicitude for Jonadab's health. 
 
 Sal Lampey returned to the kitchen, and discovered her 
 sister in a tearful state. Mrs. Rakestraw believed in the appeal 
 lachrymose, and she had decided to try that first. The elder 
 widow hastened to produce a bottle of port-wine, but the 
 younger refused to accept the hospitality of a sister who was 
 about to sever all the sacred ties of affection and kinship. 
 
 " Sal," she moaned. " Remember mother." 
 
 Mrs. Lampey had no diflSculty in recalling that good lady ; 
 and went on to say she was able to form a very distinct 
 impression of her father also — aided, no doubt, by a grotesque 
 ferrotype above the mantelpiece, which had been executed 
 years before at Goose Fair. 
 
 " They'm dead and gone, and us be the only ones left," 
 sniffed Ann. 
 
CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT. 179 
 
 As there was no possibility of disagreeing with such a wholly 
 unnecessary statement, Sal ostentatiously helped herself to 
 wine and remained silent, except for those sounds of approval 
 which the excellence of the liquor demanded. 
 
 " What would 'em say if they could see us now ? " Ann 
 continued. 
 
 " They'd say we was fine wimmin,'' remarked Sal. 
 
 " Maybe 'em would. I ain't done nothing to make 'em lie 
 uneasy. I knows that," went on Ann. " You can't say the 
 like, Sal. You'm going to tak' that gurt vulish boy, and marry 
 'en, and have 'en here to ruin the business, and tear abroad all 
 the cloame, the bootiful cloame father bought, and spill the 
 beer, Sal, over your clean floors. And if that don't make father 
 walk — and mother, tu — what will, Sal ? I want ye to tell me 
 that. What will ? " 
 
 Sal merely retorted she had no idea what infamy of hers 
 would be necessary to set their parents walking if her marriage 
 with Coneybear failed to do so. 
 
 " What about Bessie ? " demanded Ann defiantly, when she 
 perceived that tears and an appeal to the graves of parents were 
 not having the desired effect. 
 
 " Her's a good maid," Sal admitted. 
 
 " Ain't her my daughter ? " cried Ann. 
 
 " A lusty maiden, sure enough," went on Sal with the utmost 
 pleasantness. " Who be courting her now ? " 
 
 " Don't ye worry about Bess. I look after she," replied Ann, 
 severely. " If all mothers looked after their maids as well as I 
 du, and kept 'em off Stokey Moor Sunday nights, there'd be 
 more folk proud of their mothers than there be. 'Tis about 
 Bessie I've come. You'm going to marry Will Coneybear, and 
 may be you'll get dafty, if ye bain't already, and he and his old 
 father will get the place out of ye, and what's going to happen 
 to Bessie then ? " 
 
 " Let the future bide," said Sal in a worried manner. 
 
 "I wun't let 'en bide," said Ann, adopting that position 
 known in heraldry as rampant regardant, " You'm robbing 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Bessie, who's been a good maid to yew. You'm an artful 
 woman, Sal Lampey. That's what you be. And the devil 
 will come for ye sure enough." 
 
 " Let the devil bide," was all Sal had to say. 
 
 There was another quarrel going on outside. Having 
 finished their compliments the old gentlemen adjourned to 
 the skittle-alley, took off their coats, and began to play. They 
 wanted to find out who could hit the other in the eye first. 
 Jonadab won the first game. The second had just commenced 
 when young Coneybear appeared. He thought it was his duty 
 to approach the small farmer from behind, and hold his arms 
 while old Coneybear played skittles in front. Jonadab shouted 
 for mercy, but he did not get it. Old Coneybear was not in a 
 forgiving mood just then. 
 
 The ladies heard the uproar, for the skittle-alley was just 
 behind the Challacombe Arms. They forgot their own differ- 
 ences, and hurried out in time to save the small farmer from 
 severe treatment. Young Coneybear was in the act of guiding 
 his rival's grey head towards his father's side, in order that the 
 old gentleman might wind his arm round it and administer 
 that punishment which Jonadab's outrageous conduct seemed 
 to demand. Ann staggered to the rescue with all the abuse she 
 could think of; while Sal was so enraged to discover that the 
 shaking she had recently administered to her young man had 
 proved of such slight benefit that she promptly gave him 
 another. 
 
 Salutary results are often produced by a fight. It was so in 
 this case. It brought Sal Lampey to her senses. She admitted 
 there was truth in what her sister had said. The two Coney- 
 bears might get the better of her in time. She would have the 
 old man brawling in the place every evening, presuming on his 
 relationship, and to keep him quiet she would have to supply 
 him with beer which would not be paid for. Her husband 
 would save her nothing if he persisted in his involuntary habits 
 of destruction. It was hard to abandon the dream of love ; but 
 pocket was the first consideration. Dvu-ing one of her periodic 
 
CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT. i8i 
 
 attacks of pneumonia the Coneybears might rob her of every- 
 thing she possessed. Her sister and Bessie would stand aloof. 
 They would not h^lp her ; and the villagers would only rejoice at 
 her downfall. She was not popular. She had lent many of 
 them money, not so much for their good, as for her own ; and 
 she had always been unpitying in the matter of slate-debts. 
 
 Several of the villagers had come into the skittle-alley to 
 learn the cause of the tumult. It was the moment of Ann 
 Rakestraw's triumph. There was victory for her in her 
 champion's defeat. She attended to Jonadab's injuries person- 
 ally ; while that perfidious old man chuckled beneath his 
 groans, and determined to transfer his allegiance to Sal Lampey 
 so soon as she had given Coneybear his marching orders. 
 Jonadab considered that he had played his part well. He 
 had fought for the two fat widows, and they sympathised 
 with his bruises and uncomfortable nose ; and sympathy was 
 a road which might well lead to marriage between himself 
 and the Challacombe Arms. 
 
 " There's your Will," cried Ann bitterly. " Take 'en and 
 be happy. And tak' his old father tu, for you wun't have one 
 wi'out t'other." 
 
 Sal did not approve of this sarcasm, neither did she like the 
 sounds of mirth which followed it ; so she advised her sister to 
 mind her own business. Then she turned to old Coneybear 
 and told him he was a disgrace to the village ; and being 
 always practical she suggested he should pay for the case of 
 cider which his son had rendered null and void that morning. 
 For once old Coneybear was at a loss for words. He was not 
 happy. He had a vague feeling that the fruits of his infamous 
 victory were not forthcoming. The comfortable chair in the 
 Challacombe Arms refused to form into a mental picture. He 
 looked appealingly at his son ; but that young man had been 
 put out of action by the widow's shaking. 
 
 Presently Sal Lampey asserted herself. She turned everyone 
 out of the skittle-alley, after reminding them in a shocked voice 
 that it was Sunday, and returned to her kitchen, accompanied 
 
i82 ARMIXEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 by Ann and the small farmer. The Coneybears were left to 
 discuss the situation, which they did, and arrived at the con- 
 clusion that they were fallen stars. Young Coneybear also 
 wondered who was cleaning the boots at Stokey that morning, 
 for it was perfectly evident that he was not. Old Coneybear 
 was waiting for Jonadab, as he was quite prepared to continue 
 the argument which had been broken off just as he was making 
 it convincing. 
 
 When the small farmer did appear he was protected and 
 literally over-shadowed by Ann Rakestraw. The conference in 
 the kitchen had been satisfactory. Sal had not climbed 
 down. She had conceded nothing. She explained that she 
 had only been having a joke at her sister's expense. Never 
 in her wildest moments had she seriously contemplated marriage 
 with Coneybear. Jonadab noted these statements and was 
 glad. He had conquered the Coneybears and the widows. 
 He examined the furniture out of his bruised eyes, and tried to 
 estimate its value. He also contemplated the changes he 
 would make when the inn became his property. What a 
 triumph it would be when old Coneybear appeared upon those 
 licensed premises with the usual dryness in his throat and 
 with no money in his pocket. 
 
 Ann Rakestraw was good enough to notice the Coneybears 
 as she passed, taking her champion home to a good dinner of 
 pork and dumplings. She likened them to reptiles and 
 obnoxious insects. Jonadab also had comparisons to make; 
 and made them. 
 
 "Us mun get damages," said old Coneybear, when their 
 enemies had departed. " If her wun't marry ye, us mun tak' 
 she into court, and get breeches o' promise. 'Tis better than 
 marrying she, Will. Us will get her money." 
 
 " Her would marry sooner than pay," said the sorrowful 
 lover. 
 
 " Her wun't," said the old man. " Not her. Her be afraid 
 of Ann Rakestraw. Us will get the breeches," he repeated. 
 "A hundred pounds may be. Us will buy a beer-house." 
 
CONCERNING WIDOWS RAMPANT. 183 
 
 Later that same day human nature asserted itself, and Sal 
 Lampey repented of the promise she had made to her sister, and 
 set aside her own wise reasonings. This was caused partly by 
 a letter from Miss Challacombe ; and partly by the voluptuous 
 breath of Spring. The mistress of Stokey happened to be in a 
 good humour that day. She had just defeated Brian at croquet; 
 one of her own mysterious games in which new ideas were 
 prominent. Being a pious Roman Catholic she would not 
 play until the afternoon ; but she made every preparation, and 
 stood in the orchard holding her watch until its hands indicated 
 noon. After her victory she found Coneybear grievously 
 " upsot " over the lost case of cider, so she wrote a note to the 
 widow promising to pay for it. She was sorry afterwards, but 
 Miss Challacombe never went back on her word. Sal was 
 delighted. She greeted Coneybear amiably, clapped her hands 
 in his face, embraced him, and produced the sloe-gin. 
 
 Coneybear cackled joyously, and wanted to go and tell his 
 father, but the widow was between him and the door. Then as 
 it was a very fine evening, and because Sunday is a day devoted 
 to the religion of courtship, they went for a walk upon Stokey 
 Moor. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 
 
 Brian and Arminel were married, the Fates not intervening. 
 The bridegroom went to reside in Exeter fifteen days before 
 the date settled for their union, which was by licence before 
 the Registrar. The bride joined him on the day itself, with 
 her father, who had procured a new suit, which did not fit him, 
 for the occasion. 
 
 The young people had a hazy idea concerning the marriage 
 laws of their country. Brian had a very indistinct notion as 
 to what was required, and when he appealed to Arminel she 
 was not much clearer. " Generally, you go into a church and 
 catch a clergyman," said she. " You tell him you want to get 
 married. He says, 'All right,' opens a book, reads something, 
 makes you sign your name, gives you a bill, you pay it, and 
 then you're married." Brian reminded her they were going 
 before the Registrar, and she replied it was much the same. 
 Only a man with a moustache instead of a parson, and an office 
 instead of a church. 
 
 So they were married — but not under their own names. 
 Dartmoor Jack became for the time being John Wilson ; and 
 it was Mary Wilson who was married to Brian Tregurtha. The 
 bridegroom selected a Cornish name to please his father-in-law. 
 They could scarcely have been married under their own names. 
 All the farmers in mid-Devon knew the name of Zaple, and 
 everyone knew that of Challacombe. A dozen small news- 
 papers would have commented upon the romantic wedding, 
 and the mistress of Stokey, who was then paying a round of 
 visits in south Devon, would have heard about it at once. TiiS 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 185 
 
 marriage of a young Cornishman with a pretty fisherman's 
 daughter was of no interest to anyone. 
 
 Brian had received permission from his father to live at 
 North Beer. Cuthbert liked to think the house would be 
 habited by a Challacombe, though nothing would have induced 
 him to dwell there. It was too isolated. That was exactly 
 what Brian wanted. Cuthbert sent a hundred pounds, not as 
 a wedding present, but for his son to get what was necessary 
 to stock the poultry farm. The money went in frocks and frills 
 for Arminel. 
 
 They went to Lee, which is upon the north coast near 
 Mortehoe, amid beautiful scenery. The lovers were not 
 much impressed by the scenery. It was glorious weather 
 and the time went very quickly, although they were not doing 
 anything except persevering in love. It was astonishing what 
 a lot of kisses passed between them. Even a mathematician 
 would have grown confused and lost count. " Such nice lips 
 to kiss," Arminel would sigh. "Such soft dreamy eyes." 
 They didn't talk much. Arminel thought she was the only 
 girl who had ever been married, and Brian wondered why 
 there was only one girl in the world when there was room 
 for so many. They couldn't think much — it was too con- 
 fusing. When the landlady asked Arminel if lamb would 
 suit for dinner, she would sigh, " Yes, darling " ; and when 
 a poor old woman met them on the cliff and asked Brian 
 the time, he answered, " Don't know, sweetheart," in the most 
 natural way possible. They didn't know anything in those days. 
 
 It was on the fifth day of the week that the serpent entered 
 Paradise. He came into the valley by the road from Ilfracombe. 
 He saw the lovers, but they did not see him. They would not 
 have seen a troop of mastodons. 
 
 " How be ye ? " shouted the serpent. 
 
 That woke them up. It was the first time for some days 
 that they had been conscious of any sound apart from each 
 other's voice. They stared at the grinning turnip-face, and at 
 the mare which seemed to grin, too. They blinked as if they 
 
i86 AKMlJNliL OF THE WEST. 
 
 found the light rather strong, and then Arminel managed to say 
 in a faint voice, " It is Mr. Badgery." 
 
 " David," corrected the serpent. " And what are yew doing 
 up here, my dear ? Challacombe," he cried, " didn't I tell ye, 
 man — didn't I tell ye I couldn't keep up wi' yew when you was 
 running for the gals ? Yew and little Maria ! Aw, yes. Uncle 
 and niece is it, man ? Don't I know — David Badgery, of 
 Drewsteignton ? Don't I ? " 
 
 Arminel was pinching her husband's arm tenderly ; and Brian 
 becoming fully conscious of their danger, clapped his hand 
 over the girl's fingers, which were nestling in his arm, to hide 
 the wedding ring. 
 
 " Weren't you cuddling ? " David chuckled. "I saw ye as I 
 came down the hill. Kiss and squeeze, and kiss again. Ain't 
 ye booties, now ? " 
 
 There was nothing for it but to be polite, so Brian swallowed 
 his anger, and tried to talk pleasantly. He asked David what 
 had brought him into the Lee valley, and received the answer : 
 " Me and Topsy are going the rounds. We're for Barnstable 
 to-night. I'm going to buy a horse for uncle. Heard anything 
 of Tordown — Wistman's ? Aw ! didn't us give the old man a 
 proper tin-band? Here! come along." The turnip-face 
 became mysterious, and one of the eyes winked, while the 
 mouth grimaced. David had a secret, and was labouring to 
 make it known. When Brian refused to leave Arminel, or to 
 approach the mare with her, David slipped from the saddle and 
 came to him, winking and grimacing, and prodding at him 
 with his ground-ash. Brian resisted the homicidal impulse, and 
 asked, " What's the matter ? " 
 
 "The gal," said David. "Her you was spooney with. 
 Going to marry her ? " 
 
 Poor little Arminel ! She was wretched and shivering in an 
 instant. This serpent was not tempting her to eat apples. He 
 was forcing them down her throat. She looked up at her hus- 
 band and saw that he was uncomfortable. He understood what 
 David was hinting at, and that made the little bride quite 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 187 
 
 miserable. She knew that Brian had met Nona secretly. But 
 she knew nothing of that midnight meeting. 
 
 " There's been glory, glory, alleluley at the convent," went 
 on David in his coarse manner. 
 
 " Have you been there ? " asked Brian, for the sake of saying 
 something. 
 
 " Not lately," replied David in disgust. " The ladies in 
 the black night-dresses set a dog on me last time. The 
 gal's coming out," he whispered, prodding Brian with his 
 stunted forefinger. "She's coming out, and going home 
 again." 
 
 " How do you know ? " said Brian. 
 
 " Lucy told Will Coneybear." 
 
 " And he told everyone ? " 
 
 " He told me," corrected David. " Lucy heard the old man 
 talking to himself. They say he's mazed ; and the old lady 
 have gone dafty, and plays with dolls like a little gal," David 
 added. 
 
 " That's nothing new," Brian muttered. " Wistman has 
 been stranger than ever since the night when — you ought not 
 to have used him so badly. I ought to have gone and warned 
 him. You have done for the poor old fellow. He means 
 well, only he sees things differently from us. You broke his 
 heart that night " 
 
 "Steady there," broke in David. "Easy over that fence. 
 When it comes to breaking his heart, it ain't me — not David 
 Badgery, of Drewsteignton. Aw, yes, my dear ! It ain't 
 me." 
 
 He poked his face towards Arminel, and when she lifted her 
 head to avoid him, her prettiness was too distracting for 
 the weak-minded young man, and he kissed her on the cheek. 
 Girls of her station in life were common property, David 
 thought, and he did not see why Brian should have all the 
 fun. 
 
 He getaway unmutilated. David had few gifts, but he was 
 unquestionably a fine horseman. He was upon Topsy in a 
 
i88 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 moment, and trotted off, so convulsed with mirth at the idea 
 of having kissed the girl while she was clinging to his rival, 
 that he did not even observe Brian's rage. It was lucky for 
 both young men that David got away in time. 
 
 " We are not going to be happy," cried Arminel. " We ought 
 not to have married. We were not meant to." 
 
 Brian conquered his fury ; and while David was still in 
 sight he kissed and worshipped her ; and murmured fondly, 
 " Don't talk like that, darling. You are my wife, my sweet 
 wife. But when I catch that lunatic " 
 
 " It was right on my cheek, just where you like to kiss." 
 
 " After all, he would not have dared had he known," Brian 
 muttered, playing with the gold ring. 
 
 " It's because we are deceitful. Must we go on being 
 deceitful ? Run after him, and tell him I am your wife." 
 
 " He would tell everyone in the county. As it is all mid- 
 Devon will know to-morrow that you and I are here.'' 
 
 " I hate to think of it," she cried. It is horrid to be thought 
 common and bad when you are not. Don't be cross, monkey," 
 she went on, entangling herself with him in her usual sweet 
 way. I wish you were not Mr. Challacombe. I wish you were 
 Mr. Nobody. I would much rather be Mrs. Nobody, And I 
 do wish your father knew how wicked we have been. Would 
 he hate me ? Would he ? " 
 
 Brian consoled her as best he could. He promised to break 
 the news of their marriage to his relations before long. He 
 assured Arminel that his father would love her. And as for 
 what the people of Devon thought, that did not matter much, as 
 she was his wife. Brian was glad to think David had left the 
 village in haste and without stopping for his usual glass of 
 cider. 
 
 The bride's tears were soon kissed dry and the sun began to 
 shine again. There was still a cloud. The girl wanted to 
 know what David had meant by his hints about Nona. " It 
 made me jealous and miserable," she declared. 
 
 Her misery did not last long, partly because she wanted to 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 189 
 
 be happy, chiefly because her husband's devotion was so 
 sincere. He laughed at her doubts and kissed away her fears ; 
 and she was quite willing to remember David's untrustworthy 
 nature and his disappointment at having lost her. He had 
 only wanted to make her unhappy and place discord between 
 her husband and herself because she had always slighted him. 
 She was ready to believe that. She forgot that David did not 
 invent scandal. He merely added to it. 
 
 " You never wanted to marry her ? " she teased. " Say, 
 ' honesty-truly, I never did.' " 
 
 Brian obeyed, adding " my sweetest wife." 
 
 "I don't like that," said she. If I am only your sweetest 
 vnfe, there are others. There must be one who is not quite so 
 sweet. Yes, there is, monkey," she laughed. " I expect it is 
 Nona Wistman. If I was silly I should cry because you have 
 been deceiving me. As I am wise, I think I will kiss you 
 instead." 
 
 Their last day at Lee Arminel had an idea. She had never 
 seen London, and she coaxed Brian into suggesting they 
 should go there to spend the second week of that blissful state. 
 She wanted to visit the Zoological Gardens and Clapham 
 Jimction. She didn't seem to care much about anything else. 
 Plenty of animals and plenty of trains were her desires. She 
 said animals and trains were depressing when one was ill, but 
 they were stimulating to anyone in perfect health and happi- 
 ness. In London they would be lost and no tongues would 
 wag concerning them. That was exactly what the pretty bride 
 wanted. They would not be Mr. and Mrs. Challacombe, nor 
 even Mr. and Mrs. Tregurtha ; but they would be Mr. and Mrs. 
 Nobody. Brian was ready to take her to London or to Tim- 
 buctoo, had she entreated him with the soft, sweet expression 
 which had played havoc with his senses ever since that 
 memorable Saturday of Giglet Fair. 
 
 So they went to London, not in a cheap, third-class com- 
 partment, but in a padded first. Money was nothing accounted 
 of in the days of the honeymoon. Their landlady at Lee had 
 
igo ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 discovered that, and had profited accordingly. Arminel was 
 rather a costly treasure. When she saw the shops she felt very 
 much as the Queen of Sheba must have done at beholding the 
 glory of Solomon ; but unlike that lady there was a good deal 
 of spirit left in her. Paralysis of the lower limbs came upon 
 her before every hat shop and at every window stocked with 
 snowy and be-ribboned under-raiment. She said she did not 
 want to see the animals and trains. Her heart ached because 
 all those pretty things were hanging uselessly in the windows. 
 It was, however, possible to find a cure for that heart-ache. 
 Pretty teasing procured for her a goodly number of those 
 things which her shapely body desired ; and one evening she 
 appeared dressed in yellow, with a scarlet ribbon round her 
 waist and a red rose in her hair — she could wear those 
 dangerous colours to perfection — and curtseying before her 
 husband she said naughtily, " Please, sir, this is the latest 
 novelty in wives — and would you like one ? " 
 
 They went all over London and saw everything. They 
 played with the monkeys at the Zoo, and they heard the trains 
 rush and roar through Clapham Junction. It was a happy 
 time, with plenty of health and love; too happy, perhaps, for the 
 taste of the grim ladies who decide the fate of pretty girls and 
 thoughtless men. 
 
 " What do I think of it all ? " she said, one night, resting 
 baby-fashion upon her husband's knees in her dainty night- 
 dress, while she plaited her dark hair. " It is sad after all. I 
 had no idea there were so many poor people in the whole 
 world, and not only poor but starving. I feel I want to give 
 them all a little bit of my happiness. London must be a very 
 poor place. I can't think how the shops sell the lovely things 
 in their windows." 
 
 "Pretty girls from Devon come up and buy them," said 
 Brian, mischievously. 
 
 " Do they ? " said she, innocently. " I don't think London 
 girls are nice-looking," she went on. "And how quickly 
 married women seem to get ugly up here. They dress as if 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 191 
 
 they didn't take any interest^ in life. I suppose they think 
 nobody knows them. It's so different in the country. Women 
 must dress as well as they can there, because everybody knows 
 them. And the children — bundles of rags ! They look as if 
 nobody cared for them. How they swarmed in that park we 
 were in to-day. You know — where we wanted to sit down, and 
 couldn't, because all the nice, shady seats were occupied by 
 dirty, ragged men. You said we mustn't disturb them because 
 they were officials, and I made such a mouth, only you never 
 noticed it.'J 
 
 " Little darling," cried her laughing husband. " I was only 
 joking." 
 
 "Well, I thought you were," she pouted. "Monkey! 
 You shan't kiss me for a whole hour." 
 
 " That's too severe a sentence," he protested. 
 
 " Well, then, for ten seconds," she laughed. " No — no ! 
 I've bitten my tongue again. Look ! Isn't it bleedy ? " 
 
 Brian looked, saw nothing, declared it was serious, and 
 petted her accordingly. Then Arminel became gloomy. She 
 had finished plaiting her hair, so she put herself in the position 
 that she loved, with her arms about her husband's neck, her 
 forehead against the side of his face, and her little nose nestling 
 beside his ear. Thus placed, she could talk and listen ; and 
 he could quite easily kiss her soft throat if he wanted to. She 
 dropped her voice to a murmur as she said, " The streets — the 
 awful streets ! A girl is a poor, silly creature when she has not 
 got someone to hold her up. She has no chance by herself. 
 Suppose I should find myself alone in those streets, walking up 
 and down, up and down . . ." 
 
 Very tenderly Brian removed her arms, drew her gently 
 round, pillowed her head upon his shoulder, and scolded her 
 with soft words and kisses. She smiled back with a pretty 
 sadness. " Why, darling, I never should," she said. " If you 
 were taken from me, I wouldn't sink. And if I were to be 
 driven, I wouldn't go the way girls are driven. You know the 
 beautiful blue lake in Tawton quarries where we used to meet ? 
 
192 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 I should go there. I should sink after all ; but I should sink 
 there 1 " 
 
 " Sweetheart," said Brian, passionately. " I don't believe 
 you know yet how much I love you. I can't tell you. What- 
 ever happens, you are mine. If my father disowns me, when 
 he finds out, we will go away together. We shall never be 
 quite penniless, I hope. I couldn't leave you, sweet. I love 
 you so much, darling, so much I " 
 
 Arminel gave a sigh, turned in his arms, and nestled like a 
 baby who had done crying and wanted to go to sleep. 
 
 The next day she was all sunshine. She said she wanted to 
 see more animals, and Brian was at his wits' end to know how 
 to satisfy her, until he thought of the home for lost dogs. He 
 suggested that, and the girl was delighted. So they were 
 wafted by electricity to Battersea, found the home, and inter- 
 viewed a young gentleman behind a counter, who supplied 
 them with an order, which gave them the freedom of the 
 premises ; and then they went into a yard, and passed along an 
 aisle lined with pens, full of noisy waifs and strays clamouring 
 for ownership, the ladies on the left and the gentlemen on the 
 right, like a ritualistic church. 
 
 " Dear little orphans J " cried Arminel, gloating over a pen 
 of fox-terriers. " You'll buy me one, darling ? Look at that 
 pretty boy with the brown face. He's begging us to adopt 
 him." 
 
 The keeper came up with a whip, which roused the girl's 
 indignation, and she explained at once that under no con- 
 sideration whatever would she have the dogs beaten. The 
 man pacified her with the assurance that the whip was merely 
 a badge of authority, and was only cracked to secure order. 
 Then he came to business, and asked them if they wanted 
 a dog. 
 
 "Of course," she said. "Let's buy them all, and make 
 them happy, poor dears." 
 
 Her husband suggested they could scarcely return to the 
 hotel with a menagerie. He said she might choose one, and 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 193 
 
 after petting and kissing half of them, she selected the first love, 
 the fox-terrier with the brown face, who was brought out and 
 jumped up his new mistress, with much adoration and tail- 
 wagging, and promising in his own manner to be a good and 
 faithful dog until his life's end. 
 
 " You darling," she cried. " Kiss mother, then ! You shall 
 be called Jim. No, dear, not such wet kisses. He must be 
 so hungry, Brian. See how thin he is. Nearly all head, like a 
 tadpole. You starve the poor dogs, I'm afraid," she said 
 severely to the keeper, who only smiled and remarked that a 
 lady's dog was as often as not killed by kindness. Arminel 
 tilted her nose at that, and turned to her far more reason- 
 able husband to remark, " Poor Jimmy must have a nice 
 beefsteak at once, or I'm sure he'll drop down dead at our 
 feet." 
 
 " I wouldn't give him any meat," said the keeper. 
 
 " I don't suppose you would," said she. 
 
 Having done her best to convince the keeper that he didn't 
 in the least know what he was talking about, she went off to the 
 office, bought a collar and lead, and put them on the dog herself 
 while Brian was paying the bill. 
 
 " I like the Dogs' Home," she said as they went out. " It's 
 much nicer than Westminster Abbey." 
 
 They did not stay much longer in London. Brian discovered 
 they were spending money somewhat too rapidly. He informed 
 Arminel of this, and she was dreadfully upset. She declared 
 she wouldn't spend another penny ; and she made Brian sorry 
 he had ever spoken by refusing to go in to dinner that evening, 
 pleading that she wasn't hungry, and it would only be a waste 
 of money. So he stayed with her, and later they both became 
 ravenous, and hurried out to enjoy an extravagant meal at a 
 fashionable restaurant, which pleased them so much that they 
 went on to a theatre afterwards. Arminel scolded her husband 
 for buying her a penny bunch of violets in the street ; but she 
 said nothing about the restaurant and theatre, except that she 
 had enjoyed herself very much. 
 
 A.W. o 
 
194 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 While she was preparing a bed for Jim that night she was 
 pleased to say, " I am a very extravagant girl. I am spending 
 all your money on my horrid self. Say that you hate me and are 
 very sorry you married me." 
 
 Her husband's answer, though demonstrative, failed to satisfy 
 her. She was in a teasing mood. She clung to him and 
 entreated him to be cross with her, because " It will do me a 
 lot of good." When she was only petted she tried to sulk. 
 She said she hated him for being so good to her. "You 
 should not spoil and pet a bad wife," she declared. " You'll 
 only make her worse. I'm not a bit nice, really, and I want you 
 to say you are sorry you ever met me. Say it ! Go on ! Then 
 I'll give you such a kiss." 
 
 " I won't say what isn't true, even to please you, sweet," said 
 Brian. 
 
 " But she's not," teased Arminel. " She's not sweet. She 
 has spent all your money, and she will get you disowned by 
 your father. You see if she won't.'' And she nodded at him 
 in a distracting manner. " I said I would kiss you if you said 
 something," she went on. " You refuse, and that means 
 you don't want me to kiss you ; and when a boy doesn't want 
 to be kissed by his girl-wife he hates her. Now, say I'm 
 naughty." 
 
 " Yes, you are — ^for teasing so," said her husband. 
 
 That was what she wanted. Breaking from him she fled to 
 her dog, cuddled him, and cried, " Oh, Jimmy ! Father says 
 he hates mu 1 I've got no one to love me now." 
 
 She was then captured, and reminded of a kissing debt out- 
 standing. She paid, and then — ^wilful wife that she was — 
 begged to hear that she was loved with all her faults. Having 
 been satisfied on this point, she wanted to be brought before 
 the mirror, that she might see for herself all those charms 
 which had been so vividly described ; and when she saw her 
 beautiful face and soft throat surrounded by dishevelled hair 
 she declared it was all very commonplace, and there was 
 nothing to rave about, and he was very silly; but she .was 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 195 
 
 coaxed into admitting that she was rather pretty ; and she con- 
 fided to Jim that he needn't think he was the only one who 
 loved her, because he wasn't. 
 
 During one of her serious periods Arminel suggested they 
 should burst upon Cuthbert some evening in his quiet rooms, 
 and in melodramatic fashion announce that they were married. 
 Brian would not hear of it. He said his father would be 
 furious. If they introduced melodrama he would undoubtedlj 
 play it, too ; and the fate of the poor innocent wife in melo- 
 drama was always the same. She was driven out of doors, 
 and had to wander about half -clad in a snowstorm or a thunder- 
 storm, and to perish of cold if it was Winter, or of starvation if 
 it was Summer. 
 
 "I would put on my prettiest frock," said she. "I would 
 look at him so nicely that he couldn't be nasty. I can make 
 my mouth much prettier than you've ever seen it. No, I won't 
 show you ! " when he begged for a rehearsal. " I expect you 
 would make me bite my tongue again. You are always 
 making me bite my tongue — monkey I I am keeping that 
 mouth as a last resource — to melt your stony heart when you 
 get tired of me. If your father saw it he would say, ' Bless you 
 my daughter,' at once. And perhaps I'd kiss him." 
 
 " It would be no good," said Brian. " He has got the 
 Challacombe pride, and he's as tough as an old ash tree." 
 
 "Why didn't you bring him up better?" she laughed. 
 " Let's try — ^you, me, and Jimsy. He shall have a new pink 
 ribbon on his collar, and you shall be prodigal son, and I'll be 
 the girlie all forlorn." 
 
 " The first question he would ask is, ' What are your wife's 
 arms ? ' " said Brian. 
 
 " Lovely ones. White and soft," she murmured. 
 
 " Not those, silly child," he laughed. 
 
 " I know what you mean. I'd tell him — four oil-cans 1 
 That's as good as four dickey-birds ! " she said flippantly. 
 
 "If you were to insult the Challacombe martlets, it would be 
 the last straw," Brian told her. " My father would not only 
 
 o 2 
 
igS ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 turn us out into the cold world, but he would also assist us down 
 the stairs." 
 
 The subject dropped, but Brian knew that his wife had been 
 serious. The secret of their marriage was the one cloud upon 
 her happiness ; and he knew it would increase with time. He 
 had clouds of his own. He felt them darkening when he 
 thought of their future at North Beer. 
 
 Then a letter came from Miss Challacombe, who had 
 returned to Stokey, finding the South coast too warm. She 
 wanted to know what he was up to, wasting his time in 
 London, and why he had not reported himself to his father. 
 She hinted at a rumour, which suggested he had been seen 
 in North Devon with a young lady, and she wanted to know 
 the truth about it ; not that she believed it, but she would feel 
 more easy to know that he could prove an alibi. Brian 
 recognised the hand, or rather the tongue, of David ; and 
 wished he could put the turnip-face into the agricultural imple- 
 ment which is used for crushing that esculent. As f or Arminel, 
 she was miserable for a whole hour after reading the letter. 
 She implored Brian to go and visit his father. He went 
 obediently, and was rather relieved to hear that Cuthbert had 
 gone to Margate for a change of air. 
 
 When he got back, Arminel was missing. He waited, 
 thinking all manner of horrors, and was greatly relieved when 
 she returned flushed and frightened. 
 
 " A man followed me all down the street," she gasped. 
 " He kept on talking to me, though I gave him such looks, 
 and there wasn't a policeman all the way." 
 
 Brian was so glad to have her back again that he did not 
 scold her as she deserved ; but, as the jealous husband, he 
 wanted to know where she had been. 
 
 " To see about a tent," was the surprising answer. 
 
 " Darling 1 what do you mean ? " he said. 
 
 " Well, I don't want to go to North Beer just yet. I'm sure 
 we shall be found out, and then I — I might lose you. We 
 will get a tent, and camp on Dartmoor. Say 'Yes,' dear. You 
 
CONCERNING PRETTY FOLLIES. 197 
 
 always do what I want. Now, come and sit down, and I'll 
 coax. There 1 . . . wasn't that a sweet kiss ? And here's 
 another I " 
 
 The result of that coaxing was a foregone conclusion. The 
 irresistible girl had her way; and they entered into a discussion 
 as to ways and means. 
 
CHAPTER XrV. 
 
 CONCERNING WATER. 
 
 "Who be pricking me wi' a vuzzy bush?" complained 
 Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 "I be ! " came the saucy answer. " Don't make a 
 noise. I have come for butter and eggs. Where's the old 
 lady?" 
 
 The master of Blackalake Gorge pulled himself up and saw 
 his daughter. She was dressed in a pink cotton frock, and 
 wore a sun-bonnet with strings flying loose. Her face was 
 tanned, and so were her hands — a beautiful moorland-brown, 
 like bracken in October. 
 
 " Her be feeding the pigs," said Dartmoor Jack, pointing 
 towards a corner of the gorge, where a short, stout figure was 
 visible with skirts tucked up to its knees. "Her's a rare woman 
 for pigs," he added. 
 
 " Get us something to eat. We are starving," said Arminel. 
 " How did'st get into the gorge ? " asked her father. 
 " By the river. Jumping from one stone to another," she 
 explained. 
 
 It was Sunday morning. Dartmoor Jack was not idling for 
 that reason, but because he was indisposed. He did not know 
 what was the matter, neither could he explain his feelings. He 
 was simply unwell. "Nothing serious," he said. He was 
 taking it easy that day, for on the next the oil-cart would have 
 to go the round as usual. Illness was a luxury he could not 
 afford. It was a pastime for gentlefolk. 
 
 The young couple had their camp in the next gorge but one 
 up the cleave. After much discussion they had chosen upon 
 
CONCERNING WATER. 199 
 
 that spot because it was as safe as any ; well out of the way of 
 David ; and handy to Blackalake, where they could get 
 supplies. The only danger was the widow, but she did not 
 know Brian by sight, and "Mrs. Tregurtha" did not often 
 venture towards Blackalake. The commoners knew that a 
 young couple were camping in Willow Gorge, and in their 
 kindly fashion suggested they had come there to be out of the 
 way because, of course, they were not married. Respectable 
 married people do not camp in lonely gorges upon Dartmoor. 
 They had come from London ; nothing good ever came from 
 there except money. The yoiuig gentleman had a wife some- 
 where, and the girl had decoyed him from her. The wise folk 
 of Lew were not to be deceived. They saw through the wicked 
 young people at once. They even discovered that the young 
 gentleman was a barrister and the young lady an actress. 
 
 Brian and Arminel did not worry themselves about local 
 opinion. Nor did Jim, who thought Dartmoor an exceedingly 
 glorified Baltersea. Their tent was pitched on a natural 
 terrace above a stream, which had employed the ages in 
 hollowing out that gorge. Nobody ever came that way. There 
 was no track, and all around was a wilderness of boulders. 
 David and Topsy could not disturb them there. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack filled his daughter's basket, complaining 
 bitterly of tormenting pains. Arminel advised him to come up 
 to their camp, promising that she and her husband would cure 
 him between them. Then she ran ofE, jumping from stone to 
 stone along the bed of the river, and reached Willow Gorge 
 without breaking a single egg. She found Brian making the 
 fire, and Jim destroying one of her shoes. She called them 
 dear boys, kissed them both, and wanted to know if they 
 hadn't missed her dreadfully. Satisfied on this point, she 
 began to sing and to boil the eggs. 
 
 " You are very lazy," she told her husband. " You ought 
 to have been up hours ago, and caught some trout for break- 
 fast. There are some beauties in our bathing-pool, and they 
 know us so well by this time we could tickle them easily." 
 
2op ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " If I did catch them you would worry until I threw them 
 back," said Brian. 
 
 " Perhaps I should. It's horrid to see them gasp. A tender 
 heart is a nuisance. I wish I had a nice, cold, stony one. I 
 never could kill chickens, though they are nasty, unpleasant 
 things. You bring them up by hand, and they get to love 
 you ; and then you cut their poor throats. You should see 
 father. He thinks no more of killing a chicken than you would 
 of licking a postage-stamp." 
 
 " I want my breakfast," said her hungry husband. 
 
 " Then do something. You haven't put out the table. I 
 do everything. You make a perfect slave of your miserable 
 wife." 
 
 " My darling, I made the fire, boiled the water, washed up 
 the things " 
 
 " Don't argue," said she. " I am very angry with you. He 
 doesn't deserve me, Jimmy," she went on. " He's only made 
 the fire, boiled the water, and washed up the things, and he 
 leaves me to put the eggs in the saucepan. We'll go away 
 after breakfast and leave him, won't we, dovey dog ? We'll 
 advertise for a new father. Then he'll drown himself. Brian, 
 the eggs will be hard-boiled if you don't let me go, and you 
 hate hard-boiled eggs. That's right, Jimmy — ^bite him I Take 
 that, you monkey ! It's a much nicer kiss than you deserve." 
 
 " I shan't let you go until you say you love me," said her 
 equally foolish husband. 
 
 '• Then the eggs will be hard-boiled, and we're both so hungry." 
 
 " I don't care about the eggs. Say it, you torment I " 
 
 " I won't I Trying to make me tell stories on a Sunday 
 morning, too ! It's shocking I If I had known what a bully — 
 it's rude to kiss a girl when she's talking. What will you give 
 me if I say it ? " she laughed. Then she trilled — 
 
 " A kiss when she wakes in the morning, 
 A kiss when she goes to bed, 
 A kiss when she burns her fingers, 
 A kiss when she bumps her head." 
 
CONCERNING WATER, 201 
 
 " She burnt her fingers just now," said Arminel innocently. 
 
 After the entire ten had been examined, she went on in her 
 own sweet way, "Those eggs will be like stones. It's funny 
 we don't get tired of each other — every kiss is as good as the 
 first one. Do you remember the first, when I made you ? And 
 after that you want me to say I love you. Should I tease you 
 so if I didn't love you ? Look at the sun ! Right in the middle 
 of the sky, and we've had no breakfast ! " 
 
 Then they boiled some more eggs and gave the hard ones 
 to Jim. 
 
 After breakfast Arminel decided she must do some washing. 
 She appeared from the tent with an armful of white articles 
 which did not look in the least as though they required 
 cleansing. She pulled off her stockings, tucked up her skirts, 
 and wading to the middle of the river, seated herself happily 
 upon a flat boulder and began to scrub diligently. Brian 
 remained in the gorge, intending to write letters. He found 
 it pleasanter to watch his pretty wife. She did not encourage 
 him to sit in idleness. Sometimes she would scream, and he 
 would see a filmy garment being whirled away by the swift 
 water ; and then he would have to rush down and secure it. 
 There was usually a reward offered for its safe return. It made 
 a pretty game for a summer's day. 
 
 Life itself was only a game during those days in the gorge. 
 Neither of them troubled much about the future. They were 
 as happy as two babies in a field of buttercups. They played 
 all day. They scrambled about the boulders like monkeys, 
 laughing and jabbering nonsense, poking out the vipers and 
 lizards, and chasing rabbits. They climbed to the top of the 
 nearest tor to watch the sunset, and ran down in the moonlight, 
 singing, " Shine, bright moon," for the benefit of cattle and 
 ponies. They made big fires at the bottom of the gorge after 
 nightfall, grubbing up roots of gorse and willow and collecting 
 ■all the furze-reek they could lay their hands on. They sat in 
 the warm, red glow, grimy and happy, while the giddy girl 
 flirted outrageously with her husband. 
 
203 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 There was a beautiful pool of bubbling- water near the gorge, 
 and here Brian taught his wife to swim. Nobody could possibly 
 see them as they splashed between the banks of fern and pink 
 heather. There was no reason why they should be ashamed. 
 The human figure is more beautiful than all millinery and 
 tailoring. Puritans might have lifted up their eyes to heaven 
 and groaned, but there were no Puritans near the gorge. Wild 
 Dartmoor surrounded the young people, and they were wild, too. 
 
 They lived chiefly on eggs, butter, bread, and cream. 
 Arminel was not much of a cook, but sometimes she made 
 pancakes — ^rather stodgy ones, but Brian declared they were 
 delicious. They had their meals when they felt in the mood 
 for them — they did not trouble about the time. They supped 
 usually at some weird hour of the night by the light of the 
 moon, or their fire, or a candle stuck in a bottle. Sometimes 
 they were out very early. The silent moor was wonderful at 
 four o'clock in the morning. The pink sunrise was all about 
 them, colouring the river, making Arminel look like Aurora. 
 The clear light was gloriously fresh and cool then. The gorge 
 sparkled with dew ; there were all sorts of shy, mysterious birds 
 about which were not seen later in the day — water-hens, jays, 
 ring-ouzels — paddling or chattering. Clouds of snow-white 
 mist rolled down the cleave. Arminel would dip her small 
 foot into the pool and scream, " So cold 1 " Then she would 
 make a dash and run back to bed and warm herself. 
 
 While in the gorge, Brian made the discovery that water was 
 worth drinking — not the sort of water which comes through 
 pipes and taps, but the sweet water which is forced direct from 
 the cool breast of mother Nature. Arminel had told him it was 
 nice, but he did not believe at first, so she took him down 
 into the depths of the gorge. There, in the green gloom, they 
 could see and hear the water as it came dripping out of the 
 side of the moor through the ferns and dog-roses. The girl 
 filled a glass, and when Brian held it up to the light he saw 
 that the glass was frosted and the water seemed to live, and it 
 was filled with silver bubbles. He thought Arminel had cast 
 
CONCERNING WATER. 203 
 
 her spell upon it, and that the water was sweet because she 
 had drawn it from the moor and given it to him. It was like 
 one of her cool, fresh kisses. 
 
 The next thing was to give Jim a bath. Arminel declared 
 that he wanted one" badly, for his soft, white coat was still 
 redolent of Battersea grime. Jim had his own opinion, which 
 was that he had never indulged in a bath, and had no wish to 
 spoil his record. Jim, however, was only a baby, and had 
 much to learn. His young mistress decided that her pet's first 
 lesson should be that cleanliness is next to godliness. " Catch 
 Jim, Brian," she ordered sternly, appearing from the tent with 
 soap and towel. She was in a short frock, with her hair braided, 
 and wore shoes to protect her feet from the sharp stones in the 
 river. Heedless of his fate, the little victim was rolling on a 
 dead rabbit, which was a much more delightful occupation than 
 being washed. 
 
 " Come here, work'us dog 1 " called Brian. 
 
 " He shan't be called work'us dog ! " cried Arminel, indig- 
 nantly. " Come here, darling ! What did father call him ? 
 Yes, he's a nasty, horrid father, and it's a shame to say he came 
 from the work'us, when he didn't ! Never mind, dear doggie ! 
 You couldn't help going to the orphanage, could you? But 
 weren't you glad when mother came ? Yes, you were ! You 
 looked at her with your dear, bright, foxy eyes, and you said) 
 ' here's pretty mother come for her little Jimsy.' There ! come 
 and have a beautiful bath." 
 
 Jim liked the nonsense well enough, but the prospect of the 
 bath was less pleasing. He kicked and struggled, but his 
 young mistress carried him relentlessly to the river, plunged 
 him in, soaped him, and rubbed him, and scrubbed him ; and 
 having, as she said, evicted all the lodgers, let him run and roll 
 upon the heather. 
 
 This bathing of Jim was a slight incident, but it was to 
 prove the means of binding husband and wife still more closely 
 together. That evening the dog was not well. He shivered 
 and sneezed. What was a more alarming symptom, he refused 
 
204 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 his food. The next day he was listless and feverish. He 
 ■would not move, and his nose was burning. Poor Arminel 
 was in distress. She did everything she could think of for the 
 invalid. She wrapped him up in a silk petticoat, and sent 
 Brian off to the village for brandy. When he came back the 
 girl was crying. She had missed him, she said. She had felt 
 so lonely, and Jim was so ill. 
 
 " Oh, husband," she sobbed. " He's dying ! I have killed 
 him 1 The water was too cold. He shivered so when I put 
 him in, and he tried to get out, and I was so cruel. I held 
 him in. When I try to make him comfy he kisses my hands — 
 dear little forgiving thing. How horrible it is to be cruel to an 
 animal." 
 
 It was the first time Brian had seen his wife in tears. He 
 began to comprehend what a tender-hearted girl she was. She 
 did nothing by halves. She was either very happy or very 
 miserable ; very frivolous or very serious ; very sweet or very 
 bitter. He took her in his arms, with a kind of pleasure at 
 finding her unhappy, because she seemed to be more precious, 
 and rested her dark head upon his shoulder, fondling and 
 consoling her ; while she sighed, and moaned, and talked to 
 Jim rather than to him. 
 
 " I meant to be so kind. I thought I would make you so 
 happy, but I should have been much kinder if I had left you in 
 the orphanage. Poor, helpless little dog ! You were happier 
 when you were a starving waif upon the streets. People did 
 leave you alone. They didn't torture you to death. You 
 ought to bite my hand, dear, not kiss it. If you only knew how 
 cruel I have been, you would." 
 
 " Sweetheart, it wasn't your fault," said her husband. 
 
 " It was,'' she said, refusing to be comforted. " He looked 
 at me so reproachfully when he was in the water. He said, 
 ' please take me out,' so plainly. And when he sneezed all 
 over me, I only pushed him in deeper. Brian, if he dies, I 
 shall never be happy again ! " 
 
 Arminel would not go to bed that night. She sat up with 
 
CONCERNING WATER. 205 
 
 her patient, and of course Brian sat up, too. She nursed the 
 dog, and Brian nursed her. Towards morning, Jim seemed 
 better. The girl became happy. Her pretty eyes closed, and 
 she went off into a child-like sleep in her husband's arms. He 
 watched her small face, which was pale just then, almost waxen; 
 and when she moaned in her sleep, as though she was still 
 unhappy, he held her more closely, and would often have 
 kissed her, had he not been afraid of waking her. He had 
 loved his tender, teasing wife so much. He adored her 
 then. 
 
 Daylight came into the tent, the mysterious moorland night 
 gave way to sunshine, and Brian still nursed his wife and 
 heard her gentle breathing. Even with her eyes shut she was 
 very pretty. She clung to him so lovingly. She was so sweet 
 and womanly, so very different from Nona Wistman. He 
 trembled as he thought of the convent girl. She was not the 
 only unpleasant thought. Tordown church was suggested, 
 and with it the memorials to the Challacombes, all bearing the 
 four grotesque heraldic martlets. He was the first bearer of 
 the martlets who had married a girl of the lower class. His 
 ancestors had ruined such girls, but had never married them. 
 They had always been respectable and done what was right and 
 proper; but he had disgraced the martlets. He thought of 
 Okehampton Fore Street, and the pretty girl walking about 
 followed by David's lewd eyes, the girl who was then his wife. 
 He thought of the queer old fellow who went about the country 
 with his oil-cart, the kindly, common, old soul who was his 
 father-in-law. There was even some doubt as to that. There 
 was no doubt that his wife was in the foolish eyes of the law a 
 bastard. And yet he loved her so; loved her so well and 
 faithfully that he felt life would be a misery without her. 
 Would the Fates, he wondered, be kinder than his relations ? 
 Would they consent to overlook one act of human folly, and 
 allow him to keep his sweet and tender-hearted Arminel ? 
 
 At that thought he had to kiss her ; and she woke with a 
 delicious yawn, said she was a " dreadfully sleepy girl," and 
 
2o6 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 turned to see how Jim was. Finding that he was getting on 
 nicely she directed her husband to lie down, because she was 
 sure he must be tired, too ; and then she came and nestled by 
 him and again went to sleep in his arms. 
 
 Brian went most days to Sticklepath for his letters, which he 
 had directed to the post-office. Arminel did not always 
 accompany him because there was danger of coming across 
 that unpleasant and ubiquitous centaur, David Badgery. He 
 had been to Blackalake Gorge to make kind enquiries, but 
 Dartmoor Jack was more than a match for him. That innocent 
 face had beguiled far wiser men than David. Dartmoor Jack 
 admitted he often wondered what his daughter was doing, but 
 she didn't write to him. As for Mr. Challacombe, wasn't he 
 in London? Well, then, wasn't he at North Beer? It was 
 wonderful where folk got to. It was still more wonderful how 
 Dartmoor Jack managed to answer David's questions without 
 uttering a single untruth. 
 
 One evening Brian found a letter from Miss Challacombe. 
 The old lady was indignant and expressed herself forcibly. 
 She wanted to know what the deuce Brian was doing camping 
 on Dartmoor. Why wasn't he at North Beer ? She had sent 
 Betsey and Coneybear over to get the house ready for him. 
 He was to go there at once, while the fine weather lasted, so 
 that she might come over and visit him, and see that he was 
 comfortable. She had found a good housekeeper for him, a 
 plain, sober, elderly woman, the right sort of person for a young 
 bachelor. She concluded by reminding him he had not denied 
 the report which stated he had been seen at Lee with an attrac- 
 tive young woman. No doubt he considered it beneath him to 
 take any notice of such scandal, but she knew what the Challa- 
 combes were. Not the women, of course, but the men. And 
 in a postscript she informed him she had created a game of 
 Patience which threw all previous efforts into oblivion. 
 
 Brian hurried through this letter, as he walked back across 
 the moor in the failing light, and it made him uncomfortable. 
 He wondered how much longer he would be able to preserve 
 
CONCERNING WATER. 207 
 
 the secret of his marriage. Should a commoner happen to 
 visit Willow Gorge in his absence and see Arminel, he would 
 probably recognise Jack Zaple's daughter. The news would 
 reach David, and the turnip-face would be seen artiong the 
 boulders. His irresponsible tongue would do the rest. Miss 
 Challacombe did not know such people as David, but the infor- 
 mation would reach her through the wide mouth of Coneybear, 
 and then she would require Brian to deny the report that he 
 was camping upon Dartmoor with the attractive young woman 
 who, according to scandal, had been living with him at Lee. 
 
 Brian came upon the track which led to Blackalake. He 
 heard noises, the clashing of oil-measures, and the voice of his 
 father-in-law speaking sorrowfully. He came round the bend. 
 There was light enough to see the familiar cart being drawn 
 homewards by Tom Yarty, Dartmoor Jack limping at the horse's 
 head, and in front a short, balloon-like figure swaying up the 
 track after the manner of a ship in distress. Then the re- 
 proachful voice came with the evening wind : 
 
 " You'm drunk. You'm drunk, now. You'm as drunk as 
 you can be." 
 
 The widow had been enjoying herself. Manner and gait 
 testified to that. She had been into the village, and another 
 woman had beguiled her, and she had drunk. It was not often 
 that she broke out. She had a black-letter day about once a 
 quarter. Dartmoor Jack, returning from his round, had found 
 her at the door of the inn, bidding farewell to her partner in 
 pleasure. He was then driving her home, very much as a dog 
 might have brought bullocks from the moor. 
 
 There was no delicacy of feeling about his statement. The 
 old gentleman expressed the fact broadly, and not without 
 exaggeration. The widow felt a sense of injustice. She was 
 not nearly as drunk as she might have been. She wanted to 
 turn and justify herself, but she did not dare. The track was 
 narrow. Tom Yarty was close behind. She might have fallen 
 among the boulders ; and having maintained the perpendicular 
 thus far, she desired to retain it to the end. She decided to 
 
2o8 ARMINEL OF THE WEST 
 
 wait until she got home, and then it might be possible to 
 persuade Dartmoor Jack to reduce the charge to one of common 
 enjoyment. 
 
 " Evening, sir," said the oilman, touching his hat. He was 
 always polite to his son-in-law. " Her's been at it," he went 
 on dolefully. " Her be purty well tinned wi' gin and waiter." 
 " It's a common failing," said Brian cheerfully. " How are 
 you? Limping a bit, I see." 
 
 " I don't get better. Pains were cruel last night,'' said the 
 old fellow. " I thought 'twas eccentric fever, sure enough." 
 " Enteric ? " Brian suggested. 
 
 " That's it. I turned, and I turned, like a worm that's been 
 cut in half. You'm drunk. You'm as drunk as you can be. 
 Must keep the old woman moving," he explained. " If her sits 
 down, her '11 bide." 
 
 " Have you tried a bath ? " Brian asked. 
 " No, sir. I never tried 'en." 
 " That might do you good." 
 
 " I never tried 'en," Dartmoor Jack proceeded. " Baths be 
 a pastime for gentlefolk." 
 
 " I should try one," said Brian. 
 
 The old gentleman promised to consider the idea, but it was 
 not an attractive one. People of his class do not pamper them- 
 selves with luxuries. With Maria it was different. She had 
 become a lady. She would indulge in those pastimes suited 
 to her position. Any sudden and unaccustomed contact with 
 water at his age might easily have fatal results. Still he believed 
 that desperate diseases called for desperate remedies. A bath 
 might be tried if all else failed. It was only natural that he 
 should shrink from an operation which was so unusual and 
 unpleasant. Then he recovered from the despondency which 
 had been induced by the idea, and reminded the widow of 
 her disgraceful condition. 
 
 When Brian got back to the camp he found Arminel playing 
 with a mess of flour and eggs, which she explained might 
 eventually become an omelet if the fates were -kind. The girl 
 
CONCERNING WATER. 209 
 
 was quite happy because Jim was convalescent, had been a walk 
 with her, and had displayed the utmost interest in the homeward 
 flight of a rabbit. He gave her Miss Challacombe's letter to 
 read, and the poor little wife became sorrowful at once. She 
 came and sat upon her husband's knee and stroked his face 
 with warm, floury fingers. " What shall we do ? " she said. 
 " Will you go and see Miss Challacombe ? " 
 
 " I think I'll drive over to-morrow," he answered. 
 
 " And shall you tell her about your nice little wife ? " 
 
 " No, darling, I can't." 
 
 The girl sighed and made a mark of interrogation in flour 
 upon his cheek. 
 
 " But, Brian, we can't go on for ever like this. Be a brave 
 boy and tell her ; and when you come back I'll pet you ever 
 so." 
 
 "You don't know my aunt. I'd much rather tell my 
 father." 
 
 " Then tell him," she pleaded. " We ought to have gone 
 when we were in London. It would have been all over by 
 now. I love you, dear. My love won't change with the 
 weather. I don't think I could leave you, because I am your 
 wife ; and besides, I don't want my heart broken just yet. But 
 if he is nasty, I will do what you wish. Why shouldn't we do 
 something — work, I mean ? We'll advertise : ' Wanted, light 
 employment by young and attractive couple. Only it must be 
 very light, as they are both dreadful lazy.' " She laughed and 
 kissed the tip of his nose lightly. 
 
 " I could manage the old man if it wasn't for my aunt," said 
 Brian. " He's none too particular, but he's afraid of his sister, 
 who owns the property with him jointly, except North Beer. 
 That belongs to my father alone, though Miss Challacombe 
 refuses to recognise the fact. She thinks that as he owns a half- 
 share in Stokey, she ought to own the same proportion of North 
 Beer." 
 
 "She could be made to recognise the fact," Arminel 
 murmured. 
 
 A.W. p 
 
2IO ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " North Beer must come to me when my father dies," Brian 
 went on. " It is the only entailed part of the estate, and it is 
 the least valuable. To offend my aunt would be to lose all the 
 rest, as she could persuade my father to leave his share just as 
 she wished. We shall be safe at North Beer, sweetheart," he 
 added, with more confidence than he felt. " If my aunt does 
 come over, I'll lock you away in a cupboard, and she won't 
 dream that I have anything half so precious in the house." 
 
 " But the housekeeper — what about her ? " cried she, 
 plaintively. 
 
 "Don't worry your sweet head, darling. You are my 
 housekeeper," was all the answer she got. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " sighed she, naughtily. " I'm only half a wife, 
 and I may soon be a widow as green as grass." 
 
 About that time Dartmoor Jack felt his pains returning, 
 and he became more than ever convinced that " eccentric 
 fever " had taken hold upon him. It was with difficulty that 
 he finished his work. He was single-handed that evening, for 
 the widow was sleeping off the effects of gin-and- water. The 
 proprietor of the gorge sat down and groaned. He felt lonely 
 and miserable. He was also angry with himself. What right 
 had he to be ill ? Sickness was one of the privileges of gentle- 
 folk. They could afford it, and he could not. Dartmoor Jack 
 began to wonder if he had become a gentleman without know- 
 ing it. His daughterwas a lady ; a humble Zaple had blossomed 
 into a Challacombe; he was connected with the martlets of 
 mid-Devon. It was an overwhelming association, and perhaps 
 it had brought him the ills which gentlefolk are heir to. If 
 that was so, it followed that he must employ the remedies 
 used by gentlefolk. A bath seemed to be the remedy 
 in his case. Mr. Challacombe said so, and he ought to 
 know. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack sat and communed with himself, but the 
 pains got no better, and at length he made up his mind to 
 employ drastic measures. He could not have been given a 
 more favourable opportunity. The widow was safely out of 
 
CONCERNING WATER. 211 
 
 the way, and would never know what he had done. The com- 
 moners would not hear of the act, committed in a moment of 
 weakness; nor would he have to listen to such taunts as, 
 " Think you'm Duke o' Cornwall, du ye ? " Nobody would 
 know how he had played the gentleman in the depths of 
 Blackalake Gorge that night. 
 
 How to set about the bath was a difBculty. Dartmoor Jack 
 had no previous knowledge to aid him. He wanted to do the 
 thing properly. A blunder might increase his pains; and 
 might, indeed, prove fatal. He was clear upon one point, and 
 that was the necessity for water. The murmur of the river was in 
 his ears. There was the water. He had only to fqllow the 
 excellent example of the king of Syria's captain, and go and 
 wash in the river, and he, too, might be restored to health. He 
 got up and limped to the foot of the gorge. It was a very warm 
 evening, but the snowy stickles looked cold. His resolution 
 wavered, and he thought he would prefer to be ill, after all. 
 It would be fearful to plunge into that white water. 
 
 As he stood and shivered, a great idea occurred. The water 
 could be warmed. It was not necessary to wash in the river. 
 He could draw some water, heat it in a common domestic 
 utensil, pour the water when heated into an ordinary wash- 
 tub ; and in that he could bathe, not perhaps in safety, 
 but at least with comfort. It was a great idea, although 
 not exactly a discovery; for Dartmoor Jack would hardly 
 have hit upon it, had he not remembered that his daughter 
 used to boil water and carry it to her tiny room. He 
 had supposed she wanted it for washing some dainty gar- 
 ments. It was then suggested to him — and it was there that 
 the discovery came in — she used it for washing her daintier 
 self. 
 
 The old commoner wasted no more time. He soon had a 
 big kettleful of water upon the fire. He brought out the wash- 
 tub, and placed it in a warm corner. He had undressed him- 
 self so far as removing his spectacles, when another thought 
 troubled him. He felt that something besides water was 
 
 P2 
 
212 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 required, something which had superior cleansing properties. 
 That would be soap. He took up a lamp and searched the 
 house. He found a packet of soap powder, used for cleansing 
 plates and dishes, and he decided that would do. He and 
 the widow always washed their hands in the stream which 
 ran down the gorge, and used a handful of gravel to remove 
 the dirt. He went back to the tub, and had reached an 
 advanced stage in the disrobing process before it occurred to 
 ! him that when he emerged from the bath he would be wet. A 
 towel was the missing article. He went in search of one, and 
 was successful. 
 
 It was late by this time, and he was tired. A bath was a 
 serious undertaking. It required so much preparation. No 
 wonder that only gentlefolk, who had servants to work for them, 
 could afford to indulge in such pastimes. He wished his 
 daughter had been more handy. She could have saved him a 
 lot of trouble by arranging all the preliminary details, and 
 telling him exactly what he ought to do. 
 
 It was with considerable trepidation that Dartmoor Jack 
 introduced himself to the steaming water. He had heard dread- 
 ful stories concerning the latent power and the scalding qualities 
 of steam. Presently he chuckled. Then he laughed in child- 
 like joy. It was not painful. It was pleasant. He was actually 
 enjoying it. After all, it was a pity that the privilege of the 
 bath should belong exclusively to the rich and leisured class, 
 and should be prohibited by custom in his own. He emerged 
 from the wash-tub, not only highly pleased, but feeling younger, 
 fresher, and decidedly better in health. His internal pains and 
 " eccentric fever " seemed to have been left behind in the wash- 
 tub. The experiment was in every way a success. 
 
 " I'll have another bath," said Dartmoor Jack, bubbling over 
 entirely with innocent satisfaction. "I will, sure enough. 
 I'll have one every year 1 " 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 
 
 Brian drove into Tordown with a guilty feeling : like a 
 criminal revisiting old haunts and dreading arrest. He passed 
 the Rectory, averting his eyes from that interesting ruin, 
 turned into the yard adjoining Stokey, and came upon 
 Betsey and Coneybear calling each other very rude names 
 beside the back door. Betsey had just knocked Coneybear's 
 hat off. The young man picked it up hurriedly and 
 adjusted it, so that he might touch the brim to the young 
 master. 
 
 " Is the mistress in ? " asked Brian. 
 
 " Her's in the house," replied Betsey affably. The worthy 
 soul had just been doling out provisions to friends and relations, 
 and was in a good humour. She was a generous creature. 
 She neglected nobody, except her mistress, who was quite 
 well enough off to look after herself. 
 
 " Her's a proper devil," said Coneybear, as Betsey dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 " What's the news ? " said Brian. 
 
 " Jonadab have got a calf what wun't suck. He that wanted 
 to court my old woman, but her wouldn't be courted by he, and 
 he courts Widow Rakestraw now, though vaither says 'tis Bessie 
 he'm after, only her wun't go on Stokey Moor wi' he," cackled 
 the young man. "Vaither got Aunt Cherry to overlook the 
 calf, and promised she a shillun. Ain't paid, but promised. 
 Aunt Cherry overlooked the calf, and now her wun't suck, and 
 her'll die sure enough, and Jonadab be mazed, and says 'tis 
 witchery and there be laws agin it, but he can't du nothing to 
 
314- ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Aunt Cherry, 'cause he'm superstitious her will overlook him 
 tu " 
 
 " I don't want to hear about Rodda and his calf. What 
 about the Wistmans ? " 
 
 Although the subject was not so interesting, Coneybear had 
 something to say. It was to the effect that Nona had returned, 
 but she was never seen. She did not go to church, and Lucy 
 said she spent most of her time in her room. The rector was 
 an altered man. He spoke no longer with the voice of autho- 
 rity, and he seldom went into the village. When he did he 
 walked quickly, with his head down, and he did not appear to 
 notice anyone. Mrs. Wistman had changed, too. She had 
 abandoned her habit of sitting in a corner with neglected book 
 or knitting upon her lap. According to Lucy, she was always 
 wandering about the house, complaining of the cold, though it 
 was the middle of summer ; and she was specially interested in 
 a certain unoccupied room upstairs. She would go there fre- 
 quently, and listen at the door, and become agitated if she 
 heard a mouse scratching inside. Lucy was charged to come 
 and tell her at once if she heard any sound in that room. She 
 had said they might die if left »there all by themselves with 
 nobody to look after them, but of course Lucy could not know 
 what she meant. The room was empty and unoccupied. 
 Coneybear's conclusion was, " They'm dafty, and they'm 
 naked," which was his downright way of alluding to the 
 Wistmans' poverty. 
 
 Brian could not stay to hear any more, for Miss Challacombe 
 herself appeared and called sharply. He joined her with a 
 very uncomfortable sensation of guilt ; and when they were 
 safely in the drawing-room, with Betsey listening at the key- 
 hole, the old lady addressed him harshly — she had just dis- 
 covered that her larder resembled the condition of the Wistmans 
 — called him ironically a beauty, and demanded to hear what 
 he had been doing with himself. 
 
 This was mistaken conduct, because her indignation aroused 
 his. Brian was apt to become sullen and obstinate when 
 
A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 215 
 
 angry. So he reminded his aunt he was well past that age 
 when, in the eyes of the law, a man ceases to be an infant and 
 becomes his own master. 
 
 "Why aren't you at North Beer ?" snapped his aunt. 
 
 " I'm going next week," he answered. " After being here 
 all the winter I wanted a change. So I went about a bit, and 
 now I'm camping on Dartmoor." 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 Brian winced at that, but replied boldly, " With a dog." 
 
 " A dog in petticoats, I expect." 
 
 This was a coarse and outrageous thing to say, although it 
 delighted Betsey. 
 
 Brian fired up at once, and told his aunt to hold her tongue 
 if she could not speak decently. The old lady took, the rebuff 
 calmly, admitting she was in the wrong ; but she persevered in 
 the subject nevertheless, and asked, " Who was the young 
 woman you were with in North Devon ? " 
 
 " Look here, aunt," said Brian hotly, " are you going to 
 listen to all the tales that are circulated by a creature like 
 David Badgery ? I was walking in Lee with a girl one day, and 
 David passed and saw us. I am not ashamed of being seen 
 with a young lady in broad dayhght. I'm not a monk. Why 
 shouldn't I have female society ? " 
 
 " Young lady 1 " sniffed Miss Challacombe. " A housemaid 
 on her day out. You're a true Challacombe. The men never 
 could resist girls of the lower class. Your father was all right 
 at your age, but he broke out later on." 
 
 " I am not going to answer you," said Brian virtuously. 
 
 " That's right. Stick up for your Molly or Polly. Why can't 
 you find a lady and leave the sluts alone ? " said the old lady. 
 "You'll be marrying one of 'em next. You'll be bringing 
 some kitchenmaid in here, and saying, 'Allow me to intro- 
 duce you to my wife. My darling, this is your aunt. 
 She's only Miss Challacombe, of Stokey and North Beer, 
 but I hope you'll put up with her for my sake.' You're 
 a boy, and I expect you're more silly than most. All the 
 
2i6 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Challacombes are fools — ^the men, I mean. The women are all 
 right." 
 
 Betsey was highly pleased. She hoped she would be able to 
 remember it all, so that she might tell her friends and relations 
 when they came round for the evening doles. Even if her 
 memory should be found wanting, there was always the imagi- 
 nation to fall back upon. Betsey had nothing whatever to 
 grumble about just then. 
 
 " Well, shall I go, or stay ? " said Brian calmly, with thoughts 
 of his pretty wife sighing for him in the gorge. 
 
 " Stay ? Of course, you'll stay," said Miss Challacombe 
 crossly. " Can't you let an old woman blow off steam a bit ? 
 I'm angry with you for your mysterious conduct, and so is your 
 father. Why didn't you go and see him when you were in 
 town ? " 
 
 " I did. He had gone to Margate," said Brian. 
 
 " When I don't want to meet people, I watch 'em go out, 
 and then I call," said the old lady suggestively. 
 
 " Have it that way, if you like," said Brian wearily. 
 
 " When are you going to North Beer ? " she went on, in a 
 more friendly manner. 
 
 " Next week. Not that there is anything to prevent me from 
 going at once. And look here, aunt," Brian continued. " I 
 don't want that housekeeper. I would prefer to be alone.'' 
 
 " With your Molly or Polly, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I mean, I don't want any snuffy old woman poking about 
 the place, and stealing from me right and left, like Betsey steals 
 from you." 
 
 Betsey did not know much about proverbs ; but she began 
 to realise there was one which said something about listeners 
 hearing no good of themselves ; and, she decided, there was a 
 certain amount of truth in it. 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense. Of course, you must have some one 
 to look after you," said Miss Challacombe. " I've got the very 
 woman you require : sober, honest, elderly, and ugly enough 
 to make an engine shy, as they say about here." 
 
A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 217 
 
 " I shan't be able to call the house my own," Brian objected. 
 " She will rule me with a rod of iron, just as Betsey rules you." 
 
 That remark pleased the listener. She nodded in approval, 
 and in so doing was unfortunate enough to bump her forehead 
 upon the door-handle. She promptly retreated, and at the 
 same moment a shadow fell across the threshold of the hall 
 door, which at that time of the year always stood open. Betsey 
 looked up and saw the big, awkward figure of the rector. 
 
 Miss Challacombe asserted that Betsey had no authority in 
 the house. As an old servant, she was permitted certain privi- 
 leges, which would be withdrawn if she ventured to forget her 
 place. It was necessary, she told her nephew, to be firm with 
 servants. She never gave way to Betsey. If he would do the 
 same with his housekeeper, he would find no trouble in his 
 domestic affairs. At that point the door opened — Betsey 
 never demeaned herself by knocking — and the actual mistress 
 of the house appeared, favoured Brian with a glance which was 
 meant to convince him that he stood sadly in need of her 
 prayers, and informed him that Mr. Wistman was waiting in 
 the dining-room, and would be pleased to see him. 
 
 " Deuce take the man," grumbled Miss Challacombe. 
 " What does he want coming now ? I suppose I must ask 
 him to lunch. Why, what's the matter, Brian ? " 
 
 Her nephew's thoughts were for his wife. " She will sit in 
 the shade and sigh till you come back," Arminel had said. 
 Somehow he could not think of anything else but the tender- 
 hearted girl, waiting for him in the gorge among the heather 
 and ferns. Why couldn't he take her to the loneliest part of 
 Dartmoor and be alone with her, and forget he was a 
 Challacombe, and that she was the oilman's daughter ? He 
 had longed to make her the happiest girl living. He might 
 end by breaking her heart, that tender heart which had suffered 
 for her dog. He had hoped to lift her up. He might end by 
 dragging her down. Wistman was in the dining-room waiting 
 for him. Couldn't he escape ? He might run out, drive back 
 to the moor, hide with Arminel at the bottom of Willow Gorge, 
 
2i8 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 hold her to him, swear that he had not deceived her, that he 
 had every right to make her his wife, that he did not belong to 
 another. But Wistman was waiting for him. If he ran away 
 that day he would have to face him the next. Brian steadied 
 himself. Wherever he looked, he saw Arminel's dark eyes — 
 big, reproachful, full of pain, but not crying. 
 
 " In the dining-room ? " he said to Betsey, who repeated her 
 information sourly, and decided to tell her friends and relations 
 that young Mr. Challacombe had developed into a regular 
 drunkard. 
 
 "Tell him I am coming," he said. 
 
 " What is it, my dear ? " said Miss Challacombe. " You 
 don't mean to say I've upset you ? I was a bit sharp, but bless 
 your dear soul, can't you let an old woman lecture you without 
 getting frightened ? You're looking as silly as a sheep. What's 
 the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing, aunt. 1 11 go and see Wistman." 
 
 Then Brian went out, and as he made those few steps from 
 one room to another he was punished for his sins. 
 
 The rector was near the window, looking out into the 
 garden. He heard the door open and his shoulders heaved. 
 He heard it shut and he wrenched his beard. He turned and 
 cried hoarsely, " Blackguard ! " 
 
 Brian stood against the table with his head down, looking 
 like a boy of fifteen. He could not look up. He had his 
 hands upon the table, which seemed to be dancing a jig. He 
 was cold with misery and fear. And yet his mind was not 
 there. It was with Arminel in the gorge ; and he knew if he 
 looked up he would see only her dark, tender eyes. He 
 seemed to be divided into two personalities. One was with his 
 wife ; that was the better part, and it was saying, " I must keep 
 you, protect you, save you." And the other was in that room, 
 saying, " How will he take it ? What will he do ? " 
 
 Wistman was suffering intensely. He was eccentric even 
 in his grief. He stood by the window with his waistcoat open, 
 and his old frayed collar loose, beating his white forehead, 
 
A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 219 
 
 muttering scraps of Latin and Greek, clearing his throat 
 violently. He had brought that suffering upon himself, but he 
 did not know it. He would not have owned it. He had 
 ruined his daughter, not Brian, not herself. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! How terrible ! How awful ! " the old 
 scholar moaned. " How vile, blackguardly, obscene ! Had it 
 
 been a poor village girl . But Nona — ^my daughter — Sister 
 
 Angela she would have been, but no vocation they said — after 
 all my years of training." 
 
 After all Wistman was not very formidable. Brian began to 
 feel fierce. He wanted to defend himself, to offer the man's usual 
 plea, " the woman tempted me ; " but he thought of his aunt, 
 and words failed him. This might prove worse even than 
 marrying Dartmoor Jack's daughter. And yet it was his wife 
 he thought of rather than the old lady. Miss Challacombe's 
 wrath would be hard to face — but Arminel's eyes, her sweet, 
 sad voice ! 
 
 " Blackguard, Mr. Challacombe 1 " rang through the room. 
 The old scholar had cleared away some obstruction in his 
 throat, and spoke clearly. 
 
 "I suppose I am," Brian said. "But not so loud, 
 please." 
 
 " Deary me 1 I must be calm," Wistman went on. " I 
 thought I had calmed myself before I came. Perhaps if I sat 
 down — yes, that is better. Mr. Challacombe, we must talk 
 together." 
 
 " Mr. Wistman," Brian exclaimed, with the impulsiveness of 
 youth, " I have wronged you horribly. It is no good saying I 
 am sorry, but I will do what I can to make amends. I will do 
 whatever you wish. I was lonely here — I met your daughter. 
 I did not know what she was — I mean how ignorant she was. 
 I am to blame for meeting her secretly, but not altogether for 
 what followed. I think if you had let her go to school with 
 other girls it would not have happened." 
 
 The old scholar did not appear to be listening. He was 
 sitting with his arms clasped across his chest, his eyes fixed 
 
220 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 upon his frayed and shrunken trousers and his patched and 
 broken boots. This was the end of his life. He wore the 
 respectable rags of poverty. The neighbourhood had sere- 
 naded him with the tin band. The daughter whom he had 
 trained with such care had gone to the bad. His wife was 
 becoming insane. His brains had not done much for him. 
 They had not given him the comforts which are enjoyed by 
 the ordinary artisan. His learning was not marketable. 
 There was no demand for it, because it was perverted by the 
 intolerable narrowness of his mind. 
 
 " Mr. Wistman ! " exclaimed Brian, looking up nervously. 
 
 " Ah, yes! Dear me I We are discussing the matter calmly, 
 I think," the rector muttered. " Where had we got to ? Yes, 
 I was telling you that my daughter left the convent. They 
 were very good, but she would not submit to discipline. She 
 rebelled, reviled them, blasphemed. She was punished 
 according to the rules of the order. There was a scene, I 
 believe, a demonstration by blackguardly dissenters outside 
 the convent, very nearly a riot. Young David Badgery, of 
 Drewsteignton, was at the bottom of it. My daughter became 
 abandoned. She desired to join them — the scum of the earth. 
 They had to restrain her. If she had not met you, Mr. 
 Challacombe " 
 
 " She would have met someone else," said the young man 
 boldly. " I am going to take my share of the blame, not all of 
 it. You can't conquer nature, Mr. Wistman. You can expel 
 her, but she will come back." 
 
 " You quote from a pagan writer. With our religion, my 
 religion, everything is possible. Christianity conquers nature, 
 has done so thousands of times. The martyr, the priest, the 
 nun, are witnesses." 
 
 " There were martyrs, priests, and nuns before Christianity 
 was ever thought of," said Brian. 
 
 " In name, not in spirit," said the bigot. " You are arguing 
 with me, Mr. Challacombe." 
 
 " Why shouldn't I ?" said the young man warmly. "You 
 
A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 221 
 
 talk about conquering nature. You tried to conquer it in your 
 daughter. You did not try to conquer it in yourself." 
 
 "You are attacking me, Mr. Challacombe," said the rector, 
 beating his forehead like an angry child. 
 
 " You married," Brian went on. " You had a very large family. 
 If half your children had lived you could not have provided for 
 them — you could not even have fed and clothed them. I am 
 not trying to appear superior because I am better off than you. 
 But surely a man has no right to bring children into the world 
 if he cannot maintain them." 
 
 " Sheer paganism. It is the heresy of modem thought," 
 gasped the rector, too frightened to be angry. " You are not 
 a member of the Church, Mr. Challacombe. If you were, you 
 would know that God does not bring beings into existence who 
 cannot be supported." 
 
 " I don't think that is worth answering," Brian said. " It is 
 this matter of conquering nature we are talking about. I say 
 you can't do it. The body must assert itself, or it ceases to be 
 human. I took your own case as my example. You married, 
 but you determined your daughter should not. You could not 
 resist nature, but you decided she should. If you had brought 
 her up properly she would not have — ^but I am not going to 
 blame her. It was my fault, and I'll take the consequences." 
 
 " You are impertinent, Mr. Challacombe," said the rector. 
 
 "I may as well be frank, now," came the answer. 
 
 There was a short interval of silence. Betsey was tramping 
 about, grumbling because she wanted to prepare the table for 
 luncheon. She was very anxious to know what they were 
 talking about, but she could not take up her accustomed position 
 at the keyhole because her mistress was in view. 
 
 Presently Wistman coughed and said, " Nobody must know 
 of this, except ourselves — and your father." 
 
 " Must he know ? " said Brian unhappily. 
 
 " Dear me 1 Of course he must know. You cannot marry 
 without his knowledge," said the rector. It will be necessary 
 for the marriage to take place very soon. Next month, in fact.'' 
 
222 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 Brian had been expecting it, but half hoping Wistman might 
 think him unworthy to marry Nona. He had not looked for so 
 much confidence. The rector assumed that the marriage would 
 take place as a matter of course. After all, he was justified in 
 thinking so, for poor as the Wistmans might be, they were 
 gentlefolk. They were not the Zaples of Dartmoor. Wistman 
 did not drive an oil-cart about the country, and Nona did not 
 seek for a situation in vain on account of her bad character. 
 Again he saw his wife's dark, pleading eyes, and again he felt 
 she would have to suffer rather than himself. 
 
 " Suppose my father will not give his consent ? " he suggested 
 wildly. 
 
 " Dear me ! This is insulting," came the jerky answer. 
 " Your father is a gentleman. It is not a question of choice. 
 It is a matter of necessity. As a gentleman, Mr. Challacombe 
 cannot hesitate. Neither can you." 
 
 Brian thought he detected a certain amount of unction in the 
 scholar's manner. Since Nona had failed so completely to 
 tread the path which he had selected for her, she could not do 
 better than face the perils of matrimony ; and in the ordinary 
 course of evepts she would hardly have aspired to become the 
 wife of one of the principal landowners in mid-Devon. 
 
 " You will go and see your father ? " Wistman suggested. 
 
 " Yes, I must go and see him," Brian agreed. 
 
 " I think we can prevent a scandal. We must do so, even 
 if a little guile is necessary. I will bring Nona up to London, 
 and you can be married quietly there. I will go now," said 
 the scholar abruptly. "I am glad we have been calm. Nona 
 expects to see you this afternoon. She saw you driving past 
 the Rectory from her bedroom window. She will be glad to 
 talk things over with you. I hope your future lives will atone 
 for your grievous sin," he went on solemnly. "And that the 
 blessing of the All-merciful — deary me ! I am very glad we 
 have got this over." 
 
 Without offering his hand, Wistman turned towards the door, 
 buttoning up his waistcoat, and clearing his throat noisily. 
 
A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 223 
 
 Brian watched him stupidly. He could not confess that he 
 was already married. Neither could he tell Arminel the truth 
 about Nona. Whatever happened, he must be disgraced. If 
 he kept Arminel in the background, he cduld not refuse to 
 marry Nona. If he brought Arminel forward as his wife, he 
 would be disowned. There did not appear to be any middle 
 course. 
 
 " Brian ! " exclaimed a voice. 
 
 He turned with a groan. There was his aunt, standing 
 beside the table, with horror in her eyes ; and the clumsy 
 figure of Wistman filled the doorway, coughing and beard- 
 pulling. 
 
 "Brian!" said Miss Challacombe in icy tones. "The rector 
 tells me he has given his consent to your engagement with his 
 daughter." 
 
 Politeness hindered her from giving her opinions, but it. 
 could not remove the bitterness from her voice. " I was not 
 even aware that you had seen the girl,'' she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! dear me, yes ! " said the awkward figure in the door- 
 way. "They met without our knowledge. Miss Challacombe." 
 
 " It is true, then. You intend to marry Nona Wistman ? " 
 the old lady asked ; and Brian could see the coming storm 
 upon her face. 
 
 " Yes," he said hoarsely. He could say nothing else, with 
 Wistman standing there. 
 
 Miss Challacombe restrained herself with an effort, but 
 Brian noticed that her hands were shaking. She turned to the 
 scholar, muttered something about her nephew being entirely 
 dependent upon his father and herself, expressed her sorrow 
 at not being able to ask him to lunch, shook hands with him, 
 dismissed him almost rudely, and came back to the dining- 
 room in a rage. At first she could do nothing but slap her leg 
 with her open hand and howl, " What the deuce do you mean 
 by it, Brian ? What the deuce do you mean ? " Betsey, who 
 was dishing up the luncheon, was dreadfully afraid she was 
 missing something, and came in a great hurry, only to find the 
 
224 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 door open and to receive the order to " get out," so roughly 
 given that for the first time in many years she questioned 
 whether she was really mistress of the house. Miss Challacombe 
 continued to howl at her nephew until he could stand it no 
 longer. He hated the whole world just then, hated himself 
 and everybody, except the tender, teasing wife who was waiting 
 for him in the gorge. 
 
 "I am not going to marry Nona Wistman," he said, 
 entangling the situation still more. 
 
 This announcement stopped Miss Challacombe's breath for 
 the moment. It also checked her anger. She stared at Brian, 
 and naturally wanted to know if he was mad, or drunk, or 
 merely playing the fool. 
 
 " I am not going to marry her," Brian repeated doggedly. 
 
 His aunt went off into another eruption. " A practical joke, 
 is it ? " she cried. " I'll tell you, Brian, young men of your 
 position can't afford to play this sort of game. That old 
 Wistman is capable of anything. He'll have you up for breach 
 of promise. He'll disgrace the lot of us. Mr. Challacombe, 
 of North Beer, paying damages for breach of promise 1 It 
 will be in all the Western papers. A nice sort of thing. 
 What will the villagers think of me? What will they think 
 of Miss Challacombe, of Stokey, you wretched donkey, 
 you " 
 
 " I'm going, aunt,'' interrupted Brian. 
 
 " You dare to go I " howled his angry aunt. " I'll have 
 nothing more to do with you if you leave my house." 
 
 " Do what you like," he said. 
 
 The next moment he was out of the room. He snatched up 
 his hat, went out, and told Coneybear to get the trap ready. 
 Then he walked towards Stokey Moor, wondering how it would 
 end. 
 
 Coneybear was soon after him with the message. "My 
 missis says you'm to come back. Lunch be on the table. 
 My missis says I bain't to get the trap ready." 
 
 " I say you are to," said Brian angrily. 
 
A TRIFLE OF WIVES. 225 
 
 " Oh, my ! " said Coneybear. " What be I to du ? My 
 missis says I bain't. Her be broody," he added. 
 
 Brian smiled in a miserable way and decided to go back. 
 When he entered the house Miss Challacombe came forward 
 and said quietly, " You are ill, my dear. We won't have any 
 more nonsense. Come in to lunch. I dare say we can find 
 something to talk about." 
 
 While the miserable meal was in progress Miss Challacombe 
 suggested that he should run up to London, visit his father, 
 and see the doctor. " It may be as well for you to be out of 
 these parts for a bit," she said with meaning. Brian jumped 
 at the idea, promised that he would do so, and the old lady 
 became a little more gracious, and talked Patience for the rest 
 of the meal. But when it was over there was another bad time 
 for Brian. Miss Challacombe was perfectly calm. She under- 
 stood that if she lost control over her temper Brian would 
 follow suit. So she demanded to be told what was the meaning 
 of Wistman's extraordinary announcement. Brian recognised 
 her right to put the question. He could not answer it, either 
 with the truth or a lie. He could not very well remain silent. 
 So he said, " Look here, aunt, Wistman had no right to 
 mention the subject to you at all. 1 tell you plainly I am not 
 going to marry Nona." 
 
 "But you said you were — and to the man's face," she broke 
 in, her hands beginning to fidget. 
 
 " Well, it's a matter between him and me," Brian protested. 
 " Don't you worry, aunt. I can't tell you any more now. I — 
 I am pledged to secrecy. But it will come out all right," he 
 added lamely. 
 
 Miss Challacombe was very angry, but she did not break 
 out again. Brian got away from her somehow, and Coneybear 
 was allowed to put the horse into the trap. 
 
 Then Lucy came up with a note. It was from Nona, and 
 Brian read : 
 
 "I suppose you are coming to see me this afternoon? 
 Father told me of his talk with you. He says I am your wife 
 
 A.W. Q 
 
225 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 in the sight of Heaven. I have listened to enough of that sort 
 of thing. I don't care. I only want to get away from him and 
 this miserable place. But why didn't you help me when I 
 was sent to the convent ? Sometimes I thought you wanted 
 me out of the way. — Yours, Nona.'' 
 
 Not a very loving note. The only thought which occurred 
 to Brian when he had read it was — how unlike Arminel. 
 
 His mind was soon made up. He could not go to the 
 Rectory and make promises which he did not intend to keep. 
 He could not return to the house and write a note, because 
 that would have meant facing his aunt again. So he sent his 
 compliments to Nona through Lucy, and regretted exceedingly 
 he could not call that afternoon, as he was not well, and had a 
 long drive before him. Then he went off in a healthy canter 
 down the hill. 
 
 Arminel came running to meet him across the moor, with 
 Jim at her skirts. She was full of happiness and love ; and 
 overjoyed at having him back again. They had not been 
 separated for so many hours since their marriage. And Brian 
 realised more than ever what she was to him, as he caressed 
 her with more devotion and tenderness than he had ever 
 displayed. 
 
 " Oh, darling ! " she cried. " I've been swallowing big 
 lumps in my throat all the time. I didn't cry. Didn't even 
 pretend to. Such a good girl ] Kias her 1 " 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 
 
 On the following day the young people left their camp in 
 Willow Gorge and went to North Beer. It was not exactly a 
 wise thing to do, but then they were not in the habit of doing 
 what was wise. The girl was startled when Brian proposed it 
 upon his return from Tordown. She said she did not want to 
 go, but when he pressed the point, she yielded. Dartmoor 
 Jack drove them over after his day's round, and they arrived at 
 North Beer in a bright, poetic moonlight. 
 
 The house had been made habitable by Betsey and Coney- 
 bear. There was not • much furniture, but all that was neces- 
 sary. Brian lighted a fire in the old hall, where Elizabethan 
 worthies had drunk wine while waiting for news of the 
 Spaniards, and Arminel became a housewife, warming sheets 
 and blankets, and preparing their evening meal, which as usual 
 consisted largely of eggs. Brian had never seen her so sub- 
 dued. She was frightened. She felt she had no right in the 
 old manor. The place oppressed the girl, who had been born 
 and brought up in a cottage. She had been much happier in 
 the tent. Jim was far more at home than his mistress. He 
 scampered about the house chasing rats. Arminel felt that the 
 martlets looked down at her from the window with unfriendly 
 eyes, saying to each other decidedly, " We won't belong to her. 
 Let us peck her, and scratch her, and scream at her. We are 
 well-brfed martlets, and she is only a common Dartmoor girl." 
 It was unfortunate for Arminel that she had an imagination. 
 
 " What's the matter, sweetheart ? There is not a laugh in 
 you to-night," said her husband. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " I'm tired," she said, "and the atmosphere is rather over- 
 powering. I am beginning to realise I am Mrs. Challacombe, 
 of North Beer, and— and I haven't thought much of that 
 before." 
 
 " We'll go to bed," he said tenderly ; but he saw her shrink 
 slightly when she glanced towards the dark stairs. 
 
 Acting under instructions from Miss Challacombe, Coney- 
 bear had routed out the old bed from the attic and had put it 
 up in the best sleeping apartment. It was not carved in the 
 wonderful style which made the bed of Stokey famous ; and 
 the suggestive motto, "Cave Amicum," was without decoration 
 and flourishes. Arminel made no remark about the bed while 
 she arranged the sheets and blankets. Family history was 
 repeating itself. That bed had been set up generations back 
 for a Challacombe, and he had brought a partner who had no 
 right there, a girl of the lower class, to arouse the indignation 
 of the four martlets. She had suffered ; she had been deserted; 
 but she had lived to put on record the faithlessness of the 
 Challacombes. Both of them remembered the warning of 
 Aunt Cherry, but they said nothing. Arminel remembered she 
 was in a very different position from the girl who had been 
 betrayed. She wore a gold ring upon her left hand. She was 
 a wife. She was Mrs. Challacombe. Her place was in that 
 house and in that bed, They were hers, and so were the 
 martlets. And the surrounding country was hers also by virtue 
 of the gold ring. Her husband loved her. The bed should 
 not have any terrors for her. Its four grim posts were not a 
 scaffold. Its heavy canopy would not descend and smother 
 her. There were two sides to the picture. If the bed had 
 been profaned by illicit love, it had also been hallowed by 
 sacred love. It had been blessed by priests. It had been 
 sprinkled with holy water at nightfall of the day which had seen 
 the marriage ceremony, according to the rubric which ordained, 
 " At night let the priest bless the marriage chamber, and then 
 the couch." 
 
 And yet Arminel longed for her bed of peat, her mattress of 
 
CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 229 
 
 bracken and heather, for the wind of Dartmoor, and the 
 murmur of the river. The silence of North Beer was dreadful. 
 She could not sleep in the old bed which warned the weak 
 against the strong, and reminded her that gentry of good family- 
 were not the best friends for maids of low degree. Brian loved 
 her; but what would his father say could he have seen Jack 
 Zaple's daughter tucked up in the historic bed ? 
 
 Arminel was blithe again in the morning. North Beer, 
 flooded in sunshine, was a very different place. When she 
 went to the window, she cried out that it was beautiful. It was 
 warm and glowing. It was a scarlet garden, a feverish red 
 garden, and yet it was healthy and its temperature was normal. 
 The soil at North Beer was blood-red. Hedges and paths 
 were scarlet. Red roses grew out of a soil which was as richly 
 coloured as the blooms themselves. It seemed superfluous to 
 grow flowers in such a soil. That garden was warm to the 
 eyes all the year round. Even snow did not make it look cold, 
 so long as patches of red peered here and there. An old 
 granite cross stood in the middle of the lawn. It was said that 
 the old worthies used to hang their hats and long coats upon it 
 while they played at bowls. 
 
 Husband and wife explored, and being full of the freshness 
 of the morning forgot everything except the roses and red earth 
 and sunshine. Brian put away thoughts of Tordown and the 
 dark side of things ; and taking Arminel as close to him as he 
 could, showed her round the place, which, as he was careful to 
 explain, belonged to her, and nobody else had the least right 
 there. He was only her guest, and if she didn't want him he 
 would have to go. And she said she was fairly well satisfied 
 with him so far, and she thought she would keep him on a 
 little longer, and, perhaps, raise his wages before long. Arminel 
 was delighted with the dark old house now that the sun was 
 shining and the red earth was gleaming. She saw nothing 
 prison-like in the deep porch and the granite mullioned windows 
 crossed with bent iron bars. She was especially pleased with a 
 tiny parvis-chamber above the main entrance which had slits 
 
239 
 
 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 of windows on all three sides ; and she said she should take 
 that room for herself and make a pretty bower of it; and 
 that would be the one room where her husband would not be 
 allowed to smoke. " For that would spoil the scent of my 
 roses and violets," she said. 
 
 Just beyond the old herb-garden, which was on the far side 
 of what had been the bowling-alley — no bowl would have 
 glided smoothly along it then — stood a big mulberry, its gnarled 
 trunk held together with iron bands. At the foot of this tree 
 were the remains of a pavement, marking what must have been 
 once a courtyard. Beyond were the ruins of a chapel where 
 several of the Challacombes had been buried with the full rites 
 of their church. The roof had gone a century before ; but the 
 four walls remained in a dilapidated condition, enclosing a 
 space, no larger than an ordinary room, which was choked with 
 long grass and brambles. A few memorials remained, but 
 most of them were broken, weather-stained, and undecipherable. 
 On two the lettering was still legible ; one was lengthy, the 
 other short ; one was quaint, the other tragic. The memorials 
 faced each other ; and the long one ran thus : — 
 
 " WB LIB HERE : 
 
 WILL CHALLACOMBE OF EERE, 
 
 AND JOAN HYS WYFE SO DERE ; 
 
 TOGEATHER FOR 4O YE RE, 
 
 IN OUR HOUSE OF BERE ; 
 
 AND NOW WE'M here." 
 
 The other, which was of lozenge shape, contained only two 
 words. They were : — 
 
 " SACCHARISSA — MISERRIMA." 
 
 The whole history of a woman's life in two words. Neither 
 bore any date. 
 
 "What do those two words mean, Brian? " asked Arminel. 
 
 "Most sweet — most miserable," he answered in a low 
 voice. 
 
CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 231 
 
 There was a pause before the girl went on, " Do you knov» 
 who she was ? " 
 
 Brian did not know, but he thought his father might. Local 
 tradition and Aunt Cherry knew, or believed they did. She 
 who had been responsible for the motto, " Cave Amicum," both 
 there and at Stokey, was buried just outside the walls of the 
 chapel ; and gay Will Challacombe opposite was the man who 
 had won and deserted her, who had betrayed her at Stokey, 
 then brought her to Beer ; and finally had cast her forth to make 
 room for " hys wyfe so dere " — so it was said. It was a likely 
 story. Fine gentlemen could not marry village maids, even if 
 they were " most sweet ; " and when they were " most miserable" 
 there was a remedy for heartache in the deep blue water of 
 Tawton lake. What was a village maiden more or less? 
 There was plenty of them, and many were fair and most were 
 foolish. They did not need names or dates. A couple of 
 adjectives could express them and their lives. Madam Joan 
 could sleep at night in the bed of Stokey, or that of Beer, with 
 honest Will her husband, and not be troubled by phantom or 
 dream of the nameless wench who had preceded her and had 
 since drowned herself for shame. 
 
 " Let's go away," said Arminel. " I don't like ruins. If 
 this place ever is mine, Brian — I mean if we settle here, and 
 OUT marriage is recognised, I shall worry you until you pull 
 those walls down. And then I shall plant every flower that smells 
 sweet here for that poor girl's sake." 
 
 They went away from the ruined chapel, and Arminel began 
 to pick flowers. Numbers of old-fashioned blooms grew out 
 of the red soil, and she wanted them to lighten the darkness of 
 the interior. Brian stood by patiently while she loaded his 
 arms with roses, orange-lilies, poppies, and honeysuckle, which 
 he was instructed to carry into the hall. " You're quite useful, 
 darling," said she, brightly. "I feel like the washerwoman 
 who married an old man and excused herself by saying, ' I ha' 
 got to take my washing round, so if I hadn't married he I'd ha' 
 to buy a donkey.' What a shame," she laughed, " to call my 
 
232 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 boy a donkey, when he's only a little monkey." She gave him 
 a tender hug and went on picking. 
 
 They found a box in the hall beneath the stairs filled with 
 what Coneybear had been pleased to regard as rubbish. Out 
 of this Arminel fished a " Gardener's Kalendar," dated 1770, 
 which was well-thumbed to show that it had been ot use in 
 a past generation. The girl criticised it with fine modern 
 contempt. 
 
 "Half the flowers I've never heard of," she complained. 
 " What are virgin's bower, Venus-navel-wort, spider-wort, 
 fraxinell, and dittany ? Here's the kitchen-garden — that's 
 more interesting to a housewife. Now remember, my dear," 
 she went on severely, "this month we have to clear the 
 weeds. That would not have occurred to you, I'm sure. And 
 we're to shade and water the young carrots and parsnips if the 
 weather proves dry. We have to plant out the sweet herbs, 
 such as hyssop, burnet, sorrel, and marigolds, giving them 
 proper room to spread. You'll do that, mind. Moreover, 
 herbs that are now in flower should be gathered, hanging them 
 in the shade to dry more leisurely. This is also the season for 
 distilling most sorts — ^whatever that may mean — and in dry 
 weather we must gather those sorts of seeds which are ripe, 
 spreading them on cloths to dry. They were very serious 
 gardeners in those days. I can't think what they did with all 
 the herbs. Here is a long list. Most of them we call weeds 
 now." 
 
 " They made herb puddings," said her husband. " My aunt 
 told me they used to have a tansy pudding here at Easter when 
 she was a child." 
 
 "You'd better be careful," said Arminel. " Don't tell me 
 too much, or I shall be making you poppy pancakes. If I 
 made you a nice buttercup-and-daisy tart, would you eat it ? " 
 
 " Of course, darling." 
 
 " Silly little monkey ! You would let me poison you, I 
 believe. Do you know what we have got to do in the flower 
 garden? I'll tell you. We must start this afternoon. We 
 
CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 233 
 
 have to take advantage of a cloudy day, and plant out the 
 annuals raised in hot-beds. This isn't a cloudy day, and we 
 haven't got any hot-beds. We have to cut down the perennial 
 plants whose stalks are decayed, and some mould must be 
 drawn over the stumps. We must take up the bulbs, clean 
 them — the book doesn't say how : soap and water, I suppose — 
 and lay them on a mat to harden. The pods of carnations are 
 to be opened in two or three different parts to make room for 
 the petals to expand themselves more equally. What a quaint 
 idea — to pull the buds open ! And the earwigs and ants are 
 to be carefully looked after. It's the fathers and aunts we have 
 to be looking after. Oh, and look here ! We're to water the 
 trees in dry weather ! Can't you imagine us staggering about 
 with buckets of water, watering the oaks and beeches ? What 
 a mad book ! Go back into your rubbish box." 
 
 She threw the poor little thumbed manual away, hugged her 
 husband, said she was a busy housewife, and couldn't stand 
 idling there any longer, ordered him into the kitchen to look 
 after the fire, and ran away to arrange her flowers. 
 
 It was very quiet at North Beer. The tide of life had flowed 
 back from it on every side, and left it standing silently amid 
 its trees. The nearest cottage was more than a quarter of a 
 mile away. The surrounding fields were let for grazing, but 
 the house was not visible from the fields. The hedges were 
 very high, and six acres of wooded garden surrounded the 
 building. The house had been let once to a farmer, but the 
 experience had proved disastrous and had not been repeated. 
 A good deal of damage had been done to the panelling and 
 furniture — small Devonshire farmers have no regard for what 
 is beautiful, and no respect for what is ancient — poultry and 
 pigs had been turned loose into the garden, and only a portion 
 of rent had ever been forthcoming. Since then the house had 
 remained unoccupied, waiting for the master who had come to 
 it at last. 
 
 When Brian returned to the hall, which they had decided 
 upon making their living room, he hardly recognised the place. 
 
234 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 It was a conservatory, a virgin's bower, full of bright colours, 
 hung with curtains, soft with cushions, fragrant with flowers, 
 eloquent of love, and sweetened by the laughing presence of 
 the mistress of the house. 
 
 " Sweetheart, have you done all this ? " Brian exclaimed, 
 rather foolishly, as it was obvious no one could have helped 
 her. 
 
 " Three people have been hard at work — all nice ones," said 
 she, delighted at his admiration. "I, myself, and me," she 
 laughed. "Arminel, and her two impudent servants, Maria 
 and Sossi-possi. We don't talk about them much now, but 
 they are both good girls. The boys of course do nothing. 
 There's Jimsy snoring his little nose to pieces on that cushion, 
 and there's the master of the house loafing in the kitchen. 
 Disgraceful person ! I can't allow you in the kitchen. You 
 will be kissing your pretty housemaid next. And, Brian," she 
 rattled on, " we must get some bread this evening somehow, or 
 we'll starve." 
 
 Brian hugged her, and tried again to put away all that was 
 unpleasant. But those thoughts could not be resisted. They 
 could be forgotten during the freshness of the morning, but as 
 the day drew on they returned. North Beer was only a tem- 
 porary asylum. Wistman would be waiting to hear from him. 
 Already he might have written to Cuthbert. The mistress of 
 Stokey would be making enquiries. Arminel could be hidden 
 for a time at North Beer, but he could not be hidden. So soon 
 as his aunt found out where he was she would probably drive 
 over to see him. She would certainly send the housekeeper 
 and Coneybear of cavernous mouth. Arminel could not be 
 kept out of sight. It would be known that he was married, and 
 the status of his bride could hardly be concealed. What would 
 Wistman do then ? 
 
 When Arminel was with him Brian was unable to think of 
 anything. That afternoon, when he was walking alone to the 
 nearest village for supplies, he tried to face the problem. 
 Should he tell his wife everything? Should he keep silent 
 
CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 235 
 
 and satisfy Wistman by going through a form of marriage with 
 Nona ? Should he visit his father and confess to him ? He 
 had not the courage to adopt the first course, and see the pain 
 in his wife's eyes as he had seen it in his imagination. As for 
 the second, he was not rascal enough, and it would obviously 
 land him into greater difficulties, as well as bring him within 
 the clutches of the law. The third course was the only one. 
 His father must be faced at last. 
 
 Having come to this decision, Brian hastened to forget all 
 about it. He was too weak to act without compulsion. Three 
 delicious days passed in the conventual seclusion of North 
 Beer. They worshipped their garden, their retirement, and 
 each other. The fatal honey-sweet slumber settled upon Brian 
 again. It was a sleep that would never come again. It was 
 too good to be broken. It was not living, perhaps, but it was 
 better than living. It was very much like the dream of the 
 opium-eater. It was all love and roses ; sweet words and 
 kisses ; with the sunshine above and the red soil below ; and 
 the dream going on all the time. And neither of them thought 
 again of the writing carved upon the bed, or of the memorial 
 in the ruined chapel. Arminel never murmured to herself, 
 "Beware of the friend"; Brian did not consider that the 
 sweetest of her sex might become the most miserable. What 
 room was there for mistrust or for fear so long as they loved 
 each other ? But the scandal-loving old women, who are sup- 
 posed to determine how young folks should live and act, went 
 on with their spinning and snipping, putting their old heads 
 together sometimes to gossip about a certain pair of young 
 fools walking about the garden of North Beer, which they 
 understood was down Demshur way, and right in the middle 
 of the county. And the Fatal Sisters took snuff, and called 
 each other " old dear,'' as ladies will, and decided they would 
 have a pretty game with the two young fools, who went on walking 
 among the flowers and talking foolish, moonstruck babble. 
 
 On the fourth day Brian went off to the village to procure 
 the provisions which he had ordered. Arminel came with him 
 
336 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 as far as the lane, and even then would not go back until a 
 shepherd and his dog could be seen crossing a field. Then she 
 retreated, after a fond caress, and the entreaty, " Be back very 
 soon, or I'll cry." Brian knew she would do nothing of the 
 kind; but he knew also she remained in absolute inactivity 
 when he left her, and was always looking out for him when he 
 returned. So he gave the required promise and hurried on. 
 
 He entered the village by a field-path and reached the post 
 office, which was also a baker's shop and general store. Directly 
 he got inside the woman behind the counter nodded cheerfully 
 and said, "You'm having fine weather to North Beer, Mr. 
 Challacombe." 
 
 Brian could have murdered her. How did she know him ? 
 He was a perfect stranger. His house was three miles away. 
 This was only his second visit to the village ; and he had been 
 extremely careful not to say anything which would make the 
 woman think he had any knowledge of the neighbourhood. 
 Belonging, as he did, to a mid-Devon family, Brian ought to 
 have known better. It is far easier to deceive the police than 
 the inquisitive gossiping folk of a mid-Devon village. 
 
 " What makes you think I am Mr. Challacombe ? " he asked. 
 
 " You'm to North Beer. Been there four days," said the 
 woman. " Don't ye find it lonesome ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said Brian curtly. " How did you find out I 
 was at North Beer ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, shepherd's my uncle, and he'm been round there, 
 and seen smoke coming from the chimbley, and lights in the 
 windows. Then the first time you come in here Mrs. Sobey 
 seen you pass her window. Her's got a sister to Tordownwho 
 told she you was coming to North Beer. So us knew 'twas 
 you. Us have heard all about your wedding, sir." 
 
 Brian's murderous instincts rose again when he heard her 
 infernal gossip. For a moment he thought his secret marriage 
 had become public property; but the chatterer's next words 
 reassured him. It was the proposed wedding to which she had 
 referred. 
 
CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 237 
 
 " Miss Wistman, bain't it, sir ? Well, her's a lucky maid 
 sure enough. You'm getting North Beer ready, sir ? Us will 
 be glad when you come there to live. Shepherd was saying 
 'twill seem like old times when there be Mr. and Mrs. Challa- 
 combe to North Beer." 
 
 Brian had nothing more to say. He loaded his basket and 
 closed his ears to the dame's strenuous conversation. He 
 refused to have the things sent. He would rather have 
 carried the load across the county than have one of those 
 poisonous talkers near the gate of North Beer. There was one 
 thing to be thankful for. The existence of Arminel was evi- 
 dently not suspected. She would not escape much longer. 
 The chattering woman would as likely as not send some children 
 to act as spies, and find out what time he had his breakfast, and 
 when he went to bed, and keep the village notified as to all his 
 actions. Brian was fully awake at last ; and this time he knew 
 he must keep awake. 
 
 Arminel was not upon the lane to welcome him back. When 
 near the gate he saw her, and she gathered up her skirts to run 
 to him ; but even at a distance he could see that something 
 had happened. Her eyes were as brave as ever. They were 
 clouded, but there was no pain in them yet. She had not found 
 out anything. Brian put down his basket, and she came into 
 his arms breathing quickly. 
 
 " He's been here," she gasped. 
 
 "Who, my darling?" 
 
 " David Badgery." 
 
 " We're beginning to have bad luck," Brian muttered, as he 
 fondled the girl's head. " Poor, pretty little Miss Sweetness. 
 Tell me all about it." 
 
 " You had been gone about an hour. I was lying on the 
 grass playing with Jim, when he began to growl. I heard 
 someon6 say, ' Ho ! ho ! my dear ! ' — the brute ! — and there 
 was David riding across the lawn. Look 1 there are the marks. 
 I twisted my handkerchief round my wedding-ring at once. 
 Wasn't I good ? Kiss me for being good." 
 
238 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "Sweetest, you are always good," whispered her unhappy 
 husband. 
 
 "You'd love me if I was naughty ? " 
 
 "Just as much." 
 
 She had looked up to put her question. She settled herself 
 again with a happy sigh and went on, " He wanted to know 
 where I had been to, and what I meant by living with you. 1 
 told him to mind his own business, and he said it was his 
 business, because he'd always been after me until you came and 
 took me away. He said he had been looking for me all over 
 the county, and yesterday he heard you were here. Brian, 
 they know in Tordown that you are here." » 
 
 " And by to-night they will know you are here, too. David 
 will ride there as hard as he can go," said Brian bitterly. " It's 
 done now," he went on with a nervous laugh. " My aunt and 
 I are enemies. She would never forgive me for marrying the 
 dearest girl in the world. She would never forgive me for 
 having the dearest girl in the world at North Beer if she was 
 not married to me. She would break her heart rather than 
 bend." 
 
 " David said he was going back to Drewsteignton. Tordown 
 would be quite out of his way," she said hopefully. 
 ' " To-day or to-morrow, it's all the same. If the villagers 
 know I'm here my aunt knows, too. She will drive over here 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, husband ! your poor wee wife ! " cried Arminel, 
 clinging tightly. 
 
 " You won't be here, darling. Neither shall I," he said. 
 " We will have our revenge upon David and the villagers. 
 If my aunt comes here to-morrow she will find the house 
 empty. We will leave it just as we found it. To-monow we 
 will go to London." 
 
 " To London ! " she gasped delightedly. " Where nobody 
 bothers about anyone, and where I can feel really yours. And 
 stop at a nice hotel again ? And go to the Zoo and Clapham 
 Junction, just as we did before ? And take Jimsy to see his 
 
CONCERNING ROSES, RUINS, AND RED EARTH. 239 
 
 little friends at Battersea ? Doggie darling ! Mother is going 
 to London ! Perhaps they'll keep her there, and make her a 
 Duchess, and then the little man will be Lord James Challa- 
 combe, and shall eat veal cutlets all day off solid silver plates. 
 And father will send David to penal servitude for eternity, 
 and order horrid old Topsy to be turned into pussy-cat's 
 meat. And then we'll be happy ever afterwards, for a 
 Duchess is good enough for anyone, even for gentlemen who 
 have four silly cock-robins for a coat-of-arms. No — husband ! 
 I won't have my mouth stopped. If we are going to London I 
 must scream." 
 
 " It's business this time, dear," said Brian. " We are going 
 to see my father." 
 
 " Together ? " she murmured, becoming suddenly serious. 
 
 " Side by side," said the young man, proudly. " No more 
 hiding the ring, darling. I won't be a coward any longer. I 
 am not going to be ashamed of my precious wife, who has 
 been so true to me, and has even passed herself off as my 
 mistress." 
 
 "I don't mind," cried the girl, her eyes shining. "I would 
 do it again for you. I will always be true to you, because you 
 are so true to me. I am glad we are going to your father, 
 though I wish it was over. I will be very nice — wear a pretty 
 frock, and make mouths. You're a brave monkey, and your 
 girl wife is proud of you." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AN INOFFENSIVE OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 
 
 CuTHBERT Challacombe led a useless kind of life. Since 
 abandoning the various kinds of priesthood he had drifted 
 quite apart from religion. He had ventured into Bohemia, 
 and found that the country was pleasant, so he stayed in it. He 
 occupied a flat over a solicitor's oflBce in one of the old-fashioned 
 houses in Great James Street, and he was never away more than 
 one month out of the twelve. He had furnished his rooms 
 with excellent taste. There was nothing less than a hundred 
 years old, he said, with that simple confidence in his fellow 
 creatures which makes the unscrupulous rejoice. As a matter 
 of fact, all his furniture was perfectly modern in construction, 
 whatever it may have been in style. His tables and chairs and 
 sideboards had been turned out of an East-end factory, 
 grimy, chipped, and worm-eaten, only a few months before 
 he had bought them. 
 
 Cuthbert was not a vicious old gentleman. He did not 
 wait about the streets to intercept shop-girls on their way 
 home from work. Still he was hardly respectable. He was 
 fond of public-houses. He liked to see the life which flowed 
 in and out of the gaudy places. He chatted with barmaids, and 
 sometimes gave them presents in a paternal way. He called 
 them pet names, and they called him " Dad." Nobody was a 
 penny the worse, but still it was not respectable. Cuthbert 
 ought to have subscribed to a club in Piccadilly and spent 
 his evenings there ; but he was not interested in politics, he 
 hated agriculture and hunting, he had no golf conversation, 
 and he did not want to discuss fogs and rainfall ; and of course 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 241 
 
 there was no other subject among people of his own class 
 so he frequented the public-houses and chatted with the bar, 
 maids. Sometimes he occupied his leisure by translating the 
 works of German critics — ^he was a sound German scholar — 
 but when the translations were made he did not know what to 
 do with them. Nobody wanted them. The work amused the 
 old gentleman however. It interested him to discover how a 
 German critic, who is generally more anxious to surprise the 
 reader than obtain the truth, will first invent a difficulty which 
 does not exist, and then devote a ponderous volume to eluci- 
 date and dispose of it. Cuthbert was able to sympathise with 
 such methods, because he had spent a good deal of his life 
 doing exactly the same thing. 
 
 If the old gentleman had any recognised occupation, it was 
 that of professional spectator at games. He did not make 
 bets ; the racecourse appealed to him in vain ; but cricket and 
 football were the gods which received his incense. In summer 
 he ran the risk of sunstroke, watching matches at Lord's or 
 the Oval ; in winter he caught chills beside the ropes which 
 lined the football arena. At every match of importance 
 Cuthbert's sharp features were .to be seen in the front rank. 
 He would lose control over himself, and applaud vehemently ; 
 encourage the gladiators with wild yells ; and would not shrink 
 from howling at the referee. Nobody could have traced the 
 slightest connection between the excitable old hanger-on at 
 football — ^who, when the contest was over, would adjourn to 
 the nearest tavern, call for a whiskey hot, and state to anyone 
 who might be listening, that if " Bill hadn't been fouled, he'd 
 have got a winning goal '.' — and the ascetic young priest who 
 had promised to make a mark in the days of his celibacy. 
 Cuthbert would have defended himself by arguing that a man 
 has a perfect right to indulge his inclination, and that the 
 crowd of a great city has always demanded spectacles. The 
 Roman mob shouted about the streets for bread and circuses. 
 The London mob called for beer and football. 
 
 One afternoon, Cuthbert came back from Lord's with an old 
 
 A.W. R 
 
242 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 solicitor, who was far more wicked than himself. They had 
 been watching a match, or, rather, had been broiling in the 
 sun, discussing the latest table of averages, while a listless pair 
 of batsmen poked about at the bowling, and evoked somewhat 
 cynical enthusiasm whenever they scored a run. When the 
 old gentlemen got outside, they continued their discussion in a 
 tavern ; and Cuthbert became excited, which was not good for 
 him. They worked their way on slowly, eating in one place, 
 and drinking in several. By the time they reached Bedford 
 Row it was late — too late to go home, said the solicitor. So 
 they repaired to the house of refreshment which both patronised 
 to continue their discussion. It was close upon midnight when 
 Cuthbert discovered beside him a young man who bore a 
 striking resemblance to his son. It was not an illusion, for the 
 young man spoke, called him father, and said he was glad to 
 see him, which was not true. Cuthbert descended from his 
 stool, shook hands politely, said he was pleased to see his son, 
 but sorry to see him in such a place; while the wicked solicitor 
 inquired what the young man was drinking. 
 
 " I went to your place hours ago," Brian explained. " The 
 housekeeper said I should be sure to find you here, if I waited 
 long enough." 
 
 "I do drop in sometimes on ray way back," Cuthbert admitted. 
 
 "I want to speak to you. Are you going home now?" 
 Brian went on. 
 
 " I'll come — at once," said his father. " Good-night, Frank, 
 old boy. This is my son. I don't often see him. Haven't 
 seen him for ages. Must go home now ; it's getting late. See 
 you to-morrow. Good-night." 
 
 Cuthbert was making for the door, when a pert barmaid 
 discovered that he was going, and called, " Aren't you going to 
 say good-night to me, Dad ? " 
 
 Brian smiled and felt somewhat relieved. He was glad to 
 find there was so much Challacombe nature in his father. The 
 old man could not be very hard upon him, because he, too, had 
 inherited the weak points of the family. 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 243 
 
 " This familiarity " began the old gentleman, eyeing his 
 
 son in a shamefaced way. Then he shook hands gingerly with 
 the girl, and hurried on. 
 
 " You never kissed my hand," cried the girl after him, much 
 to Brian's gratification. He felt he had been given a weapon 
 to fight his father with. 
 
 It was almost as quiet in Great James Street as along the 
 lane to North Beer. A hansom was standing beside the curb, 
 and from it a young and pretty girl smiled audaciously at the 
 pair. Her face was visible in the lamplight. As Cuthbert 
 fumbled for his latchkey, he tried to remove any evil impression 
 which Brian's mind might have received concerning him by 
 adopting a high and moral tone. 
 
 "Look after yourself while you are in town," he said. 
 "Keep away from the women; they'll catch you if they 
 can. Did you see that pretty girl in the hansom beckoning 
 to me ? " 
 
 Brian confessed he had not noticed it. He had seen the girl 
 smile certainly, and he had taken that to himself, as he had a 
 perfect right to do, seeing that she was his wife. 
 
 " They all want money. Everyone wants money," Cuthbert 
 grumbled. " The men think you can coin it, and the women 
 think you're made of it. The women are the worst. They 
 will strip you naked if you give them a chance. Give a woman 
 sixpence, and she'll ask for a shilling. Give her a shilling, 
 and she'll demand a pound. Give her a pound, and she'll 
 swear you're her husband. Keep away from them, Brian. 
 If you got into trouble with a woman I'd never forgive 
 you." 
 
 Brian made no reply. He followed his father across the 
 bare and empty hall, up a flight of uncarpeted stairs, lighted 
 by one flickering gas-jet, and into the lofty apartment, full of 
 bogus furniture and tarnished sconces. Cuthbert, who was 
 not sober, although he made strenuous efforts to appear so, 
 turned up the light, approached the sideboard, and grasped a 
 decanter, which he presently released, remembering that the 
 
 R 2 
 
244 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 visitor was his son. However, he returned for it, grumbling, 
 "I suppose you're old enough to drink whiskey." 
 
 Brian agreed, thinking of the poor girl who was waiting in 
 the hansom. His father descended with some violence into 
 an easy chair, and began to unfasten his boots. 
 
 " Get my slippers out of the bedroom," he ordered. " And 
 there's a box of cigars somewhere. Find it, and give me one." 
 Then he went on tugging at his boots, muttering, " What the 
 deuce does he want? Money, I suppose. Everyone wants 
 money. Pity he caught me with Frank. Good fellow, Frank, 
 but too fond of liquor. Bit of a drunkard, Frank. Must tell 
 him so. And that little fool of a girl calling me ' Dad.' The 
 boy won't understand that; he'll think all sorts of things. 
 Why couldn't he write — tell me he was coming? Must do 
 everything in a hurry. That's right ! " he went on, aloud, 
 " sit down and pour out the whiskey, and tell me how you're 
 getting on at North Beer." 
 
 Brian helped himself liberally. He felt he required it, 
 although his father did not look very awe-inspiring, huddled in 
 the arm-chair, with the antimacassar falling over his ears. He 
 talked rather wildly for a few minutes, and then asked abruptly, 
 " Has Wistman written to you ? " 
 
 " Wistman ! Who's he ? Never heard of the man." 
 
 " The rector of Tordown,'' explained Brian. 
 
 "What! that chap. Forgotten all about him. Yes, I 
 remember — sent him a cheque for reading with you. Why 
 should he write to me ? " 
 
 " I have been making a fool of myself," blurted his son 
 quickly. 
 
 " Making what ! Speak out ! " said the old gentleman, 
 putting a hand to his ear. 
 
 " A fool of myself," Brian repeated. 
 
 " I'm not surprised. The old story — ^backing horses, getting 
 into debt, coming to your father to clear you. Dashed if I 
 will," cried Cuthbert. 
 
 " Worse than that," Brian faltered. " Father, you'll forgive 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 245 
 
 me ? " he went on impulsively. " I am sure you will. I know 
 you will consider my happiness. All the Challacombes do 
 foolish things, aunt says, so perhaps it's not altogether my 
 fault I haven't told her, but I have to come and tell 
 you " 
 
 "Cut the padding," growled Cuthbert, " You're as bad as 
 a German critic. Come to the point." 
 
 " You won't be angry? " Brian pleaded. 
 
 " Won't I just I I'm angry now, and I'll show it presently," 
 the old man chuckled. 
 
 " I'm married," gasped Brian. 
 
 Cuthbert sank back into the chair, and arranged the anti- 
 macassar artistically about his head. 
 
 " To the dearest girl. She is the sweetest and the most 
 beautiful girl in the world," Brian raced on, desiring to break 
 the ice and get over the plunge into cold water. 
 
 " Of course she is," growled his father. " Of course she's 
 an angel, and a Minerva in petticoats. We take that for 
 granted. What was her name ? Where did she live ? Who 
 is her father ? " 
 
 " She is a farmer's daughter." 
 
 " The devil take you and your farmer's daughters," Cuthbert 
 shouted. " Say she was a servant and have done with it, and 
 don't try to fool a Devonshire man. Do you think I don't 
 know their fancy names ? If a street woman is hauled up by 
 the police here, she swears she's an actress. And there every 
 servant girl calls herself a farmer's daughter." 
 
 " She is a lady in every sense of the word," said Brian hotly. 
 " She is not to be mentioned in the sanie breath with the 
 barmaids that you kiss." 
 
 "I thought he'd throw that at me — confound the girl," 
 Cuthbert muttered. 
 
 " She was not a servant," the young husband went on. " I 
 admit she is not quite of our class by birth, but you wouldn't 
 know that. And she is very highly educated. She taught in 
 a school." 
 
246 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " I don't want to hear about my daughter-in-law's accom 
 plishments and virtues," said Cuthbert. " Gentlemen may flirt 
 with these girls, but they mustn't marry them ; and if they do, 
 they must suffer the penalty — ostracism from Society, hostility 
 of their relations. If I forgave you, the aunt wouldn't, and 
 therefore I can't. I don't know if that is sound logic, but it is 
 good enough for me." The old gentleman nodded at his son 
 and felt for his glass. The liquor was beginning to affect him 
 and he was afraid Brian would notice it. 
 
 " I may as well tell you the rest. There is worse to come * 
 said Brian. 
 
 " Good Lord 1 " muttered his father. 
 
 Then Brian told him all about Nona ; but he did not take 
 the blame upon himself as he had done when confronted by 
 Wistman. He gave his father a different version, which was 
 also the true one. The girl had longed to eat the fruit of the 
 tree which was much to be desired to make her wise. He 
 went on to say that Wistman, quite properly, as he admitted 
 demanded that he should marry her, and that was impossible 
 even had he wished it, which he did not, because he was 
 already married. 
 
 Brian waited, expecting a furious outburst from his father. 
 When it did not come he ventured to look up and discovered 
 that Cuthbert was laughing. He was gripping his knees and 
 shaking, not with anger, but with suppressed mirth. Presently 
 he muttered, " Go on. Let me hear the worst. How many 
 more ? " 
 
 " More what ? " asked Brian. 
 
 "Wives. You've told me about two. There's the servant 
 and the parson's daughter. Go on." 
 
 " That's all," said Brian cheerfully. 
 
 " Sure of it ? No more in the background. I must get the 
 list well into my head. Nona — I've got that. What's the 
 name of the morganatic wife ? " 
 
 " Arminel," came the answer proudly. 
 
 " She is legally your wife— for the present ? " 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 247 
 
 " We were married at a registry office." 
 
 "There is a good deal of the Challacombes in you," Cuthbert 
 said critically. " Not much of your father though ; still less of 
 your mother. You cast back to the eighteenth century lot. 
 Since then we may have entertained much the same notions, 
 but we have cultivated self-restraint, which was a thing 
 unknown then, but came into fashion later on, and now it is 
 necessary. I am sorry -for you, but you seem to have done for 
 yourself." 
 
 " Let me get Arminel. May I bring her up ? " asked Brian 
 impulsively. "I know you will like her. You can't help 
 liking her." 
 
 " Where is she ? " said Cuthbert, staring round helplessly as 
 though he rather expected the girl to be produced out of one 
 of his cupboards. 
 
 " She is in the street." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Best place for her, I expect," said the old man 
 coarsely. " Leave her there." 
 
 " She is waiting in a hansom. We passed her, and you 
 thought she smiled at you." 
 
 " That girl ! Well, she's pretty, then," exclaimed Cuthbert, 
 in a manner which seemed to express surprise at his son's 
 taste. 
 
 " The prettiest girl in the world — and the best," said Brian 
 fervently. "I'll go and bring her.'' 
 
 " Only one," cried the old gentleman in comical dismay. 
 "I won't have more than one daughter-in-law at a time. I 
 won't have a roomful of wives fighting for you. He's gone — 
 the young fool, the Mormon," he muttered. " I ought to have 
 looked after him more. Farmer's daughter — I dare say she 
 is ; but it won't do. He must get rid of her. I shall have to 
 pension her off, I suppose. They all want money. But he 
 can't marry the parson's daughter. We must patch that up. 
 They'll want money too ; everyone wants money. What a 
 business — morganatic wife, mistress, two families. My sister 
 will be crazy. If it wasn't for her I might forgive him. He's a 
 
248 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 true Challacombe — but it won't do. We must be respectable. 
 It's the fashion to be respectable. It goes against human 
 nature, but we must grin and bear it. Frank made me drink 
 too much. Bad fellow, Frank. Hope the girl won't notice it. 
 She looked a beauty. Hope she won't mess me about and call 
 me Dad. I shall kiss her if she does. I'm a Challacombe too." 
 
 It did not take Brian a minute to reach the street. Things 
 were going better than he could have hoped. He paid and 
 dismissed the cabman. Arminel stood beside him, trembling 
 with excitement, asking nervously, " Am I looking nice ? " 
 
 "Sweeter than ever," he murmured. 
 
 They hurried into the house. Halfway up the stairs Brian 
 caught his wife in his arms and embraced her passionately. 
 The door above was open, and Cuthbert heard them. It made 
 him uncomfortable, and he had to strengthen himself by 
 muttering, " She's not a lady. He must get rid of her some- 
 how. I must be stern. I must get angry. Now they're 
 kissing. I don't like it ; I think I'll go to bed. Must see her, 
 I suppose. Tell her to get out of my sig'nt. I hope she won't 
 be too pretty. Never could be stern with a pretty girl. I wish 
 they wouldn't kiss on my stairs; it's not respectable. We 
 must be respectable. They're coming. I wonder if I'm 
 frowning." 
 
 " Here is Arminel," said a proud and tender voice. 
 
 " Oh, ah ! Very pleased to see you, my dear," said poor 
 Cuthbert. It was precisely the last thing that he wanted to say. 
 But he had looked up and seen the girl, and realised at once 
 that it would be absurd to show anger to such a pretty 
 creature. 
 
 " I am so glad," she said brightly, falling on one knee before 
 him in a charming penitential attitude, and doing much mischief 
 with her beautiful eyes. "I was afraid you would be angry 
 with me for marrying Brian. I wanted him to come and tell 
 you before. I love him so much. He has been so good to me, 
 and I am trying to make him a good wife. I am going to love 
 you as well, if you will let me." 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 249 
 
 " Please don't touch me," Cuthbert faltered. " I'm angry 
 with you, my dear. You shouldn't have married my son. You 
 have been a naughty girl. I — I have never been more angry 
 in my life. I hope he has behaved properly to you." 
 
 " He is the best and dearest of husbands," said the happy 
 girl. " I know we ought not to have married, but then we 
 loved each other so. I only want one thing to complete my 
 happiness, and that is your approval." 
 
 " She always wanted you to know," said Brian. " She kept 
 on begging me to come and tell you. She is not to blame for 
 anything. You can't think what she has been through for me. 
 She would cover up her wedding-ring when we met anyone 
 that knew us, and allow them to think she was living with me 
 and was not my wife." 
 
 " Upon my soul, you're a rascal," shouted Cuthbert, frowning 
 at last without any effort, and giving way as usual to primitive 
 impulse. " You are worse than I took you for. To marry a 
 girl, a good and beautiful girl, and then to be ashamed of her." 
 " I consented to it because he wanted me to. It was for 
 the sake of the family," said Arminel softly, looking her 
 prettiest as she spoke. 
 
 "He's a rogue, my dear," said the weak old gentleman. 
 "He's not worthy of you. Get your wife a chair, Brian," he 
 shouted. " You'd see her kneeling on the carpet all night, I 
 suppose. Get up, my dear child ; you will spoil your nice 
 things. How prettily you dress, my dear." 
 
 This was not at all what Cuthbert had meant to say, but 
 somehow he could not think of anything else. Arminel had 
 conquered him completely. 
 
 "No, Brian," she said; and then to the old gentleman, 
 "Please don't be cross with him. I am going to stay here 
 until you forgive me. Will you try to ? It was naughty of me 
 to marry him without your consent, but you can't think what 
 silly things people do when they are in love. If you will only 
 say you are not very angry you will make me happy." Then 
 she changed into her teasing mood. 
 
250 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Go on ; say it," she said. 
 
 " I am not angry with you, my dear," Cuthbert said, wriggling 
 like a worm. " I am angry with him." 
 
 " Come here, Brian," she ordered ; and when he came she 
 pulled him down beside her, and said to Cuthbert in the same 
 charming voice of command, " Now you must say you forgive 
 him, please. He must never do such a thing again, of course ; 
 but then he can't, for I shouldn't let him. Just this once he 
 shall be forgiven. He doesn't deserve it ; but still he's a dear 
 boy, and so we'll say no more about it if he promises to be 
 good for the future. And don't you think he's got rathei a 
 nice wife ? " she said, making that direct personal appeal which 
 might have broken down the resistance of a stronger mind than 
 Cuthbert's. 
 
 " You darling ! " niurmured her husband, indulging in his 
 customary boisterous treatment of her. 
 
 " Stop it ! " shouted the outraged parent. " If you can't 
 behave yourself, Brian, you had better go out. My dear," he 
 went on, in a manner which he fondly imagined was stern, " I 
 can see you are very beautiful, and I believe you are good. I 
 must see you again to-morrow. I am tired now." 
 
 " You must say what I want you to, or I shall sit at your feet 
 and cry," she threatened. 
 
 " Don't," he gasped. " What do you want me to say? " 
 
 " That you forgive us. We don't ask for anything else. We 
 are young — quite babies — and we will try to make our way in the 
 world, because I don't want a lazy husband, and I don't want 
 to be lazy myself. I won't be a disgrace to your name if you 
 win let me bear it. Your forgiveness will mean so much to us. 
 It will mean perfect happiness, and there isn't too much of that 
 in the world." 
 
 "No, my dear, there isn't," said the old man. "Brian, 
 take your wife, you fool," he went on. " I don't know what 
 I shall feel like in the morning, but she must have her way 
 to-night." 
 
 " That means forgiveness ? " she cried. 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 251 
 
 " I suppose so. I can't help it — to-night." 
 
 " It's heavenly," she cried. And she kissed — not her husband, 
 but his father. 
 
 " I thought she would," Cuthbert muttered ; and he promptly 
 kissed her back with quite as much ardour as was necessary. 
 Then he told her to run away and hide in his bedroom, as he 
 had something to say to her husband. 
 
 Arminel jumped up at once, but looked back at the door 
 to say roguishly, " If you're cross with my boy I'll put brushes 
 in your bed." 
 
 She closed the door behind her with a laugh, and finding 
 Cuthbert's bedroom somewhat untidy, she set to work at once 
 to make it comfortable. 
 
 The old gentleman looked at his son and smiled amiably. 
 
 " You miserable pup," he said. " I see through your little 
 game. Thought you could fool me, but you can't. Bringing 
 the girl here, and saying she was a servant " 
 
 "I didn't," Brian interrupted. "I told you she was a 
 farmer's daughter." 
 
 " Hold your tongue. Trying to catch me with that chaif . 
 The old bird won't peck. He knows a lady when he sees one, 
 and she's a lady to the tips of her pretty fingers. Let's hear 
 the truth for a change. Who is she ? I believe she is a Bur- 
 goyne. Good family the Burgoynes. Their girls were dark. 
 They've gone to pieces rather, but the blood is good — none 
 better in Devon. We've all gone to pieces. God help the old 
 families. They can't live by their blood. They want money. 
 Everyone wants money. Is she a Burgoyne ? " 
 
 " I have told you the truth," Brian said. " Her father 
 is a Dartmoor commoner." 
 
 He thought it best to suppress details, such as Dartmoor 
 Jack's occupation, his absolute lack of title to Blackalake 
 Gorge, and the widow who was his wife without benefit of 
 clergy. He could not tell his father about Arminel's mother, 
 who had preferred the sergeant to the oilman, the truth about 
 the girl's birth, and the way in which he had come to know her. 
 
352 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " There's this parson's daughter," Cuthbert muttered. "You 
 must tell him you can't marry the girl. Don't write — dangerous 
 things letters — go and see him. It's your affair, not mine. I 
 won't have anything to do with it. You must face him, and 
 settle things as best you can. Then you must face your aunt, 
 and settle with her. Good Lord, youngster ! I'm sorry for 
 you. The parson can't forgive you ; the aunt won't. And 
 what about your wife — ^will she forgive you ? " 
 
 " Not so loud," Brian pleaded, " she may hear." 
 
 " Good thing if she did," said his father ; " she must know, 
 and you must tell her. I can't talk to you now," he went on 
 " I'm as giddy as a windmill. I've been sitting in the sun all 
 day. Come to-morrow. Bring the girl. She's a dear girl. 
 A Burgoyne I'll swear. I must get to bed. Help me into my 
 room. The sun was so very powerful this afternoon." 
 
 Cuthbert rose gingerly and leaned against the table, blinking 
 his eyes. The antimacassar was upon his head and draped his 
 ears. Brian whipped it off and threw it upon the chair. He 
 called Arminel, who slipped out of the bedroom and assisted 
 the old gentleman towards the bed, which she said she had 
 made " nice and comfy " for him. 
 
 " A dear good girl," muttered Cuthbert ; and the delighted 
 girl heard every word. " I'll buy her something to-morrow. She 
 never asked me for money. About the only one who never did. 
 I'll buy her some pearls." 
 
 " How nice ! " she laughed. 
 
 " What's nice ? " he asked sharply. 
 
 " You are, dear dad, for forgiving us." 
 
 ".I thought she would call me dad," he muttered. 
 
 " You ought not to be here alone,'' she said severely. 
 " You must come and Uve with us, and then I can look after 
 you." 
 
 They did not leave the flat until the old gentleman was safely 
 in bed. He cried for his daughter-in-law like a fretful child, 
 so Arminel treated him as one. She turned the gas down, 
 tucked him up, and kissed him good-night like a little mother; 
 
AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS WILD STATE. 253 
 
 then left him and joined her husband. She had never been 
 more happy, and he had seldom been more miserable. She 
 believed that their difficulties were at an end, but he knew they 
 were only beginning. She thought that Cuthbert's forgiveness 
 covered everything, while Brian was comprehending that it was 
 not worth much. 
 
 As the door slammed upon silent Great James Street 
 Arminel exclaimed, " The day is breaking 1 We'll walk, Brian. 
 Walk right across London, and we can imagine it all belongs 
 to us. I feel as if the world was mine. Oh, here's a poor 
 starving cat I How horrible to see unpleasant things when I 
 am so happy. May I take it back with me and give it a good 
 meal ? Mustn't I ? I would carry it across London if I could 
 make it happy. Poor pussy ! How dreadful to have no one 
 to care for you. What a lot of unwanted creatures there are — 
 poor girls as well as pussy-cats ! But I am wanted, aren't I ? 
 The world couldn't get on without me. Shall you always want 
 me ? Say no ! Say I'm no more wanted than the pussy-cat. 
 Go on ; say it. Why, I declare I " she laughed, " these 
 busy London streets are as lonely as our Devonshire lanes. 
 The rows of houses are just like hedges. If I were to hug you 
 nobody would see." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE INOFFENSIVE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 
 
 When Cuthbert awoke he was ill. It was not surprising, as 
 the previous hours had provided an unusual amount of excite- 
 ment. When his housekeeper called him at the accustomed 
 time he could not get up. There would be no cricket match 
 for him that day ; but there were compensations in the shape 
 of a cloudy sky and a promise of rain. He relieved his 
 feelings by railing at the woman, telling her she performed her 
 duties abominably, and she ought to have been gifted with 
 sufficient prescience to be aware that he would be ill that 
 morning. The worthy soul agreed ; it was one of her duties. 
 She noticed, however, a hairpin which Arminel had dropped upon, 
 the carpet, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion 
 that her master was not fit to rule a respectable married woman. 
 
 Among Cuthbert's letters was one from his sister. It was 
 addressed to Cuthbert Challacombe, Esquire. He had dropped 
 the title of reverend long ago, together with the manners and 
 customs implied by it. The old lady seldom wrote to her brother 
 because of the extreme difficulty of getting an answer. The 
 matter was usually urgent when she did write. Cuthbert knew 
 it was urgent then. He had a dim recollection that his son 
 had been with him a few hours earlier to announce that he had 
 taken to himself a batch of wives, and he had introduced one 
 as a sample. He remembered a chanhing and pretty girl 
 beside his bed, tucking him up in a quite delightful fashion, 
 and kissing him in a manner which would have borne repetition. 
 Brian would naturally present his favourite, the light of the 
 harem, so to speak. The others would hardly be as choice. 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 255 
 
 Cuthbert began to chuckle again. He could not help being 
 amused at his son's audacity, although he began to look at the 
 matter in another light. He had been suffering from the 
 effects of a slight sunstroke when he had been so weak and 
 foolish with his daughter-in-law. When she returned she 
 would find him made of sterner stuff. 
 
 He opened his sister's letter slowly. Like most people, he 
 shrank from unpleasant communications, and he felt fairly 
 confident that the letter would contain what newspapers would 
 have described as "shocking revelations." However, it was 
 not so. There were no revelations. His sister was more 
 grieved than angry. She was certain Brian was ill. She had 
 a horrible idea his mind might be affected, and she considered 
 he required careful attention, if not actual restraint. She was 
 compelled to write to her brother because Brian had disappeared. 
 She had an unpleasant feeling that she had not looked after 
 him as she should have done ; but he was quite old enough to 
 take care of himself, and the local doctor — who, to be sure, did 
 not know much — ^had reported very favourably upon his health. 
 She went on to speak about Brian's will-o'-the-wisp habits. He 
 had been staying at Lee, and report said a girl was with him there. 
 He had gone to London for no reason whatever. When next 
 heard of he was camping on Dartmoor with a dog — those 
 words were underlined — and then she heard he was actually at 
 North Beer, and rumour suggested that the same girl was with 
 him there. If that was true, if Brian had violated the ancient 
 home and bed of the Challacombes, he had of course sinned 
 beyond all hope of mercy ; but the evidence was far from 
 satisfactory. A young, half-witted man, who spent his time 
 riding about the country — he was distinctly not a gentleman, 
 although wealthy. Cuthbert would, no doubt, remember the 
 Badgery family of Drewsteignton ; people of no importance, 
 who had made a fortune by selling pins and tape — ^had spread 
 the report about this girl being with Brian both at Lee and 
 North Beer; but he was the only witness, and he was quite 
 unreliable, because he was generally under the influence of 
 
256 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 cider, and he was always a liar. On the other hand, the people 
 in the neighbourhood of North Beer declared Brian was there 
 alone. She had gone over to North Beer at great personal 
 inconvenience only to find the house unoccupied. The most 
 extraordinary part of Brian's conduct was to come. The 
 rector of Tordown had announced, in a frightfully sudden 
 fashion, that her nephew was going to marry his daughter. 
 Brian had admitted this was true in Wistman's presence, but 
 directly the man had gone he denied it. Nothing could be got 
 out of the rector, except the simple statement that the marriage 
 would take place shortly ; there was a complete understanding 
 between him and Brian ; and the girl was making preparations. 
 The whole affair was a maddening mystery. She was not 
 allowed to see Nona, and the girl never left the house. She 
 had written to her, but the only answer she received was the 
 monotonous message that the marriage would take place 
 shortly, and there was a complete understanding between 
 her and Brian. Those words of course had been dictated 
 by the rector. She was certain Brian had no intention of 
 marrying the girl. She believed there was a conspiracy 
 between father and daughter to entrap him ; and she wanted 
 Cuthbert to tell her whether it would be advisable to take legal 
 advice. It would make things very unpleasant in Tordown if 
 that became necessary, but she did not know what other course 
 . to take. The Wistmans were gentlefolk, of course, but they 
 were very unpleasant people, and they were next door to being 
 paupers. She would never consent to Brian marrying Nona; 
 and if he allowed himself to be forced into such a marriage she 
 would never forgive him. Her nephew was afraid of the rector, 
 she was sure. Wistman had a strong influence over him, and 
 when in his presence Brian simply stared and stuttered and did 
 whatever the old wretch desired. Miss Challacombe did not 
 want to fight, but if she did have to she would like to be certain 
 of her brother's moral and of Brian's physical support. She 
 enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope which she hoped 
 might shame him into replying at once- 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 257 
 
 " Women are a nuisance," muttered Cuthbert. " And young 
 girls are an abomination. In the next state of my being I hope 
 to live in a world of male creatures — though I should not like 
 to remember there were women.'' 
 
 Brian and his winsome wife arrived at the flat while the old 
 gentleman was still groaning over the letter, which he had no 
 idea of answering. He had to own he was glad to see them. 
 The girl was perfectly charming. She looked as if she had 
 just been washed in some wonderful nectar of the gods. It 
 was difficult to believe Arminel was not a lady by birth. Per- 
 haps she was too demonstrative, but that was not a serious 
 fault. She pronounced a few words rather queerly, but with 
 such a pretty accent that it sounded more like an afEectation 
 than ignorance. In everything else she was as well-bred as 
 possible, except when she was excited, and then she had a ten- 
 dency to whoop. But it was not unpleasant to watch and hear 
 her whooping, because of the swan-like gracefulness which 
 never forsook her. At such moments she might have jarred 
 slightly upon a blind man, but never upon anyone with 
 eyes. 
 
 She took possession of Cuthbert at once. He must be 
 nursed, she said, and no one could perform that duty better 
 than herself. It was taking an advantage, certainly, for a girl 
 is never so charming as when playing beside a sick bed, but it 
 was quite a legitimate way of winning Cuthbert's affection. 
 She prattled to him, telling him all about their life on Dart- 
 moor and North Beer ; and what a wonderful thing it was to 
 be a wife, and how she hadn't got over it, and didn't think she 
 ever would, and hoped she wouldn't. No girl had ever been 
 given such a dear husband ; and she wasn't at all sure that any 
 boy had ever been given a much nicer wife ; and she was 
 certain no boy and girl had ever known a better and kinder 
 father. And she was very sorry Brian and she had been so idle, but 
 they were still honeymooning, and couldn't break themselves of 
 it, but they were going to try soon, and then they would start a 
 poultry-farm — ^they neither knew anything about it, but they 
 
 A.W. s 
 
258 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 could soon learn — and they would make a big fortune, and 
 rebuild North Beer, and turn the martlets into peacocks or 
 golden eagles, and the Challacombes would become very big 
 people in those days. And then she called his attention to 
 Jim. Wasn't he a dear dog, and very pretty, and his mother 
 loved him so. Mightn't he get on the bed and lick grand-dad's 
 face ? So she chattered on, but she was not all chatter. She 
 made the old man very comfortable, tempted him with 
 dainties, cheered him with flowers — she kept Brian running 
 to and fro — read him the newspaper, and, in short, made Cuth- 
 bert feel that something which his Bohemian life had entirely 
 lacked had been unexpectedly and pleasantly supplied. The 
 pretty girl had the old man in thrall. 
 
 " Shall I do for Brian? " she asked at length. "I will try 
 so hard." 
 
 " You are more than the rascal deserves," the invalid 
 declared. 
 
 " I can be quite lady-like," she said. " I can sit up stiff, and 
 simper, and look silly when anyone speaks to me." 
 
 " That won't do," he chuckled. " That's early Victorian 
 and penny novelette style. You may swear and smoke as 
 much as you like, and have a brandy-and-soda when you want 
 it. You may do anything you like except be too feminine. 
 You mustn't be that, or you will give yourself a;way at once. 
 It's bad form." 
 
 "You rotter!" she laughed. 
 
 " That's right. Keep that up, and your social success will 
 be assured," he said. 
 
 " I learnt it from Brian." 
 
 " He'll soon teach you all the vices," said the old man. 
 
 "No, he won't. You leave him alone, or I'll go away. 
 Then you will be lonely and miserable, and call for Arminel. 
 But there won't be any Arminel. I believe you are shamming," 
 she went on. " You don't look a bit ill. You're as bad as 
 Brian. If he runs a gorse prickle into his finger he wants me 
 to nurse him. You're just the same." 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 259 
 
 "I don't think I shall recover to-day," said Cuthbert 
 contentedly. 
 
 " You must get well by this evening. We want you to take 
 us to dine at one of those places where a band plays. We 
 can't afford it. Rich fathers are sent into the world that they 
 may take their children out to dine. The children don't 
 always object when they are taken to a theatre afterwards," 
 said she. 
 
 "Bother the girl," Cuthbert muttered. "I ought to hate 
 you," he went on irritably. " I ought to turn you out of my 
 rooms, pension you off, and make you swear never to see my 
 son again. It is my duty to be furious with you." 
 
 " Don't try. You can't," she laughed, making a face at 
 him. " And you mustn't exert yourself. Nurse says you're 
 not to." 
 
 "I suppose I can do what I like," he snapped. 
 
 " You'd better be careful, or you may be slapped," said she. 
 
 Cuthbert was conquered again. He did not rise against the 
 tyrant any more. From that time forth she ruled. 
 
 " What would you do if Brian and you were separated ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " You mean if he was taken away from me for ever ? " she 
 said ; and when he had nodded, she went on quite seriously, 
 " I think I should drown myself. I should go to the blue lake 
 at South Tawton, and get it over as soon as I could." 
 
 " You don't mean it ? " he said, with a catch in his 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes, I do. I am not an hysterical girl. Love means 
 everything to me. If you take that away I should have 
 nothing. I am either very happy or very miserable. There's 
 no middle course with me. But we won't talk about it. I am 
 very happy now, because Brian is not going to be taken away 
 from me. You are not furious with me as you ought to be, 
 and you're a dear, and I love you.'' 
 
 This was in her usual startling manner, and she was at once 
 all smiles again. 
 
 s 2 
 
26o ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Poor little girl," said Cuthbert tenderly, stroking her hand 
 more like a lover than a parent. 
 
 " There he is ! " she exclaimed ; and drawing her hand 
 away she ran out of the room to meet Brian, whom she had 
 sent out to purchase — of all things in the world — a mechanical 
 toy, which had taken her fancy, and with which she intended 
 to amuse her patient, who was quite annoyed with her for 
 leaving him, and jealous of his son, whom he considered 
 altogether undeserving of the attention which she bestowed 
 upon him. 
 
 " I believe they are fooling me," he muttered. " She's not 
 a farmer's daughter. I shall tell the old lady Brian has 
 married a Burgoyne. There's that letter. Confound it I The 
 boy must answer it. Brian ! " he called. " Come here. You 
 stop outside for a bit, sweetheart." 
 
 Brian appeared with the request that his wife should be called 
 by her name, and not by any endearing epithet. That was his 
 privilege, and he intended to retain it. 
 
 " He may call me what he likes, you jealous monkey I " she 
 said. 
 
 "I never saw such a girl," Cuthbert chuckled. Then 
 he told them to stop squabbling, and ordered Brian into 
 his presence. 
 
 Arminel was left alone in the sitting-room. She went to the 
 window and frowned severely at the bold solicitors' clerks, who 
 made eyes at her as they passed. When she was tired of that 
 she began to tidy the room, and was highly amused at dis- 
 covering various photographs of ladies, who were obviously 
 of no better birth, though of far less beauty, than herself. 
 
 " Digest that," said Cuthbert, as soon as he was alone with 
 his son. " Then sit down and answer it." 
 
 Brian read his aunt's letter, and ventured to take it lightly. 
 " So she thinks I am a raving lunatic," he observed. 
 
 " She's not the only one who thinks so," replied his father. 
 " Now look here, Brian, I'm not going to help you. I'll do 
 anything for the girl, but I won't stand up for you. This is 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 261 
 
 your affair entirely, and you must get out of it as best you can. 
 You have played the knave, and you must take the punishment. 
 Write to your aunt. Tell her you are married. Then go and 
 see Wistman and say the same thing to him." 
 
 "Is it necessary ? " Brian faltered. " Let us take aunt first. 
 If I tell her Arminel is my wife she will have nothing more to 
 do with me." 
 
 "You ought to have thought of that before marrying the 
 girl. You must tell her. She's the head of the family. It's 
 no use saying I am, because I'm not. You must write to her 
 at once and take the consequences. Probably it will mean 
 that you lose the property, except North Beer. It will go to 
 your cousins in Australia. Your aunt will suggest that, and I 
 suppose I shall agree. It will serve you right. You ought to 
 be punished. Upon my soul," he muttered, "if I had met 
 that girl when I was your age, I believe I should have married 
 her — but I should have left the parson's daughter alone. That's 
 what I want to punish you for. Of course, you won't be able 
 to live at North Beer," he went on. " At least, not while your 
 aunt lives. The family name must be respected. Your aunt 
 thinks the Challacombes are the greatest people in the world. 
 That's rubbish, I know, but an old woman will have such ideas. 
 We are neither better nor worse than any other decayed county 
 family, though we have a little more money than some of them. 
 Still, she's right in a way. We must be respectable, if we die 
 of it." 
 
 " I'll write to aunt," said Brian. " You have been very good 
 to us." 
 
 " Not for your sake," broke in Cuthbert. " It's the girl I'm 
 thinking of. I won't see her injured through your folly. If 
 she had not been what she is, I should have shown you both 
 into the street and left you there. You can thank your wife 
 for saving you from me. She won't save you from the head of 
 the family, though." 
 
 " Now, about Wistman. I cannot face him. But I'll write 
 if you will let me," said Brian. 
 
262 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "I don't like letters," said Cuthbert, reflectively. " They are 
 dangerous things in the hands of dangerous men. I might 
 take you to see Frank. He would write a safe letter for you. 
 Perhaps that would be the best way. Wistman will keep quiet 
 for his own sake. He won't want it known what sort of a 
 daughter he has got." 
 
 " He made her like it." 
 
 " All the more reason for keeping quiet. I shall have to 
 offer to pay all expenses, I suppose, and I shall reduce your 
 allowance accordingly. I'll consult Frank and take his advice. 
 It's the sort of story that will amuse Frank. I'm sorry for the 
 parson, but it serves him right. He's a bigger fool than you, 
 after all. You are a natural fool, but he's an unnatural one. 
 Chaining up his daughter, making her mope alone — enough to 
 make a wanton of any girl. I tried that sort of life when I 
 was young, and it played the very mischief with me. It plays 
 the deuce with everyone, however self-controlled they may 
 appear outwardly. That bitterness and ill-temper of your aunt 
 are due entirely to the fact that she's a spinster. She wanted 
 to marry one man badly — threw herself at him, I thought — ^but 
 he wouldn't propose. That did for her. It makes her hard 
 and unforgiving. If she was a married woman, or a widow, 
 she might forgive you for dragging your name through the 
 mud. As it is, she won't. Now sit down and write to 
 her." 
 
 " But what about Arminel ? " said Brian. 
 
 His father looked at him for a moment, blinking his eyes. 
 Then he said, " What does your sense of duty — if you've got 
 any — suggest ? " 
 
 " I can't tell her, and I won't," Brian said strongly. " She 
 would never trust me again. I might kill her love for me. 
 When Wistman was talking to me I seemed to see her eyes- 
 just as if she was hearing what he said. I know she would 
 look like that if she knew. I was a brute to marry her with 
 that hanging over me, but I loved her so. I fflt always so 
 good when I was with her." 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 263 
 
 " You feel good ! " said his father, scornfully. " You couldn't 
 if you tried." 
 
 There was an impatient knock upon the door. " May I 
 come in, please ? " begged a voice. " I'm tired of myself, and 
 I want to wash my hands." The door opened a little, and the 
 voice went on, " I've heard all you said. I was listening at the 
 keyhole.'' The vision followedi the voice, and the girl said, 
 " I should think that room hasn't been dusted for twenty years. 
 I've done my best — ^look at my hands ! — but it's still disgraceful. 
 The whole place is strewn with cigar ends. I'll buy you an 
 ash-tray this afternoon, if you'll pay for it. And talking about 
 ash-trays, I saw such a lovely hat in a shop window. I should 
 like to buy that for you, too. You wouldn't know what to do 
 with it, so you could give it to the first really nice girl you 
 saw. Perhaps that might be me." 
 
 " You should say 'I,' " corrected the invalid. 
 " I know. But I think ' me ' sounds prettier — more descriptive 
 somehow. I sacrifice grammar to euphony. Brian doesn't 
 know what euphony means — do you, monkey ? Besides, didn't 
 somebody once say you needn't bother about grammar so long 
 as you are good ? " 
 
 Father and son looked at each other. Cuthbert shook his 
 head savagely, and describing a circle about his throat with his 
 forefinger, jerked his hand upward, meaning to imply that 
 Brian would deserve hanging if he made his wife miserable. 
 
 " I think I shall let you get up now," she said, while she 
 washed her pink fingers. " A walk would do you good, and I 
 will show you the shops." 
 
 " If you will take my advice " began the husband ; but 
 
 he was not allowed to proceed. 
 
 " I was not speaking to you. It is very rude of you to inter- 
 rupt when I am talking to your father. I am going to show 
 him the shops for his own good, because I am certain he has 
 no idea what a lot of pretty things there are to be seen. And 
 he will be perfectly charmed when he sees that hat. I expect 
 it will be diflScult to prevent him from going in and buying it." 
 
264 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 A good deal of chatter followed, and in the midst of it 
 Arminel had the impudence to repudiate the name of Challa- 
 combe. North Beer, Stokey, martlets. Miss Challacombe, and 
 all; and to declare she was a Cornish lass, properly and 
 respectably married to one Mr. Tregurtha at the registry office 
 in the ancient and faithful city of Exeter ; and she went on to 
 state that no other man should be lord and master over her, 
 saving and excepting the Mr. Tregurtha aforesaid ; and in 
 witness thereof she stamped her foot and shook a ridiculous 
 fist ; and as for the Challacombes, what were they but pigs, 
 and she would have nothing to do with such creatures. All 
 this was because she had been assured she was a vain young 
 person, much addicted to the pernicious habit of outward 
 adorning and of putting on of apparel. Cuthbert required an 
 explanation of her words ; and then he was told about the 
 secret marriage and the assumed names. 
 
 " But it's not legal ! " he said in a moment of thoughtlessness. 
 " You young idiots, you are not married at all 1 
 
 He repented of his words as soon as he had uttered them. 
 Arminel became white. The girl saw her husband taken from 
 her, and herself neither maid, wife, nor widow. Brian saw 
 himself forced into a marriage with Nona. It was only the 
 fact of his marriage with Arminel that had protected him from 
 the prospect of such a fate. They looked at each other, and 
 Arminel came into his arms, with just that look of pain in her 
 eyes which he had hoped he would never see. 
 
 " Say it's not true," she moaned. " I trusted you — but you 
 didn't know any more than I did. I am your wife. I must 
 
 be. If I am not " Her voice became a sob, and he could 
 
 feel her trembling violently. " I don't want hats, or frocks, or 
 anything nice. I want rags and poverty — and my husband," 
 she cried. 
 
 " It's all right, darling. If we are not properly married we 
 soon will be," said Brian hopefully. 
 
 " Get out," said Cuthbert. " I'll be dressed in a few minutes. 
 Then we'll go and see Frank. Run outside and wait for me." 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 265 
 
 They began to move away, but the old gentleman called the 
 girl back. She bent over the bed, and he said somewhat 
 sharply, "You are sure you love the boy ? " 
 
 "Please don't be cross," she pleaded, "I love him with all 
 my heart and soul. If we are not married, and you take him 
 away, I shall " 
 
 " The ' Lady of the Lake ' business, I suppose," he said 
 more sharply. " But look here, my girl. If I let you have 
 him it's going to be a bad bargain for you. Don't fancy you 
 will live at North Beer." 
 
 " I don't want to live there," she sighed. 
 
 " None of the property will come to you,'' he went on 
 harshly. "The boy will have very little money. You won't 
 be a lady of the least importance. You will have to live in a 
 small cottage, and perhaps you won't have much more than a 
 pound a week." 
 
 " I could manage," she said piteously. I have enough 
 clothes to last me a long time. I only want him. It is unkind 
 to speak to me like this when I am miserable. You were so 
 good. No," she went on with a little tremor. " I won't cry. 
 You can't make me do that." 
 
 " Brian told me you were silly enough to cry when your dog 
 was ill," he said in the same harsh voice. 
 
 "That was quite a different matter," she said proudly. 
 
 At that he drew her down and kissed her forehead. 
 
 Frank, the wicked solicitor, was not in his office ; but 
 Cuthbert knew his haunts, and soon dragged him out of an 
 adjacent tavern. Frank suffered from that fatal London 
 disease which has no name, but might be expressed by the 
 simple slang phrase of " a good pal." He suffered himself to 
 be led back to his office. He listened to the story of the 
 secret marriage, and when he had finished admiring Arminel, 
 and feeling sorry that she was appropriated, he set her mind at 
 ease with the cheerful statement : 
 
 "You are married all right. You can't get rid of each 
 other quite so easily, young people. If you have looked into 
 
265 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 the matter, I expect you came across a certain weil-known case 
 in which a marriage was declared null and void because wrong 
 names were designedly given for purposes of concealment. 
 That would not apply here. There was no idea of fraud with 
 you, nor any intention of deceiving one another. I needn't 
 weary you by going into the law on the subject. I will only 
 say that if you go to the court and ask to have your marriage 
 declared null and void, you will receive very little sympathy, 
 and you are likely to be told in severe judicial language that 
 you are frivolous and vexatious persons ! " Then the wicked 
 solicitor opened a cupboard, produced wine, and began to 
 make merry with his friends. 
 
 On the whole that was a memorable evening. Arminel 
 passed at a bound from misery to a state of almost riotous 
 happiness. She had her way in everything. When she 
 wanted anything she expressed the wish, and it happened. 
 Cuthbert was the fairy. He did not look much like one, but he 
 played the part to perfection. He had not laughed so much 
 for years, and he was surprised at the good it did him. He 
 also had a regretful kind of feeling that he would find his 
 rooms rather dull and quiet in future. 
 
 "I think if we went along here we might see that hat," said 
 Arminel. 
 
 So they went " along here," and did see the hat, and were 
 pleased with it. The only thing known with certainty by other ' 
 young ladies who might have sighed for that hat was the 
 obvious fact that it was not in the window the next time they 
 came along. The next object to be admired was a spray of 
 yellow roses ; and that vanished from the window, too. Finally 
 the old gentleman gave Arminel a sovereign to spend on any 
 folly she liked; and of course she gave it to a whining old 
 beggar, who thanked his stars, and blessed the lovely lady, 
 and later on was taken to the nearest police station on the 
 usual charge. Then there was a dinner, where the band 
 played — the girl insisted upon that ; and a theatre, followed by 
 an oyster supper; and then Arminel went to sleep in her 
 
THE OLD GENTLEMAN CAUGHT AND TAMED. 267 
 
 husband's arms as they drove back to their lodgings, trying to 
 murmur that she was a tired girl, but a very happy one ; and 
 that she loved Brian best of all, and after him the dear old dad, 
 and then her little Jim ; and last of all she would love Miss 
 Challacombe, too, if the old lady would only give her half a 
 chance. 
 
 " I'm a real wife," she sighed, as she was being put to bed. 
 " If I hadn't been ... I shouldn't be here now." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 
 
 Miss Challacombe did not say much when she had read 
 Brian's letter. It merely confirmed her worst suspicions. Her 
 nephew had gone to the devil, to use her own expression. He 
 had committed the unpardonable sin of marrying a slut ; her 
 own expression again. He had disgraced his father, his family 
 the martlets, and, what was far more serious, herself. The most 
 important thing was to avoid scandal. It seemed that Brian 
 had made a habit of proposing marriage to every girl he met. 
 One of them — the commonest — had caught him ; another — a 
 trifle better, but not much — ^was trying to catch him. There 
 would probably be an action for breach of promise. It was just 
 the sort of thing the Wistmans would do. She wrote a snappy 
 line to her brother : " Tell the creature I have done with him." 
 Then she stalked into the kitchen and gave Betsey notice. 
 She had determined to do so the first time she felt brave 
 enough ; and she knew she would never feel sterner than she 
 did then. 
 
 Betsey was mildly amused. She was engaged in preparing 
 a savoury meal for an elderly relative, who* was down with 
 bronchitis. She felt sorry, not for herself, but for her mistress. 
 She, too, was an old woman, and she did not like to be 
 reminded that age brings weakened faculties. She had no 
 intention of being hard upon Miss Challacombe. She was 
 prepared to make every allowance for her. So she deftly 
 removed the white and tender breast from a cold chicken, 
 thoughtfully reserving the wings and drumsticks for her mis- 
 tress's use, and said, in a not unkindly voice, " Do ye let me 
 bide, there's a dear." 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 269 
 
 What Betsey meant to express by this was, " Don't worry 
 me " ; but the mistress misunderstood her. She imagined 
 Betsey was pleading for one more trial. She foolishly believed 
 she was playing a winning game. So she hardened her heart 
 yet more, and told the old woman she had put up with her far 
 too long, she would not be imposed upon any longer, and that 
 next month she would be required to leave Stokey for ever. 
 
 "And who be going to look after yew?" asked Betsey, 
 condescending to show some interest in the matter. 
 
 " An honest person, I hope," said Miss Challacombe, with 
 a decided emphasis. 
 
 This was more than Betsey could stand. She had put up 
 with a good deal from her mistress; but when the old lady 
 began to be insulting, it was time to cease from kindness. 
 Miss Challacombe was taking far too much upon her. She 
 would soon be thinking she could do as she liked in Stokey. 
 Betsey determined to put a stop to all that sort of presumption 
 at once. 
 
 " I wun't have ye in here," she said, in a voice of authority, 
 which her mistress's rudeness had rendered imperative. " I've 
 told ye times enough I wun't let ye trampese about my kitchen. 
 What with you and Will, there bain't no peace for a old 
 woman. Alius in the way ; first one, then t' other." 
 
 Miss Challacombe shrank back to the door. She was 
 horribly afraid of Betsey. She knew she was no match for 
 the old servant, who had long ago ceased to regard herself 
 as one. 
 
 " Her's got the house, and now her wants the kitchen," said 
 Betsey sourly, appealing to her cat, which Miss Challacombe 
 had prohibited, but which was there nevertheless. " Her can't 
 let me bide quiet for two minutes. Here be t' other. I wun't 
 have ye in here, Will. Get out of it, both of ye." 
 
 The apparition of Coneybear clattered to the open door. It 
 was a woe-begone and weeping apparition, and its knees 
 knocked together, and a red handkerchief trailed from its 
 right hand. 
 
370 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Where be my missis ? " it cried. 
 
 "What's the matter, Coneybear f " said Miss Challacombe, 
 not sorry of the chance to escape from Betsey's wrathful 
 indignation, and to forget the awkward position which her own 
 temerity had landed her into. 
 
 " I be upsot, missis," wailed Coneybear. 
 
 " The gurt vule I " commented Betsey. 
 
 Coneybear propped himself against the wall and blubbered 
 noisily. He wiped his eyes, and then his nose, with much 
 detail. Then he howled, until Betsey threatened to fetch her 
 broom and crack his skull with it. 
 
 " May I go and see my vaither ? I wants to see my poor old 
 vaither, missis," sobbed Coneybear. 
 
 It appeared he had come to ask permission to abandon his 
 duties, that he might seek out old Coneybear. Leave was 
 granted, and then Miss Challacombe desired to know the 
 cause of the young man's grief. At first Coneybear was 
 reticent upon the subject, but at last he wailed, " I mun get 
 married, missis." 
 
 " 'Tis the poor maiden what ought to be crying, not yew," 
 commented Betsey, who was in a fairly amiable mood. 
 Coneybear was miserable, and her mistress had been discom- 
 fited. Betsey had therefore every right to feel cheerful. 
 
 " I don't want she, missis," he howled. 
 
 " The deuce take the lot of them," muttered Miss Challacombe, 
 and she turned and fled. 
 
 Coneybear went on his way, grieving, and bringing forth 
 large tears, some of which fell by the wayside, while others 
 were received into the red handkerchief. A sense of tragedy 
 oppressed Coneybear. He had followed Brian's example, and 
 had made a fool of himself. Lucy and he had been such near 
 neighbours. Naturally, he had courted her, and courting such 
 as theirs could have only one ending. They had not trans- 
 gressed the laws of village morality in the slightest. They had 
 been quite respectable young people ; but, only that morning, 
 Lucy's parents had approached Coneybear, in a perfectly 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 271 
 
 friendly way — all quite according to custom — and had suggasted 
 that he might see about getting the cottage ready at once. 
 Custom merely required one thing, which was that the marriage 
 should take place in time. Christening services could imme- 
 diately succeed marriage services with entire propriety; but 
 for several reasons it was considered inadvisable that both 
 ceremonies should take place upon the same day. 
 
 Hence Coneybear's tears. There was no escape for him. 
 He could not plead a previous marriage. He had always been 
 respectable, and he knew perfectly well the villagers would not 
 allow him to be anything else. Young men of his position 
 cannot be rakes. In their case pleasure must be followed by 
 duty, or they must emigrate and be no more seen. Coneybear's 
 big coloured bubble had burst. No Sal Lampey for him, no 
 fair white apron about him, no snug corner seat in the Challa- 
 combe Arms, no position in the district, no oflBce of landlord. 
 His business was settled for him. He had to weep because he 
 was only a poor clown. He did not know how lucky he was. 
 The Fates had been much kinder to him than he deserved. 
 They had saved him from the miserable life which would have 
 been his had he married the widow ; and they were giving him 
 a plain, sensible wife, who was in every way well suited to 
 him. 
 
 By that time everyone in Tordown knew that Will Coneybear 
 was going to marry Lucy, and that they would live in the little 
 cottage next the blacksmith's, which was the only one available 
 — unless, of course. Miss Challacombe required them at Stokey 
 — ^just as they knew Mr. Challacombe was going to marry Miss 
 Wistman — ^had given her a ring, was their expression, though 
 that was quite untrue — and that they would live at North Beer. 
 Rumour might certainly be represented as painted with tongues 
 and furnished with wings so far as mid-Devon villages are 
 concerned. 
 
 Old Coneybear was cutting a hedge, which was dry and 
 dusty work, and there was not a drop of drink in prospect. 
 The future was dark and beerless. Rumour had reached him. 
 
272 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 too. He knew he would never be presented with the freedom 
 of the Challacombe Arms. He chopped at the hedge with the 
 dull despair of a man who knows he has nothing to live for. 
 The opposing faction, headed by the perfidious Rodda — whose 
 bewitched calf had succumbed to the spell, which had been 
 supplied but not paid for — was in the ascendant. Coneybear 
 & Son had gone into bankruptcy. The old man felt he would 
 be ashamed to be assisted off the widow's premises on Saturday 
 nights to come. 
 
 Sal Lampey's flickering constancy to Coneybear seemed to 
 redeem her conduct from utter baseness. One day she 
 favoured Jonadab, and assured her sister she would have 
 nothing more to do with young Will. " I be only having a 
 game wi' he," she explained. The next day she would send 
 for Coneybear, and treat him very much as Jael treated Sisera 
 before most inhospitably hammering a nail into his head. At 
 one time she reviled the youth ; at another she caressed him 
 with elephantine gambols. She continued to wear the ring, 
 which had been purchased in North Tawton for three and 
 threepence. She continued to smack her hands in his face, 
 and to call him " Birdie." To which he would respond with 
 "Babby," having been taught the expression by that past 
 master in the arts of courtship, his father; and the widow 
 would observe, " Seems to suit me, somehow." It was a 
 grotesque affair, but there was plenty of sound business on 
 each side. Ann Rakestraw and Bessie were at their wits' end. 
 They could not control the silly woman. Rodda went on 
 playing his little game. He courted Sal Lampey when he had 
 the chance. At other times he courted Ann Rakestraw. If he 
 missed the older sister, he wanted to make sure of catching 
 the younger. Thus the Challacombe Arms would be sure to 
 come in his direction some day. The ridiculous idea of his 
 mortality had not yet entered his head. 
 
 Old Coneybear heard his son approaching. Young Coney- 
 bear came along the lane, sobbing and sniffing like so much 
 machinery, and bewailing the power of destiny like the chorus 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 273 
 
 of a Greek tragedy. " Oh, my ! What have ye done ? Oh, 
 my, Willy ! hain't yew dafty ? " He put these simple questions 
 to himself as he drew near the author of his being. No one 
 would have imagined Coneybear was shortly to be married. 
 He looked more as if he was on his w^y to a funeral. 
 
 Old Coneybear looked up and wiped his dusty mouth. He 
 sought for words with which to reprove his son, but they did 
 not come easily. People of his class find a great difficulty in 
 expressing themselves. They rarely say exactly what they 
 mean, because of their very limited command of language. 
 Thus they appear often ridiculous or offensive, when they 
 intend to be serious or polite. Old Coneybear selected a few 
 words from his narrow vocabulary, and put them together, 
 with the result : — 
 
 " I told ye to be careful." 
 
 " I tried to be," moaned young Coneybear. 
 
 "You wun't get the widow, and I wun't have my beer," con- 
 tinued the sage. " What did I tell ye, Will ? ' Make sure of 
 she,' I said, and you went and made sure of the wrong 'un." 
 
 " I bought she a ring — gold and diamonds — paid drippence 
 extra for diamonds," lamented his son. " Bain't no good for 
 Lucy." 
 
 " Her might use it for a garter," suggested old Coneybear 
 who had flashes of humour occasionally. 
 
 " Her wun't get another," said young Coneybear. " Maybe 
 Sal wun't give 'en up. Her's a proper old Tom." 
 
 " Her'll be after ye wi' a gurt stick. Will," said the comforter. 
 
 The young man's tears broke out again, and he declared, in 
 his own simple way, that he had never been so hopelessly and 
 irretrievably " upsot" during the whole course of his career. 
 
 " What du missis say .'' " his father asked. 
 
 " Ain't told she," came the answer. 
 
 "Her will give ye wedding presents," suggested the 
 mercenary old man. "Blankets, china, furniture, maybe 
 money." 
 
 " So her will," exclaimed the equally mercenary son. 
 
 A.W. T 
 
274 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 They both brightened. The prospect of blankets, china, 
 and furniture was pleasing to the one : the prospect of money 
 was alluring to the other, suggesting as it did a row of 
 froth-topped mugs. Things might have been worse. Miss 
 Challacombe would have withdrawn the light of her coun- 
 tenance from Sal Lampey's husband, but she would be certain 
 to extend her patronage and a helping hand to Lucy's lord and 
 master. The principal sufferer was old Coneybear, but he was 
 too dense to realise it altogether. 
 
 There was a good deal of suppressed excitement in Tordown 
 that day. Ann Rakestraw was elated in proportion to her 
 sister's despondency, and Bessie dressed herself as though it 
 had been revel-week. Jonadab Rodda pinned a rose as big as 
 a cauliflower to his coat, and went to the Challacombe Arms 
 to patronise the house, and to make tender enquiries after its 
 landlady. His reception was not such as would have warranted 
 him to perform the evolution which he had in mind, namely, 
 to leave Ann Rakestraw in the lurch, and avow a sudden tender 
 passion for her sister. He decided to wait. For the present, 
 it was enough to have vanquished the Coneybears. Remember- 
 ing, then, there was another nest to be kept warm, he hurried off 
 to it, saluted Bessie in a paternal fashion, to make her feel 
 accustomed to what might happen should he fail in his cam- 
 paign against her aunt, and congratulated her mother upon the 
 fortunate circumstances which had made it impossible for the 
 most undesirable characters in the neighbourhood to claim 
 relationship with her. 
 
 " I've prayed for this to happen," said Arm, though it may 
 be surmised she did not intend the remark to be taken quite 
 literally ; while Bessie chimed in with the statement that in her 
 orisons all her aunt's shortcomings had been remembered, 
 although she used somewhat different words ; and as for old 
 Rodda, he declared that he had attended chapel regularly for no 
 other purpose, and he considered it a remarkable instance of the 
 efficacy of prayer, which, as he ventured to remind the ladies, 
 was a powerful weapon when wielded by a righteous man. 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 275 
 
 They did not forget Lucy, who had been of such assistance in 
 their time of need. They called her a shameless huzzy. 
 
 When Miss Challacombe heard the news through Betsey, who 
 appeared to have forgiven her mistress for her rudeness earlier 
 in the day, she sent for Coneybear, lectured him, waited until 
 he had done weeping, and then promised to furnish his cottage. 
 Miss Challacombe comprehended the moral law of the villages 
 and accepted it. She liked Coneybear. His quaint character 
 appealed to her; but she told him sharply that now he was 
 about to become a married man, and possess a cottage and a 
 vote, he must really try and be more manly, and not melt into 
 tears whenever he was reproved. 
 
 "I'll try, missis," sobbed Coneybear. "But when I be 
 up sot, what be I to du ? " 
 
 Miss Challacombe gave the advice which was naturally 
 suggested, and dismissed him. When he reached the kitchen 
 Betsey informed him that she, too, proposed to give him a 
 wedding-present, namely, a good thwack on the side of his 
 " silly, gurt, thick head " with a broomstick. Coneybear was 
 not afraid of Betsey. He told her she had a face like a " viggy 
 pudden," and expressed a hope that she would end her days 
 either in the prison or the asylum — he hoped the prison — and 
 if he was only to be given the necessary authority in the matter, 
 the public executioner would most certainly be called upon to 
 hasten her obsequies. 
 
 All this time Sal Lampey sat in her kitchen, consumed with 
 fury. What irritated her more than anything else was the 
 unhappy consciousness that she had made a fool of herself. 
 Most women possess a certain sense of dignity, and the widow 
 was after all the principal " lady " in Tordown, after Miss 
 Challacombe, for, of course, Mrs. Wistman hardly counted. 
 She had made herself most ridiculous by her love-affair with 
 young Coneybear, and now he had made her more ridiculous 
 than ever, owing to the affair with Lucy. He had, in short, 
 scorned her ; and women, whether they be old or young, fair 
 or ugly, whether they weigh half as much as a prize bullock or 
 
 T 2 
 
276 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 barely tip the scale at eighty pounds, have a strong objection 
 to a man's disdain. Sal Lampey walked about the kitchen, 
 treading upon every blackbeetle which showed itself, wishing 
 every time that the insect was Coneybear, and accompanying 
 each execution with the angry phrase, " I'll scat 'en, D.V." 
 She was not well informed in the abbreviations which people 
 of higher education than herself are wont to use ; but she felt 
 that " D.V." were correct letters to quote upon that occasion, 
 having a dim belief that they meant " dalled if I vun't ! " 
 although the first word could be strengthened according to taste. 
 That evening the widow rolled into the room where the 
 beer-drinkers foregathered, being attracted by the sound of 
 ballad-singing. Bessie, who had come to sympathise with her 
 aunt, had already attended to their simple requirements. All 
 her suitors were sitting in a row behind the trestle-table, and 
 each had a mug of beer. They were singing, " Dree merry 
 men be we, be we," although their arithmetic was not correct, 
 as there were more than three. The news of Coneybear's 
 perfidy had spread far and wide. Every man who thought he 
 had the remotest qualification to enter the competition, of which 
 the widow was first prize, and a few who knew they had no 
 qualifications at all, were gathered together. Jonadab was 
 there with a fresh rose of largest size. There were also some 
 foreigners, that is to say, men from other parishes, who were 
 not acquainted with the lady, but were quite prepared to take 
 her over, the Challacombe Arms included, without any formal 
 introduction. Old Coneybear had engagements elsewhere. 
 The suitors had some delicacy of feeling. They refrained 
 from alluding to the widow's recent bereavement, but they 
 rejoiced when they perceived that her finger was no longer 
 encircled with three shillings' worth of gold and diamonds. 
 Coneybear was not going to see that ring again, nor was Lucy 
 to make any attempt to wear it. The widow had used the ring 
 as if it had been a blackbeetle ; and when she stood upon any- 
 thing of a fragile nature there was no further use for that 
 article. 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 277 
 
 Sal wished her suitors good evening, and asked after their 
 health, which at once gave them the opportunity of drinking 
 hers. Then Jonadab, who had been a ballad-singer of some 
 repute, obliged with, " Take, oh, take, those lips away," which 
 was hardly complimentary, although it was delivered with a 
 vast amount of sentiment. 
 
 Then somebody else sang, " The lady's fall," which was still 
 more unfortunate ; but it happened to be the only ballad he 
 knew, and he had always found it in great request. 
 
 The good lady had taken their measure long ago. None of 
 them wanted her, she knew. Every man was after the Challa- 
 combe Arms, a life of ease, and her bank-account. 
 
 She had been prepared to make a few concessions for the 
 sake of a young husband ; but she did not intend to purchase 
 an old man, who would be of little use about the place, and 
 might soon die and put her to the expense of burying him. 
 Sal generally looked at things from a business point of view. 
 She was intent upon business then. She thanked the suitors for 
 their kindly reception of her, and told them that she required 
 their services. They began to tumble over each other at once 
 in their eagerness to respond. 
 
 It was growing dark and Bessie went out to light the lamp 
 above the door. There were the usual conveniences for man 
 and beast outside the house ; a lifting-stock, a chain fastened 
 into the wall for securing horses, and a wooden trough for 
 the beast to drink out of while its master consumed malted 
 liquor out of a mug within. The widow directed the attention 
 of her suitors towards this trough. She desired them to empty 
 it, and she provided various utensils for that purpose. They 
 set to with a will, while Jonadab superintended the work. As 
 the future landlord of the Challacombe Arms he thought it 
 would be beneath him to take any active share in the baling 
 operations. So he stood by and gave directions ; and when the 
 widow came to consult him regarding the business she had on 
 hand he was so elated that he decided to get her into the 
 kitchen presently and ask her to name the day. 
 
278 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " I want some of 'em to fetch young Will," said the widow. 
 
 " Don't ye worry. I'll send 'em," said the delighted Rodda, 
 who only wished he could lay his avenging hands upon old 
 Coneybear also. "I'll do anything for ye, my dear," he 
 added. 
 
 " Get along," said the widow. 
 
 Bessie was an interested spectator, and for the first time it 
 occurred to her that old Rodda was not quite so indifferent to 
 the charms of her aunt as he had led her to suppose. In facti 
 his manner and voice were distinctly amorous. She reflected 
 that after all the small farmer might prefer to be her uncle 
 rather than her step-father. Bessie's tongue was as capable as 
 that of any other young woman. She decided to let her mother 
 have the benefit of it directly she got home. Widows are simple 
 creatures, she knew. Their daughters have to look after them> 
 
 A couple of suitors had gone to invite Coneybear to the 
 festivities. Sal's next move was to remind the others of the 
 existence of a slimy pond just behind the skittle-alley. She 
 explained that if they would fill the trough with water from that 
 pond they would be adding to the obligations which they had 
 already put upon her. There might not be much water remain- 
 ing in the pond on accoimt of the recent dry weather ; but no 
 objection would be made, at least not by herself, if the trough 
 had to be filled chiefly with mud and slime. The suitors 
 picked up their buckets, tin-cans, and old coal-scuttles, and 
 went cheerfully to do as the lady had commanded. They were 
 in the midst of their labours when the escort returned, but 
 without the prisoner. They explained that Coneybear had 
 refused the invitation ; and when they had assured him they were 
 under instructions not to accept a refusal, he had bolted for the 
 linhay, with the simple statement that he was " upsot " ; and 
 there he remained, locked in, and weeping bitterly. 
 
 The widow took coimsel with Jonadab, who by then had 
 decided to have the Challacombe Arms re-thatched that autumn, 
 and to have a second window made at the side to admit more 
 light into the kitchen, which was rather gloomy ; and Jonadab 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 279 
 
 desired to have the kitchen well-lighted because he meant to 
 have his meals there. His advice to the future provider of his 
 luxuries was that another escort should be sent, stronger than 
 the first, to constrain the bashful Coneybear to join them. This 
 was done, and Jonadab walked into the house with an air of 
 proprietorship, and told Bessie he thought he would try the 
 sloe-gin. 
 
 By this time it was dark outside. Making, himself quite at 
 home, Jonadab lighted the kitchen lamp with his own hands, 
 which, as he was compelled to acknowledge subsequently, was 
 one of the most foolish actions of his life. Then he seated 
 himself and tried the sloe-gin. The chair was not very com- 
 fortable. Later on he would buy a better one with the widow's 
 money. He tried the sloe-gin again, aild had just decided that 
 it deserved his serious attention when the widow herself entered. 
 The stars in their courses appeared to be propitious to Jonadab 
 Rodda. Sal felt slightly faint. She attributed it to the odour 
 of the mud in the trough. Jonadab hastened to support her, 
 or rather to pretend to do so, for all the support he was able to 
 oifer was about equal to that afforded to a cathedral by a flying 
 buttress. He prescribed sloe-gin, and again the lady took his 
 advice. Jonadab began to feel careless. Winning women 
 was easy work, almost too easy, he thought. Ann Rakestraw 
 was his for the asking ; and here was the catch of the neigh- 
 bourhood leaning upon him, asking his advice, and doing all 
 she could think of to make him propose. He made up his 
 mind to demand a sum down before marrying her. It was a 
 matter of business. Women were plentiful. The supply of 
 widows exceeded the demand. He could not afford to give 
 himself away. Sal Lampey would have to pay the market-price 
 for a husband. The price which Jonadab put upon himself 
 was not mean. 
 
 "Have another drop o' sloe-gin, old dear," he said 
 afEectionately. 
 
 The widow said she couldn't, but she was persuaded to 
 change her mind. Then Jonadab put his arm about her 
 
28o ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 waist, not all of it, but as much as he could manage ; and when 
 he was not repulsed he grew yet bolder, and ventured to salute 
 her with a kiss. The widow made no objection, but she was 
 highly amused. She had put away from her the idea of matri- 
 mony for the present. She had not the slightest intention of 
 marrying the small farmer in any case. She was not going to 
 have any old man about the place, but she had decided to 
 encourage Rodda and all the other suitors, because it was 
 good for business. As long as she encouraged them they 
 would come. They could not visit the Challacombe Arms 
 without spending money. They might, indeed, vie with each 
 other in spending their cash, in the hope that she would choose 
 the man who was most liberal. If this was not good business 
 Sal Lampey did not know what was. 
 
 Jonadab had done for himself completely. He was to share 
 the fate of most men who try to sit between two stools. He 
 had left the door wide open ; and he had made the fatal mistake 
 of lighting the lamp, ignoring the first principles of courtship 
 which require strict privacy and total darkness. Bessie stood in 
 the unlighted passage and saw everything. She comprehended 
 the small farmer's perfidy. Her mother's eyes should be opened 
 that night. Henceforth there would be no welcome for Rodda 
 in the Rakestraw cottage ; and he would only be tolerated in 
 the Challacombe Arms when he came with money in his hands. 
 The victim knew nothing of his impending fate. He went on 
 with his little game, which was only terminated by the arrival 
 of a suitor, breathless and excited, who came to announce, 
 " Us have got him." 
 
 Coneybear had been captured. He had been bolting for 
 cover, like a rabbit to its hole, when he had been cut off. A 
 dash for the kitchen had brought no relief, because Betsey 
 slammed the door in his face, and took the further precaution 
 of locking it. Betsey thought it quite right that sinners should 
 be punished. She was not going to interfere with the course of 
 justice. The village constable shared her sentiments. It was 
 too dark for him to see much, but he could hear shouts and the 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 281 
 
 sounds of a struggle, and he perceived that something was 
 going on which was likely to lead to a breach of the peace. So 
 he hurried home, and went to bed, and told his wife he was not 
 feeling at all well. And in the meantime the hapless Coneybear 
 went to his doom, too frightened to resist much, only weeping 
 noisily, and calling from time to time, " Where be my missis ? 
 I wants my missis." 
 
 The widow rushed out of the inn, flushed with vengeance 
 and sloe-gin. She had put away from her childish things. 
 She did not deign to address Coneybear. She hardly looked at 
 him. She merely seized him by the neck and dragged him to 
 the trough, very much as a farmer's wife handles the pullet 
 which is about to die ; and he squealed and wept and begged 
 for mercy, being by no means sure that he was not about to be 
 treated like the pullet ; while most of the suitors laughed to 
 please the widow, but a few protested and suggested that the 
 matter had gone quite far enough. 
 
 There was a crowd about the inn by this time. Most of the 
 villagers had assembled to see what was going on ; and when 
 they perceived that the widow was furiously angry, and did, 
 indeed, intend to plunge Coneybear into the mud, they had no 
 hesitation in placing themselves upon the side of the victim. 
 Most of the spectators were women, and they had not the 
 slightest sympathy with Sal Lampey. They knew she had set 
 her cap at the young man, and had encouraged him in every 
 way, and had made herself vastly ridiculous over it. So they 
 began to hiss and hoot and cry shame ; and when they had 
 worked themselves up into a proper state of indignation they 
 declared that if the widow refused to release Coneybear they 
 themselves would do so. Foremost among the women was 
 Lucy's mother. She was not going to stand by and see her 
 future son-in-law shamefully treated, and she said so in a 
 decided fashion. The boy had done no wrong. He was 
 going to marry her daughter. If there was not another woman 
 in Tordown ready to assist her she would tackle Sal Lampey 
 single-handed. 
 
'282 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 The widow knew she was unpopular, and she ought to have 
 known that the entire village was against her then, with the 
 exception of the suitors, and of them only Jonadab really 
 desired to witness the punishment of Coneybear. Had she 
 been cool she would have given way ; but now that she had 
 the victim in her hands, and realised that popular opinion 
 was against her using him as she desired, she became more 
 incensed than before. She assured Coneybear that she 
 would drown him; she dared the women to approach; and 
 she ordered the suitors to form a bodyguard around her. 
 They were only half-hearted suitors after all, for they did 
 not obey. 
 
 There was a wild cry of, " Come on, gals 1 " and then the 
 matrons were upon her. 
 
 Something disgracefully like a free fight followed ; and in 
 the middle of it old Coneybear crept up thirstily. Finding 
 himself close to Jonadab, who was being hustled by Bessie's 
 instructions and assistance, the old gentleman took the 
 opportunity to knock him down. An opportunity was also 
 given of trampling upon Jonadab when he was down, and old 
 Coneybear took that, too. 
 
 There had not been such a riot in peaceful Tordown since 
 the days of the great Devonshire rebellion. The constable 
 heard the noise increasing, and he gproaned, and told his wife 
 that she would have to get on her bicycle and go for the 
 doctor if he got any worse. Jonadab was not the only one 
 on the ground. The lady whom he still hoped to honour 
 with his name had also been compelled to assume a 
 recumbent position; and the other ladies acted no more 
 honourably towards their fallen foe than old Coneybear had 
 done. The victim was a free man. He wept no more. He 
 was decidedly not " upsot." On the contrary, he cackled 
 with grotesque laughter. He entirely concurred in the sug- 
 gestion made by the Amazons, that Sal Lampey should receive 
 the punishment which had been devised for him; but he 
 hastened to point out the impracticability of the proposal, 
 
CONCERNING VILLAGE MORALITY. 283' 
 
 owing to the narrowness of the trough and the width of the 
 widow. 
 
 " Her shall taste it, anyhow," shouted Lucy's indignant 
 mother ; and she scooped up a double handful of mud and 
 splashed it into Sal Lampey's face. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AM IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 
 
 " Come here, boy," cried Arminel. " No, not tail-wagging 
 boy," as Jim gambolled up. " Ruined boy, who hasn't got 
 any aunt left, and must live in a cottage because he's married 
 a slut. I've got a little scheme. I am going to do something 
 cheeky when we go back to Devon." 
 
 " Is that all you want me for ? " said Brian, as he appeared 
 at the door. 
 
 " Well, we haven't met for a long time. Quite twenty minutes 
 by that clock, which wants its face and hands washed. I don't 
 like losing sight of old friends. I am affectionate this morning. 
 I think I shall go and kiss the dad, and then Frank — I like 
 Frank, because he told me I was a respectable married woman 
 when I wasn't sure of it." * 
 
 " Now, look here, child " began Brian. 
 
 " Hark at him, with his children, when he's only a baby 
 himself," said Arminel scornfully. 
 
 " I won't have you referring to elderly solicitors of disreput- 
 able habits by their Christian names," went on her husband. 
 " And my father is much too fond of you. I am going to speak 
 to him on the subject." 
 
 " Doesn't he talk nicely ? " said the young lady. " It shows 
 what training can do. Well, I do think monkeys are the most 
 jealous creatures ever created," she went on. " I would never 
 have bought you if I had known you wouldn't let me kiss my 
 friends and relations — nice lawyers who tell a poor girl she's 
 married, though the man didn't really want her '' — she was 
 running away by this time — " and fathers who buy daughters 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 285 
 
 lovely hats, and call them pretty babies. You didn't hear him 
 call me pretty baby. It would have made you quite g^een. 
 It made me pink, but then babies ought to be pink. Brian, 
 what are you running after me for? " 
 
 " Wait till I catch you, miss," he said indignantly. 
 
 " He's going to beat me, Jim," she cried. " Look, dear ! 
 There's murder in his eyes. You wouldn't do anything if he 
 cut mother's throat, you little toad. You'd think it fun. Brian, 
 I shall heave this vase at you. It would be a good thing if it 
 was broken anyhow. I suppose you will reply by heaving the 
 clock at me — and I shall chuck the lamp. Everybody in the 
 house will know we really are married. Then I expect you 
 will take the poker, and knock me down, and kick me — beast 
 — and go out and give yourself up to the police, and your 
 photo will be in the papers, and your eflfigy in the Chamber of 
 Horrors — you mustn't get over the table — and there will be a 
 photograph taken of this room, the cross marking the spot 
 where the body was found, and one morning they'll give the 
 wretched criminal a splendid breakfast, and he won't be allowed 
 to digest it. Why don't you run out and buy a divorce ? 
 Perhaps they are cheap to-day. Then you can go to Miss 
 Challacombe, and tell her you have got rid of the slut, and she 
 will bless you, and you will be free to marry Nona Wistman 
 whom you used to fret over so " 
 
 Perhaps it was lucky that Arminel at that moment caught a 
 foot in her skirt, and went sprawling, because she could not 
 see her husband's quick change of expression. She did not 
 attempt to escape. She declared she was maimed for life. 
 She was captured and carried to the rickety sofa, to receive the 
 usual punishment for her misdeeds. She kissed him in a 
 bewitching way, and pleaded, " Don't beat me now I'm bruised. 
 I'm sorry for teasing, but I shall do it again. Kiss me for 
 teasing." 
 
 " I suppose if you had thrown that vase at me, I should have 
 been commanded to kiss you for that ? " said Brian. 
 
 "Of course," she said. "Boys must kiss their wives 
 
286 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 whenever they are told to — if they are nice wives. Not 
 unless." 
 
 " Sweetest thing that ever grew in a cottage," he murmured. 
 " But, darling, you must not kiss anyone but me." 
 
 " Not even Jimsy ? What would the poor little man do if 
 mother didn't kiss him every night and morning on the white 
 spot between his ears ? He says his little heart would go pop. 
 You're rather a silly monkey," she said tenderly. " Of course 
 I must kiss the dad. He likes it, and it is good for him. It 
 makes him want to see shops. A kiss is nothing. The way 
 you kiss is everything. There are four kinds : the polite-peck, 
 the society-smack, the duty-dab, and the love-bite. Now, I 
 don't think you ought to grumble if I give your dad duty-dabs, 
 when you have the love-bites. That's the sort I mean." 
 
 " You little witch 1 " he exclaimed. " Are you really 
 bruised, darling?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! I wasn't hurt a bit," she said gracelessly. " Now, 
 wouldn't you like to hear my scheme ? I'll tell you part of it. 
 I am going to see Miss Challacombe. She won't know me 
 from Eve, and I shall oSer myself as housemaid. Can't you 
 imagine me in a cotton frock, with my hair twisted up anyhow, 
 and a smut on my nose, perhaps two, if there's room, for my 
 nose is wee. I don't believe you have ever properly realised 
 what a small nose your wife has got," she stated. 
 
 Brian said that he knew something about it, and after he 
 had added to his information she went on, " I would be her 
 faithful domestic until my life's end, amen ; and they always win 
 the hearts of their employers." 
 
 "In melodrama," he said. "But what should I be 
 doing I " 
 
 "Engaged in honest labour," she laughed. "You should 
 see me on my evenings out. Miss Challacombe and I would 
 get along splendidly. She would ask, ' Maria, have you 
 cleaned the front doorstep?' And I should answer, 'Yes, 
 auntie, dear.' And now we must go and see the dad, or he'll 
 be fuming.'' 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 287 
 
 It was their last day in London, and they were about to visit 
 Cuthbert to receive final instructions. It had been decided 
 that they should return to North Beer for a few days, in order 
 that Brian might arrive at a settlement with Wistman, and 
 endeavour to approach his aunt. In the meantime Cuthbert 
 would be looking out for a cottage in Cornwall which would 
 suit them, where, as he reminded his son, he would have to 
 justify his existence by doing some work. They could not 
 settle in mid-Devon while Miss Challacombe and Dartmoor 
 Jack were living entities, but after that they could do as they 
 liked. The old gentleman had almost decided to come into 
 the western state himself during the Winter. He thought he 
 would not mind being ill there if he had his daughter-in-law to 
 nurse him. 
 
 Presently Arminel appeared at the door of the sitting-room 
 with a cry of distress and a distracting mouth. " Monkey, I 
 mustn't wear that hat," she declared. 
 
 " Why not, sweet ? The dad will be offended if you don't," 
 Brian answered. 
 
 " It makes me look so dreadfully saucy," she said. 
 
 He sprang up at once, and said he must see. She declined. 
 " You'll pull me to pieces, and I am tidy now," she said. How- 
 ever, she put on her new hat, and her worst fears were realised. 
 When order had been restored, Brian suggested a veil, and 
 she promised to follow his advice if he would leave the room. 
 " Because I always make faces when I am putting on a veil." 
 He obeyed, and presently she called, "I'm ready," from the 
 stairs, explaining that she would not join him in the room 
 because she was rather afraid she was looking pretty — ^for 
 a slut. 
 
 They found Cuthbert in a dignified mood, but the new hat 
 soon broke that down. It was not long beiore he was telling 
 Arminel that an Act of Parliament ought to be obtained forth- 
 with to restrain her from removing such a face from London. 
 The girl submitted for a time ; then declared she was going out to 
 procure a label, " You are requested not to touch," which she 
 
288 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 could hang round her neck. Cuthbert took the hint, and 
 stopped pawing. Then he became paternal, lectured them, told 
 them what they were to do, promised they should hear from him 
 soon, refused to give them his blessing because he said it 
 couldn't possibly be of any use to them ; and taking Brian 
 aside whispered that he had arranged with Frank to write Wist- 
 man, but that he was to hang a lion's skin on his recreant limbs 
 and go and see the rector himself. 
 
 Before they departed Arminel became mysterious. She said 
 she did not see why Brian should have all the secret confabula- 
 tions. She was going to have one, too. So she steered Cuth- 
 bert into a corner, and asked him if the hat suited her. " Because 
 I wanted it for a special purpose," she said. 
 
 " My dear child," he answered, " if you went out alone with 
 that hat on, you would have a queue of men after you from 
 Bedford Row to Harrow." 
 
 " Don't be frivolous," she said. " Do you think Miss Challa- 
 combe would like it ? " 
 
 "I cannot exactly picture my sister's cider-apple complexion 
 under a wreath of red roses," he said. 
 
 " I don't mean that. You know I don't. Would she like 
 me in it, do you think ? " 
 
 " She would prefer to see you in sackcloth, with a scuttleful 
 of ashes on your pretty head." 
 
 " Do answer properly," she pleaded. 
 
 " My sister would turn you from her door, even if you were 
 wearing white robes and wings," said Cuthbert. " She will 
 never receive you, nor will she forgive Brian for marrying 
 you." 
 
 " I expect you know," she sighed. " I am afraid I must call 
 Miss Challacombe a pig. Still, I won't disown her yet. Now, 
 I want yrya to give me something to take to her. Anything will 
 do, only you mustn't ask questions." 
 
 " What is the game now, I wonder ? " Cuthbert chuckled. 
 " It strikes me you are going the way to get those pink ears 
 boxed." 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 289 
 
 " Never mind my ears," said Arminel. " Give me something 
 to take to your sister." 
 
 " There is nothing, except my love — I don't suppose I mean 
 that." 
 
 " I can't carry anything so fragile," she laughed. " Something 
 solid and substantial." 
 
 " We will go out and buy something," he said. " I haven't 
 sent my sister a present for twenty years. She'll have a 
 fit." 
 
 " Don't tell the child," she whispered, nodding towards Brian, 
 who was watching her jealously, and immediately wanted to 
 know what they were talking about. 
 
 " I was only asking the dad if it wasn't nearly time I put you 
 into knickerbockers," she said sweetly. 
 
 The next day they returned to North Beer as secretly as they 
 could, although the entire neighbourhood knew of it the same 
 night, because they had to drive from the station. Tordown 
 being so much out of the way, the news would not reach Stokey 
 for at least twenty-four hours ; and much might happen in that 
 time. 
 
 North Beer was as they had left it. They had brought a 
 hamper of provisions. They decided to go on in the old way, 
 only the mistress of the house was not to be hidden for the 
 future. The influence of the red earth and roses would soon 
 make Brian forget Wistman and Nona and everjfthing that was 
 unpleasant. That night they walked in the moonlight up and 
 down the bowling-alley, and Arminel, who was dewy and fragrant 
 like the rose clusters, was anxious to know why people were 
 always saying that life was full of sorrows, when it was nothing 
 of the kind. She was going to show her wedding-ring tc 
 everyone, she said. She began by showing it to the martlets in 
 the hall window, remarking, " It's no use screaming, birdies. 
 You must make the best of a bad business. I am Mrs. Challa- 
 combe, and North Beer is mine, and if you don't behave 
 yourselves I shall put you in a cage and hang you up in the 
 coal-hole." She also stated her intention of snapping her 
 
 A.W. u 
 
ago ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 fingers in the faces of various people, David Badgery especi- 
 ally ; and if the sight of her ring didn't make his silly eyes 
 drop out of his head and roll away to Drewsteignton, she didn't 
 know what would ; and if Topsy's eyes rolled away, too, she 
 wouldn't care. 
 
 Brian was for continuing the game of love-in-idleness, but 
 Arminel would not have it. If her husband declined to assume 
 the lion's skin, she would wear it herself. She had decided 
 upon her line of action. The following day she had their 
 luncheon ready early, and then she went upstairs. Brian was 
 in the garden, and had no idea how closely he was watched. 
 In passing the ruined chapel, he noticed a heap of white roses 
 beneath the memorial to Saccharissa. 
 
 Presently he went into the house, calling Arminel. There 
 was no answer. North Beer seemed haunted. The place was 
 changed. It had become much too silent. The house 
 repelled, and the garden looked ugly. Brian ran upstairs, 
 whistling for the sake of making a noise. Arminel was not in 
 the bedroom ; but there was a large sheet of paper fastened to 
 the mirror, and he read : — 
 
 " Darling, I've run away. I know you would never let me 
 go alone, so I shall slip out while you are in the garden. I am 
 going a big walk for a small girl, but I will drive back. I've 
 got my new hat on, and the kissing-frock — ^you know. The 
 one I am supposed to look sweet in. Now, you must be good, 
 and not cry-baby. Sit under the roses, and learn a page of the 
 'Gardener's Kalendar ' by heart, and think of the nice girl, who 
 will come back to you in the dimpsies, with as many kisses as 
 there are prickles in a gorse-bush. I have taken Jim. Darling, 
 good-bye. Sweetlips." Underneath was scribbled, probably 
 at the last moment, "Little monkey." 
 
 During the next hour Brian discovered what existence was 
 like without his wife, and he decided it was a failure. He was 
 angry and miserable, and angry with himself for being miser- 
 able. It was no use trying to follow the girl. She had 
 disappeared long ago in the deep lanes. He could do nothing 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 291 
 
 but wait patiently until it might please the errant lass to return. 
 After all, it was something to look forward to. Brian mooned 
 about the rooms, fingering everything that she might have 
 touched ; and then he went to the bowling-alley, and spent a 
 whole hour examining the turf for marks of her tiny shoes. 
 When he did find one unmistakably genuine he was ridiculous. 
 
 Brian was not the only member of his family who was feeling 
 lonely that afternoon. Miss Challacombe was loafing about 
 her garden, snapping off seed-pods as though she hated them, 
 and wishing her nephew had not gone " to the deuce," because 
 she would have liked to inflict a game of croquet upon him. 
 Miss Challacombe knew she was getting on in life. She would 
 probably live another twenty years, having, as she sensibly 
 observed, " nothing to die for," but the prospect looked rather 
 gloomy. She was fond of children, and she wanted some at 
 Stokey, partly that they might liven her, chiefly that she might 
 liven them. There were plenty of young Challacombes in 
 Australia, I y were no good to her. She had intended 
 
 that Brian i marry a nice girl, and have pretty children, 
 
 whom she 1 aring up. Her dream had come to nothing. 
 
 Brian had married a cook, or a 'tweeny-maid, or something 
 equally objectionable, and had made it necessary for her to 
 banish him from her lonely life. 
 
 " Good afternoon. Miss Challacombe," said a pretty voice. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " replied the mistress of Stokey. 
 
 A beautiful and charmingly dressed girl stood upon the 
 other side of the gale. The red roses in her hat cast a bright 
 pink flush over her delightful face. The old lady had seen 
 nothing so distracting for a long time. She hurried to the gate, 
 opened it, and bubbled with hospitality. 
 
 " You don't know me," said smiling Arminel. " Well, I 
 thought you wouldn't. But I had to come. For one thing, I 
 have brought you something from Mr. Challacombe — and, 
 I expect it will surprise you, but I am staying at North Beer. 
 I only came from London yesterday, and Mr. Challacombe 
 said I might put up at North Beer for a few nights. I hope 
 
 u 2 
 
292 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 you don't mind. Isn't it a lovely day ? And what a pretty- 
 garden, though it doesn't come up to North Beer. I am sure 
 there is nothing in Devon to equal North Beer." 
 
 " Who the deuce is she ? " muttered Miss Challacombe. 
 The visitor was a lady. There was no doubt about that ; and 
 most delightfully dressed. The mistress of Stokey felt rather 
 at a disadvantage, as she was extremely shabby. But it was 
 pleasant to see a fashionable young woman in Tordown. Miss 
 Challacombe was more bitter than ever against her nephew 
 while she regarded the radiant damsel. How could he marry 
 a slut when there were lovely creatures of his own class like 
 this upon the earth ? 
 
 " You have walked all the way from North Beer ? You must 
 be dreadfully tired," she said. 
 
 " Not a bit," laughed Arminel. " The air is so lovely, I 
 could walk all day." 
 
 " You must come in, and rest, and have some tea. If you 
 will excuse me one minute, I will go and tell Betsey. I still 
 have Betsey," said Miss Challacombe. 
 
 This was pure cunning on the old lady's part. She could 
 not remember ever having seen the young beauty before, but 
 she quite perceived she was supposed to know her. Possibly 
 she was some distant connection who had sprung up suddenly, 
 out of English school or foreign convent, into sweet woman- 
 hood. It did not seem polite to ask her name. But the 
 remark about Betsey would decide whether she was well 
 acquainted with Stokey or not. 
 
 " You ought to get rid of her," said the girl. " She imposes 
 upon your good-nature dreadfully." 
 
 " To tell you the truth, my dear," said Miss Challacombe 
 confidentially, " I can't. She won't go." 
 
 " Blow her out with gunpowder," laughed Arminel. " You 
 want me in the house. I'd manage her. I seem to manage 
 most people," she said sweetly. 
 
 " You must come on here when you leave North Beer," Miss 
 Challacombe invited. " We'll tackle Betsey together." 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 293. 
 
 " It would be lovely," said Arminel. " I don't mean tackling 
 Betsey, but coming here. Would you give me the wonderful 
 bed?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Challacombe. " It is the guest-bed." 
 
 Then she trotted off to find Betsey, wondering more than 
 ever who the visitor might be. Miss Challacombe was not 
 particularly fond of young ladies, but she felt it would be 
 pleasant to entertain this one. She was not only charming, but 
 was rubbing her in exactly the way Miss Challacombe liked to 
 be rubbed ; that is to say, she praised North Beer, and ran down 
 Betsey, and told the old lady that she was good-natured, which 
 was perfectly true, only people did not always remember. " I 
 must find out who she is. She won't mind my asking. She will 
 know old women are forgetful," muttered Miss Challacombe. 
 
 As she returned to the garden through the house she saw the 
 visitor sitting in the porch, with the dog cuddled against her 
 frock. She looked so pretty and graceful that the mistress of 
 Stokey stood for a few minutes to admire the picture. Then 
 she advanced and invited her to enter. 
 
 " May I bring my doggie ? " asked Arminel. " He's very 
 good, and does just what mother tells him." 
 
 " Yes, bring him in. Dear little dog," said the gracious old 
 lady. 
 
 When they were in the sitting-room, the girl handed over 
 Cuthbert's present, and delivered various messages, and ap- 
 peared to know the old gentleman so well that Miss Challa- 
 combe could not suggest that her visitor's name had slipped 
 her memory for the moment. The girl seemed to know as 
 much about the family as she did herself. Tea was brought in 
 by Betsey, although she complained bitterly of the exertion ; 
 and when she saw Arminel she complained again, though less 
 openly. Young women who wore such ravishing garments 
 could only be one thing, and that was immoral. It was indeed 
 something to complain of, thought Betsey, that she should be 
 called upon to serve actresses in her old age ; and she decided 
 to speak to her mistress about it later on. 
 
294 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " I expect you know my nephew, Brian Challacombe ? " the 
 old lady asked, in rather a stormy voice. 
 
 Arminel replied that she had met the young gentleman — she 
 did not say that she had been introduced to him, because that 
 would not have been true. She admitted, however, that she 
 thought him rather nice. 
 
 " He used to be all right, but he has been a raving maniac 
 lately," said Miss Challacombe. " I suppose you have heard 
 how he has disgraced us all ? " 
 
 "He has made rather an unfortunate marriage, I believe," 
 said Arminel primly. 
 
 " Unfortunate I My dear I He ran off with a carroty-haired 
 scullery-maid, and married her in Exeter." 
 
 "Was it as bad as that ? " said Arminel. 
 
 "It is as bad as it can be," stormed Miss Challacombe. 
 " The sort of girl, my dear, that you or I would hesitate to 
 engage. A mere slut. A fat, ugly, freckled wench, with a 
 cast in her eye, and feet like a plough-boy. That's the present 
 Mrs. Challacombe. If she came near my gate, I'd get the old 
 gun out of the attic and shoot her." 
 
 " You have seen her, then ? " said Arminel gently. 
 
 "Seen her! I wouldn't look at the creature. But I can 
 imagine her." 
 
 " I think you must be mistaken," said Arminel, with a little 
 tremor. "She is not like that. I believe she is pretty, and 
 lady-like, although I don't pretend she is his social equal. 
 Your brother likes her very much. He told me he thought she 
 was the prettiest and sweetest girl he had ever met. Those 
 were his very words." 
 
 " Then he's as mad as his son," snapped Miss Challacombe. 
 
 " I am sure he loves her," Arminel continued. 
 
 " That's no excuse for behaving abominably. I wish Brian 
 had never come here. He ran after girls all the time, and I 
 believe proposed to every one he met. He'd run after you if 
 he was here now." 
 
 Arminel thought it was probable, but she said nothing. 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 295 
 
 " Well, I don't suppose he would," went on Miss Challa- 
 combe, in a calmer fashion. " For one thing, he's not capable 
 of good taste, and then, of course, you are married." 
 
 The girl had taken off her gloves, and her left hand was just 
 then lying upon her knee. 
 
 " Where is your husband ? " went on Miss Challacombe, in 
 her quick manner. 
 
 " At North Beer," said Arminel, in a low voice. 
 
 " Why ever didn't you bring him ? " 
 
 As this was not an easy question to answer, Arminel ignored 
 it, and asked if she might give Jim a small cake. Miss Challa- 
 combe again muttered, " Who the deuce is she ? " and this time 
 the girl heard her. She was beginning to quake. It was no 
 use trying pretty ways on the mistress of Stokey. She had 
 made a good impression, but that was only because she was 
 sailing under false colours. Miss Challacombe was furious 
 with Brian ; and when Arminel confessed that she was the slut, 
 there would be a scene. She was a plucky girl. She had 
 come to Stokey to show herself to its mistress, and then to 
 plead for Brian's forgiveness ; but Miss Challacombe's manner 
 convinced her that the old lady would be too angry to hear 
 reason, when she was informed that the girl to whom her 
 hospitality had been offered was the carroty-haired scullery-maid 
 whom Brian had married secretly in Exeter. 
 
 " Do you know any games of Patience ? " asked Miss Challa- 
 combe with professional interest. 
 
 " Brian has shown me some, but I think they are rather 
 stupid, and they won't work out for me." 
 
 Arminel looked up in a pretty, beseeching manner, and was 
 not at all astonished to find the old lady stiff and horror-struck. 
 
 " I don't suppose " began Miss Challacombe. Then she 
 
 gasped, and went on, "Were you referring to my nephew? 
 Or, perhaps, to your husband ? " 
 "Yes, it's funny," laughed Arminel. "But he's Brian, too." 
 "Really, my dear, you startled me," gasped the old 
 lady. 
 
296 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "I believe you thought I was the carroty-haired scullery- 
 maid," said the girl. " I was quite prepared to be taken by 
 my shoulders and pushed into the road. I don't believe you 
 would, though." 
 
 This was more than Miss Challacombe could endure. 
 Arminel was not an actress, although Betsey thought she was. 
 She spoke almost pathetically, and the old lady began at once 
 to put various pieces of the puzzle together. This brilliant 
 damsel had come from her brother ; she was staying at North 
 Beer ; her husband was with her there ; little cake-devouring 
 Jim was another piece in the puzzle ; there had been a dog in 
 Willow Gorge. The only piece which would not fit in was the 
 girl. She was evidently a lady, and an exceedingly attractive 
 one. Here was another mystery brewing, and Miss Challacombe 
 hated mysteries. Nona Wistman was bad enough, but this was 
 worse. 
 
 " Look'ye, my dear," she burst forth excitedly. " I don't 
 usually bother to be polite. It's no use my saying I know you, 
 because I don't. I've been worrying my head from the first 
 minute I saw you, but if we have met before you must have 
 been a youngster. Who the deuce are ye ? " 
 
 "The slut," said Arminel, in the prettiest manner 
 imaginable. 
 
 " What ? Who ? " screamed the miserable old woman. 
 " Arminel Challacombe," said the young lady, becoming as 
 conceited as a goddess. " And you are quite wrong about me, 
 because my hair is not carroty, and I never was a scullery- 
 maid, and I am the prettiest girl in Devonshire with this hat 
 on," she continued, becoming still prouder. " Now you won't 
 be horrid and turn me out. Nobody is ever unkind to me. 
 It was naughty of me to steal upon you as I did, but I 
 thought you would like to see for yourself what a nice wife 
 Brian has got." 
 
 Miss Challacombe's hands were fidgeting with the lace about 
 her throat. She wanted to lose her temper ; but somehow it 
 would not be lost. 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 297 
 
 " You were the young woman who was with him at Lee ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " We were honeymooning," said the sparkhng girl. 
 
 " Then upon Dartmoor ? " 
 
 " Still honeymooning," she laughed. 
 
 " Then you went with him to North Beer 1 " 
 
 " For more of the same honeymoon," said she. " You left 
 out the London visit. We honeymooned there, and we honey- 
 mooned to Battersea and bought Jim, and we honeymooned 
 back again." 
 
 "I don't want to hear all that nonsense," broke in Miss 
 Challacombe, recovering herself. "Just tell, me who you 
 are." 
 
 The girl looked down and said, like a child saying her 
 lesson, " I am Arminel, the only daughter of John Zaple who 
 is a small Dartmoor commoner. I am quite a poor girl, and 
 I was a school-teacher before I met Brian. He loves me, and 
 so does his father. I think most people love me. Jimmy does 
 — don't you, dear ? " she concluded in her explosive fashion. 
 
 " You had no business to marry Brian," said Miss Challa- 
 combe. " You must have known what harm you were doing 
 him. I made up my mind directly I heard of his folly that 
 I would have nothing more to do with him, and of course I 
 cannot receive you. I must own you are nothing like I thought 
 you would be, and I will say that if you had been a — a lady, I 
 should have welcomed you with pleasure. I must ask you not 
 to come here again." 
 
 " I am your niece," sighed Arminel, with delicious pathos. 
 
 "The deuce take her," said the old lady. "No amount of 
 scrubbing will make a nigger white, and in the same way Brian 
 cannot make you a lady by marrying you," she went on. " I 
 ejcpect he is more to blame than you. He has made a shocking 
 fool of himself. You are not the only one." 
 
 " Oh, but I am," cried Arminel. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. There's Nona Wistman. He proposed to 
 her." 
 
298 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " He did not." 
 
 "Hold your tongue 1" snapped Miss Challacombe. "He 
 did, and the rector believes he is siill' engaged to her. Why, 
 after you married Brian he stood in this very room and admitted 
 he was going to marry the girl." 
 
 " Don't," said Arminel. " Please don't tell these untruths. 
 You can't set me against him. You only hurt me, and that is 
 cruel." 
 
 "You can't have everything your own way," said Miss 
 Challacombe, who was getting fingry with herself because she 
 was feeling sorry for the girl. " Look here ! Look at this 
 cutting from the paper 1 " She began to fumble in a purse 
 upon the table. " Here it is I From last week's paper. 
 Wistman must have put it in. Just like him. Read it, and 
 don't accuse an old woman of telling untruths. The deuce," 
 she muttered to herself, " what a pretty creature she is 1 " 
 
 It was the ordinary announcement. A marriage had been 
 arranged, and would shortly take place, between Brian Challa- 
 combe, only son of the Reverend Cuthbert Challacombe, of 
 North Beer, and Nona, only daughter of the Reverend Stephen 
 Wistman, of Tordown. 
 
 The old lady could see that the girl's lashes were wet. She 
 remembered, with a pang, that she was being cruel to her own 
 niece. But she was only John Zaple's daughter. She was not 
 a lady. She had no right to the name of Challacombe. The 
 mistress of Stokey was tender-hearted enough, but she was 
 intensely proud. She could not show sympathy to common 
 people. Blue blood must not be intimate with base blood. 
 The girl had brought the trouble upon herself by setting her 
 cap at a man who was above her. 
 
 " I don't understand," said the poor girl, her voice breaking 
 over every syllable. " There is some silly mistake. I must go 
 to my — ^my husband. I don't want you to be nice to me now. 
 I want to be alone with him. He loves me, and so does the 
 dad, and so does Jim," she went on hysterically. " Everybody 
 loves me, except you." She was crying all the time. 
 
AN IRRITABLE OLD LADY COMBATANT. 299 
 
 There was a rustling sound, and an exclamation which was 
 not unlike an oath, and Arminel knew that she was alone. 
 Miss Challacombe had her family pride to consider ; but she 
 was human, and flesh and blood could stand no more of that. 
 She had gone up to her room, and was dabbing her eyes, and 
 swearing at herself in a manner that was almost coarse. 
 
 "Somebody must have told the child if I hadn't," she 
 muttered. 
 
 Arminel went out of Stokey. Jim was jumping up her, and 
 was very much astonished because she took no notice of him. 
 Down the centre of the road came bow-legged David, leading 
 Topsy by the curb-rein, his white face creased with delighted 
 smiles. He had seen Arminel enter Stokey, and had waited 
 for her. He noted with pleasure that the " keeper " was not 
 with her. There was no impediment, so far as David could 
 see, to prevent him from having some fun with Jack Zaple s 
 daughter. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 HOW ARMINEL THREW HER HEART INTO THE AtR. 
 
 " Ho, ho ! my dear ! " called David. 
 
 Arminel took no notice. She hurried between the Rectory 
 and the churchyard, and began to descend the hill, hardly 
 knowing whether that was the way to North Beer or not. She 
 could think of nothing but the one thing. She was only a poor 
 girl, and Brian was a Challacombe. He had deceived her. 
 Cuthbert had let out the truth in an unguarded moment. Their 
 marriage was no marriage. The solicitor had been instructed 
 to tell her she was legally wedded, because Brian wanted to 
 keep her for a few weeks longer. She had never been any- 
 thing better than his mistress. Brian was going to marry 
 Nona Wistman, and she was to be cast out of North Beer. It 
 was the story of Will Challacombe and the village girl over 
 again. She, too, had to be most miserable. That road would 
 lead to the limestone quarries, and the deep blue lake. Down 
 in the valley she could see the white tower of South Tawton 
 church. They might bury her there, and the name upon the 
 stone would be, not Arminel Challacombe, but Maria Zaple. 
 
 " Prettier than ever, my dear," said David. 
 
 He was walking just behind. They had passed the Rectory, 
 and were upon the lonely hill. David stepped out boldly and 
 slipped his lean arm about her waist. She struck out wildly ; 
 hit him across the face with her gloves; screamed as if she 
 had lost her senses ; and then leaned against the stone hedge, 
 and put her face upon her arms, and sobbed. She had been 
 a man's plaything long enough. She wanted to mutilate- her- 
 self, tear off her hat and frock, make herself ugly, so that 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 
 
 391 
 
 people might not pity her for her prettiness. Dartmoor Jack 
 would have to pay for her funeral. The Challacombes would 
 not trouble. She was sorry to be an expense to the old 
 fellow. 
 
 David's weak face quivered. He was fond of the girl in his 
 queer way. His manner of love-making was primitive, but he 
 knew no better. He wanted to marry Arminel, though he 
 believed she was another man's mistress. He, too, could give 
 her pretty things. There was plenty of money in the Badgery 
 family. They were much wealthier than the Challacombes, 
 even if they were common people. He forgot to be angry at 
 the blow she had dealt him. He and Topsy approached the 
 girl. David's foolish eyes were blinking, and a big tear ran 
 merrily down his turnip-face. 
 
 " Aw, I say, my dear ! Aw, I say. Don't do it. Don't ye 
 now," he said. 
 
 Arminel half turned. She held out her left hand, and David 
 saw the ring. For once in his life he was sharp-witted. Even 
 Topsy seemed to understand, and she put out her head and 
 tried to bite at the finger and the ring. 
 
 " You'm Mrs. Challacombe I " David gasped. 
 
 " I thought so. I don't know what I am. I believe I am 
 only a common girl after all. My memory is mixed up. I 
 don't know what has happened. I thought I would go home — 
 to North Beer, but that is a place where poor girls are ruined. 
 This morning everybody loved me. Now everybody hates 
 me. Where is my Jimmy? I must have something to love 
 me." 
 
 Jim was busy hunting rabbits, and had no sympathy to 
 offer just then. 
 
 " I love ye, my dear, I love ye," gasped poor David. 
 
 "You worried me," she said. "But you didn't know 
 I was married — at least I thought I was. Don't worry me 
 now." 
 
 " I won't, my dear. I'll keep by yew. Get on Topsy, and 
 I'll take ye to Drewsteignton. Uncle and me will be glad to 
 
302 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 have ye. Us have plenty of money. Us don't know what to 
 do wi' it all," said the foolish fellow. 
 
 " Is it true ? " she cried. " Is he going to many Nona 
 Wistman ? " 
 
 " Aw, yes. It's true, my dear.. It's true. Everyone knows 
 it. He must marry her. Next month, they say. She'll be a 
 mother, my dear. They tried to keep it quiet, but Lucy found 
 out, and she told Will Coneybear. It's true." 
 
 Arminel came away from the hedge. She had stopped 
 crying. David was astonished to see how calm she was. 
 
 " I gave myself up so entirely," she murmured. " I gave 
 all that I could. My heart, soul, and body were his ; not 
 because I wanted to be Mrs. Challacombe, but because I loved 
 him. I have always been a good girl. I have been tempted — 
 I have been offered everything that a girl is supposed to sigh 
 for if I would not be good. But I kept myself for the man I 
 loved, though I am only a cottage girl — and I gave everything 
 to him." 
 
 It was a thing without precedent, but David swore at Topsy 
 because she would not stand still. 
 
 Arminel was struggling with her ring ; but her little fingers 
 were hot and moist. In her pretty pathetic way she looked up 
 and said, " It won't come off." 
 
 On the other side of the stone hedge Coneybear was sobbing 
 in a subdued fashion. He had never in his life seen anything 
 like Arminel, and he had followed her in adoration. He kept 
 upon the safe side of the hedge, and peered over from time to 
 time. He had heard everything, and it was more than his 
 simple nature could endiure. 
 
 " What be yew going to do ? " said David. 
 
 " I am going to the Rectory," said Arminel quietly. "I must 
 make certain. They will turn me out, I expect, but I am 
 getting used to that. I must see Nona Wistman. Then I will 
 go home to Blackalake Gorge." 
 
 " I'll take ye there," said David. " I'll put ye on Topsy, and 
 walk beside her." 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 303 
 
 " Thank you, David. It's nice to have a friend," she said. 
 "Don't wait. I would rather be alone. I can't go on re- 
 straining myself. I want to be alonh, and lie down, and bite 
 things. It's the end of the world, David. Aren't you 
 frightened ? " she said, trying to be playful. " Oh, here's 
 Jimmy! What a grubby nose, doggie dear," she sobbed. 
 " Are you coming with poor mother ? Isn't she silly to wear 
 this hat and frock when her heart is all in pieces ? " 
 
 David stood in the road stroking Topsy's neck. He was 
 marvellously keen-witted. He guessed what Arminel would 
 be like when she left the Rectory. He knew that to reach 
 Blackalake Gorge she would take the short cut through 
 Tawton Quarries, and along the edge of the precipice above 
 the lake. It would be so easy to make a false step there ; and 
 that lake was icy cold and eighty feet in depth. David con- 
 cluded that he must not leave her until she was safe inside the 
 cottage in the gorge. 
 
 Arminel passed between the laurels of the Rectory garden. 
 It was dreadfully quiet. There was all the loneliness of North 
 Beer without any of its beauty. It was all weeds and big stones 
 and rank grass, instead of roses and red earth. She drew near 
 a patch of lawn. It was like a hayfield. Another girl was 
 walking there listlessly, taking necessary exercise, a fair-haired 
 girl, with sullen expression, hard eyes, and obstinate mouth, 
 Arminel went towards her, knowing she must be the Rector's 
 daughter. Nona was wearing a loose cloak, and as she 
 walked the breeze parted it, and Arminel was able to see for 
 herself that David's words were true. 
 
 " He is going to throw me aside for her," she murmured. 
 
 Nona saw the stranger and paused. Then she began to 
 walk away, pretending she had not noticed anything, and 
 holding the cloak together at the front. Arminel came across 
 the grass. She did not care what happened. She was going 
 to hear what her rival had to say. She called her, and Nona 
 had to stop and turn. 
 
 " You are Miss Wistman ? " said Arminel. 
 
J04 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Yes," answered Nona. 
 
 She is not pretty. She might have been once, but her face 
 is hard ; she does not love anyone ; she has a horrid mouth, 
 and her eyes are not true. I believe she thinks of nothing but 
 her passions. One man is much the same to her as any other. 
 She does not want him. She will make him miserable. These 
 were the impressions that Arminel received when Nona turned 
 to face her. 
 
 " You are going to marry Mr. Challacombe ? " she said, 
 trying to control her voice, and keep the tears out of it. 
 
 " I don't know who you are," said Nona, stiffly. 
 
 " I am a friend of his," said poor Arminel. " I have heard 
 so many different tales. I thought I would come and see you, 
 and find out the truth." 
 
 " Well, you can go and see my father, if you like. Perhaps 
 he will tell you," said Nona. Then she went on angrily, " Of 
 course I must marry him. You can see what he has done to 
 me. I am a clergyman's daughter, and I suppose I must be 
 decent." She stopped, and walked away as quickly as she 
 could, because she knew her tongue was imprudent, and she 
 was afraid of saying something which might add to her 
 troubles. 
 
 Arminel walked among the laurels. It was obvious that 
 Brian wanted to get rid of her. She had always been ready to 
 do what he wished. She might as well continue in the same 
 conduct to the end. She knelt in her pretty frock beneath a 
 sycamore, and called to Jim. He rushed Up, and dropped a 
 stone into her hand that she might throw it for him. She lifted 
 him by his front paws, kissed the white patch between his eyes, 
 and began to cry again, " No, darling ! No more play-games. 
 Mother's got heartache. Poor mother, Jimmy! She'll send 
 you back to him — ^he's not father any more, but he will be nice 
 to you, and let you sleep on — on that blanket. I took you out 
 of the Orphanage, dear, and to-night you will be an orphan 
 again, for mother isn't going home. She can't be a burden to 
 poor old father, and there will be a baby, too, Jimmy, and she's 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 305 
 
 got no money, and she can't look after the baby and work, too. 
 Oh, doggy, your pretty head is such a tear-bath ! " 
 
 This broken speech was overheard by Coneybear. The 
 simple fellow had followed Arminel under the cover of the 
 laurels, and had crept near to listen with his red handkerchief 
 stuffed in his mouth. He comprehended that the beautiful 
 lady was grievously " upsot." It was the first time that Coney- 
 bear had been brought face to face with tragedy. Arminel 
 had more to say to Jim, and he heard that, too. Then he 
 stumbled back to Stokey, and sought his mistress, and told 
 her all. 
 
 " I wants to bide by she, missis," he blubbered. " She'm 
 going to Tawton, and she'm going to drown herself. She told 
 the little dog. I wants to go and pull she out, missis," he 
 howled. 
 
 " Where is she ? " asked Miss Challacombe sharply. 
 
 " Under the trees to the Rectory. Kneeling on the grass, 
 missis." 
 
 " So she has been there," the old lady muttered. " Run 
 after her ! " she said to Coneybear. " Tell her I want her to 
 come back here. Tell her she must come." The young man 
 clattered off, and the mistress followed. She knew it was all 
 her fault. It seemed to be the evil fate of the Challacombes 
 to ruin the lives of young women. The old lady ran out of 
 the house hatless, trying to banish the horrible picture, which 
 kept presenting itself, of that beautiful girl lying in the lake, 
 and dying in the belief that her husband was faithless. 
 
 Arminel had been compelled to rely upon herself nearly all 
 her life. She was then about to do what her mind told her 
 was right. She could not return to North Beer and face the 
 man who had been so cruel, and hear from his own lips that 
 he did not love her. She could see only two courses open 
 before her ; one was that terrible promenade up and down the 
 midnight pavement, the other was the lake amid the limestone. 
 Arminel was not the girl to hesitate. There was only one way 
 for her. She accepted it in her pretty, resigned way. She tried 
 
 A.W. X 
 
306 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 not to think too much, not to cry ; and she even forced herself 
 to be playful, telling Jim she would be tired by the time she 
 reached the quarries, but it wouldn't matter ; and she was glad 
 it was so warm ; and she hoped it wouldn't hurt — probably it 
 was no worse than having a tooth out, perhaps not so bad. 
 " But, Jimmy, it's not that," she sobbed. " It's the thought 
 that nobody loves me. I don't want to die, for the world is 
 nice when people are kind, but I must, doggie. It is my 
 punishment for not taking care of myself. I have tried to be 
 good. They wouldn't let me. I will take care of myself 
 now." 
 
 Arminel was at the far end of the Rectory garden by this time. 
 She intended to climb the hedge and go down the fields, 
 because she felt sure David would be waiting in the lane, and 
 she knew from past experience how difficult it was to shake 
 him off. She murmured, " I won't be silly. I won't think of 
 anything horrid. I will go on being conceited, and think 
 myself nice and pretty and good. Nobody else thinks so, but 
 that doesn't matter. Stupid little thing ! " she said to her 
 handkerchief. " You're no good — all soppy I " She threw it 
 away and wiped her pretty wet face with the flounce of her 
 petticoat. " Now I feel better — no, I don't," she sobbed again. 
 "Those horrid thoughts ! They will put 'Maria Zaple' on my 
 tombstone, and they will bury me in a dirty wet corner 
 where the sun never shines, and they will have an inquest 
 and find out I was going to have a baby, and they will say that 
 was why I did it. And I shall be held up as a warning to 
 other girls, and they will be afraid to pass my grave at 
 night." Then she tried to laugh. " Silly little girl I What 
 does it matter ? Now, Jimmy, we will go a nice walk, and 
 then you must run home." 
 
 She picked up her tiny soaked handkerchief, and fastened it 
 about the dog's collar. " You shall take it to North Beer," 
 she said. 
 
 It was a pity she did not know what a mistake she was 
 , making; that nobody had wilfully deceived her; that her 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 307 
 
 husband was longing for her, and searching the turf of the 
 bowling-alley for the marks of her little shoes. Even Miss 
 Challacombe was in tears by then. She had no idea that 
 common girls could take things so much to heart. The old 
 lady perceived the ugly mask of tragedy frowning at her, and, 
 when she remembered that she had conjured up the spectre 
 with her own incautious words, family pride became rather a 
 mean and contemptible thing. 
 
 Arminel had climbed the hedge and was going down the 
 fields; but she did not go unperceived. She had outwitted 
 David, but Coneybear was upon her track. He stood upon 
 the highest part of the hedge and saw her. He turned, 
 shouted to David, and made furious gestures. David responded 
 by waving his ground-ash. Coneybear let himself down from 
 the hedge, and stumbled along, repeating to himself the mes- 
 sage he was to deliver, " My missis says you'm to come back 
 to Stokey. My missis says her wants yew." 
 
 In the ancient Greek theatre there was a crane placed on the 
 right side of the stage, and it was employed to dart out a god, 
 and keep him hovering in the air till his part was performed. 
 This god was supposed to be more powerful than the Fates. 
 The Grim Sisters were making very merry over Arminel. 
 This was the ending they had prepared for her. When they 
 saw her speeding down to the quarries they were vastly enter- 
 tained. They looked rather glum when the crane creaked over 
 their heads, and they saw a ridiculous object swinging in the 
 air. It was only David Badgery, but unfortunately he was a 
 god just then. Then another machine creaked, and a second 
 god was seen dangling. This god had evidently been weeping, 
 and a big red handkerchief was in his hand. The Fates turned 
 their backs upon Arminel, and said that it was a shame that 
 divinities couldn't let poor old women alone ; and they 
 thought it was about time to discuss the state of the celestial 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Half-way down the hill Arminel left the fields, came out into 
 the lane, and hurried on with her eyes upon the dust. She gave 
 
 X 2 
 
3oS ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 a sob now and again. Her mind was almost a blank, but it con-- 
 tained one idea which was so big that it crushed out everything 
 else; and that was the deep, blue lake in Tawton quarries. 
 She wanted to get there before the sun went behind Cawsand. 
 She thought the lake would frighten her if the blue shadows of 
 evening were hanging over it : and she did not want to recall 
 how she had stood there with Brian that winter's afternoon 
 while the sun went down ; and how they had gone on into 
 Zeal, and enjoyed themselves at the Oxenham Arms ; and how 
 they had parted at the cross-roads, and Brian had wanted to 
 kiss her. She hurried on — ^the lake was four miles away — her 
 foot slipped upon a stone, hurting her ankle, and she began to 
 limp. She looked round once pathetically, as though to ask 
 the unsympathetic hedges if they were not sorry for her; and 
 when she perceived that she was never going to be petted 
 again she used the flounce of her petticoat — only to wipe the 
 dust from her eyes, she said. " I'm not cry-baby now," she 
 declared. " What a silly mother, Jimmy ! To cry so much 
 when she's a grown-up girl. She's worse than a baby which has 
 fallen and bumped its head. Mother's fallen and bumped her 
 poor heart. Now she has hurt her ankle, and nobody cares." 
 
 She came to the bottom of the hill where the roads divided. 
 There was a thick copse on each side; a stream bubbled 
 through the copse ; and a stone bridge crossed the stream. It 
 reminded her of the way to Pasture Water, although it was not 
 so beautiful, and nothing like so wild. She rested for a 
 moment against the parapet and fondled her foot. 
 
 She heard the clicking of horseshoes, and round the bend 
 of the hill came Topsy at a trot, with David upon her back, 
 and Coneybear clutching her mane to help himself along. 
 They gave the poor girl no time to hide herself. They caught 
 her upon the bridge ; and David, at his wits' end to know what 
 to say, could only smile encouragingly and cry as usual, 
 " Ho, ho, my dear 1 " 
 
 " Why can't you leave me alone ? I told you not to follow 
 me," she said. " Don't you see I am going home ? " 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 309 
 
 Coneybear looked frightened. He stared up at David, and 
 that young man removed his foot from the stirrup, and kicked 
 it sharply into Coneybear's ribs to remind him of his duty. 
 Coneybear pulled off his hat, approached Arminel, set his feet 
 together, gulped several times, and recited his message, 
 " Please, miss, my missis says you'm to come back to Stokey. 
 My missis says her wants yew." 
 
 Arminel said nothing. She could not trust herself to answer. 
 She was beginning to feel giddy. There was something just 
 behind her eyes which suggested faintness. If she had opened 
 her mouth to reply she would have sobbed, and that would 
 have been dreadful with Coneybear and David looking on. 
 She knew what Miss Challacombe was after. The old lady 
 desired to go on tormenting her. The poor girl hurried off 
 the bridge, and began to climb the opposite hill, trying not to 
 limp, though every step was hurting her; while Coneybear 
 turned to David, and asked in a tearful voice whether he had 
 failed to show sufiScient respect. 
 
 David slipped off the mare and told Coneybear to lead her. 
 He went after Arminel, caught her up, and walked by her side 
 for quite a minute before he ventured to nudge her and remark, 
 "Aw, I say, my dear." 
 
 " Please don't worry me," came in a plaintive whisper. 
 
 " Where be ye going, my dear f " 
 
 " Home," said the sad whisper. 
 
 " Get on Topsy. Come along ! Let me give ye a leg up 
 on the old mare." 
 
 There was no reply ; but David heard a moan. 
 
 " She'm a booty," said David. 
 
 There was only another moan. The pain behind her eyes 
 was sharper. 
 
 " So be yew," said David drearily. 
 
 "You would only take me back to Stokey," she whispered. 
 
 " Go back. 'Tis your place," urged David. " You'm 
 Mrs. Challacombe." 
 
 " I am not," she moaned. " He deceived me. He went 
 
3IO ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 through a form of marriage with me which is not legal. He 
 knew I was only his mistress. I have been such a loving wife. 
 Now he is going to throw me over without a penny and marry 
 Nona Wistman." 
 
 This was something new to David. His first thought was 
 that he must ride all over the county and tell everyone the 
 story. His next thought was that Arminel was free. 
 
 " I love ye, my dear," he said. " Come along wi' me. Be 
 Mrs. Badgery — Mrs. David Badgery, of Drewsteignton. You 
 shall have Topsy. I'll give ye the old mare. Booty she is. 
 There's plenty of money. Uncle has pleijty, and father has 
 plenty, and I've got plenty. We'll be married before everyone 
 — hire a cathedral, and a bishop, and a band. There's plenty 
 of money, my dear. Mrs. David Badgery and Topsy, of 
 Drewsteignton. Aw, yes ! " David's weak features became 
 animated, and his face was creased with smiles. 
 
 " Don't," she moaned. " Please don't. I know you mean 
 it, but I have no heart now. I threw it away on Tordown 
 hill. It's lying in the dust, broken, trampled on. My happi- 
 ness is over. So is his, but he does not know it yet. That 
 girl will make him miserable. She has no more heart than I 
 have. She has only her passions, which will bring her some 
 day as low as I am now." 
 
 " Serve him right," said David. 
 
 Arminel stopped. The trees and hedges were beginning to 
 dance. Her head felt as though it was being crushed. "I 
 will let you put me on Topsy," she whispered, " if you will 
 take me home." 
 
 " I'll do what you want," said simple David. 
 
 He called Coneybear. Together they lifted Arminel into 
 the saddle. David held her, or she would have fallen, and 
 Coneybear led the mare up the long, narrow lane to Oakdown, 
 and out at the turning where four lanes meet ; the one ahead 
 went to South Tawton ; that on the right to North Tawton ; 
 and that on the left climbed up to Whiddon Down. There 
 was a well beneath a clump of firs, and Arminel asked for 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 311 
 
 some water in a manner which made Coneybear use his led 
 handkerchief. 
 
 David helped her to descend, and while he lowered the 
 wooden bucket she sat on a ridge of peat beneath the firs, as 
 quietly as a tired child ; while Coneybear reheved his feelings 
 by talking to Topsy, telling her she was a " proper booty," 
 and that he was " upsot," and that his missis had told him he 
 was not to weep when in that condition, but he should have to 
 weep when the lady spoke like that. Coneybear knewthat if it had 
 not been for him Arminel would have gone away unperceived. 
 He was proud of that fact. Had he known he was a god fight- 
 ing successfully against fate he would have been prouder still. 
 Coneybear had done the best day's work in his life, and so 
 had David and Topsy. But they were none of them aware 
 of it. 
 
 The bucket was filled with fresh water, and David staggered 
 with it towards Arminel. The girl was leaning forward, her 
 forehead resting upon her hand. She looked up, and even 
 David was startled when he saw her eyes. Pain seemed to be 
 running out of them in the same way as the water was splashing 
 from the bucket. She whispered, " I hear bells." 
 
 " No, you don't, my dear," said David. " Come and have a 
 drink. Here be I giving you water out of a bucket like I 
 would old Topsy," he went on pleasantly. 
 
 "There be a cart comiilg from Whiddon Down," called 
 Coneybear. " I don't see 'en, but I hears 'en." 
 
 " It is father," said Arminel. " It is his day on Whiddon 
 Down. I can hear the oil-measures clashing under the cart. 
 I thought they were bells." 
 
 She dipped her pretty face into the bucket and drank. Then 
 she bathed her forehead, and held her hands in the cold water, 
 and said in her dainty way, " I'm better now." 
 
 " You bide here and rest a bit," said David. 
 
 She obeyed, listening all the time. She heard the rumbling 
 of the cart and the oil-measures making noisy music. She 
 heard her father's voice ; heard him calling to his horse ; heard 
 
313 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 him whistling; and then heard him singing. As he came 
 down to the cross-way he was singing the almost forgotten 
 Dartmoor ballad, " Green Broom." She knew it well. As a 
 child she remembered him singing it by the chimney corner in 
 Blackalake Gorge. She found herself trying to accompany 
 him, when she heard him sing : 
 
 " There was an old man who lived down in the west, 
 And his trade was the cutting of broom — green broom. 
 He had just one son, 'twas a lazy boy Jack, 
 For he'd lie in his bed till past noon — bright noon." 
 
 The cart came round the corner, drawn by Sarah Jane, her 
 head decked with bracken to keep off the flies ; and beside 
 her walked Dartmoor Jack, bland and innocent as ever, beaming 
 through his big spectacles, and waving a bunch of the green 
 broom he was singing about. 
 
 " How be ye ? " called David. 
 
 " Fine, and how be yew ? " replied Dartmoor Jack. 
 
 The oil-measures stopped clashing. The cart was at a stand- 
 still. David pointed with his ground-ash. The old fellow did 
 not recognise the crushed little girl in the " kissing-frock " 
 and the saucy hat, until David announced : 
 
 " She's Maria. She's going home." 
 
 " What be wrong wi' the maid ? " 
 
 " Broken heart," said David, in his simple way. " The/ve 
 ruined her. She bain't married " 
 
 " That her be," broke in Dartmoor Jack. " I was there." 
 
 "They fooled ye. 'Twas a faked marriage," said David. 
 "He's turned her out of North Beer. He beat her cruel. 
 She'm covered wi' bruises where he beat her. She went to 
 Stokey, and Miss Challacombe beat her, too. She's been used 
 cruel. She'm going home now." 
 
 Dartmoor Jack stood and rubbed his hands together gently. 
 Then he said, innocently, " No one could beat Maria. They 
 couldn't do it." He added, " They'm married. I knows they 
 be. Her's a tender maid. Her gets fancies." 
 
 He walked across the road, came into the shadows of the 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 313 
 
 firs, reached his daughter, knelt beside her, and said in his soft, 
 child-like way, "Maria!" 
 
 The girl did not look up. She merely put out her arms 
 blindly, and Dartmoor Jack guided them to his neck and let 
 himself be entangled ; and her beautiful head came upon his 
 shoulder, and she began to sob and to whisper, " I couldn't 
 help it I tried to be good. I won't be an expense. I will 
 drown myself to-morrow. I promise. I can't this evening 
 because my head is so bad." 
 
 " Don't talk so foolish. Don't ye now," said the old fellow. 
 " Her don't hardly know what her's talking about, poor little 
 dame. Come home wi' me, Maria. Blackalake will be yours 
 when I die. 'Tis worth dree hundred pound by now." 
 " I am not married, father," she whispered with a struggle. 
 " You be," he said, in that quiet obstinate manner of his. " I 
 be a witness. Think I wasn't looking after my little dame ? 
 D'rectly 'twas over, and afore I lost sight of ye, I went away to 
 a lawyer and asked 'en. ' They'm married under wrong 
 names,' I said. ' Be it all right ? ' He said, ' Any intention 
 to deceive .' Do her know who he be ? ' And when I said that 
 was all right, he told me you was married. Charged I half-a- 
 crown. Told 'en I was a poor man, and he said that would 
 du." 
 
 "He did want to deceive me. He was engaged all the 
 time to a girl of his own class, and he means to marry her next 
 month," she moaned. " I don't want to be a lady. I don't 
 want pretty clothes. I only want my heart back again. Father 1 
 nothing can ever give me back my heart again." 
 
 Her arms were still about his neck. He felt her hands 
 struggling. Then with the cry, " At last ! " she threw her 
 wedding-ring upon the road. David stepped forward, picked 
 it up, handed it to Dartmoor Jack, and the old fellow tucked it 
 away quietly in his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 "Come up on the cart, Maria," he said. "Us will go 
 home." 
 He released himself and got up, expecting that she would 
 
3T4 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 follow. She did try, but immediately she stood upright the 
 hedges danced again, everything became blank, and she fell 
 into the bracken with one small cry for help. 
 
 They carried her to the cart. Dartmoor Jack removed the 
 seat, cleared a space, and placed her there with David's assist- 
 ance. David thought she was dead, and began to talk wildly 
 of heart disease ; but the old fellow smiled in his quiet fashion, 
 and said she had only fainted, and perhaps it was the best thing 
 for her. More important was the question where she could be 
 taken; and when that point was raised Coneybear stopped 
 blubbering; and, remembering that Miss Challacombe's in- 
 structions were not being carried out, came forward and said, 
 " My missis says she'm to go back to Stokey. My missis says 
 her wants she." 
 
 " Best thing to du," said Dartmoor Jack. " Tordown be only 
 two miles, and Blackalake be five." 
 
 " Miss Challacombe will use her cruel," said David. 
 
 " Not her. Look at the maid — half dying," muttered Dart- 
 moor Jack. 
 
 They set off. For the first time in his life the oilman was 
 stern with Sarah Jane ; and the well-fed mare understood that 
 her master was not to be trifled with then ; and not wishing, 
 perhaps, to be disgraced by Topsy, who was trotting easily in 
 front, she stepped out so well that the rough and hilly two miles 
 were covered in less than half-an-hour. The cart drew up in 
 the yard at Stokey, not at the front gate where all the village 
 would have seen them. Arminel was in the same lifeless con- 
 dition. Even Betsey felt human when she saw the girl being 
 lifted out of the cart by her father and David. Miss Challa- 
 combe's hands were shaking helplessly. She was hardly 
 capable of remembering that Dartmoor Jack was a relation 
 of hers. She was sorry and frightened. She told them to 
 carry the girl to the guest-chamber. Even in her unconscious- 
 ness Arminel was conquering. Earlier in the day she had set 
 out to try and win over Miss Challacombe ; and now she was 
 lying in the famous bed of Stokey, the one place where Brian 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 315 
 
 had felt certain she would never be ; and even Betsey was hurry- 
 ing and fussing, although she would be sorry for her condescen- 
 sion later on. Miss Challacombe sent Coneybear off in the 
 pony cart for the doctor. Then she received Dartmoor Jack 
 into the sitting-room and heard what he had to say. 
 
 "Her thinks it was no marriage," he concluded. "Her 
 must know that it was, or her will die. Her's a cruel tender 
 maid." 
 
 "I will try and make her understand," said poor Miss 
 Challacombe. " I will send for her husband. We will save 
 her, Mr. Staple." 
 
 " Jack Zaple," corrected the oilman. " Dartmoor Jack they 
 calls I." 
 
 "We" will let you know how — how Arminel gets on," con- 
 tinued the old lady. She was being choked with large pieces 
 of humble-pie, but it was very good for her. " We will take 
 great care of her. Good-evening, Mr. Zaple." 
 
 Dartmoor Jack 'touched his forehead. He was always 
 respectful to his relations. Then he went out, and Sarah 
 Jane was soon dragging the oil-cart along Tordown hill, while 
 her master went on singing the ballad of " Green Broom " in a 
 melancholy key. 
 
 The next person to be interviewed was David. Miss Challa- 
 combe felt she was making the acquaintance of all the undesir- 
 ables in the county, but there was no help for it. She sought 
 out David, who was brushing Topsy in the yard as though 
 Stokey belonged to him, shook hands with him, said she was 
 very pleased to meet him, and wondered if he would be so kind 
 as to ride to North Beer and ask Brian to come over at once. 
 David replied that was exactly what he was about to do ; but 
 he did not tell Miss Challacombe the story he was preparing 
 for her nephew. "Us will soon be over there," he said, puffing 
 a cloud of cigarette smoke into Miss Challacombe's face. 
 David took no notice of such things. Had the old lady 
 not stepped back he would have prodded her in the side with 
 his ground-ash, just to show he was disposed to be friendly., 
 
31 6 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " 'Tis nothing for Topsy. Booty, ain't she ? Good-bye, my 
 dear. I'll be over to-morrow." 
 
 " Please don't trouble," muttered Miss Challacombe. " What 
 the deuce does he mean by it ? " she went on, as she made for 
 the house. " Winking, grinning, blowing his filthy smoke into 
 my face, calling me ' my dear,' coming here to-morrow ! Lord 
 bless my soul ! Stokey is becoming a pot-house. I shall be 
 asked if I have a licence to sell beer next I " 
 
 She stamped upstairs, only to be received with abuse by 
 Betsey, who had taken charge of the invalid. She had given 
 the girl brandy ; had loosened her clothes and taken off her 
 shoes ; had bathed her face and little scratched hands ; and 
 was fussing about the historic bed, tending its pretty burden 
 with wonderfully gentle hands. Miss Challacombe was so 
 surprised to find Betsey in a tender mood, and showing unmis- 
 takable signs of possessing a certain amount of human nature, 
 that she took her scolding meekly. 
 
 " Trampesing about wi' they gurt boots, tramp — trampity — 
 tramp — tramp," cried Betsey, making far more noise than her 
 mistress had done. " 'Tis enough to kill the poor maid. You 
 get downstairs and bide there. You bain't wanted up here." 
 
 Miss Challacombe crept away noiselessly. Her pride was 
 shrivelling up. She was too crushed to feel angry. She 
 merely muttered, "lam being treated like a perfect worm. 
 Everybody is treading on me." She brightened when she 
 reflected that Brian would arrive presently. She would not play 
 the part of worm then. She sat down and wrote to her brother, 
 telling him what had happened. She had difliculty with the 
 concluding sentence. First she wrote, " I had no idea Arminel 
 
 was such a " She stopped, and ran her pen through the 
 
 words. Then she wrote, " The girl is really quite " 
 
 Another pause, and that was obliterated. She tried again^ 
 
 " Why ever didn't you write and tell me Arminel was a " 
 
 There was another interval, and those words were deleted. 
 There was only room on the paper for one more efEort. Miss 
 Challacombe wrote, " If the child had only been a lady I would 
 
THE HEART OF ARMINEL. 317 
 
 have loved her." She closed the letter without daring to 
 revise it. 
 
 Presently Betsey crept down, and ordered her mistress to go 
 and sit by the bed while she prepared the dinner. She was 
 not to make a noise or to talk. The girl was better, thanks 
 entirely to the speaker's ministrations. She seemed to be 
 almost conscious, and she was sobbing. Betsey was wiping 
 her eyes. She explained she had caught a chill standing in 
 the draughts of the kitchen. She generally caught cold near 
 the end of summer, she said. " Her be Mr. Brian's wife, bain't 
 her?" she asked sharply. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Challacombe meekly. 
 
 "I knows how 'tis, then," the old servant went on. "Her 
 bain't good enough for yew Challacombes. Yew don't want 
 she. I knows it all. I bain't blind. Her flesh and blood be 
 as good as yourn. Purty angel ! there she lies, wi' her poor 
 heart broke by yew Challacombes." 
 
 " Deuce take you, Betsey ! Get out ! " cried Miss 
 Challacombe. 
 
 "That's what you said to she. That's what all you 
 Challacombes say when you've had enough of a poor old 
 woman or a poor young maid. Get out ! There will be ' Get 
 out 'for yew one day, when the Lord cometh into His kingdom," 
 said Betsey. 
 
 The old woman shuffled off, muttering something about a 
 broomstick and Brian's head, miserable sinners and hell fire, 
 angels in glory and herself, and women who were far too good 
 for the men they married. 
 
 Miss Challacombe went up and sat beside the old bed. 
 Arrainel was lying upon her left side, her eyes shut, her beauti- 
 ful face quite white, her silky hair waving in disorder. The 
 old lady watched her, and tried to be composed. For a few 
 moments the girl would be silent, then there was a struggle, a 
 big sob, she would moisten her lips, give a curious little frown 
 as if she was trying to think, and then rest again. Very soon 
 would come another struggle, the long, shattering sob, the 
 
3i8 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 patient moistening of her lips, and the tiny frown. Miss 
 Challacombe's hands became agitated. She bent over the bed 
 and whispered, "Are you thirsty, dear?" There was no 
 answer. Evidently the girl did not know she was there. 
 
 Miss Challacombe went on watching her. The little left 
 hand was lying on the coverlet. It was badly scratched with 
 brambles, and in one place was bleeding slightly. The 
 wedding-ring was gone. The sight of that hand shook Miss 
 Challacombe's composure. She took it, and removed the 
 smear of blood with her handkerchief. It was base blood, old 
 Dartmoor Jack's blood, but to the eye it was just as good as 
 that which flowed in the veins of the Challacombes. And the 
 girl herself was so pretty, so dainty. The sob came again, and 
 the old lady put the hand back upon the bed, and leaning over 
 it said, " Try and listen, dear. Try and understand what I am 
 saying. You are married to Brian, and he loves you. You are 
 his wife, and nothing can part you.'' 
 
 Arminel moistened her lips and made the little frown ; but 
 she did not hear, and could not understand. She went on 
 looking sweet, but she always did that. 
 
 It was growing dusk. Miss Challacombe was troubled with 
 maternal longings. She left the chair and" sat upon the great 
 bed. After all, if she was foolish nobody would know. Betsey 
 was downstairs. Arminel was unconscious. There would be 
 no witnesses if she did give way for a few moments. She put 
 out her trembling arms, then drew them back, reproaching 
 herself. That instant the shattering sob came again, and Miss 
 Challacombe sobbed too. 
 
 She took the girl into her arms. Arminel did not know tttat 
 she was lying on the historic bed of Stokey; and the arms 
 about her were not those of her husband, but of his unforgiving 
 aunt ; and the shaking hand which stroked her hair, and the 
 trembling lips which kissed her soft forehead, belonged also to 
 the same inflexible person who had threatened to turn the slut 
 into the road if she dared to come near her house. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 SPOILT LIVES. 
 
 An evening delivery of letters had recently been inai^gurated 
 for Tordown. The postman was supplied with a bright red 
 bicycle, which matched the colour of his complexion admirably, 
 and was also useful for carrying bags and parcels, but was of 
 little service for its intended purpose on account of the hills. 
 The postman was generally to be seen pushing his machine, 
 and refreshing himself out of a square bottle en route. The 
 hills were too steep to ride up, and too rough to ride down. A 
 horse was what the postman wanted, but the authorities would 
 never have considered such a preposterous idea. Red tape 
 ordained a red bicycle, and that was the end of it. 
 
 At the usual time the postman pushed his machine into 
 Tordown, and left a letter at the Rectory. The Wistmans did 
 not have many letters, and when one arrived the envelope was 
 considered and examined before it was opened. Wistman took 
 the letter into his study and subjected it to the usual examina- 
 tion of post-marks. He was afraid it might be a bill. He 
 opened it cautiously, caught the words, " your daughter," and 
 cleared his throat tempestuously. Another glance showed him 
 it was a solicitor's letter. The usual rigmarole of legal 
 accomplishments was set forth at the top of the sheet. He 
 read, "Telegrams, Celibacy London," which was one of 
 Frank's wicked jokes turned to practical account. Then he 
 read the letter. 
 
 Wistman did not receive new ideas readily. He had to read 
 the letter through again before he comprehended that Brian 
 was a married man ; that Cuthbert was prepared to pay any 
 
320 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 expenses which might be incurred owing to his son's repre- 
 hensible conduct ; and that he would, moreover, help Nona as 
 well as he could if her father should consider it advisable for 
 the girl to leave Tordown and seek her own living. He had to 
 read the letter through a third time before his mind accepted 
 it. Then he unbuttoned his waistcoat, pulled his collar loose, 
 and exclaimed in his usual fashion, " Deary me ! This is 
 impossible. It is not Christianity. It is not even civilisation. 
 It is Paganism — religious indifference — free-love." Wistman 
 was careful to say nothing about Nature. " Scoundrel ! 
 Blackguard ! " he began to shout. He went to the door 
 calling, " Mrs. Wistman ! Where are you, Mrs. Wistman ? 
 Please attend to me for a moment." There was no reply. 
 The house seemed to be empty. He went upstairs, muttering 
 all the time, and pulling at his beard. 
 
 Nona was sitting beside her bedroom window, making small 
 garments which were not intended for herself. She was a 
 very different Nona from the girl who had sought knowledge 
 from her father, and when he refused to satisfy her had gone 
 to find it elsewhere. There was nothing melting or tender 
 about her then. She was sullen and quarrelsome. Her one 
 idea was to get away from her father for ever. She knew there 
 were pleasures to be had in the world, and she was only wasting 
 her time in Tordown. She wanted to be in the whirl of a 
 city ; to look at life, not as a stagnant pond, but as a rushing 
 stream. She was not going to live at North Beer, which was 
 another stagnant pond. If her husband would not take her to 
 London, she would go by herself. She would go her way, and 
 he could go his. As a married woman she would enjoy a 
 certain amount of liberty. Somebody else could look after the 
 child. She was going to have a good time. 
 
 " I wish you would knock before you come in,'' she said, 
 when her father appeared with his usual lack of ceremony. 
 " It's not decent to break into a girl's bedroom as you do. 
 Shut the door now you have come. I don't want to sit in a 
 draught." 
 
SPOILT LIVES. 
 
 321 
 
 "Decent," repeated the rector. He began to mutter, 
 " From decere, to become. That which is fitting or seemly to 
 a person. Dear me ! Read this,'' he cried, throwing the 
 letter upon her hands. " It is a thunderbolt — a punishment 
 for sin — a judgment upon the wicked — and I have done 
 nothing except what is right." 
 
 Nona glanced through the letter and smiled. She was not 
 sorry. It gave her the opportunity of asserting herself. It 
 gave her freedom. Her father could not keep her in Tordown. 
 The prospect of a life of pleasure began to open before her. 
 
 " I have read it," she said indifferently. 
 
 " Ah, yes, you have read it. Do you know what it means ? 
 You smile over it. Do you know what we Christians call such 
 conduct, such want of morality, such lack of shame? It is 
 prostitution — the vilest of all vices." 
 
 " It is nothing of the sort," she said angrily. " Please 
 remember who you are speaking to." 
 
 "The daughter whom I brought up with the utmost care 
 would not submit," he went on, as though speaking more to 
 himself than to her. " So soon as she was able to learn I kept 
 her face towards the light — the only true light which is upon 
 this world. No daughter was ever more tenderly treated. I 
 kept everything that was harmful away from her. I surrounded 
 her with an atmosphere of purity. But she would ask questions. 
 I saw discipline was necessary. I determined she should have 
 happiness, but there was some evil in her — some evil spirit — 
 and it would not be restrained. I thought the convent would 
 subdue it, but it was too late then. She sank. She has gone 
 on sinking." 
 
 " I am what you made me," she said sullenly. 
 
 " It is a lie, Nona ! " he said angrily. 
 
 "You kept everything from me, not only knowledge, but 
 pleasures. What do you suppose a young girl is made of ? 
 I had no companions. I have never been to a dance " 
 
 " Sinful, Pagan pleasures." 
 
 " Change the world, then I Change human nature 1 " she cried 
 
 A.W. Y 
 
322 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 passionately, "Why didn't you drain the blood out of me, 
 take my body away, before you tried to make me what you call 
 good ? Religion is all very well, but it doesn't appeal to the 
 body. Every time you force religion upon anyone who is tired 
 of it, or who wants a change from it, you are doing something 
 towards making that person what you call wicked. You choked 
 me with your idea of religion — and I had to go my own way, 
 and find my own pleasures, without knowing what was good 
 for me and what was bad. This is the result." 
 
 " You fell into the hands of a scoundrel," he muttered. 
 
 "' You needn't blame Mr. Challacombe, too much," she said 
 coldly. 
 
 The rector groaned and struck his forehead. " Oh, dear ! 
 This is awful 1 This is terrible I " he cried. " Do not say any 
 more. I shall not be calm. I shall Jose my self-control. I 
 must leave Tordown. I must try and get a curacy. I can't 
 stay here. I believe they know in the village. Lucy has told 
 them. And there is Lucy. It is a house of ill-fame." 
 
 " I suppose you will write to Mr. Challacombe ? " observed 
 Nona, regarding her father with a contemptuous smile. 
 
 " Yes. Oh, yes. I must write. Oh, dear ! What shall I 
 say ? Are you not sorry ? I thought you would be distracted — 
 after all my teaching. You show no shame. You do not 
 appear to care." 
 
 " Well, I don't," she said. " Can you suppose I want to 
 marry Brian Challacombe after the way he has treated me ? 
 He has never been near me, never even written, never made the 
 smallest sign of having the least regard for me. He does not 
 want me " 
 
 " But the horror of it ! The shame of it I " he cried. 
 
 " Nobody will know," she said indifferently. " The Challa- 
 combes will do their part. I had better go away at once, as 
 Mr. Challacombe offers to pay expenses. It is a matter between 
 him and me. You needn't interfere with any false pride. 
 Perhaps he will find me something to do. Whatever it is, I 
 mean to enjoy myself," she added in a low voice. 
 
SPOILT LIVES. 323 
 
 " And you were to be a sister — Sister Angela of the Cross," 
 he muttered. 
 
 " I would rather stand behind a counter," she murmured. 
 
 The door opened in a ghostly fashion, and a ghostly figure 
 entered. It was Mrs. Wistman. She had changed very much 
 during the last two months. She had become very fragile and 
 her movements were more noiseless than ever. Her eyes still 
 admitted the light, not much, and yet enough for her poor pur- 
 poses; but her mind admitted less reason; and she had 
 become very restless. The unoccupied room at the end of the 
 passage engaged so much of her attention. The rector com- 
 prehended that she was growing childish, as he called it. He 
 did not know why she was for ever worrying about the empty 
 room. 
 
 " Is Mr. Wistman here ? " said the poor old creature. " I 
 thought I heard his voice. It is very cold this evening, Mr. 
 Wistman. They have not lighted the fires." 
 
 " Nonsense, Mrs. Wistman," said the rector. " It is warm 
 — unusually warm." 
 
 " Is that Nona ? You will be ready in good time, Nona ? 
 Is that lace you are putting on your frock ? You must try and 
 look your best to-night. There will be some smart officers 
 there. The carriage will be round at eight, and dancing is to 
 begin at nine." The feeble old creature made a grotesque 
 waltz-step towards her daughter. Her mind was casting back 
 to the days of her liberty, when she had been a pretty, light- 
 hearted g[irl, accompanying her father's regiment from place to 
 place. 
 
 " Take her away, please," said Nona. " She frightens me 
 when she is like this. I don't want to be upset. It might be 
 dangerous." 
 
 " You will stay at home, Mr. Wistman," the old lady went 
 on in her tranquil voice. " It will be too gay for you. Our 
 dancing days are over. I will see Nona has plenty of partners. 
 She does not go out often, but she shall enjoy herself to-night. 
 Come and let me show you the barn-dance, Nona. You never 
 
 T 3 
 
324 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 get that step right." Her mind was very far away, then. She 
 was thinking of a young sister who had died before she married 
 Wistman. 
 
 " Dear me 1 This is not Christianity. It is Paganism — the 
 dance to the god of light and wine — the revels of the Dionysia," 
 said the unhappy old bigot. " You must sit down and be quiet, 
 Mrs. Wistman. You are growing excited. You are beginning 
 to let your imagination run away with you." 
 
 " It is something worse," Nona murmured, rising suddenly 
 and taking her mother's arm. They had never been friendly, 
 but the girl sympathised with the poor old creature because she 
 comprehended that they were both as Wistman had made them. 
 He had spoilt her mother's life, just as he had ruined her own, 
 by his bitter, narrow notions of what was necessary and right. 
 In a sudden rage she turned upon him and cried, " Go out, 
 father ! " 
 
 " Dear me, Nona. This is rebellion." 
 
 " Call it what you like. Go out ! " she cried. " You have 
 ruined us both. Aren't you satisfied ? " 
 
 " Dear, deary me ! How awkward ! How very annoying to 
 hear these things 1 " muttered the rector, punishing his white 
 forehead severely. " You would go your own way. You 
 would not learn." 
 
 " You would not teach me," she said bitterly. " Go out of 
 my room. You have made me what I am, and mother what 
 she is. You have bungled your own life, and made hers and 
 mine a misery." 
 
 Coughing and muttering, and clearing his throat vigorously, 
 the rector went out, and hurried down to his study, wondering 
 where it was that he had made a mistake. He had been so 
 cautious. He had brought up Nona with the utmost care. 
 He could not understand why she was such a failure. Perhaps 
 Nature had interfered with the girl after all. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Wistman ? " said the old lady. " I thought 
 I heard him speaking." 
 
 " He has gone. Let me take you downstairs, mother." 
 
SPOILT LIVES. 325 
 
 " Oh, no ! It is no use going down when they are crying 
 like this. I should have to come up again," Mrs. Wistman 
 said in a voice of calm despair. " I don't think I ought to keep 
 them in that room, but then you see they are not wanted. We 
 can't do anything with them. We can't feed them, or clothe 
 them, or educate them. But I don't like to hear them crying, 
 and they must be so cold, for it is a frosty night, and there is a 
 bitter wind from the moor." 
 
 " Mother ! what are you talking about ? " cried Nona. 
 
 " Come and see them," said Mrs. Wistman. 
 
 She pulled at Nona, and they went into the bare and empty 
 room at the end of the passage. There was nothing. Cobwebs 
 were hanging in the corners, the windows were obscured with 
 dirt, the outer wall was rotting. A spray of ivy had forced 
 itself through the brickwork beneath the roof. Mrs. Wistman 
 began to walk on tiptoe. She shivered when a board creaked. 
 
 " I always think they know me when I come near them," 
 she whispered. " They lift up their hands, and want to be put 
 back into bed and kept warm. They cry a good deal, but not 
 very loud. The wetted towel prevents that. Mr. Wistman 
 never hears them." 
 
 " Mother ! what do you mean ? " cried frightened Nona. 
 
 " Hush ! Don't make such a noise. There ! you have set 
 them ofE again. They will cry like that for hours. Come 
 away, and shut the door. It will soon be over, but it will 
 happen again next year, and the year after. It is very cruel, 
 but then nobody wants them, and we can't afford to keep them. 
 I can't dance any more. I am an invalid. But Mr. Wistman 
 objects to dancing and music. He says it is Paganism, and he 
 is a clever man. Shut the door very gently. That's right. 
 Nobody will hear them now." 
 
 " Oh, mother I Poor mother I " whispered Nona. " I must 
 get out of this house before — ^before long," she murmured to 
 herself. " That room will haunt me. But it's not true. She 
 doesn't know what she is saying. She imagines it all." 
 
 " There was something I wanted to say, only it's so dark. 
 
'326 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 My eyes worry me so," went on the old lady in the same 
 tranquil fashion. "There was something about physical or 
 moral duty, but I have forgotten that. If it had been only one 
 or two, I would not have minded ; but I had a right to have a 
 rest, and I was ill and miserable. Did I say anything about 
 slavery? I meant to say something about that, but I have 
 forgotten. And then there was something else, about a woman 
 having the control of her own person, and having the right to 
 decide how many children she should have, only I cannot find 
 the right words, and I don't think I could explain it just now. 
 But we must hurry, Nona, or we shall be so late. I wish I 
 could dance, but I am not strong enough." 
 
 Nona drew her mother along the passage and guided her 
 downstairs. She put the poor old creature into a chair, and 
 forced the soiled woolwork into her hands ; but it was no use. 
 Barbara Wistman began to wander about the house again. - 
 Back in her room Nona murmured, " I will write to Mr. 
 Challacombe myself, and at once. If I have to go through it 
 here it will kill me. Then I will work and make my own 
 living. I will never see that man again." 
 
 But she could not write then. She could think of nothing 
 but her mother. The poor old creature's mind would become 
 still weaker. The time must come when Wistman would have 
 to hear what Nona had listened to that evening. Would he 
 understand ? Would his eyes be opened to his mistaken views 
 of life and Providence ? Perhaps there was no truth in it. 
 Perhaps, if it was true, her mother had not been responsible 
 for her actions. Her mind was too far gone. Nobody would 
 ever know the truth. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 
 
 David was dreadfully thirsty. More than three hours had 
 passed since he had tasted cider, and there was no house of 
 refreshment between Tordown and North Beer. It was the 
 loneliest part of the county. At last David could stand it no 
 longer. He turned off along Ghost Lane, so called because a 
 curious phenomenon took place there during certain nights in 
 the summer. There was a pond in the middle of a thick 
 copse — ^the entire lane was densely wooded — and after a hot 
 day an exhalation would rise from this pond and float down 
 the lane, very much as a lady might sweep along the aisle of a 
 church. The body of grey mist did sometimes assume strange 
 forms ; and that was in itself more than su£Scient to justify a 
 host of legends. At the end of Ghost Lane was a farmhouse 
 called Nines, which was occupied by an elderly couple. David 
 rode to the door, banged upon it, and when the old wife 
 appeared he asked after her health, called her " my dear," and 
 demanded cider. 
 
 " Us have naught but rough cider," she explained. 
 
 David replied that he would drink it if it was as rough as a 
 file. The housewife brought him a jugful, and when it was 
 half emptied David remembered he had a story to tell. The 
 perfidy of the Challacombes was the text he selected upon this 
 occasion ; and his sermon was an eloquent denunciation of 
 Brian, who, he declared, had deceived a beautiful and trusting 
 maid by going through a form of marriage with her which was 
 not recognised by the law of the land ; had then taken her to 
 North Beer and treated hfer with persistent cruelty — ^David had 
 
328 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 himself counted no less than sixteen bruises upon her arms 
 and neck — and had finally turned her out of North Beer and 
 told her to go and drown herself. While in the act of doing 
 so David had discovered her. He was not quite clear whether 
 he had dragged her out of Tawton Lake or prevented her from 
 throwing herself in ; but as he said something about artificial 
 respiration the old wife decided he had rescued the girl from 
 the water. She therefore deified David. He drank the other 
 half of the cider and explained that his efforts had been in 
 vain. The girl was dying. The end had been near when he 
 came away ; but it would be a funeral well worth attending. 
 The old wife said it was very sad. She promised to tell her 
 good man directly he came in from the fields, and he would 
 let the neighbourhood know. David said that was quite right. 
 Such things must not be hushed up. He was tearful by this 
 time. He believed he was telling the truth. The strong cider 
 had gone to his head. As for the old wife, she had her own 
 grievances. " Her will walk," she complained bitterly. " Us 
 have got enough ghosts as 'tis. There be the ghost in the 
 lane. He du scratch and bite a person cruel." 
 
 David agreed that ghosts were unpleasant things ; but there 
 was no getting rid of them. They could not be shot or trapped 
 like rabbits. Then he said, " Good-bye, my dear," and trotted 
 off, for it was getting dusk, and he wanted to be out of the 
 haunted lane. 
 
 It was a pity David insisted upon undoing his good work. 
 He had played the man that day as well as such a poor creature 
 could play it. Brian might continue to despise half-witted 
 David ; he could hardly dislike him again. The unfortunate 
 tongue would go on rambling. It would tell lies about the 
 Challacombes. It would spread scandal, and do a lot of 
 mischief. But Brian would remain David's creditor for that 
 day's work. 
 
 The evening star was twinkling before David reached North 
 Beer. Brian was at the gate. He had heard Topsy — he had 
 been listening for the last hour, sitting in the parvis-chamber, 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 329 
 
 which was the sweetest place in the house, because Arminel 
 had made it her own — and he was there with a reproach, which 
 would become something foolish directly he had the bright girl 
 in his arms. But there was only David and Topsy ; and they 
 were no friends of his. He stepped forward, feeling nervous. 
 A sort of chilling wave precedes calamity, and that wave struck 
 Brian then. 
 
 " Have you seen my wife ? " he called. " She went out early 
 in the afternoon, and has not come back.'' 
 
 David dismounted slowly. He hitched Topsy to the gate, 
 patted her neck, drew Brian's attention to her perfections, and 
 then poked him in the ribs with his ground-ash, and asked for 
 cider. 
 
 Brian took no notice of the request. He knew by past 
 experience that when David was mysterious he had bad news 
 to tell. He asked again if he had seen his wife. 
 
 " How be I to see your wife when you ain't got one ? " said 
 David. " I've seen little Maria, Aw, yes, my dear ! I've seen 
 Maria!" 
 
 " Where is she ? " asked Brian hotly. 
 
 " Out of your way. You'm a booty ! " said David. " Why 
 couldn't you let the maid bide ? I was looking after her till 
 you came along. Getting her to live with yew " 
 
 " She is my wife," Brian interrupted. " We were married 
 when you saw us at Lee. There is no secret about it now. 
 We have been married a long time." 
 
 " Get along ! " said David. " Fooling the poor maid. She 
 knows she bain't married. Pulled off her ring — chucked it 
 away " 
 
 There was a gasp from Brian ; and when David saw his face, 
 he felt frightened and confused. David was confronted with 
 deep emotion, which was a thing he could not understand. 
 
 " She has been to Tordown ? " Brian whispered. 
 
 "Aw, yes, my dear! " muttered David. 
 
 "To the Rectory?" 
 
 "Aw, yes 1" 
 
330 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 "For God's sake — ^what has happened? Don't fool. I 
 can't stand it. You don't know — you can't know what she is 
 to me." 
 
 Poor David was completely muddled. He had not bargained 
 for this. He could not remember what had happened. He 
 did not know what to say. He wondered whether he had told 
 the true story to the old wife. He thought he could repeat 
 that story, or something like it, if he was not flurried. But first 
 he would have to drink some cider. He asked for it again, 
 and Brian only seized him as though he intended to shake th^ 
 life out of him. 
 
 " Challacombe ! " cried frightened David. " Let me bide ! 
 Let me bide, man ! " 
 
 " Tell me, then ! " 
 
 " Be you married to Maria, or bain't you ? " 
 
 " Married — ^yes. Do you suppose I would deceive her ? 
 For God's sake, try and say what has happened." 
 
 David hardly understood his own feelings ; but he felt some- 
 how conscious of a disappointment. Arminel would not be 
 Mrs. David Badgery, of Drewsteignton. He made a great effort 
 to tell the truth. He rubbed his white face with grimy hands, 
 and said, "Miss Challacombe turned her out. She went to the 
 Rectory. Then she went — I don't remember it, my dear. I 
 pulled her out, and Will Coneybear helped. She was crying, 
 man. Miss Challacombe sent me. Aw, yes, that's right. You'm 
 to go there at once. That's right, my dear. I'm getting it. 
 You'm to go there at once." 
 
 " But my wife — ^how is she ? " said miserable Brian. 
 
 David had to think again. He had never been so confused 
 in his life. Finally, he decided that Arminel was dying ; and 
 he was misguided enough to add that it was sure to be a very 
 big funeral. 
 
 Brian was dazed. Through his misery came a ray of hope. 
 David was untrustworthy. Still he would not exaggerate then. 
 Another ray of hope came when he remembered that perhaps 
 David had been misinformed. 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 331 
 
 " Broken heart, my dear. That's it. I'm getting it. Broken 
 heart," came the triumphant voice. 
 
 Brian hardly knew what he was doing. He saw the turnip- 
 face frightened and pathetic ; and dimly comprehended it was 
 like that because he was begging for Topsy. He must have 
 Topsy. He would fight David for her. But there David 
 knew his mind. He would lend Brian anything else, but not 
 Topsy. He, too, would die of broken heart without the mare. 
 He had her unfastened in a moment ; and when Brian came 
 towards him, he jumped into the saddle and cantered off, more 
 frightened than he had ever been, for he thought Brian was 
 mad, and he believed he might be murdered if he did not get 
 away. 
 
 Presently he drew up, and looked back. The moon was 
 getting up, and it was light upon the field which led up to the 
 lane. Across the field Brian was running, as if for his life. 
 He was on his way to Tordown. 
 
 "Mazed," said David, who knew nothing about deep 
 emotion. '"Tis lucky there's a moon. Come along, old 
 gal." 
 
 The black mare and the white-faced young man went on, and 
 an hour later entered the flowery lane which wound its way 
 into Drewsteignton. Masses of white flowers, far whiter than 
 David's face and the moonshine, brushed Topsy's legs as she 
 trotted along. There was just time for a bottle of sweet cider 
 with the merry host of the Druid Arms, and then David began 
 to descend into Teign Gorge. To his right was wooded 
 Fingle. In front was Prestonbury, blushing with heather. The 
 mountain had been blood-red a few hours earlier at the time 
 of sunset. It was toned a soft pink by the moonlight. To the 
 left went the narrow lane which led up to the Badgeiy farm- 
 house. It was always dark there, because of the big trees. 
 Topsy finished the steep descent and began to ascend David 
 was whistling. He was not thinking much about Brian and 
 Arminel. His brain would not stand that sort of thing. The 
 dark shadows of the trees swallowed up the young man and 
 
332 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 his mare, who had at last done something towards justifying a 
 particularly loose and wandering existence. 
 
 Brian never knew what amount of time he occupied in going 
 from North Beer to Stokey. He took all the short cuts, and 
 that naturally delayed him a good deal; he stumbled over 
 tree-roots and went into bogs; he climbed over hedges and 
 entangled himself in brambles. The longest way by the lanes 
 would have taken less time. He ran as much as he could. 
 The moon was shining all the way. He saw the church upon 
 the top of Tordown hill. He stopped once to make sure that 
 the bell was not tolling, but he could not be sure of anything. 
 He made for the church instead of going for the lane, and 
 found himself amongst copses and swamps where there was no 
 path at all. It was Challacombe property he was on. He 
 thought of his first meeting with Arminel, and her eager ques- 
 tion, " Are the swamps yours ? " His property was ghostly 
 with meadow-sweet — ^white plumes of it everywhere and white 
 moths fluttering above, and the sickly odour was stifling. It 
 suggested a death-chamber and tuberoses. He skirted the 
 swamps, got up on the side of the hill, fought his way to the 
 lane, and ran along it without meeting a soul. 
 
 Stokey at last 1 There was not another light in the village. 
 Brian stopped at the railings, looked up, and could not enter. 
 The upper part of the house was in darkness. The window of 
 the guest-chamber was open and the blind was down. The 
 moonlight showed him that. 
 
 It was absurd after all his mad hurry to be standing there. 
 Brian put out his hand to the gate, but stopped again, for a 
 dog was jumping up him. He knew it was Jim before he 
 looked. There was something fastened round his collar. It 
 was Arminel's handkerchief and it was still damp. 
 
 Brian passed between the hedges of box and listened at the 
 open door. He could hear Betsey grumbling to herself in the 
 kitchen, and thanking Providence she was not like other 
 women. He made another step, and saw his aunt sitting 
 beside the lamp worrying out a game of Patience. He began 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 333 
 
 to doubt whether Arminel was there at all. Everything seemed 
 to be the same as usual. He scraped his boots upon the mat, 
 keeping his eyes upon the old lady who had stated her intention 
 not to see him again. 
 
 "Who's that?" cried Miss Challacombe, crossly. "Come 
 in or go out, whoever you are. I don't care which." 
 
 " I am Brian," said the young man in a miserable voice. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " said Miss Challacombe. 
 
 She rose, dropping kings, queens, and aces about the carpet. 
 She came to the door, caught at her nephew, pulled him in, 
 and tried to shake him. Then she picked up her stick, 
 brandished it in his face, and called him a young devil ; and 
 would have added other epithets had he not interrupted in a 
 manner which put her to silence, " Stop it ! Call me what you 
 like presently — is she here ? " 
 
 " Of course she is. Didn't I send for you ? " 
 
 "How is she? How is she?" cried Brian; and his aun, 
 could see that he was suffering and was not to be trifled with. 
 
 " Fast asleep," she said. 
 
 "Go on, aunt. Tell me. You don't know what I have 
 been through the last two hours. Arminel is my — ^you don't 
 know. You have never loved." 
 
 " Hold your noise," broke in his aunt, violently. " Think 
 I'm not flesh and blood, though I am a dried-up old spinster ? " 
 
 " I don't know what I am saying. For God's sake tell me 
 how she is." 
 
 "You don't deserve it, Brian. You don't deserve good 
 news," said the old lady less harshly. " She is better. She 
 became conscious just before the doctor came. She tried to 
 get up and go. Betsey and I had to hold her. Poor child ! 
 Her head was so bad. Good Lord 1 What's the fool doing 
 now ? " 
 
 Brian went into the shadow by the window and bowed his 
 head upon his arms. He was neither weeping nor returning 
 thanks. He was simply recovering. Arminel was there, and 
 she was asleep, and the news was good. It made him weak 
 
334 ARMINEL OF THE "WEST. 
 
 and giddy. If he had gone on standing before his aunt he 
 might have done something foolish, 
 
 " Well, I suppose there must be some good in you," said 
 Miss Challacombe. " You do appear to love your wife, though 
 I'll never forgive you for marrying her. You have deceived 
 her, but that is natural, for you have deceived everyone. I 
 have just had a visit from the rector — coarse old wretch ! I 
 know all about that affair now. I was prepared for it. Betsey 
 had given me hints. You're a young brute. I shall have to 
 get the Wistmans out of Tordown," Miss Challacombe 
 rambled on. " I can't go on living here if they stop. I know 
 you have been punished, but not half as much as you deserve." 
 
 Brian put up his head and asked, " What did the doctor say ? " 
 
 " The usual nonsense. She must be kept quiet. I suppose 
 the man thought I might be taking her to a dance. He had the 
 sense to give her a sleeping draught, and it took effect luckily. 
 She was done to death. Where are you going now ? " 
 
 " Up to her," said Brian. 
 
 "You'll do nothing of the kind. Haven't you given her 
 enough trouble for one day ? Sit down, and hear what I think 
 of you." 
 
 " I can guess," said Brian wearily. " I must go and tell 
 her " 
 
 " What can you tell her now she's fast asleep, you donkey ? 
 You'll wake her and ask her to be godmother to Nona 
 Wistman's baby, I suppose. That's the sort of thing you 
 would do." 
 
 Miss Challacombe was in a vile temper. It was not 
 surprising, for Wistman had upset her badly. lie had gone 
 so far as to curse the Challacombes, and the mistress of Stokey 
 had very promptly invoked evefy kind of evil upon the 
 Wistmans. There had been something of a scene, which 
 Betsey had terminated by appearing with the threat to turn 
 them both out of the house. 
 
 Betsey felt it her duty to appear again, for Miss Challacombe 
 was stormy in her indignation. She came to the door, shook 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 335 
 
 a plate which she was wiping at the old lady, and said, " Stop 
 your noise, will ye ! I wun't have ye in the house if ye can't 
 stop that tongue of yourn." 
 
 This was the last straw. Miss Challacombe crossed the 
 room, banged the door in Betsey's face, locked it, then began 
 to pick up the scattered cards and dab her eyes. She had gone 
 through a good deal in the last few hours, and she was 
 approaching a state of collapse. Wistman's insults, Brian's 
 conduct, and Betsey's rudeness were about as much as she 
 could stand. The only person who had not offended her was 
 Arminel. She could not forget that. On the whole, she 
 thought the Zaples were far superior to the Wistmans. Dart- 
 moor Jack knew his place, and Wistman did not. The 
 oilman was polite ; the rector was exceedingly rude. As for 
 Nona, she was a common piece of goods — that was Miss 
 Challacombe's expression. Arminel was a darling — ^that was 
 Miss Challacombe's expression, too. 
 
 " What are you doing by that door, you booby ? " snapped 
 the old lady. 
 
 " I must go to her," said Brian. " I won't disturb her. I 
 will wait outside the door until I hear her move — and then 
 I shall tell her she is my wife. I don't care what you think," 
 he added doggedly. 
 
 Miss Challacombe took this pretty calmly. She only dabbed 
 her eyes again, and said, " She may not wake for hours." 
 
 " I don't care if it is days. I shall wait," said Brian. 
 
 " Then you had better take her to the North Pole, or to 
 Northumberland, where your mother came from, or to any- 
 where else which is out of the world. I am not going to 
 be bothered with you and your wives and families," said Miss 
 Challacombe. 
 
 " I will take my wife away as soon as she can be moved," 
 Brian answered. " You shall not be bothered with us again. 
 I only ask you to be kind to her while she is here." 
 
 " I won't," snapped Miss Challacombe. " I'll slap the slut's 
 face as soon as she's strong enough." 
 
336 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " You had better try," he said fiercely. " And I won't have 
 Arminel called a slut. You may think what you like, but you 
 will please keep your thoughts to yourself." 
 
 " Oh, well, she's not a slut. I will admit that," said the old 
 lady. " I was surprised when I saw her. Of course, it was 
 easy to see she isn't a lady. I thought she was a parlourmaid 
 dressed up for her day out." 
 
 It was fortunate that Betsey was not there to explain what 
 an effusive welcome Miss Challacombe had given the pretty 
 young stranger. 
 
 Brian made no reply. His aunt had always been like that. 
 She did not change. He had been right when he supposed 
 that Arminel would not conquer her. His dainty wife had 
 subdued everyone else ; but Miss Challacombe would remain 
 impervious to the beauty and pretty ways of her niece by 
 marriage simply because the girl's blood was not the correct 
 shade of blue. Brian had got what he wanted. Arminel was 
 saved. He could restore the heart and wedding-ring which 
 she had thrown away ; and his aunt could be as hostile as she 
 liked. 
 
 Betsey had put a light in the guest-chamber. The door was 
 half-open, and Brian looked in. There was his wife upon the 
 great bed of Stokey. He could see a little heap of sweetness 
 in the middle of the bed, although the light was not strong 
 enough for him to make out her features. He could see her 
 dark hair tumbling upon the pillow. He could hear her 
 breathing. It was not regular, and it was troubled. He thought 
 of that night on Dartmoor when she had gone to sleep in his 
 arms, half-crying because she thought Jim was dying. Now 
 she was half-crying in her sleep because she believed he had 
 deceived her. So he had, but not as she thought. 
 
 Taking a chair from one of the other rooms, Brian placed 
 it just outside her door. He seated himself and waited. 
 Presently Betsey hobbled up, discovered him, told him exactly 
 what she thought of him in a hoarse whisper — ^Betsey believed 
 in telling the truth when it made other people miserable — then 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 337 
 
 peeped in to assure herself that the invalid was comfortable. 
 She crept out, added a few more remarks, misquoted some 
 texts of Scripture, and hobbled down again. There came a 
 subdued sound of locking up for the night, and, after that. 
 Miss Challacombe appeared with her bedroom candlestick. It 
 was not necessary for her to approach Brian, but she did so. 
 She said he was a fool to sit there all night, but if he liked it, 
 she didn't object. If Arminel did wake up and wanted any- 
 thing, he was to be sure and let them know. And he was to 
 take great care of her, and not worry or frighten her, for the 
 doctor had said she was to be kept very quiet, and she was not 
 at all sure that it was safe for the girl to see him after the 
 manner he had treated her and the shock his atrocious conduct 
 must have given her. 
 
 "You seem very much concerned," said Brian coldly. 
 "Arminel is nothing to you.'' 
 
 " There is such a thing as ordinary humanity," Miss Challa- 
 combe reminded him, sharply. Then she went to her room, 
 rather afraid that she had expressed more interest than she felt. 
 Brian never closed his eyes. He sat hour after hour, staring 
 into the dimly lighted room, where Arminel was lying; 
 listening to little moans and signs of restlessness ; starting up 
 every few minutes in the belief that she was awake. He could 
 not see the bed. He could hear the ancient woodwork creak 
 sometimes when she moved. The old bed of Stokey had held 
 all sorts and conditions of people. Tradition suggested it had 
 held Queen Elizabeth. It had never been burdened with any- 
 thing quite so common, or half as delightful, as Arminel. 
 
 A clock downstairs struck three times. It was cold in the 
 passage. The dampness of early morning made Brian shiver, 
 and he longed for sunrise. The dim light in the bedroom was 
 worse than no light. His tired eyes began to imagine things. 
 He moved to stretch his stiff legs ; and as he did so there came 
 a sound which set his heart beating wildly, and made him lean 
 forward, listening intently, no longer tired and cold, but hot 
 and eager. 
 A.W. Z 
 
338 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 He heard the faint whisper, " My poor head ! " 
 
 Brian's first impulse was to rush into the room, and frighten 
 her to death. He controlled himself, crept nearer to the door, 
 and heard the whisper, " Jimmy ! " A pause, and then, " He 
 has gone, too." 
 
 A most unfortunate thing happened for Brian. Those dread- 
 ful long sobs began again. The poor girl was too weak to 
 hold them back. Brian had to stand there and listen, and 
 know what it was to be punished. 
 
 Without making a sound he crept away, went downstairs 
 into the kitchen, where Jim was sleeping, released him ; then, 
 lighting a candle, he went upstairs with the dog, knowing that 
 Arminel would hear someone coming and would see the light. 
 Jim ran on in front and bounded upon the bed. Brian 
 hesitated, and, after a dreadful moment, said, very softly, 
 " Darling ! " 
 
 A frightened little sound was the answer. Brian extinguished 
 the light. He could not look into her eyes if he did go in. 
 Still standing outside the room, he said rapidly, fervently, " I 
 am here, darling. I have been waiting all night for you to 
 wake. I am your husband, sweet, and you are my dear wife, 
 my very own wife, though you are a thousand times too good 
 for me. We are properly married, but we will be married 
 again if you wish it. I have deceived you, but only because I 
 loved you so much. I have been very wicked and foolish, and 
 I could not tell you. Darling, forgive me. If you had drowned 
 yourself I think I should have followed you. Let me come in 
 and tell you how much I love you." 
 
 There was an interval of silence, which was not all silence, 
 for he could hear her troubled breathing. Then she moaned, 
 " My head ! " 
 
 Brian went for Betsey. The old woman appeared quickly, 
 in quaint costume, and Miss Challacombe, who had not slept 
 much, appeared too. They gave Arminel a stimulant. Betsey 
 crooned to her. Miss Challacombe rubbed her head. Brian 
 walked up and down the passage in torment. An hour passed, 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 339 
 
 light was streaming in all the windows — it was an awful time 
 — then Miss Challacombe came out, nervous and excited, 
 her hands fidgeting with her dressing-gown, her face quite 
 amiable. 
 
 "She knows. She understands. Her head is better now, 
 and she is trying to laugh — poor cjhild ! " The old lady 
 found it necessary to sniff. "She said: 'Tell him he's a— a 
 monkey.' " 
 
 At that point Miss Challacombe disappeared abruptly into 
 her own apartment, while Brian as suddenly discovered that it 
 was going to be rather a nice day. 
 
 It was impossible to see Arminel. The girl was an absolute 
 prisoner, and Betsey was turnkey. Betsey had long ago 
 appropriated Stokey, and now she added young Mrs. Challa- 
 combe to an already fairly extensive list of imaginary possessions. 
 It was no use Mr. Brian hanging about the passage. He was 
 not going to see his wife, and make her bad again. She knew 
 what men were. She had never married one, and she thanked 
 the Lord for it. A man in a sick-chamber was as great a 
 nuisance as a dog at a fair. Mr. Brian had better go to bed, 
 and think of his sins — not all of them, for that would be too 
 much of an undertaking, but some of the worst. Betsey con- 
 cluded by reminding Brian that she had often slapped him in 
 the days of his childhood for disobeying her ; and she was 
 quite prepared to administer the same punishment if he 
 provoked her then. Luckily the dose of sulphonal which the 
 doctor had given Arminel took effect again ; and she went off 
 into a sleep which lasted until well past breakfast time. 
 
 A plot was then made to decoy Betsey into the garden. 
 Miss Challacombe pretended she wanted the old woman to 
 advise Coneybear where the winter cabbage ought to be planted. 
 Betsey tumbled headlong into the snare, and Brian ran upstairs. 
 Arminel heard him coming, and feeling absurdly shy, turned 
 her face away from the door. Her reply to his eager question 
 asking permission to enter was hardly audible. 
 
 Her little left hand, covered with scratches, but without its 
 
 z 2 
 
340 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 ring, was held out and kissed. She turned, not knowing how 
 ill she looked, and closed her eyes quickly when she saw his 
 shocked face. That look told her everything; that she was 
 really Brian's wife ; that she was everything to him. 
 
 " Oh, monkey ! " she murmured. " How could you make me 
 so bad ? " 
 
 Brian was not intelligible for a few moments. She let him 
 gather her into his arms, and she rested her pretty head upon 
 his shoulder, and put up her hand to play with his ear ; and 
 said in a small voice that she had been a silly girl, and she was 
 dreadfully sorry, but it was his fault this time, honesty-truly 
 it was, and she would forgive him this once because she was 
 sure he had been punished, and she didn't believe in being 
 hard upon children when they were really sorry; and all this 
 with a wildly aching head. 
 
 When Brian became coherent he told her all, and confessed 
 that he ought to have told her long before. " If I had, darling, 
 I should have saved you so much. I wish I had." 
 
 " Perhaps we were rather too happy and thoughtless. We 
 wanted something to sober us," she murmured. "I was 
 foolish, too, but it all came upon me at once, and I lost con- 
 trol. If I had been able to think quietly I should have known 
 that you had not deceived me — at least not as I believed you 
 had, because you have always been so truly fond of me. It 
 was an awful day. David has always been running after me, 
 and yesterday he ran after me to some purpose and saved me 
 for you. I was going to drown myself, monkey. Wasn't I 
 silly ? Kiss me for trying to drown myself." 
 
 " Darling, don't talk like that." 
 
 " Well, you haven't kissed me in the proper place." 
 
 " Because I don't deserve to." 
 
 " Here's my mouth — and the sweetlips. I won't open my 
 eyes because my head is so bad. Love-bite — poor boy 1 It 
 was only Maria who was going to bathe, and nobody wants her 
 now. Arminel is quite safe, and she won't run away again, and 
 when she gets well and strong she will be as happy as ever. 
 
CONCERNING THE BED OF STOKEY. 341 
 
 This is how you kissed me in the larch-copse on the way to 
 Pasture Water — ^the same hungry way. I thought yesterday 
 you were tired of me. I am not very conceited after all — to 
 think you should want Nona Wistman instead of me." 
 
 This nonsense was put a stop to by the return of Betsey, who 
 was astounded at such flagrant disobedience of her orders. 
 She not only ordered Brian out of the room, but assisted him 
 to discover the door ; and explained that if he tried to return 
 Stokey would no longer be an abode for him, Brian sub- 
 mitted. Betsey was rather more formidable than his aunt. 
 He had never summoned up courage to tell the old servant to 
 hold her tongue. He gave a fond glance at his wife and fled. 
 
 Miss Challacombe was at the garden gate holding a telegram. 
 She called her nephew and announced, " Your father will be 
 here this evening. I can't imagine what he is coming for. 
 He hasn't been down for years. I only wrote to him last 
 night " 
 
 " I know why he is coming," Brian interrupted, 
 
 " Why ? " snapped his aimt. 
 
 " To see his daughter." 
 
 " Then he's dafty," declared the mistress of Stokey in a very 
 decided fashion. 
 
 "He naturally thinks Arminel is the dearest and sweetest 
 girl in the world," Brian continued loftily. " Don't you think 
 so, too ? " 
 
 " You miserable ape 1 " muttered Miss Challacombe. 
 
CHAPTER XXrV. 
 
 THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. 
 
 It was raining ; not a London drizzle, not a midland-county 
 sprinkle, but a rain of the mist, a mountain rain, a regular 
 Dartmoor rain, warranted to soak through granite and armour- 
 plating. The moorland heights were tearfully inclined. They 
 seemed to be blubbering like so many Cyclopean Coneybears. 
 The baffling mist whirled across Tordown Hill, heavy rain 
 beating through it, general splashiness below, and above a fresh 
 odour of Atlantic seaweed and fresh heather. It was a 
 thoroughly healthy day. The white mist was an enemy to 
 all sickness. 
 
 " They'll get so soppy," sighed Arminel. 
 
 Brian and his father had driven to North Beer. Arminel 
 was lying on the lounge in the sitting-room, surrounded with 
 luxuries, dressed as if she meant to inflict damage upon 
 someone, and following Miss Challacombe's movements with 
 soft eyes. 
 
 " Do them good," said the old lady. " Nothing like Dart- 
 moor mist. It cures everything." 
 
 The mistress of Stokey was in a good temper. During the 
 last two days she had not once been irritable, which was 
 astonishing. She liked to have her house filled ; and when 
 it was occupied by her own people her satisfaction was 
 increased. Arminel, of course, was not considered a member 
 of the family; but Miss Challacombe had no objection to 
 her being there for a few days, as she was an invalid. She 
 would never see the girl again. The fact that Cuthbert was at 
 Stokey was especially gratifying. He had not been there for a 
 
THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. 343 
 
 good many years, and he was excellent company. The Challa- 
 combes had always been good fellows when they were not 
 running after strange women. Brian had improved very much 
 since his marriage, his aunt thought ; and that was surprising 
 when she considered how he had lowered himself by marrying 
 such a common young person. The good points of the Challa- 
 combes — ^which were noticeable chieily in the women — ^were 
 appearing in Brian in spite of his wife. Miss Challacombe's 
 meinory was getting a little awkward. She had to remind 
 herself occasionally that nothing could ever make Arminel a 
 lady, and that she had fully determined never to forgive her 
 nephew. 
 
 " What have you been doing, please ? " said Arminel, look- 
 ing up innocently, and beginning to nibble a chocolate. 
 
 " Bother the girl ! I wish she wouldn't say please like that," 
 thought Miss Challacombe. " And I wish she wouldn't wear 
 pale yellow and a red ribbon in her hair and look so 
 provoking." 
 
 " 1 have been making a junket," she answered. 
 
 Miss Challacombe prided herself upon her junkets. She 
 made them according to an old family receipt, the secret of 
 which was jealously preserved. Some people thought she 
 mixed too much brandy with the cream, rennet, spice, and 
 those certain other things which were peculiar to the Challa- 
 combe receipt ; but the old lady said that a junket was no good 
 if you couldn't taste it, and Cuthbert quite agreed with her. 
 
 " For me ? " enquired Arminel. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," faltered Miss Challacombe. 
 
 " Did Betsey let you ? " 
 
 Miss Challacombe had to admit she had taken advantage of 
 Betsey's temporary absence from the kitchen ; and then she 
 wanted to know what the " little toad " was laughing at. 
 
 "I can manage Betsey nicely," was all Arminel had to 
 say. 
 
 "It seems to me you manage most people nicely," said 
 Miss Challacombe crossly. 
 
344 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " Now you can teach me some more of that Patience," said 
 Mrs. Challacombe. 
 
 The old lady was delighted. She generally had to thrust 
 her games of Patience upon people. To be invited to give a 
 demonstration was a pleasing and unusual unction to her soul. 
 She hurried for the cards, pushed the table to the side of the 
 lounge, and began to discourse upon mysteries which she had 
 never succeeded in making interesting to anyone before. 
 
 The time passed happily enough. Miss Challacombe became 
 excited. Arminel was quietly seductive. The dense mists 
 poured across the windows. The old lady continued to manipu- 
 late the cards like a sharper, and so rapidly that the girl 
 had to put out her pink fingers sometimes and arrest the busy 
 hands and beg for an explanation. They were such pretty 
 fingers that Miss Challacombe did not feel called upon to object 
 to the liberty they took. She had seated herself upon the 
 lounge, and Arminel was as close as she could be. Her soft 
 hair brushed the old lady's cheek ; and during a lucid interval, 
 when all was plain sailing with the cards. Miss Challacombe 
 found herself taking some interest, from an artistic point of 
 view, in the long lashes and red lips and perfect chin of the 
 common young person beside her. Suddenly Arminel looked 
 up, and the old lady remarked in some confusion, " You are 
 not attending." 
 
 " Yes, I am, aunt." 
 
 Miss Challacombe gasped. This was impertinence. The 
 ^rl was making herself too much at home. It was all her 
 brother's fault. He had encouraged Arminel to be rude. The 
 old lady left the lounge with as much dignity as she could 
 manage, because she was aware that those provoking eyes were 
 following her movements. The possessor of the eyes began to 
 play with her dog, and pretended to be indifferent to the mis- 
 tress who had still a good deal of family pride left ; not so much 
 as at one time, but more than was good for her. 
 
 "What will Jimmy do when mother goes away? 'Jimmy 
 come, too,' he says. But he can't, dear, for mother's going 
 
THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. 345 
 
 across the sea, and Jimmy would be frightened if he saw 
 poodle-dogs. Jimmy will stop with g'an'ma until mother 
 comes back." 
 
 " What's all that nonsense?" said Miss Challacombe sharply. 
 " Who's going away ? " 
 
 "I am, please," said Arminel. "The dad told me this 
 morning he would like to go on the Continent once more before 
 he died, and he said he was going to take me before I died. 
 Isn't it nice of him ! He said to Brian, ' I'm going to take the 
 baby abroad for a bit.' I'm the baby, please. And Jimmy will 
 stop with g'an'ma till mother comes back. You are g'an'ma, 
 please." 
 
 " Stop your ' pleases,' or I'll come and box your ears," said 
 Miss Challacombe. 
 
 " Don't — please," begged the soft voice. " The dad said he 
 wouldn't take Brian, and then they had a row — over me. We 
 had to put the question before the meeting, and Brian voted in 
 favour of his coming, as was natural, and I voted in the same 
 way, as was still more natural. So it all ended happily ever 
 afterwards." 
 
 " I don't know what you are talking about," said the old lady 
 as she returned to the lounge. There was something attractive 
 about that part of the room. " You talk such rubbish when you 
 are excited." 
 
 " It's sense really," said Arminel. " Only it wants thinking 
 out like a difficult piece of poetry. Now sit down. I'm going 
 to tell you all about dreamland trees." 
 
 " More nonsense, I suppose," said Miss Challacombe. 
 
 " Honesty-truly, sober sense this time. Now listen. You put 
 the seed into the pillow before going to bed, and when you lie 
 down the dreamland tree begins to grow. It spreads over your 
 head, and you can look up into the branches, and watch the 
 leaves forming, and then the flowers, and at last the fruit. 
 Directly a little dream gets ripe down it drops, and if it falls 
 upon your forehead it's a nice dream, and if it falls on your 
 nose it's horrid." 
 
346 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " And if it falls on your mouth ? " said Miss Challacombe, 
 who was absurdly interested. 
 
 " Then you dream of kisses. We all have dreamland trees. 
 One grew out of my pillow that evening 1 was brought here. I 
 was unconscious, but still the tree grew, and the fruit ripened, 
 and the little dream dropped. I think somebody shook the tree 
 and made it drop, for it wasn't quite ripe. Perhaps it was 
 Betsey. Perhaps it was you. But it was a kissing dream." 
 
 Miss Challacombe was turning all sorts of colours. There 
 certainly was some meaning in the girl's nonsense. She knew 
 she had been cowardly, as well as foolish, to fondle Arminel 
 during her unconsciousness. Still, it was the girl's fault — she 
 had no business to look so charming. But if Arminel did 
 know all about it — well, it was all up with everything, and 
 family pride would have to be put away in the lumber-room. 
 
 " One does imagine queer things in sleep," she admitted. 
 
 " Brian declares that the top of my forehead is covered with 
 the softest skin in the world," went on the girl, changing the 
 subject quickly, or perhaps only appearing to do so. " He says 
 it is softer than satin. That's exaggeration — now, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Well, it is very soft," Miss Challacombe admitted. 
 
 Arminel made a funny noise, and buried her face in a 
 cushion. 
 
 " How do you know, please ? " said she. 
 
 Miss Challacombe turned quite scarlet, and made the dis- 
 covery that she had left her handkerchief in the bedroom. 
 
 " You are holding it," cried the tormentor. 
 
 "I mean my — my umbrella," gasped the poor old lady, 
 becoming positively foolish. Then she bolted from the room, 
 while Arminel laughed prettily, helped herself to a chocolate, 
 and remarked, " I think g'an'ma is nearly tame, Jimsy." 
 
 While she was lying there, talking nonsense to her dog, she 
 heard the sound which had been familiar to her from the days 
 of babyhood — the clashing of tin oil-measures. She could see 
 nothing from the window on account of the mist, but she could 
 imagine it all ; the cart covered with its big tarpaulin ; a smaller 
 
THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. 347 
 
 tarpaulin protecting Tom Yarty or Sarah Jane; and a still 
 smaller one over Dartmoor Jack. She looked round the room, 
 with its fine old furniture, its portraits of departed worthies, its 
 subtle odour of gentility : at the four martlets carved below the 
 mantel ; at the motto, " Cave Amicum," on the clothes-press ; at 
 her own pretty clothes, her tiny bronze slippers, the flowers and 
 dainties surrounding her. She had succeeded in life, not by 
 scheming or plotting, but simply by " being nice." It had been 
 a way of danger, she had very nearly failed; but she was safe 
 now, she had come through, just because she was nice. She 
 was decidedly going up. She thought of the oil-cart, and the 
 shining tarpaulins, and simple old Dartmoor Jack beaming 
 through his big spectacles. That was what she had sprung 
 from. She thought of Nona Wistman, the young lady who 
 was decidedly going down. Then she gathered Jim into her 
 arms, went before the mantel-glass, nestled her cheek against 
 the dog's brown head, and said, " Jimmy, dear, do you see 
 that slut in the glass ? She's Mrs. Challacombe, of Stokey and 
 North Beer. I can tell you all about her, because she's a 
 friend of mine. She has conquered everyone simply by being 
 nice — ^though of course those eyes and that mouth did help a 
 little, and perhaps the nose had something to do with it. Still, 
 as I was telling you, doggie, she's quite a big person, and 
 everybody loves her — even her aunt, who pretends she doesn't. 
 And the aunt is going to be quite tame before to-night.'' 
 
 There was a heavy step in the passage, and Arminel fled 
 back to her sofa and lowered herself upon the cushions as 
 Dartmoor Jack appeared and craved leave to enter. He held 
 his hat in his hand. The tarpaulin he had left in the kitchen. 
 He wondered whether it was his duty to touch his forehead to 
 the brilliant young lady upon the lounge. However, natural 
 affection prevailed, and he asked, " How be ye, my dear? " 
 
 " Fine, and how be yew ? " said the saucy girl. 
 
 "What do 'em feed ye on, my dear? " asked the old gentle- 
 man admiringly. 
 
 " Sugar and spice and all that's nice," she laughed. " I am 
 
348 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 getting very well, and everyone loves me more than ever," she 
 added. 
 
 "I don't blame 'em," said Dartmoor Jack. "You was 
 always a tender maid. I be proud of ye, Maria. I was saying 
 to Sarah Jane as us come along in the mist, ' I be cruel proud 
 of Maria.' I says it to Tom Yarty, tu." 
 
 " Well, I'm proud of myself," said she. 
 
 Dartmoor Jack produced a tin box from his pocket and 
 placed it on the table. It was rather a big box. When Arminel 
 looked up enquiringly the oilman said, " I couldn't bring he 
 afore. He'm your wedding-ring." 
 
 She flushed and thanked him. " Brian was coming over for 
 it to-morrow," she said. "Thank you, father. I was silly 
 that day. All the time I was so silly Brian was being silly, 
 too. He was trying to find my shoe-marks on the bowling- 
 alley at North Beer. I nearly made an awful mistake." 
 
 " Us be foolish," Dartmoor Jack admitted. " If us wasn't 
 foolish, us wouldn't be men and women. Good-bye, my dear. 
 I mun get off, or I wun't be home afore dark. Days be getting 
 shorter, and miles be longer than they was." 
 
 " Kiss me, father," she said, when the old fellow hesitated. 
 "Don't go away with the idea that your little dame is ashamed 
 of the oilcart." 
 
 Dartmoor Jack kissed her with some awe and went his way. 
 Arminel heard the oil-measures clashing together again, the 
 creaking of the wheels, and her father's cheery whistle. She 
 listened until the sounds died away along Tordown Hill. 
 
 The pilgrims returned, and not until then did Miss Challa- 
 combe venture to appear. Brian rushed in and kissed his wife 
 in what she called his hungry fashion. He was followed by 
 Cuthbert, who mistook the girl's welcome as an invitation to 
 follow his son's example. Then Miss Challacombe crept in 
 quietly to make the tea. 
 
 "I am going to divide my face into kissing-plots," stated 
 Arminel. " Mouth for the monkey, right cheek for the dad, 
 left cheek for my father; forehead is to let," she said. 
 
THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. 349 
 
 with a sly look at Miss Challacombe, who pretended not to 
 notice. " On a long lease. Ninety-nine years," she mur- 
 mured ; but Miss Challacombe went on grimly with her 
 tea-making. 
 
 Arminel was by no means at the end of her resources ; but 
 she was content to wait before striking a more deadly blow. 
 She gave Brian the tin box and told him to open it. He did 
 so; found a quantity of paper; took that out and discovered 
 another box ; opened that and came upon more paper ; then 
 stmdry small packages, growing gradually smaller until he 
 reached a scrap of tinfoil out of which was produced a tiny 
 circle of gold, the sight of which made Brian forget that 
 he was not alone with his wife. Miss Challacombe turned 
 her back upon them and remarked to Cuthbert that such folly 
 made her bilious. 
 
 " Put it on your own self. I won't take it off again — honesty- 
 truly," Arminel whispered. 
 
 "It was all my fault, darling. I made you cover it up," he 
 whispered back. 
 
 " I shan't cover it up again, not for all the monkeys in the 
 world," said she. " I did think of hiring a small boy to carry 
 it before me on a cushion." 
 
 " Brian, do remember you are in my drawing-room. It is 
 positively indecent," broke in Miss Challacombe. 
 
 That evening there was a little scene between the old people. 
 Miss Challacombe asked her brother if it was true that he proposed 
 taking the young couple abroad, and Cuthbert admitted it was. 
 The old lady told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself, 
 and reminded him that it was his duty to punish Brian severely 
 for his folly and wickedness. 
 
 "The boy has had a sharp punishment already," said 
 Cuthbert. "I don't believe in piling it on. He won't go 
 wrong again. Arminel will look after him better than we 
 can. I love the child. So do you, only you won't give 
 way." 
 "I hate the sight of her," snapped his sister. 
 
350 ARMINEL OF THE WEST. 
 
 " She will beat you. I am not sure she hasn't done so 
 already," said Cuthbert. " Look here, my girl. You think 
 too much of family, and name, and all that sort of thing. 
 It was all right a hundred years ago, but it won't do now. 
 We live in a democratic age ; and if a girl is pretty and 
 charming nobody troubles about her birth. A really good 
 girl is a treasure, and Brian is lucky to have found one. She 
 will conquer you in the end. You mustn't throw a jewel 
 away. A charming girl will conquer everything and every- 
 body. Run away and kiss her ; then come abroad with us. 
 It will do you good, and you had better be away until this 
 Wistman affair blows over." 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the kind," said Miss Challacombe in 
 rather a miserable manner. " If the girl had only been a lady 
 I would have loved her. I can't acknowledge her, and I will 
 never forgive Brian for having married her." 
 
 Cuthbert made no reply. He went out to the linhay to have 
 a chat with Coneybear, whose wedding-day was very near a* 
 hand. 
 
 Shortly before dinner Miss Challacombe went into the 
 sitting-room. The white mist still rushed across Tordown 
 Hill, and a fire had been lighted to dispel the chilliness which 
 that mist had brought into the house. Miss Challacombe did 
 not know Arminel was in the room until she heard a move- 
 ment, and then she saw the girl's pretty face resting upon a 
 cushion and illumined by the fire. The eyes were dangerously 
 moist. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " said the old lady, as sharply as she 
 could. 
 
 " Worried," replied Arminel. 
 
 "You have nothing to be worried about, I'm sure," said 
 Miss Challacombe. 
 
 " Yes, I have. There's one big worry, and it makes my 
 head ache.'' 
 
 Miss Challacombe decided that her best plan would be to 
 leave the room. When Arminel used that voice there was 
 
THE IRRITABLE OLD LADY DORMANT. 351 
 
 danger in the air. She made a couple of steps towards the 
 door ; and then was aghast to hear : 
 
 " Please, auntie, I want you." 
 
 The poor old lady had to stop ; had to return ; had to bend 
 over the lounge and confront those eyes. 
 
 " What is it, child ? " she said. 
 
 " I have something to tell you. Bend over, please, close to 
 my mouth." 
 
 Miss Challacombe struggled; decided to refuse; and 
 obeyed. 
 
 " I am going to have a baby," whispered Arminel. 
 
 " Oh, my dear 1 " quavered Miss Challacombe, as she thought 
 of her dream. " I — I am so glad." 
 
 " It's going to be such a pretty one," went on the whisper. 
 
 " I am sure it will, dear. I am sure of it," murmured the 
 old lady. 
 
 " I want you to be fairy godmother." 
 . Miss Challacombe began to fumble for her handkerchief. 
 
 "You'll love it?" 
 
 "Yes, darling!" Miss Challacombe was sniffing in a 
 ridiculous fashion. 
 
 Then Arminel put up her arms, just as she had put them up 
 to play with the pink cones in the larch-copse on the memorable 
 day of her walk with Brian to Pasture Water ; and she fastened 
 them round the stubborn old lady's neck. 
 
 "Won't you love the little mother, too f " she whispered. 
 
 THE END.