wm 19 ^H ^M ^H BIH BUBHM hHh 1 ^mn\ ^B 1 CHorneU UntUFrattg Sltbrarg BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF fienrs M. Sage 1 891 i3QH:\0fe^ 5iXiife^ The date showa when this volume was taken. To renew this book copy the call No. and give to t he librarian. ^_ 10 Jtr. 1916 HOME USE^RULES. , ^, \.':^'.! t# ' I All Bptks tubiect to Recall. ' ~ j^j^ books must be if her husband grumbled about the one, she at least was making for the other, always at work, seven days a week and no holidays, half the work of the farm and all the work of the house — Hercules himself would have tottered to see her — and she did the mending for the hind and preached . a little gospel to him sometimes, and she cut the faggot-wood and did all the dairy work. She was famous for her butter, which she made in the slow old-fashioned way, churning the cream with her hands, turning it out in great amorphous masses, which were sent out to market, cut up by the trader, mixed with ninety per cent, of cheap foreign butter and sold to the public as best Devonshire after the manner of business. Barseba was a hyperphysical bee. She bred turkeys, geese, fowls, and ducks ; she brought up the calves and orphaned 145 10 146 Granite lambs ; she made the cider without much assistance, turned out for the threshing, and in some miraculous way cooked a good dinner at the same time ; she attended to the vegetable garden ; she divided her physical self into a corps of personalities, appearing to toss hay in Stockey Furzen with one hand while with the other she made the beds in Love Lane. On the whole it was a wonderful life, and there was no reward, for she was only a woman, getting very white about the head. She was not a worker Uke a man, she only messed about the place ; and one day she would take to her bed and the next she would die, because she had no time to be idle, and then perhaps Caleb would remember she had been " wonderful handy," and would remind the undertaker that it must be a very cheap funeral. If there was poverty it seemed hard upon Barseba. If there were coins to be spent for holiday-making it seemed unjust she should not have the use of them. But the chickens were wait- ing to be fed. There were rats to be trapped in the barn, or they would have the young turkeys. A calf was expected at any moment. There was no time to wonder where the money went. Mark and Old Coles arrived first and were received by Barseba in the parlour, which was thrown open that day and was almost as hard to sweep out as a field upon Dartmoor, the floor being composed of black and ridged cobblestones, upon which the furniture shifted with telekinetic movements. It was a damp room, and no fire could warm it, still it was the place of state receptions ; and, for the satisfaction of those who were to enter, albums of yellow photographs, proclaiming the record and testifying to the legitimate descent of the Starkes, had been pushed into prominence. The " drinkings " were in the cloam- oven, according to the law of hospitality, more food than drink in spite of the name, being for the most part hot cakes. Mark would have come in any case to act as guardian to Old Coles, but it so happened that Caleb had ridden over to the old turnpike seeking his help, because a lot of gaps had been made in his hedges and the ewe-lambs were slipping out one after the other. About Rents 147 " Yew'm a stranger, Mark. Why ain't yew been over to see us avore?" said Barseba, doing different things with each hand and kicking the bits of wood left of the kindhng upon the hearthstone to clear the floor. " I have been busy, or I should have come long ago," said Mark. " They ses plenty o' work be a gude thing," cried Barseba. " But it du keep a body untidy, and it du mak' white heads. Ain't I a proper old granny ? " she asked, shaking the thin hair over her eyes. ' ' It keeps you from worrying," said Mark. " True enough, my dear. If I wur to finish work one day I'd set me down and begin to think if I wur going right or wrong, and then I'd worry, for I'd be certain to fancy I wur going wrong." " The old stag turkey is still alive, I see. He and I are old friends." "Well, my dear, master wun't kill mun. Let 'en live as long as he've a mind to, he ses. He'm a contrairy old toad as ever wur, but he gets on well enough wi' the men. 'Tis the women he can't abide. Master ha' got a liking for 'en, but I ses let 'en lay an egg and then I'll believe in 'en." The great bird was in front of the window, standing upon a dunghill, regarding the hens with an Augustinian eye. Some- times he stirred and puffed a lamentation. He was ragged in appearance, and looked as if he had been dragging himself through brambles, rolling upon sharp stones, tearing out his feathers, still further to mortify the flesh. Not a creature in the whole world of the farmyard was his friend. " Heard from Patience ? " asked Mark, and Barseba's quiet blue eyes became troubled. Not a day of Mark's life passed which did not include the thought of Patience, and the memory of his vow to help her, if she would let him. She was still a part of his life, on account of those former days. " Her wrote to Tempy Christmas. ' I be doing first-rate,' 148 Granite her said, but her don't write to me, and her never comes home," Barseba answered. "You speak as if you were troubled about her." " Aw, my dear, how fine yew du talk ! I can't hardly believe yew ever worked here as a chap. I feels like saying sir to ye as I would to squire. 'Tis little wonder the chaps crave to get away across the seas if it larns 'em to talk so fine. They ses yew be a preacher, Mark, but I du hope yew b'ain't a Methody and a teetotaler. When yew gives me a Methody and a teetotaler, yew gives me a rascal," said Barseba. "I am a teetotaler, but I don't boast of it," said Mark. " If yew don't boast on't, I reckon yew means it, and if yew means it yew b'ain't a Methody. I went to the door one day, my dear, and there wur a little fellow not much bigger than the stag-turkey, and he fluffed out and ses, 'I ha' come all the way from Plymouth to preach the gospel to ye.' I ses to 'en, 'Then yew can get along back to Plymouth. Look ye here,' I ses, pointing to the Buke on the dresser, and there he be, Mark, and I don't set no cloam on him neither, ' there be more gospel in him,' I ses, ' than yew can preach to me, and if there be any more, I don't want to hear it.' Then he told me I wur a stiff-necked woman, and I picked up my scouring- pole, and he went across the court on they little bendy legs of his in dree ticks o' the old grandvaither." "What about Patience?" asked Mark. "Well, my dear, her sent Tempy a portrait, and her wur dressed better than a poor maid ought to be dressed." " She was always fond of clothes," Mark muttered, but he remembered that Patience had been fond of other things as well : those things which promise to give a girl much, while they are taking everything from her. " Master be calling vor ye," said Barseba, as a sharp voice sounded from the regions above. Love Lane Farm was a rambling place, which the hand of the restorer had hardly touched since its erection in the About Rents 149 seventeenth century. The living-room opened on one side into a linhay which was part of the house, and had no doubt been once a parlour. It was then filled with roots, implements, and the cider-press. At one corner was a ladder, giving access by means of a trap-door to a barn which had been intended as a bedroom ; and this opened into a passage, which led to a long and narrow chamber used for generations as a lumber-room. Some moisture came through the roof, but the walls were still sound. The articles of furniture consisted of a table and oak-chest, both regarded as worthless by the Starkes, but possessing a certain value as genuine antiques ; books con- stituted the principal lumber in the place. It was supposed that a real gentleman had occupied the house when it was first built, and these books had belonged to him, and upon his death had been thrown in confusion into the large chest at the end of his room, and they had been kicked about the place ever since, no educated person knowing of their existence, and none of the uneducated giving any attention to them, beyond burning one or two occasionally when fuel ran short. It was possible, of course, that books collected during the seventeenth century might have some- thing more than a nominal value, but such an idea could never have occurred to Caleb, nor even to Mark, as they belonged to a class which attaches no value to books or pictures ; and though Mark had been educated, he was only able to judge books by the standard of those he had seen exposed for sale. Still, Caleb was fond of his books, which had been passed on from one tenant to another as fixtures, and he spent much of his time in the corner under the roof, trying to spell out strange sentences, and vaguely wondering if by so 'doing he might be acquiring the powers of witchcraft. It was strange to think that while the owners of the place were collecting outside, hungry for their few pounds of rent, a Shakespearian folio was stuffed into the wall to stop a rat-hole. These creatures had been kept under out of necessity, or none of the books would have escaped. As it was, most of 150 Granite them had been gnawed, and some had lost their bindings altogether. " Shut the trap down. Don't ye mak' more noise than yew can help," said Caleb. He was seated on two woolsacks beside the table, arranging money into little heaps j his face was frightened and his eyes were cunning. " Yew'm the only man I can trust, Mark. I wants yew to bide near me and watch I b'ain't robbed. I sleeps up here — ha' done vor the last year. I be fearful volks may come and steal the tetties." He cast an anxious glance over his shoulder, and as Mark approached he picked up a sack and flung it towards a hole in the floor, but not quite over, so that Mark caught sight of a box sunk between the joists, and before the sack went into its proper place he got near enough to see that it was not full of " tetties.'' "A queer place to keep potatoes," he said. "Not enough to steal, I fancy." "Well, they b'ain't all tetties," said Caleb, with a foolish giggle. "Pots o' honey, Mark. I keeps the honey here as welL" That was true ; and downstairs was the ever- working Barseba, who made the honey, but never tasted it. " I wants yew to come and bide here, Mark," the miser went on. " I'll give ye dree gude meals a day, and yew shan't work more than yew ha' a mind to." " I've got my work, thank ye, Mr Starke," said Mark. " I'll pay yew. I'll give ye some tetties, proper fine tetties vull o' eyes." " And honey ? " asked Mark drily. "Aw ees, a spuneful when yew craves vor't. But I ain't got any money, Mark; I can't spare the money. I'll give ye bukes and welcome, but there b'ain't no money." " What's that on the table ? " "Why, 'tis the rent, Mark, half a year's rent vor Love Lane. I don't know how it got there, but when it ha' got to come, there it be. When yew'm pinched yew bleeds. Aw Mark, seventy golden pounds for a bid o' land what the Lord made About Rents 151 on a Monday free to all, vuzzy land as yew knows, and cursed wi' brimmles vor our sins." " It's good soil," said Mark. " It b'ain't. Yew can't du nought wi't. Yew digs up the heather and finds vern-roots, and when yew . digs up the vern yew strikes granite. The Lord could ha' done better if He'd a mind to, but He said, 'I'll mak' 'em sweat.' I ha' sweated all my life, and now I be going down to the grave wi' nought but a few tetties.'' "That's more than you brought into the world," said Mark gravely. " That's right, more than I brought in wi' me. Yew puts it plain, Mark. They ses yew'm a preacher. Du ye bide wi' me, Mark," said Caleb plaintively. " I gets mazed, I tell ye, when I thinks of the moths and worms trying to get to my tetties. I don't keep 'em in paper vor dread o' the rats, and I hides 'em under the sack so as 'em shan't get mildewy. There be a lot o' thieves in Fursdon, I knows there be, and last night I saw a man behind the hedge wi' a gun." "After rabbits," said Mark. " He wur after my tetties. I sleeps on the trap," said the cunning old fellow. "They can't get in till they ha' pushed me off." Mark seated himself among the books and began to turn them over indifferently, asking who they belonged to. " They goes wi' the house. They'm only a lot of old trade," said Caleb contemptuously. "I'd sell the lot vor a shillun. I tears one of 'em abroad when I wants a light. There be some vunny little pictures in him," he said, kicking an illumi- nated missal across the floor. Mark picked up a shabby little volume and opened it. His foot rested upon a horn-book ornamented with the usual Criss Cross Row and set in an engraved frame, its back chased with flowers. At his side was a stiff manuscript stitched roughly into boards, and this was entitled in the nervous handwriting of three hundred years ago, " A true and particular Account 152 Granite of ye History of ye Countie of Devon fro the Accession of King Henry VIII to ye present Time to which be added an Account of ye Tinners and Savages vpon ye Forest of Derty- more and a History of ye Mines therof." There was no date. The work had been written by the scholarly recluse who had collected the books ; and there it was kicked about the barn, full of information unknown to the historian, waiting to be discovered. " I should like this httle book," said Mark, referring to the one he was holding. It was the first edition of The Pilgrim's Progress, published at eighteen-pence. "Put 'en in your pocket. Yew'm welcome," said Caleb. " Here be a vunny one about vishes," he went on, digging out The Compleat Angler. " He'm no gude, vor I ha' [tored 'en abroad. There be a lot o' church bukes," he said, pointing to a heap of ordinals. " Proper lot of old rubbish, b'ain't 'em ? " " May you give them away ? " asked Mark. " Well, 'em b'ain't rightly mine," said Caleb ; " but nobody wants 'em. They belongs to the volk outside, and if 'em likes to tak' 'em away 'em can. Tak' two, Mark. The vunny words in 'em will mak' ye laugh, and yew can throw 'em away when yew ha' looked through 'em," he said, picking up the history in manuscript and handing it over. It was easy, he thought, to bribe Mark with rubbish. "Now yew looks like a scholar,'' he said grinning. "A proper schule-master yew be. If yew wur to come and bide wi' me I'd give ye all they bukes, and welcome." Eminent men might have jumped at this oifer, but Mark declined. He might have consented had Caleb offered him fifty pounds, as he required money badly ; but a heap of old paper was not tempting. Barseba was calling below, and Mark from the window could see the congregation of owners assembled in the court. Caleb wrapped the separate sums of money in scraps of paper torn from the handiest volume, which was a book very vilely printed by one Caxton, and then they clambered down. The trap-door was padlocked for fear of potato-stealers, and Caleb passed , About Rents 153 into the court to shake hands with the Rescorlas, the Vids, Old Coles, and Judy Boone, and to mention he was not glad to see them. Eli and Oli were munching cake like schoolboys, smiling at each other, full of fun because pay-day meant a holiday for them, more travelHng, greater experiences, and a good laugh to end up with. Out of Oli's pocket peeped a kitten born of Ted, and reprieved from the bucket by reason of an " artful face." In the midst straddled George Vid, more magnificent than turkeys, and Maria accompanied him, larger even than her husband, but slovenly and down at heels. Better off than many of their neighbours, they had no idea of thrift ; when Eli and Oli received five pounds they put away three, but when the Vids received five they spent ten. And when Judy Boone received her money it was cast to the lions, red, green and rampant, by her bloated son Joseph. Judy and Old Coles were together in the background, looking like antique china figures, but the old woman was the strongest. She did not shiver ; she stood squarely, almost as broad as she was high, and she reverenced every man with an odd curtsey. Her best dress would hardly have tempted the ragpicker — the omni- vorous Joseph devoured everything, clothes, furniture ; he had mastered the science of reducing all things to a liquid, even his soul. Her ancient sun-bonnet had once surrounded a happier face, and now it was a network of lines, a maze of crows' feet, resembling a map of roads and lanes, ways of the dolorous. There were wayside crosses and small chapels upon that face. " Ah, Mr Yeo ! " cried the all-glorious George. " A very good-day to you. It does me good to shake you by the hand." Mark surrendered, knowing the man, while Vid worked at his arm as if it had been the handle of the village pump. " The country is talking of you, Mr Yeo. Yours is a sacred mission, and you have my prayers. I trust you will allow me to supply you with soap and candles. Cleanliness is next to godliness, as you know so well, and light is necessary for the eyes. Both articles are at the present time moderate in price. 154 Granite I have supplied Mr Wreford these many years, and he knows me well— a man of words, just to a fault, expecting to receive his dues and rendering them in their season. Mother, come and shake Mr Yeo by the hand. Mother and I are both hearty, thank God." Oli winked at Eli, and the little brother nodded and per- formed a pantomime of putting someone on his back with his head bumping against the stones. "Ah, Mr Starke," cried Vid, worrying old Caleb's hand and arm. "The changing years, revolving, I think, is the word used in poetry, the change of seasons, seed-time and harvest, bring us together, the one to give, the other to receive. My cart is outside ; soap and candles are at your very door and shall be placed upon your threshold at the word. I am thank- ful for these days which bring the fruit of industry, the reward of toil. They bring a blessing to all concerned, and there is no ill-feeling — thank God ! — a blessing to you, Mr Starke, inasmuch as you know you have received the fruits of the earth in their season, and a blessing to us, the payees — I think that is the word used by the lawyers — if we use the money which is our due in the right way. Mother, Mr Starke is craving to take you by the hand." Caleb was doing no such thing. He was worrying with the little parcels of money and trying to find words to express his poverty, and to explain that upon this occasion he was too embarrassed to pay. " Have you any objections to my taking these books ? " said Mark, addressing the company in general, and exhibiting the two volumes which would have bought up Love Lane and bestowed an endowment upon it also. No one had the slightest objection except Vid. He knew all about the pile of rubbish in the barn, as he had poked about the place many a time, to satisfy himself that the tenant was doing no wilful damage, and he had expressed the opinion that it might be possible to get rid of the books for a few shillings to some ragman such as his old friend, Mr Wreford. About, Rents 155 He adjusted his spectacles, put on his parish council manner — he was talker-in-chief to that body, and his business was to throw apples of discord about the place — and said, " I am very much afraid, Mr Yeo, you cannot take them, and Mr Starke has no power to give them." "They'm worth nought," muttered Caleb, as if Vid might have known he would not give away anything of value. " It is a matter of principle. We must do our duty,'' said Vid, almost snatching the books from Mark. " I very much doubt whether we have power to part with them. It is depreciating the property, and we are its guardians." " I be willing Mark should have them," said both the Rescorlas J but Vid would not hearken, although his face beamed with friendliness to all men. He declared the books must be restored to the barn, and then he pushed them into the pockets of his big brown coat, where they became forgotten because they were not silver and gold, but only those little bits of refuse which accumulate about old buildings. The party went under cover, and, seated in the damp religious gloom of the state apartment, munched hot cakes until Caleb shuffled in, closed the door, and directed Mark to stand against it lest any robbers should burst in suddenly. Paying out was a grievous business. Those little parcels of money were pieces of paradise broken off like granite chips from the rock of his salvation. He handed them over one by one, and soon there was an outcry. "A slight financial error, Mr Starke," boomed Vid. "I am ten shillings short. Mother, count your money. Among old friends, Mr Starke, it should not be necessary to count." Then he went over the coins again, rubbing and biting each one ; while Maria, who had not sat at her husband's feet in vain, deftly passed him a sovereign and announced that she, too, had discovered a deficit. "We must do our duty," said Vid in his masterful way. " You must put down thirty shillings, Mr Starke. Mother and me live with difficulty." 156 Granite "I counted the money again and again," whined Caleb. He had been convicted before of giving short measure, not out of actual dishonesty, but because each departing coin seemed to fly away with his vitals. Misers are always cheated because they are over-careful. Had Caleb paid by cheque he would have been safe, but he distrusted paper and banks ; rats devoured the one, and rascals shattered the'other. " Mark Yeo counted the money, and he'm a scholar," he added miserably ; but Mark shook his head when the appeal reached him. "A slight mental error, Mr Starke," cried the noisy Vid. " Mr Yeo — and I am glad of the opportunity of mentioning that we are proud of Mr Yeo — disclaims having counted the money. He may do so now. Mother, spread your money upon the table. Now, Mr Yeo." " It b'ain't thirty shilluns, Mark, " whispered Caleb. " It is," came the answer, and the old man knew he had been bitten. " It wur only ten," he muttered. " Mr Starke, we have been boys together. Do you admit trying to cheat me and poor dear mother of ten shillings, ten sordid pieces of silver ? " cried Vid. " No, George. I drapped half a sovereign, and he rolled down among the tetties," lied the poor old man. "Thirty shillings," shouted Vid, then added, "This is only duty. There must be no ill-feeling." " I be ruined, I be bankrupt, and the land be worth nought," pleaded Caleb, shuffling away from the big white-headed figure. "Thirty shillings," boomed Vid. "Do not get angry, mother dear. This is business which is always painful, and we shall depart from Mr Starke, our old friend, with the hand- shake of peace and love." " I counted the money a hundred times. If I ha' given yew tu little I ha' given t'others tu much," declared Caleb. This did not appear upon investigation. Old Coles was undoubtedly short, but did not know of it until Mark informed him. He was, indeed, quite prepared to hear he had received About Rents 157 too much. Judy Boone was in a like case, but the old soul was hungry, and enjoying the drinkings so much that she couldn't bother about money which would be of no benefit to her. The Rescorlas, however, had received their full amount, and were then busily engaged in the long and laborious process of scrawling receipts. Folks stood in some awe of Eli and Oli, which seemed strange, as they were kind and gentle creatures; but then they were giants, they wrestled, their muscles stood out, and the only thing which frightens buUies is physical strength. George Vid kept himself apart from the Rescorlas. He never supplied them with soap and candles, nor did he express any desire to shake them by the hand. Caleb pressed behind Mark, disappeared, and Barseba was ofTered up in his stead. She managed to save a little, and this fund was continually being exhausted, because Caleb guessed its existence. She produced her purse, paid out what was required, and had just enough with a few coppers over. " Us can't carry it away wi' us," she said cheerfully, then went back to the butter-making. Neither Caleb nor the stag-turkey could be found. Perhaps they had gone away together to hide in the field of granite. Mark had a duty which was also the pleasure of visiting Temperance Mosscrop, whose face he had not seen since her marriage. Had he remained in the parish during those past four years he might stiU have not seen her unless he had called at Blue Violet, or had caught her waiting one Saturday evening at the gate of Broadview, where lived the farmer who employed Timothy as shepherd. Wages were paid on Saturday evening, and the men were also served with cider, as much as they wanted, and for an hour or two stood in the court, or in the barn if the skies were cold and wet, drinking, while those wives who were not independent waited at the gate of the court, which they were not supposed to enter, holding the market basket to be filled with supplies for the forthcoming week, when their masters hked to come forth and supply the funds. Mark would not have seen Temperance, because, when not 158 Granite waiting at the gate of Broadview, she was at home, walking between the wood-stack and the cottage, from the pump to the door, to the linhay and back to the living-room. There was nothing to take her out. It is the sad part of village life that there is nothing to take the women out. The man has his roaring lion, where it is not proper for the wife to be seen. She would lose her reputation if she entered such a den, but his does not suffer whatever his condition when the lion has done with him. The young girl could flaunt about in fine colours, but the young married woman must not venture beyond the wood-stack — there is generally a voice from the cradle to call her back — but sometimes she enjoys a conversation with some passing neighbour at the gate, though there is little to discuss. Even if their country is at war they know hardly anything about it, except that some young fellows are not likely to be seen there any more. Almost the only topic is the evil done by neighbours, the evil done by the gentry ; somehow there is never any good. There had been a cluster of cottages at Blue Violet, but only one remained, which had been bought by the squire, a kindly act to save it from sharing the fate of the others. These ruins could be seen covered with brambles on both sides of the lane. It was a quiet place ; no stranger walked that way, for the path was rough ; carts struggled along it somehow going to Love Lane or nowhere. It was full of stones, dark, thorn-haunted, and in autumn there was the sour smell of apples along it. The moor heaved opposite, and a tor cast its shadow across the white walls, the shadow of a monster without form ; and the traffic of the road could be heard sometimes and the roar of the mine always. It was a good place to hide. That was the thought suggested to Mark. Not very far away was another cottage, occupied by a strange creature said to be a gentleman, a hermit without religion or love for anything not dumb, and he dwelt like a gasteropod, hiding his face, trying to hide his home, hurrying to shelter when he saw a real man. It was a wild kind of About Rents 159 happiness to be in the world and not of it, and to talk with the shadows which crept in purple off the moor ; but it was sinking ; it was going down into the docks and nettles, breeding stings and large unhealthy roots. Mark turned his face from the place where the shadows came from, heard the road and mine, and knew as those noises reached him which was the way. A child was playing upon the stones, dragging an old tin kettle tied to a string, making a strange din that it might be kept quiet ; a child with straw-coloured hair and hot, red face, old enough to walk but not to talk. Mark held out his hand, and called in his grave way, but the child went on rattling its kettle upon the stones, making noises only to be comprehended by women. Mark would have passed, but he had to stand and consider that hair and hot face, because it seemed to him that when he had been a small boy that same baby had toddled at his side. " Mark,'' said a voice sharply and shortly, without the singing sound as if the voice was tired and broken, and a woman came across with a large faggot upon her shoulders. She swung round, dropped it, held out her hand. What a pretty girl Temperance had been, slim, soft-handed, and those fine dark eyes had drawn hearts to her four years ago. Here was a haggard woman, with a gaunt face, its bones protruding, and she had hardly any teeth, and the eyes were tired and as dull as burnt-out fires. It was a man's hand in his, rough and hard, larger than his own, and Mark noticed that this woman had no waist, a ragged old skirt surrounded her, her feet were thrust into great unfastened boots which had not been made for a woman. It was as if God had cursed this woman, and her beauty had withered away. The faggot she had brought from the stack was composed of that vicious stuff blackthorn. It had crowned her forehead, and marked it with red scratches, that and other faggots. A woman's work, this fetching and carrying ; the lowest and dirtiest — that is woman's work. " Please to come inside, Mark." i6o Granite "Four years, Temperance," he said; and she replied, "It ha' been a long four years." They entered. The room was clean, the cloam gleamed brightly upon the dresser, the single crook was polished. No negligence there ; only the girl Temperance had vanished, and this hard-faced woman had come in her stead. They stood and talked, while the child outside with the face of those early days dragged the battered kettle to and fro. " She the only one ? " asked Mark. " Her b'ain't mine," Temperance answered. " I ha' none." She seemed afraid of Mark, to have a struggle to answer him. She knew he was learned and could speak ; and perhaps she wanted to ask if there was any earthly paradise known to him where a tired, childless woman, still so young, could rest. Four years had shaken the beauty from her. What would four times four do? She would not be old even thenj but with the curse upon her what would be left of the gift? Temperance had an imagination. She had told her school- mates once stories about witches and enchanted castles which opened their mouths and made their eyes round. It was an unhappy gift possessed by few of her class. They did not know when they were badly used. She did, without complaining. " That child," said Mark impatiently, when she hesitated ; and Temperance went on, " I got a letter. It wur from a girl, and her said, ' Will ye tak' my child, and I'll pay two shillings a week ? ' " She turned and drew the shabby curtains hung upon a piece of string. The sun was powerful and was streaming into the room. Something else came too, and it rested in the corner, and Mark saw it and knew why it was there. It was the truth, and it had come to be an interpreter. " Has the money been paid ? " he asked. "Vor a year and a half. Then it stopped. The volks said, send 'en to the workhouse, but I kept 'en." Mark looked at her, and she met his eyes proudly, and did not give way, but he could tell how much she knew. About Rents i6i " Did you recognise the handwriting ? " he went on, know- ing it was not an uncommon thing for girls who had gone wrong to write to strangers to take their children for a pittance. " No," she answered. " Whose chUd is she?" "How be I to tell?" " My sister's,'' said the interpreter. "Who does she remind you of?" " No one I can call to mind." " My sister," said the interpreter. "Temperance," said Mark gently, "is there anything you would like me to do ? " "Nought that I knows of," said the woman, but she had to lower her eyes. " Go into the streets," said the interpreter. " What be yew looking vor ? " she said coldly. " Your answers." Temperance moved across the floor saying, " I ha' my work. Yew'd best go, Mark Yeo." " I have made you angry ? " " Not that," she said. " Us be the like." Mark knew what she meant. She was afraid of breaking down; but he did not go, he wanted to learn more, so he said, " I have not seen you since your marriage. I should not have known you if we had met in the village." Then to force her he added, " You had such fine teeth. Temperance. I should have known you by them, but now you have lost them." "'Tis the hard watter," she said. "Timothy," said the other thing. "There b'ain't no money vor new ones," she said in the same indifferent voice. "Where does the money go. Temperance?" he asked, thinking at last to draw her out. " Food," she muttered. " Drink," said the interpreter. II CHAPTER X ABOUT A FETE CHAMPETRE When Eli and Oli left Love Lane, like boys with pocket- money, they walked apart with a certain , histrionic grimness, casting suspicious glances at each other. Oli would not have been surprised, knowing the state of his brother's character, if Eli had taken to his heels ; while Eli, fully aware that the junior partner was little better than a knave sometimes, was prepared to find, when he reached the cottage, that Oli was not following. The little brothers were jealous upon rent day. The spirit of rivalry seemed to infect the whole garden. Squads of lupins and carnations seemed preparing to attack thin red lines of scarlet-runners and onions in Lincoln green. Tom scratched derisively in the celery trench, announcing his intention of departing with the master, of travelling into untrodden lands, and founding a seraglio in Somersetshire; while Ted tore up all the treaties, trespassed upon the pansies, and sneered openly. Even the bees hummed a war-march and decided upon a general massacre of drones at sunrise. The young brothers were as secret as shell-fish. Each knew what the other intended, though he professed ignorance. It was a time when words had to be chosen carefully, and in the meantime they came home and walked up the garden path processionally in this order : a choir of bees chanting a hymn to liberty, then Tom, with tail erect as vexillum, purring salvos and vivas, followed by King Eli smiling despotically; after- wards Ted, with two kitten-acolytes leaping and dancing, preceding at their own risk President OH, chuckling demo- 162 About a Fite Champitre 163 cratically. They passed in at the porch, and the breeze flung behind them curled petals from the roses and poppies. The ceremony of the exodus' had commenced. Eli brought forth a pair of boots and placed them on the stool with professional gravity. Better boots could have been gathered from the wayside, but, shocking as they were, the owner had left them with the brotherhood. They were like boats which had been driven upon the Manacles, and yet the brothers would not condemn them. " Some new soles," said Eli. " And new uppers, " added Oli. Then they would be like new again. " Be yew agwaine to work to-morrow ? " asked Oli sternly, as if rebuking his brother for having consecrated his life to the god of indolence. Eli struggled with his features, and, having brought them under subjection, answered, "I ha' got half a mind to go to the bottoms and dig vems." This belonged to the cryptic order of sayings. Had the brothers been like other men it would have been a falsehood, but constructed as they were they could not lie. They were too simple. "Be yew coming along wi' me?" he added, smiling like a sun of heraldry. " How about they old butes ? " demanded Oli. "Let 'en bide," said Eli. There was a silence, badly broken by diplomatic chuckles ; and then Oli remarked boldly, "I b'ain't agwaine to work to-morrow.'' " Be yew agwaine to dig ? " " I ha' a mind to tak' a walk," came the defiant answer. " Don't ye get tu fur and get tired, my dear." "When I comes home I'll show ye how tired I be," Oli threatened ; but the little brother answered serenely, " Yew couldn't put me down on my back no more than yew could turn they old butes into pixy-slippers." 1 64 Granite The atmosphere of suspicion increased. Both children became restless, and presently Eli wandered into the garden. It was always thus on rent-day. Oli was predommant so far, and he was not going to be beaten without a struggle. Eli had been to Tavistock, but Oh beat him by reaching Plymouth. Eli passed across the Tamar, and Oli was com- pelled to press forward by forced marches into the sandy wastes of Wadebridge. Eli had threatened to besiege London, and Oli had promised in that case to penetrate into such outlying parts of the British Empire as Essex or Kent. If Eli went to the moon, Oli would go to Mars ; and if Eli entered Mars, Oli would still defeat him ; for he would die when the time came and travel still further ; and if Eli died too, as was indeed not improbable, Oli would have to be born again into some other universe. When two simple-minded creatures live together they find it very hard to deceive each other, and they generally end by doing the same thing, because their minds are so entangled that every idea is held in common, and what the one believes is his own proposal may really have been originated by the other. Thus it often happened that what Eli planned Oli accomplished. Eli wandered into the portion of garden set apart for fruit, which was neutral ground. He had no jurisdiction over the vegetable patch, and to walk there would have been an un- friendly act. The currant-bushes were loaded with fruit of a seductive order. Eli looked upon them, smelt that they were good, black also, and ripe; there is a fascination in black currants. Presently he returned to the cottage, and remarked, " Them old blackbirds be vair stripping the currant-bushes, my dear." Oli was consulting an atlas which made the region of Dartmoor shamefully infinitesimal. The number of towns and villages still to be visited between Fursdon and the ends of the earth seemed very great, but there was quite an unnecessary amount of water, to say nothing of space, for there was also a About a Fite Champitre 165 fine map of the moon, which was a wonder to OH. He was gazing at it then with doubtful eyes, as if he suspected a certain amount of humour in science. He heard Eli's statement, but it was a long way between currant-bushes and lunar volcanoes, and he had to descend gradually. " My dear," he said solemnly, " there be horses in the mune." This appeared to be a discovery, and, as it was of greater interest to Eli for the moment than blackbirds in the garden, he asked for evidence. " If there be mares there be horses, and there be mares in the mune," replied his young brother. " Here 'em be all over the place — Mare Imbrium, Mare Vaporum, stables of 'em everywhere. What I wants to know is, how did 'em find out ? " " Wi' telescopes,'' explained- Eli. " Volks be got so wonder- ful clever that 'em knows more about the stars than the next street. They ses there be wheals in some of 'em. I read a bit about that on the newspaper." " Tell ye what 'tis," said Oli. " Us don't know half what's been going on wi' these telegraphs and balloons. Some of 'em ha' got to the mune, vor certain." " He be tu fur, and he'm always moving one way or t'other. 'T would be as hard to reach the mune as to catch a little pig in a forty-acre field." " Then how did 'em find out the names of all these places ? " Oli demanded. "Here 'em be on the map, hundreds o' names. Here be the distance to the mune from the earth. How du 'em know how many miles it be, if 'em ain't been and measured it ? " " They guesses, I reckon," said Eli. " They ha' no right to guess. 'Tis treating geography hke religion. I ain't got no faith in maps," said Oli. "Look here, will ye? They ain't never heard o' Fursdon, or Rose Ash, or Blue Violet. They don't know of half the places us could tell 'em about, and yet 'em ses they knows the names of places in the mune. There be an old saying, my dear," con- 1 66 Granite eluded Oli solemnly, " ' 'Tis volly to be wise.' I be almost afeard 'tis true." Then he closed the atlas, returned to earth, and took an interest in currant-bushes. " I ain't seen any blackbirds in the garden. Ted ha' druve they all out," he said. Each brother defended his own cat. Tom did that which was evil in the sight of Oli, while Ted accomplished good works. Each cat received praise for every mouse found dead, and both were blamed for footprints in a seed-bed. "The garden be vull o' birds, and they'm taking all the currants," mentioned Eli ; and then he went out again, because Tom was licking his lips ostentatiously. There was a strain of vulgarity in Tom. Oh followed secretly, hiding behind peas and scarlet-runners, and so approaching the fruit garden. His little brother was standing beside a currant-bush, his tongue denouncing fowls of the air, his arm rising and falling mechanically. From each little bunch he plucked the ripest berry, which was enjoyed and set to the credit of the blackbirds, and when every bunch had been decimated he passed on to the next bush. Oli stood upright shouting, while Eli looked foolish, but he retained enough presence of mind to explain that the currants were so crowded it was necessary to thin them. "Proper old blackbird! "cried Oli. "Yew wants a long winter to mak' yew tame, and that there old Tom, her b'ain't no better than yew be." There came into the garden the sound of a clock striking, and it was Oli's turn to look foolish, for with its last stroke the clock lied, and the lie seemed to be published on the dial of Oli's face, and Eli noticed it, but said nothing. Oli had set the hands on one hour, to throw his brother into confusion. "If it be seven," said Eli mockingly, "'tis supper-time." " Ees, I reckon,'' said Oli, and then they both chuckled. That night Oli listened, his soul stricken with guilt, and heard excursions. Eli was descending the stairs delicately, after the manner of an elephant treading on egg-shells, making About a FMe Champ^tre 167 the cottage shake, and muttering, " Scat they old boards vor creaking." Then he slipped down a stair and caused a vibra- tion which reached into the garden and troubled the distant bee-hives, where the drones were enjoying their last sleep. He trod also upon the tail of Ted, who came to investigate, and she announced the fact operatically. Finally he reached the clock, set the hands back two hours, and retreated with another earthquake, smiling to think that Oli was defeated. Soon there was a noise outside his door, and Oli called, " Du ye hear anything, my dear?" " I hears yew," said Eli crossly. " Why don't ye get to bed and sleep like an honest gentleman ? " " How be I to sleep when there be volk tumbling up the stairs and tramping round the garden ? " "I don't hear no one," said Eli. " Mebbe 'twur old Ted yowling.'' " Mebbe 'tis that gurt blackbird after the currants," replied Oli. " I be agwaine down to see." All this was sheer cunning, for Oli guessed what his brother had been up to, and knew he could not descend the stairs without shaking the earth. Eli remained in a kind of misery, wondering what Oli was doing to the clock, but he waited patiently until the cottage was in silence, then began to count a long row of boots waiting to be mended. " I'll count five hundred pairs avore I asks my young brother if he be asleep." But this was a fatal thing to do, for before he had counted three hundred pairs he was himself fast asleep. So was the clock. It resented being interfered with, or, being perhaps an honest creature, it declined to be a party to such treachery, or, having possibly a sense of humour — and a grandfather clock is nothing if not sardonic — it decided to take its share in the game ; and accordingly it ceased to work. The first drone was just being dragged out of his cell when the first brother descended. It was the malevolent Oh, and he exchanged blank glances with the clock. The first thing to^be done was to set it going and make it record some impos- 1 68 Granite sible time. Then he kindled the sticks, made some tea, listening the whole time, while Eli was listening too, but keeping out of the way until his perfidious brother had de- parted. This happened shortly afterwards. Oli hurried off, together with one or two escaping drones like political fugi- tives, and then Eli came down and wondered what the time was. It was obviously early, as the sun was in a haze and the grass was white with dew. A railway station, early in the morning, looks like a giant under opium. Not a door was even yawning when Oli reached the place after a five-mile tramp. He waited, and presently saw the big figure of Eli coming up the steep pathway in a great hurry. There was nothing for it but to hide, so he went into the shunting-yard and stood behind a truck, while Eli ascended and took possession of the platform, observing to a porter that business seemed slack that day. " First train seven o'clock," said the man. " I be agwaine to the pony-vair," announced Eli. " T'other platform for Lydford," said the porter. There was still an hour to wait, so Eli explored and made a disquieting discovery. He saw a pair of legs which terminated in boots dreadfully familiar and partly the work of his own hands. Eli recognised people by their boots. So Oli was there after all planning some excursion to antipodean deserts and "mares" afar. They remained, these ridiculous children, the one upon the platform, the other behind the truck, each believing himself invisible to the other. Oli could see Eli's hat, Eli could see Oli's boots ; and both were hard at work scheming how to make the other lose the train. The game appeared to be in Eli's hands, as he commanded the platform and all the approaches to the booking-office ; but he did not intend to run any risks, so he placed himself by the door through which Oli would have to pass before he could take a ticket, and there he stood watching those inanimate boots until the train arrived in a sudden and unexpected manner, and complicated the position, because Eh had no About a Fite Champ^tre 169 ticket, was on the wrong platform, and dared not move while those boots were visible. The train however hid them. Eli hurried to the pigeon-hole, grinned at the clerk, and said, " Ticket, if yew please." "Whereto?" "I ha' done my young brother," said Eli exultantly. "I ha' kept 'en from getting a ticket. Come outside, will ye, and I'll show yew his butes." " Where do you want to go ? Hurry up," said the clerk. " I'll just have a ticket," said Eli. " Where to ? You'll lose the train." Eli found his mind a blank. He was so excited at having got the better of his brother, and so flustered at the idea of losing the train himself, that he forgot all about Lydford and the pony-fair. " Give me a map, and I'll show ye," he gasped ; but the clerk only laughed and told him he ought to have written it down. "The mune," muttered Eli. "Horses, mares, ponies, vairs — Lydford," he cried. " Too late," said the clerk. " Next train, eight-thirty." Eli tumbled out on the platform. The train was gliding out, and there were neither legs nor boots nor any sign of corporeal OH ; but sticking out of one of the carriage windows was a hat, quite as familiar as those things of the other end, and still more retiring. " The butes ! " cried Eli, trying to persuade himself that hat was a double. "Where be 'em to ? " The stationmaster inquired what was wrong, but could gather nothing except that the big man with the child-like face had misplaced his foot-gear. "You have 'em on," he said. "The butes beyond. My little brother wur in 'em," he cried. "Your little brother has gone off in the train. I got his ticket for him," said a porter who knew the queer brothers. Eli was shattered. He returned to the booking-office, made lyo Granite sure of his ticket, and was much gratified by the arrival of another train, which he entered without asking questions ; nor did he discover until motion began that, to use his expression, " the engine was at the wrong end." To travel in the contrary direction to that intended was however no unusual matter, and Eli was soon resigned and decided to get out at the first station. When that station was reached Eli made another discovery, for the train added considerably to the romance of travelling by passing through at fifty miles an hour. A second station was treated in the same fashion, and then an official came down the corridor and asked Eli whither he was journeying. Eli replied he hadn't the least idea, but he had no grievance. " Where's your ticket ? " "In my left bute." Eli was not used to officials who patrolled the train, and he had an idea this fellow might not be honest, while the official saw that he was dealing with a queer character. " Let's see your ticket," he said. " Be yew the gentleman what throws coals inside the engine ? " asked Eli, bending down and unlacing his boot. The man's dignity gave way, for Eli had a very pleasant way of speaking, and he laughed as he looked at the ticket, and said, " You're in the wrong train, father." " He be a gude one to go," said Eli. " Us went through that station wi' just two bangs and a whistle. I could sit in him all day," he said happily. " We stop at Exeter. You had better get out there and see the stationmaster." But the train was fated to stop before reaching Exeter. Signals were against it, brakes fell upon the wheels, and the train drew up at a small station. Eli got out, with a confused feeling that the Cathedral city had changed a good deal lately, and was at once approached by a gesticulating porter calling to him, " Get back." " Why should I get back, if I ha' half a mind to get out ? " demanded Eli. "The train don't stop here," cried the porter. About a Fite ChampStre lyi "Aw, my dear soul ! Look to mun, will ye?" Eli explained matters, delivered up his ticket, and was presently allowed to depart and enjoy himself. Something was going on in the neighbouring village, which for the purpose of Eli's narrative was a great distance from his birth-place. There were tents and flags, torture was being inflicted by a local band, there were men with rosettes in their button-holes and a shining light of importance upon their faces, and poly- chromatic ladies out for plunder. Eli brightened up consider- ably, and asked a bystander if all this might mean a pony-fair. Much to his amazement the man touched his hat, answered, " 'Tis the feet, sir," and then hurried away to tell all he met that a distinguished stranger had just arrived by special train, or at least the London express had been especially stopped for him. Eli asked some more questions, which were answered with reverence. It appeared that the parish church was going to tumble down, therefore a bazaar was being held for purposes of restoration, which meant destruction, but, as the building was a good type of ancient architecture, the promoters did not say so. In the tents all sorts of unholy traffic was taking place : a lady was telling fortunes by palmistry, lotteries were being held, gambling was in full swing ; the law of the land was being broken in all directions, but as every penny was to be devoted to the cause of religion no harm was done. It was not easy to move without paying for the privilege, and shillings had to be produced before it was permissible even to gaze upon articles priced at two hundred per cent, above market value. Towards this vanity fair Eli wended his way, hoping there would be some wrestling, because, if so, he was prepared to take off" his coat and show how matches were won in his young days ; and wherever he went respect was meted out to him. Gaffers and gammers bobbed like corks in a stream, but it was not until a policeman saluted that Eli guessed something was very much out of order. The cobbler of Fursdon was neatly dressed in his best clothes. He had a distinguished appearance, 1 72 Granite a gentle aristocratic face, and honourable white head. Titled gentry were not unknown in that district, and some were eccentric old fellows, a trifle broad in speech — their grand- fathers had spoken a dialect which few now would understand — and these had all been invited to come and have their . fortunes told and purchase china-mugs for the good of the established religion, though most had declined, having obtained experience, and had sent a banker's blessing instead. The vicar and chief inquisitor had already been informed that an elderly gentleman had been delivered at the station by the London express and was then approaching the revels smelling strongly of guineas ; and the ladies who bore him company, and would return to their homes that evening with reputations that many a ticket-of-leave man might envy, were convinced that this stranger would be consumed with a Crusader's zeal to have the lines of his hands read, to take shares in the lotteries, tickets in the raffle for a baby's basinette, to flirt with themselves, and to gamble generally, to the honour and glory of their dear mother church. It was a general holiday, and the entire parish had consigned itself to an appreciation of what the printed bills described as a grand fete, without the accent, which the villagers condemned as mis-spelt and pronounced as the plural of foot. Eli walked on and presently became alarmed. Figures approached him in a disorderly manner, dressed like a lot of old picture-books, and a perspiring curate accompanied them, urging all to do their duty and not to forget the words he had put into their memories. Eli saw a giggling archbishop and a simpering knight-templar, a red-faced farmer grinning nervously beneath a tinsel crown of tyranny, and yet another who had apparently attired himself with kitchen utensils to represent a martial baron. Ladies also were there, and a duchess, who had very conspicuous hands and not much restraint over her features, loudly whispered to a companion wearing an insignia which was in danger of slipping down her back, " My, Annie ! B'ain't yew a proper old fashion-plate ! " About a F^te Champitre 173 " Where's Queen Elizabeth ? " screamed the curate. "Here I be, sir," said a poor old dame, assisted forward by a staggering libel of Sir Francis Drake with a sword between his legs. Eli began to wonder if he had reached the land of enchant- ment, but rejoiced to think of the stories he would have to tell his brother. He could make nothing out of this uncouth assembly, so turned aside and questioned an old man who stood under the hedge with his mouth half-open and severity jipon the rest of his countenance. This old man was a good Methodist, and his idea of a holiday was to rebuke frivolity. "Well, sir," he said, "'tis what parson calls a pageant. He ses these volk bided here once, but I don't believe it, and so I tell ye. 'Tis just a lot o' play-acting, and I ses 'twill lead volk to play cards and put their money on horse-racing." " What be 'em going to du ? " asked Eli. "They'm going down into the field yonder to du play- acting. A lot of volk be going to see 'em, but I b'ain't," said the old man. " I reckon there be a thunderstorm coming up over, and 'twill be a judgment on 'em. I b'ain't afraid o' speaking out, sir," he added respectfully. His own identity interested Eli far more than the pageant. He knew nothing much about either, so he asked the old man if he knew whom he was addressing. " Policeman ses yew'm Mr Vivian to Fursdon, sir," came the answer in a decidedly doubtful voice. Eh went on chuckling, determined to have some fun. It was only natural that the local constable should profess to know every one, and it was unlikely that any one there had ever seen Vivian, as the squire was a recluse at home and when he did travel went abroad. Eli made towards the tents, resolved to play the part thoroughly and enjoy a little pageant of his own. It would be necessary to preserve a severe countenance and not to speak. If he opened his mouth dialect would do for him. At the gate of the field a shilling was demanded, and Eli 1 74 Granite wanted to protest and call the sum exorbitant, but dared not. He paid and was passed into the place of pleasure. A young lady descended upon him immediately, bearing a withered rose, which she was prepared to sell him for another shilling, offering further to provide a pin for fastening it into his coat for a third shining, and then he could return her the rose and the pin that she might practise extortion upon someone else. Eli passed on with a face of horror, but without a word, and another lady tackled him, and then another. They buzzed about him like hornets, asking for shillings, and offering little in exchange beyond the pleasure of knowing that he would be an accessory to the work of destruction ; but Eli continued dumb, and strode along, merely wondering why the police didn't interfere, and observing mentally that the ladies were wearing " mighty fine butes.'' Danger threatened from the clerical quarter. A group of black-coats turned a portion of their attention towards the new-comer, and the largest of them detached itself from the group and bore down upon Eli, distributing geniality and a lust for shillings as it approached the large and wall-like back which was very rudely presented towards it. Eli, in fact, was in full flight, and the black-coat pursued along two tent lengths and once round the temporary band-stand. Nothing was known in that place, which was thirty miles from Fursdon, about Vivian, except that he was rich and eccentric; and there was no longer the slightest doubt about that. The last and largest tent seemed to offer attractions, as there was a hum of excitement within and the sound of a human voice unduly straining itself. Eli read a notice outside, and learnt that a stupendous rummage-sale and a grand concert were being held therein. Adjectives were cheap that day. He attempted to enter, but a fair lady, whose boots were magnificent, appeared with a smile, and mentioned that the price would be one shilling. Eli came near to putting off the raiment of gentility which clothed him thus expensively, but the voice warbling in the About a Fite Champitre 175 cool depths of the tent allured him, so he paid and entered. The voice was so beautiful he was sure the singer would possess angelic loveliness ; but when privileged to gaze upon the platform he beheld a fat and stumpy female, with a red and bulbous nose, who was imploring everyone within reach to come and be birds. The tent was half full of village women grubbing greedily in the piles of rummage. At last Eli felt at home. He comprehended rummage- sales, Fursdon had not escaped them, and here at least was cheapness. An old kettle could be bought for two farthings and articles of vertu were going at twopence. He forgot his borrowed rank as he examined a pair of the vicar's trousers, which could be his for sixpence, and yonder were boots ridiculously cheap, though worth nothing at all in their then condition, but Eli knew he could restore the lot and sell them at a profit. "How much did yew pay to come inside, my dear?" he asked one of the women, who was trying to work out the pro- blem whether a pair of stockings, one black, the other brown, and both much darned, would prove a remunerative investment at a halfpenny. " A penny, sir," she answered. " Then 'em owes me elevenpence," Eli muttered somewhat crossly. The lady on the platform, having taken the encore for granted, was now expressing a desire to be furnished with a pair of wings. Eli did not hsten, for the black peril was upon him. The vicar entered the tent, without paying even a penny, anxious possibly to discover how his old clothes were going, and, beholding Eli, he smiled and dodged here and there, seeking encouragement to give him welcome. Eli walked round boldly, casting the borrowed aristocracy aside as some- thing beyond his means, and, jerking his head in the direction of the pile of boots, announced his readiness of buying that lot of old trade, if he could be provided with a sack. The vicar showed signs of paralysis, his right hand dis- 1 76 Granite appeared, coldness stiffened his features, and he muttered something about a little mistake. It was entirely the fault of that stupid policeman. "I ha' been having a little pageant," Eli explained. "I can't afford no more on't, vor there be twelve pennies in a shilling where I comes from. I corned here a squire, and I'll go away an old cobbler wi' they butes on my back." "I hope this is not a practical joke," said the vicar awkwardly. '"Tis a pageant just," repeated Eli. "I'll buy they old butes, parson. And if yew likes to get the young fellows in a tent, and charge a shilling to come in, I'll show the volks some wrestling." This offer was not accepted, because anything in the way of self-defence suggested prize-fighting, which was not only brutalising but actually illegal. The vicar said as much, and remarked also he should be sorry to raise money by such means ; and then he departed, leaving Eli to bargain for the boots. Afterwards he enjoyed himself, but black clouds were gather- ing. There were plently of rough characters in the place, and as it was a general holiday they assembled where all village plots are hatched, and worked themselves into a state of indignation against the inhabitant of a foreign parish who had dared to disguise himself as a gentleman and come there to insult them. Eli's object was merely to sneer at their " feet," to suggest that things were far better done in his parish ; they looked upon his kindly face as an affront, and his laugh was an invitation to battle. As the afternoon drew on some of the young fellows gathered about Eli, hustling him, making remarks about men who thought themselves better than their neighbours. Eli kept his temper easily, but at last withdrew from the field. He was beginning to feel tired. Lifting the sack of boots upon his shoulder he went up the lane towards the church, which stood upon the top of a small hill, and there he rested among the graves and the flowers. About a Fite Champitre 177 The only sounds which reached him there were the shrieks of young women from the fete-ground. Why they should express pleasure by shrieking Eli did not know, but probably it was always so. The churchyard gate was rotten and dragged heavily upon the hinges ; the paths were covered with weeds ; great docks and nettles flourished in the corners, and the grass was allowed to go to seed. A few shillings would have made the place tidy, but these were not spent ; and instead a large sum was being extorted to make hideous what was really beautiful, for the church was very fine in its decay ; the stone- work looked like torn lace, velvet mosses were hanging from the gutters, wall-flowers had obtained root-hold in the crevices, and golden saxifrages ruled the arches like gentle queens. The builder would mar all that. He would be thorough in his destruction of what was beautiful, because destruction would mean work. There was a simple mound without a stone, and covered with simple flowers picked in some cottage garden ; and among the flowers nestled a scrap of paper torn from a school exercise-book, and scrawled upon the paper were the words, " To dear mother, from Bessie and Annie." It was the simplest touch of human nature imaginable, a piece of sentiment which defied all creeds. Religion was not sought after, nor any divine presence, but weak mortal mother ; the children wanted what they could understand. Mother was there somehow and would like a present ; and, whatever they might be taught in that old building, mother would be always there and fond of flowers. The rush for shillings became contemptible. Eli turned from the mound and the scrap of paper which bore in a child's handwriting the only creed. It was getting on towards evening, the lights were changing, it would soon be time to return to the station and finish the day. His white head was shaking, perhaps because he loved the flowers. If Bessie and Annie had been there, he would have told them about his garden, about Tom and his little brother, and he might have sent them by the post tall white lilies to give 12 178 Granite to mother, which would give their flowers to mother every year. But Bessie and Annie were not there. Instead, he saw ugly faces at the gate, those faces which mar everything like black blight, even if they are few in number ; and he heard ugly voices, and saw hands emptying his sack and throwing the old boots about as a proclamation of independence. These were young men and badly grown, like trees bent in an early stage, men who were growing crooked, not knowing what their bodies required, and feeding them poisonously because that seemed to give a kind of strength. " Leave they butes bide," called Eli sternly. The gate was pushed open and the holiday-makers lurched in, brave as lions because they were many ; and one of them stumbled across the simple mound and crushed the children's flowers. " Us'll lam 'en to come here and laugh at we.'' " He'm only an old man. Throw 'en in the pond." Such were the cries which went up, but they made Eli smile, and he put out his great arms in the old-fashioned style and muttered to himself in his big-hearted way, " I wish my young brother wur here." These clumsy drunkards were like a spider which mistakes a wasp in its web for a fly. They saw an old white head and did not know they were running against a giant's strength, with skill added to it. There was a pond just outside the gate, chiefly liquid mud, coated with green slime. When the plotters had seen Eli making for the church, they decided he should be forced into that pond, where tradition whispered poor old dames of old called witches had been smothered. Time and place were favourable, as the village was deserted ; and then they could gather the neighbours at the station to jeer at Eli as he departed in a vesture of mud, after arriving as a fine gentleman. " Yew'm a blasphemious lot o' toads ! " called Eli, angry at last. The crushing of those flowers had roused him, and the blood of a long line of fighters was hot in his arms. He did About a Fite Champitre 179 not strike, he threw ; and when either of the Rescorlas threw a man, he did not rise quickly. " Catch hold of his arms and legs," shouted the ringleader from the background ; and they made a rush which Eli met like a rock, and then drove the rabble before him through the gate and penned them in a corner made by the wall of the churchyard with the hedge that ran down to the pond. The biggest broke away, but Eli had him round the waist, and the next instant came a splash which sent the green slime flying ; and the faces of the conspirators became green likewise. "Yew trod on the posies," cried Eli, tackhng another ; and a second splash sent the slime whirling. Some were climbing the wall ; others were tearing through the bushes on the hedge ; one was lying on his back, crying for mercy. " I ask your pardon, master. Don't ye throw me in. I can't swim, master," he yelled. " Yew'm a dirty lot," said old Eli. " Best go and enlist vor soldiers. Proper soldiers yew would mak'. This b'ain't fight- ing," he cried. "There b'ain't a man here who can stand square. 'Tis throwing a lot of old muck abroad." He collected the boots, replaced them in the sack, swung it over his shoulder, feeling refreshed and strong after the little tussle, then made off towards the station, smiling, shaking his white head and murmuring, "I ha' beat my little brother after all." CHAPTER XI ABOUT A BATTLE OF THE STREETS Oli reached no land of romance, but at the first stopping-place he sighted familiar objects, a cart and ancient Wreford with his head drooping over the pony. Mark was there, pointing at the moorland road like a sign-post, and as the train jolted itself still, he patted the old man on the back, ran for the platform, saw the light of Oli's countenance, heard the wel- come of his voice, and joined him. That was a day of good omen ; the last few hours had been full of favours. Mark had sold some sketches, and better than that : — While escorting Old Coles from Love Lane, the squire saw them, for the road wriggled beside one of his terraces, and Vivian was walking there with his dogs, seeing as much as he wanted to. He called ; the little cart ceased its wobbling, Old Coles made an obeisance, while Mark passed through a gateway and stood before the man whom he had not seen for some years and then had beaten. " Well, Mark Yeo, I have heard about you. I congratulate you," said the squire. "What for, sir?" " You have oifended the godly and overthrown the righteous. I presume, therefore, you are the enemy of evil. I hear also you have received the gift of tongues and you are indecent in truthfulness. I hope you won't get your head broken." "There are difficulties ahead, sir," said Mark quietly. "I shall have a go at them and do a little if I can before I die." "Ah, yes, I should object to dying," said Vivian in his puzzling way. "As for difficulties, we all have them. A man 1 80 About a Battle of the Streets i8i of moderate tastes finds it difficult to spend his income. Don't be too religious, Mark Yeo. If you are, you will bore people. All my servants are most religious. The cook cannot approach a saucepan without bursting into alleluias." "You can't get at these men without religion, sir. They believe in it and it touches them," said Mark. " It is offensive and defensive. It protects the speaker against violence, and it softens his hearers. When you get them soft, sir, is the time to press your point in." "You seem to be winning your place among the minor prophets,'' said Vivian, swinging those eye-glasses which he never wore. "What have you been doing since I tried to give you a little advice ? " "Learning to speak and think, sir." "An excellent thing, knowledge. It shows a man what a fool he is. When is the dedication of the temple to take place ? " "What do you mean, sir?" "This house of Rechab which you propose to erect. Hosken speaks of it with tears in his eyes. He declares you are going to start a new religion, a sober one, and your dis- ciples will grow long hair, never cut their nails, and take to themselves an illegal number of helpmeets." "Why, sir, it's only a dream of mine," said Mark, flushing. " I am trying to get hold of a building where one thing only shall be taught, and that sobriety. Keep a man sober, sir, and you make him a good citizen. He may have strange opinions, he may be cynical," said Mark cuttingly, "but his mind will be clear." " I am delighted with you," the squire murmured. " When a man is a drunkard he becomes everything that is bad," Mark went on. " First he is a liar, then a stirrer-up of strife, and last of all he loses his moral sense ; and he hands on these evils to the next generation. If I could get the building, the helpers would come — fanatics, Mr Hosken would call them. Ah, sir," said Mark earnestly, "the creation of life was the act of a fanatic." 1 82 Granite "Poetry too," the squire muttered. " The clergy dare not denounce drunkenness as it should be denounced, because it is an established and, here at least, a recognised vice. In my little building the vice should have all its sores exposed.'' " I can assure you, Hosken preaches against it," said Vivian. " I have often heard him. ' Please don't drink spirits. I am sure they will disagree with you, but I should be the last man in the world to deprive a fellow-creature of his beer.' Hosken derives his income from beer.'' "Sir," said Mark firmly, "there are two things which go together, death and something else. And drunkenness is a part of that something else.'' Vivian did not jeer. There was in Mark's words a horror which was left to the imagination, which he possessed, and he did not like to think of it. "You shall have a subscription,"he said. "Come to my study.'' Mark went, and was staggered when he received ten pounds; but less than ever could he understand the heart of the squire. " I shall be very interested to hear of your progress," said Vivian, as Mark was about to join Old Coles. " I really do not see why you shouldn't dine with me one night — now." Vivian looked at Mark with his queer dark eyes, then added, " When I write I shall tell his lordship I am delighted with you." Mark stepped forward, with something like anger in his eyes and a little fear ; but the squire was already hidden in one of his dark passages, and Mark could hear his laughter as he went along it. He had, however, some excuse for feeling cheerful that morning, with the sunlight wrapping the moor and the breeze coming over it and sweeping the rocky terrace which clever- ness had constructed for a railway. There was contagion also in the smiling countenance of Oli, who had a " God bless you " in his heart for every man. He almost dragged Mark into the compartment — there was only one other occupant, an old gipsy with a radiant handkerchief round her neck, who seemed About a Battle of the Streets 183 to be having a dog-sleep, — bombarded him with questions, and told the story of the conquest of brother Eli down to the last detail. " Be yew agwaine to preach ? " he asked admiringly, for to string words together into the form of a speech was a wonder in the sight of Oli. " I've got a bit of business in Plymouth. We started yester- day and slept in the cart last night. But we couldn't get along fast enough for me," said Mark. "I'm always in a hurry to get a thing done, and as I had money in my pocket, I decided to come along by train." "I ha' got money in my pocket tu," said Oli proudly, fumbling and producing a handful of white and brown objects. " I wouldn't count mun," he said cautiously. " When yew counts money he shrinks. Let mun bide and he gets bigger. I ha' never heard yew preach, Mark." " I don't preach. I talk to the folk and try and make them think for themselves. It's want of thought that does half the mischief." " They ses yew shouts and calls 'em names," said Oli. " I lose my temper sometimes. It makes me mad to see the faces of some of them, and I call them fools to put life into them. I've had a bit of luck," said Mark in an eager boyish fashion. Then he told the old man about Vivian's gift. " He'm a kind gentleman," said Oli. Mark went on to talk of his plans, full of words and enthusiasm, not heeding the old woman in the corner, who seemed asleep ; how that he intended to hire a building which he hoped might progress from a small beginning to be the centre of a great crusade against the hydra; there at first speeches would be delivered free from cant or bias, and pledges would be taken; there, if growth followed, literature would be pre- pared, young men trained for the work and sent out as mission- aries into the villages ready to speak the truth and not afraid of stones ; and zeal at last might make the rising formidable. "Total prohibition, that is what we are aiming at. It's the 184 Granite only solution of the problem," said Mark. " When they say to me you want to deprive the working-man of his glass of beer, I reply, Yes, but I would also deprive the rich man of his glass of wine. Partial prohibition, as it is practised in some countries, is unjust and ridiculous. I have been in these countries and seen for myself. Introduce permits and you make the evil worse than before. If there are three drinking- houses in a village, and you close two, you are centralising the evil and making it stronger. Liquor must go, and if a man must have strong drink let him go abroad. He is a man the country can afford to lose." " Now yew'm preaching," chuckled Oli. " Us ought to send yew into Parliament, my dear." "Life is too short for building towers of Babel," replied Mark. " These revolutions are brought about by the people themselves, or not at all. I beUeve if the votes of the entire population were taken to-morrow there would be a large majority in favour of total prohibition, and I also believe most of the drunkards would be upon my side." The train stopped again, and the old gipsy woman rose. She had made no previous motion. She had not appeared to open her eyes, nor had she fumbled at all with her clothing ; but as she passed Mark her skinny, earth-brown fingers pushed a halfpenny into his hand, and, while going out she said, " I've had children, young man." That was all. She added nothing to that past tense, and departed into the past, so far as Mark was concerned, leaving him to make up his list of subscriptions received, — Squire Vivian, . . ;^io os. od An old gipsy woman, . ^d. That was how Mark set it down, but perhaps the sums were recorded elsewhere in a different order. Mark left Oli at Plymouth and went into the streets with the cobbler's parting words sounding in his ears, " Men who till yew-trees don't till for themselves." It was the ordinary About a Battle of the Streets 185 saying of that accursed well-meant thing indifference. Leave the thing alone, because if any good is done you will not live to see it. Another generation will take the good and the credit to itself. Mark was endeavouring to plant a tree whose growth would be slow indeed, a tree which would not root on the heights because of the wind, and those that passed by would break down the wall, and the wild creatures would come and grub it up. But if it should take root, what a shelter it would afford, what a wind-break, and how happily future generations would settle beneath its branches ! Mark walked the streets ; not blindly, because Temperance had given him an address ; not gladly, because he was afraid. Cold-blooded duty was before him, and he shrank from it selfishly, almost hoping he would fail to find Patience. Two faces were before him, but well apart, like heaven and hell ; the one spiritual, the other a growth of sheer materialism ; the one a curse to men, the other a salvation — Patience and Edith. The space of the world was too short to measure the difference between them ; yet both were women. Mark entered unpleasant streets and still descended into greater darkness and more dirt. What a strange mind it was that deliberately preferred such ways to the heights, which accepted smoke and rejected sunshine, which exalted the reek of the gutters above the smell of furze-blossom. It was a long descent, and the only sign of prosperity was to be found in the pawn-shops. He reached the house, and there was no need to knock, for a sharp-featured woman knelt at the door-step washing a strip of linoleum full of holes. All the windows were tightly shut, and the smell of the passage was sour. There was a heat about it suggestive of a place where growths are unduly forced for the market, to flower for a day and then to die. Mark satisfied the woman that he had nothing to do with the law, though she observed she was herself respectable and had not brought herself within the reach of it. She was a widow, maintaining herself as best she could by letting lodgings with- 1 86 Granite out being too particular. She had two or three young ladies stopping there, and one of them perhaps answered to Mark's description. "She calls herself Violet," she added. "She's not a bad young woman." " Do you know how she gets her living ? " " I've got mine to make, and I don't ask questions," said the woman crossly. " Can I see her ? " asked Mark. " She's out. You'd best try Union Street." Mark returned to a healthier district and walked the streets for hours, but could not find Patience, who called herself Violet, names which began with the same letters as pleasure and vice. Rain descended, wind blew, and he took shelter in an eating- house, watching those who passed the window, and presently it grew dark, lamps were lighted, and the streets began to shine. Mark ventured forth again, knowing he must succeed ; and as he went the light glistened upon the foundation-stone of a granite building, and the sign was there, not diaphanous as it was upon Dartmoor, but black and tempestuous, and the message that came to him was " Try Devonport.'' So Mark went to his fate feeling the shadow of it, but seeing and hearing nothing clearly, going because it was necessary, dragged along by the grim sergeant duty from one town to another, along the noisy streets, across the dreary bridge and into the third town ; and there was no merciful accident to hold him back. The rain had stopped, Mark rounded a corner aglow with strong false light, and there he saw — a well- dressed girl being dragged along by two young sailors. There seemed to be an emptiness and desolation all around. The girl struggled a httle, but did not scream, and the young fellows laughed at the fun of treating womanhood like refuse. They dragged her from the road, trailing her fine skirts through the dirty water in the gutter and towards the door of the public-house; and at last Mark saw her face, at the same moment he heard her speak, " Dirty young swine, you've got no money ! I won't treat you any more." About a Battle of the Streets 187 Mark stepped forward and stood before the door. " Lads," he said, " we don't do this sort of thing in the Navy " ; and as they released the girl he caught her hand, fearing lest she might run away. In a moment they were alone, for the young sailors, who were out on a drunken spree and meant no harm, had caught sight of a clean-shaven face, which suggested an oflficer, and hurried off to avoid recognition ; while Patience stared at her protector, and said, in a silly voice, " Hello, Charlie ! " It was the same face, and yet quite different, for all the bloom was off, the roundness had gone, the chin was sharper. The light from the tavern fell upon her face and those polluted lips. Temperance had changed far more. The sister who had resigned herself to duty had been marred outwardly far more than the one who had given herself over to vice, neither had she any such fine clothes to cover herself with. It seemed an injustice that the hard-worker should be punished more than the pleasure-seeker; but Temperance had her eyes left, and her sister's had been put out. " So I have found you at last, Patience," he said. " I'll be damned if I know you ! " she answered, almost too careless to look at him. " Yes, you do. I came here to find you. Now I am going to take you back to Love Lane." He expected some sort of an exclamation, a scene, or a struggle to get away ; but Patience only turned and stared as if dead to every human emotion. It was horrible to see a living creature stare like that. " You are coming back with me," he said firmly. " Why — aren't you dead by this time ? It was years ago." "Not very long, Patience; but a fast life makes the time seem slow.'' " I thought you might turn up. I'm not going back," she said with a note of terror. ' ' Are you so happy, then ? " " I don't know. It's not what I thought. The fellows do 1 88 Granite knock you about so. I'm quite a lady, Mark, ain't I ? " she said suddenly, kicking out her muddy flounces. Mark sickened at the question. "Tempy hasn't got clothes like these." "She has better ones," said Mark shortly. Then he turned, still holding her by the hand, and said, " Come with me." " I won't ! '' she cried ; but she had to. It was half an hour later, and the struggle had become real. They were on the road beneath the Hoe, and it was dark, for mist rolled over them from the sea, and rain was falling again. Mark was getting exhausted ; his health was never good, and he had been on his feet all day. Patience was fighting to get away from him. She was on her knees in the dirt, her dress was torn, her hat was nearly off. She had been cursing, biting his hands, spitting at him, but she could not get away, and he was wearing her down gradually with his mind, as he might have worn her down that evening in Love Lane, simply holding her arm, and saying, " Come with me," until that brutal spirit should be driven out. "You've got me, you damned Methodist ! " she snarled. " I can't scream, for the police are down on me. They think I stole some money from a chap. I wish one of my pals would come along." " I'm going to take you back to Love Lane," he repeated in the voice which had beaten Vivian. " Can't you pick up any other girl ? " "It's your soul I'm after. Patience." " Curse my soul ! You preachers — you do nothing but make hell for us." She flung herself back. He held on, and, faUing against him, she bit his arm, making him gasp. He remembered grimly that Temperance had lost her teeth. " There's my soul for you," she panted. " Look here, Mark, let me go, and I'll drown myself." " I shall not let you go." " I've lived enough," she muttered. "I've had all I wanted, About a Battle of the Streets 189 and I'll finish myself off now. I won't go back to Fursdon. Oh, my God, I'm wet to the skin, and my clothes are spoilt ! " "Don't mention that name," said Mark. " Damn you, I can have a God as well as you, and I'll swear at " He put his hand upon her mouth and silenced her. " Patience, you are a woman. Remember what a woman can be," he said, thinking of Edith. " You shall leave this life." " Murder me, then. Strangle me, if you're so strong, and be hanged for it." She fought with him again, struck her head against the wall, screamed, and was motionless. Another hour had gone by. Fog was upon the three towns, and pedestrians passed like spirits. Mark and Patience came up from the sea. He was white and ill, she sick and dizzy, and both looked bloodless. The fight was not over, but the combatants were exhausted. They kept away from the lamps because of the mud which was upon them, and Mark's cheeks were bleeding, where she had scratched him. They said nothing, but Patience was sobbing madly. They stopped again beside a high railing. Over the way was the window of a shop, where a dull light gleamed, obscured by fog, and a melancholy sound came from it. " Are you going to give way ? " said Mark as kindly as he could. " No," she cried. " You won't shake me off." "What could I do to Fursdon?" " Start again. You are young." " Marry a ploughboy ? " " Live decently." "I couldn't. I can't go back. They wouldn't have me." " Temperance would." " What's the time ? " she asked stupidly. " It is getting late. The first train in the morning I shall take you back." iQO Granite " I want a drink. I must have a drink. You have torn my clothes, and I've taken no money. Give me some money." Mark did not listen. He was gazing across the road towards the window of those ghastly sounds, and then he said, "Why did you say you would drown yourself? " " To make an end of it," she sobbed. " It would be making a beginning. Look across." " Is there a policeman ? " she said, cringing. " At the window.'' "I don't see anything." " Come across." He drew her on, and they reached the window, but Patience had her handkerchief to her eyes. " Look ! " he muttered. " There are worse things than death." There came a scream, and the girl was beaten. She had looked, and seen one smoky lamp, and by the light of it two small, dark-bearded men tapping like ghouls at a long black cofifin. Now she was hanging to him, imploring him not to leave her. "I'll come back," she moaned. "I will, Mark — if you marry me." There was no reply, but Mark's face was deathlike. He could not, for the loathing with which he now regarded her, for the hopeless love with which he regarded another, he could not ; for the sake of his life's work, and the duty which lay before him, for the small dream of happiness to which he was surely entitled, and for his reputation in the eyes of his patron in a far country, he could not. "Patience," he muttered at last, steadying himself against that ghastly window, " remember what you are." " I can't come else. What could I do ? And I won't come unless you marry me. I'll drown myself rather." There was a chance of saving her by sacrificing himself, and nothing else would serve. If he refused she must be lost ; if he accepted she might still be rescued. It was the vengeance of the spirit of evil upon the man who was armed with strength. " I promise," he said to the knell-like tapping of those hammers. CHAPTER XII ABOUT A STRIFE IN THE WOOD While Mark was looking for Patience, Mrs Allen and Edith were lunching with Vivian. They had not been invited, but Mrs Allen was not the sort of woman who waited to be asked. She would enter a house with all the noise and fuss of a fly of the order Bombylius, and the only way to eject her was to open the door and drive her out. She was dull, nothing was doing, there was not an orgy of any kind, no shedding of blood, not even a croquet tournament, nor did the flowers in the church require renewing ; so she decided to drive over to Fursdon and kill a few reputations with the squire. She went, making a lot of dust. It was stupidity that made her brutal to the weak, gave her criminal instincts, and made her as unmoral as Patience, who would lie and steal, had regarded domestic service as com- pulsory hard labour, and master and mistress as natural enemies. Mrs Allen was merely Patience in a higher class, knowing more because she had been taught more, but ignorant of the only thjngs worth knowing. She, too, might have said, "See what a fine lady I am," simply because her clothes were good. It was not a desire to do evil which had led Patience astray. It was stupidity : an inability to think about more than one thing, and that one wholly base ; and Mrs Allen was going to the same end by a different road, because she, too, could think only of one thing, her own pleasure, and was too stupid to know that pleasure is not a friend, not an ally, but the most bitter of enemies — when it is composed of self 191 192 Granite entirely. It was stupidity which made her also rather afraid of Edith ; ignorant that a fine nature disdains to be avenged upon an evil one, and leaves it to be blown about in its own dust until it is carried into the everlasting cesspool. Vivian was walking about as usual, up and down the passages, the gardens, lawns, and woods, his extraordinary hat over his eyes, his long arms swinging, his body leaning forward. His life was going in these apparently aimless rambles, which yet satisfied him completely. He was of the land, and he loved it; he was fond of every tree and shrub, caressed the leaves of one, and patted the trunk of the other. His woods and fields were a part of himself; and even when he went abroad his heart was there, beating up and down the passages, throbbing in the corners of the woods where there were marshes and the reeds grew high. If he had a sorrow it was a feeling that the land and himself were not in perfect unison ; he would be divorced from the trees some day, and they would be joined to another partner who would not love them as he had done. " Thinking of villainy," he murmured, smiling, for it was an interesting subject, and he had just been comparing the Tar- tuffe of Moliere with Shakespeare's lago, " I imagine very few critics comprehend what it is. There is little real villainy in the world, because men are not clever enough, and clever- ness is essential to villainy. A murderer is not necessarily a villain. He is simply a beast which bites another. I think Mark Yeo might be a villain, with opportunities and money, and Spiller might be one too. They are very interesting young men. Ah, heavenly thing ! " He paused before a grey-flowered ceanothus, and brushed his face against the blooms. "They are all down upon lago," he went on, in his smiling way. "No motive, they say. But it is the perfection of villainy not to require a motive. There was never a genius who blundered so often as Shakespeare, but in lago he portrayed villainy in its highest form. Villainy is the desire to torture an inoffensive being. If there is a grudge to be paid ofT the artistic About a Strife in the Wood 193 effect is lost. Hosken would never make a villain," the squire rambled on. " He is such a fool — poor thing — but Mark Yeo is clever. I am certain that young man will turn out a villain." Drunkards believe they, at least, are sober ; to lunatics all the world is mad. As for Vivian, he was well known as a public benefactor, a subscriber to charities, a builder of cottages, and the strong man who was ready to bear the burdens of Fursdon upon his shoulders. "Mrs Allen and Miss Gribbin," he said, when a servant came and told him they had come. " I like them both. A dear little lady, Mrs Allen — Lady Macbeth had a neurotic temperament too, only she didn't know how to use it. I must find some worms for Mrs Allen. There is nothing else available just now, and I am sure she will want to kill something." He walked towards the house, murmuring genially, "I always feel I ought to be a Roman emperor when Mrs Allen comes to see me, so that I could burn a few servants on the lawn for her amusement. Not that she has any villainous instincts : she is much too stupid. She is simply a perch among minnows. She is a gross feeder. I like Mrs Allen." The ladies met him upon the front lawn, and Vivian, who missed nothing, perceived that Edith had changed. Her face was more delicate, and her eyes were darker; but she was certainly acquiring beauty, for sadness suited her face, which had not been made for laughter. Mrs Allen did not share her good things with anyone, unless she had to, therefore Edith was told to amuse herself while she talked business with the squire. There was some business, or what Mrs Allen regarded as such, because she was Edith's guardian and had the girl's happiness to consider. Now she wanted Vivian's advice as to the treatment usually prescribed for stubborn young women who insist upon contracting unsuit- able marriages. " She's going to marry the curate," exclaimed Mrs Allen, after a long preamble. " ' Thou shalt not marry the curate ' is, I believe, one of the 13 194 Granite suppressed commandments," said Vivian. 'Is there any impediment ? " "He is altogether unsuitable — and there is young Dick Luxmoore with all his money, wild to marry her." " I like matrimony. I shall marry some day," said the squire. " Edith is my niece " " Has she made any complaint ? " "Oh do listen, and don't be sarcastic. I know her father was only a curate, and absolutely mad ; but still he married my sister. This Spiller's father is a tradesman. He sells pig's flesh." "I have always encouraged people to keep pigs. The possibilities of that excellent animal are still not properly appreciated. Here you see pigs are providing the church with a minister, this parish with a curate, and your niece with a husband. From the sty to an archbishopric is merely a matter of geometrical progression," said the squire. " What am I to do ? " asked Mrs Allen. " Have you shaken the peccant damsel ? " " I have sworn at her." "Now I should buy her some fish-carvers.'' "Can't I forbid the banns?" she asked foolishly. " The girl is of age. She may choose her own affliction," said Vivian. " I like Spiller. I am going to give him a living when the present man has done with it." " There's no money in it." " Quite enough, especially if Spiller breeds pigs which his father can buy. Spiller & Son, pork-butchers and parsons. I like that idea." "Have you heard," asked Mrs Allen, in her mysterious voice, " that he drinks ? " " Having no particular desire to perish of thirst, I do likewise." " Both the Hoskens declare he drinks," she insisted. "Hosken is a good critic, no doubt. My dear creature," said the cynical squire, " if it is reputations that you are after, you shall have them. I am informed on the best authority About a Strife in the Wood 195 that last night shortly before midnight, though the exact time is immaterial, our excellent rector kicked his wife in the ribs, and Spiller, in a condition of gibbering inebriation, stood on his head upon the top of the tower. I may also inform you that I am maintaining a harem in that wing of the house, and the reason I do not go into society is the altogether sufficient one that I am too busily engaged with my black-eyed houris." Mrs Allen laughed in her empty way, not daring to be angry with the great man ; but she was annoyed nevertheless, and said rather snappishly, "There is always some truth in these reports.'' " Nobody believes the truth. The high percentage of exag- geration is accepted and the rest discarded. Mark Yeo is convinced that the whole village is rotten with drink, just because the boys get drunk on Saturday nights. He might as well believe I am a glutton because I eat my dinner when I'm not hungry." Had Mrs Allen been endowed with any sort of sense, she might have guessed that Vivian had nothing to offer her except mannerisms ; but she had no knowledge and little more character. She was not a model but a lay-figure, and when any strong hand set her in a certain position there she remained. " I hope you aren't afraid the little girl will be too happy ? " he suggested. " Of course not — what folly ! I should like her to marry well " " Why ? " he interrupted ; and the question was too sudden. Mrs Allen floundered and could only mutter, " Isn't it natural ? She is my niece." " And a nice girl. I like her." " Then you had better marry her yourself," said she crossly. " I must really request you not to be " " I will not be sworn at." "You are permitted to get angry. It will give you an appetite for lunch," said Vivian. 196 Granite Edith was walking in the prettiest part of the garden, and as she went she brushed away spiders' webs, because gauzy flies were dancing to and fro, and it pained her to think they might fall into the snares. There seemed an unusual number of spiders in that purposely ill-kept garden. Looking up, she saw the squire slouching along the walk. He looked big and powerful, and the breeze made the tall flowers bow to him as if in homage. "I have sent the painted lady indoors and have come to add you to my collection, Miss Vanessa," he said. "What shall I feed you on ? Will you take some lavender, or is a little blue borage more to your taste ? " Edith brightened at once. She respected Vivian, admired him like a distant mountain, and yet in that mood he jarred somewhat. Compliments came heavily from him : the machinery could be heard creaking, there was obvious labour. When he spoke pleasantly he was dull. " There is not much of the butterfly about me," she said. "More of the white and ghostly moth, or the queen-bee perhaps. Mrs Allen tells me you propose to take a nuptial flight." Edith flushed, looked down into the humbler flowers, murmuring, " Do you think I am wise ? " "Well, no, not in the literal sense," said the squire, return- ing to the mood which suited him best. " What am I to give you for a wedding-gift ? " " A little advice," said Edith, looking up with piteous eyes. "Will you?" " Domestic economy, so much to the baker, so much to the butcher, and how to avoid paying the grocer — it is beyond me, Miss Edith." "No, no," she said, without smiling. "You are the only wise man about here. Mr Hosken knows nothing." "On the subject of bisques, he is, I am told, infallible. You were not at church last Sunday morning, I believe, when he had the misfortune to forget himself and say, ' Let us play.' " About a Strife in the Wood 197 " I can trust you," she went on, as if he had not interrupted. "There is the gong. Come and sip your honey." " I must speak to you now I have the chance. Mr Vivian, tell me — Gerard dines with you." " It is very good of him," the squire said when she paused. " What is the matter with him ? " she asked pitifully. " Is it illness?" "Neuralgia, he tells me. A nervous creature. You will have to wrap him up in flannel." " If I could only show you his letters. They are dreadful, but he tells me nothing. He is always writing, and every sentence seems to say, ' Edith, help me.' " There was no giving way in her eyes. Edith was not a crying sort; but she stood in a bruised attitude, and Vivian tried his hardest to be sorry for her, tried and could not be, for he had scorned his fellow-beings too long. Had she broken one of his favourite shrubs he would have been sorry for that. "Do men drink when they are in pain?" she whispered. "Frequently. It is a mistake, but it gives relief." "It is like taking poison to escape the sorrows of life," she said. " Few of us are strong. We are not all like Mark Yeo, the son of Cyclops," he said with an unmistakable sneer. "The first time Gerard dined with you he drank too much. He told me." "Did he really?" said the squire, in an astonished voice. " I don't remember. I generally go to sleep after dinner." "You must tell me, please, what you think about him," said Edith, coming nearer and putting up a small white face. " He has dined with you often since then. Has he been good ? " she asked, almost childishly. " I know you are kind ; your hospitality is overwhelming; you would naturally offer him what if he is really weak he should not touch, it is a social duty, I believe, and he might be afraid of offending you. I have heard a report that lately he had to be helped home. Tell me is that true?" 198 Granite " Servants will have tongues," he said lightly. " Is it true ? " she whispered. " I think you suspect the young man of getting at my liquors while I slumber." " Don't try and shield him if he has been wicked. Think what it means to me. Tell me, Mr Vivian, does Gerard drink?" " Let us go and eat," said the squire. "I must be told," she said, holding him by the coat and making him uncomfortable and angry. " He is quite young," said Vivian carelessly. " Most young men have a taste for old brandy. I can assure you, Miss Edith, mine is not adulterated." " How much does he take when he comes here ? " "My dear young lady, I really cannot act as a sort of Turkish spy upon my guests, and chalk up the number of glasses of wine they may choose to drink. Spiller is a nice fellow. I like him. It is quite a good idea of yours marrying him. He likes a bottle to take home with him," he added carelessly. " Ah, that is an unfortunate admission, perhaps." Edith's head drooped, and suddenly she made her face invisible; but her little body shook painfully, and she said nothing more. Words were not wanted, least of all those that were humming about her ears like vicious hornets : "What will you take back with you? We will go to the greenhouses after luncheon, and you must have some flowers. It will give me a great pleasure to pick them for you." Vivian was always giving — far too much. When Mrs Allen was ready to go, loaded with gifts, Edith had disappeared, after leaving with the lodge-keeper a message that she was walking home. This she had intended to do in any case, for she had promised to meet Gerard in the fir-wood, her usual haunt where Mark had first discovered her. Here she had dreamed, and here she would be practical. She, like Patience, was about to oppose a man ; not for the lusts, but against them. About a Strife in the Wood 199 The honest old tradesman, Gerard's father, never talked about his wife's relations. They had been a little easy in their lives, and his wife's father had shut himself up for a good many years, until one day an inquest was held, a verdict, kinder than it might have been, was returned ; the burial service at his funeral was emasculated, and his children agreed for the ordinary purposes of conversation to ascribe his decease to nervous debility, and not to mention the bottle which had begun and the pistol which had finished a very ordinary tragedy. The doctrine of the transmission of acquired characteristics by means of seed is known well enough. If a wild plant is placed in garden soil, it may not only change its character and produce double flowers, but it will also pass on the change to its seedlings. Human life is not so far above that of plants as to be able to disregard this peculiarity ; and thus a danger lurks in every marriage. The father is the author of being, the mother is the nurse ; she cannot give life, but she can hand on the characteristic transmitted to her by the author of her being, nor can she avoid doing so. Thus there was in Gerard a portion of that unhealthy life, which had impelled his mother's father to shut himself up and rot. The evil had been latent ; he hardly knew it was there, until the squire had made it live. Plenty of insects visit the plants so as to ensure the polUna- tion of the flowers, and some bring grains of poison on their legs. If a dark spot is in the character and cannot assert itself and grow unaided, it calls the insects. They came to Gerard ; neuralgia was the name of one ; depression, a feeling of hope- lessness, a conviction that he had been born for no good purpose were others, coming when he was alone and tired, with a maddening buzz ; and they stirred the dark spot into growth. One thing made him forget, lent a kind of happiness — it was pleasant also to roll about the small room, laughing, feeling immensely strong, afraid of nothing — and as for the evil, why, it was universal, and that same rolUng, that same laughter went on everywhere, in kings' palaces, in labourers' cottages, 200 Granite in the huts of savages ; and if such noise and movements pro- claimed to the quiet stars that there was a world in space, the inhabitants of which were all weak fools — for the strong and wise would not be noticed — his abstention could not alter that opinion. A strong pain called for a strong remedy ; the taste of that old brandy was good : it suggested flowers and fruit, it was too excellent and soothing to be dangerous ; he was using it medicinally, not to satisfy any base appetite. It was the taste of the old grandfather handed on ; the black spot had become a patch, and was still growing. He tried to do without it ; he struggled, but the pain and depression came on, and with it an invitation to dine and those kindly, mocking words, "We will have the old brandy. Mr Spiller prefers the old brandy." So easily there comes a time when some ruling passion cannot be fought against, when even the desire to resist it cannot be found. The inclinations must be indulged. Even if the thing desired is small and contemptible, it must be enjoyed. A philosopher may be half-mad for a pinch of snuff, and so entirely a slave to his little master that his mind will not work without it. He has it, and like a child stops crying ; and soon must have it again. Not the act, but those damnable repeti- tions, make the slave. Outside the fir-wood, a few steps back from the track which was neither road nor lane, and with its stones was hostile to all traffic, opposite the half-hidden foot-bridge leading across the stream, which spoke so glibly to the wood as it ran through in a hurry to be made a river, was a single copper-beech, and upon its lew side Edith had carved a single short straight line. It was the beginning of a square, and it was a help to her. So queerly do minds seek for a stimulant ; to one a wooden cross, to another a brandy bottle, and to a third some toy as aids to strength. "You must be strong," said Edith to that other self every day, " or you will never finish the square." The second side was to be added when she was happy ; the third when she was married, and the figure would be perfected About a Strife in the Wood 201 by the birth of a son. Matrimony and motherhood meant everything to Edith; and a son, a strong youth who would strangle snakes — that was her ambition. It was idolatry in perfection. The second side had not been added. Edith shrank, for she had not been settled in her mind, not even after that day in Godbeer, and the sign of her happiness when carved upon that tree would make the picture of a gallows. The second and third sides must be added together ; and if not, then let the tree die. Edith was not demonstrative. She was no girl to shed kisses like poppy-seed, thousands in one head and half of them barren, nor did she rattle like the brook. Her words and deeds were serious. All that she gave, her glances, smiles, her sighs were good, for they had meaning, they were selected from her garden. As she stood there beneath the copper-beech, small, erect, looking into the fantastic world of wine-red leaves sadly with all the beauty of sadness, she was like a stranger alone, anxious to be told of the people of this land in which she found herself. What would they do? Would they sacrifice her to their fierce gods, or would they give her the one thing which includes all, the one shy thing which lives among the rocks and is not often found because men flee from the rocks and keep them out of sight ? Gerard saw Edith in the wood and hid himself. He had written her a wild letter the day before and was ashamed to stand before her knowing she had read it. Easy enough to go away and write, but hard to stand and confess with those eyes searching for the truth. The letter-writer is by instinct a coward. Their love at the beginning had been cold, a penitential kind of passion, for Edith was reserved and Gerard was afraid of her. She was in the way of the world above him, if not much, for he had grown higher and she had come down. It was her height in the way of heaven that kept him back. She was too spiritual, too free from grossness ; she uplifted the soul 202 Granite and did not enkindle the body, she seemed cold ; her presence shed mystic moonlight rather than the scorching sun of lovers. That little playfulness which seems in courtship to be essential was not hers, or at least she would not show it until the time of seriousness was over. Her hair was straight and smooth, there were no curls about her ears ; and a wide, pure forehead and a lack of curls suggest the saint who judges others harshly, and must do so because her own morality is high. All that was changed on the one side. Secret living and the sins of solitude make every mouse a ghost. A greater fear drives out the less. Gerard was of necessity somewhat narrow- minded; his books had been those which were required for his advancement, added to a few dull classics which could not stimulate the imagination. Mark had done that. Coming out of the dark unexpectedly he had terrified Gerard with his suggestion of terror. It was the subject always in his mind, greater than life, death or doctrine. He could not define this terror, did not attempt it; others might have called it damnation, but to Mark it was more than that. He called it simply that other thing or something else. It had something to do with those evening voices across the plats, but Old Will heard them and was not frightened. It had something to do with the cloudy sign, but not much. It had something to do with death and was not death. There was not a sound in the wood, but Edith, looking up suddenly, saw a man running towards her looking back as if in fear of his life. Moss was deep beneath those trees, muffling his footfalls. " I shall never finish the square," said Edith; and the water, rattling below, rolled the smooth pebbles down as if to stone her. " Edith— who is there ? " " I have seen nobody," she answered quietly. " I have walked in this wood for years and have never seen anyone except once." " I saw nobody, but I felt it." About a Strife in the Wood 203 "Gerard," she said quietly, "if you are frightened here you are a coward." He had not changed much, but his eyes were heavy as if he had just woke up and had not shaken off the bad dream of the morning; and his breathing was irregular and he kept on placing a hand to the side of his head. " I was lying under a rock and I felt something crawl over me— something cold. Edith, say something kind to me. Don't look at me like that." She, too, was something cold. She could not help it. Other girls might have smiled, and been soothing, but Edith drew back, would not let him touch her, and the shadows beneath her eyes came out again. She would not absolve until there had been repentance and penance ; and even then she could not have forgotten. A tender plant cannot withstand the frost. " Why did you write that terrible letter ? " In the silence the wood seemed to be crowded with the population of a great city ; wind and stream made the traffic, the hum of insects became sordid and commercial, the butter- flies appeared to pass with a noise of whips ; and the creaking of big branches made the sorrows of the crowd. Gerard gave way, revealed himself, became weak and natural, went mad. " My beloved, my adored, my angel of light." Seizing her hands he pressed them to his face, hiding his eyes with them, holding them tightly to feel their refreshing strength and the coolness of those small fingers. " My beloved is mine and I am hers," he muttered in the same wild way. " I am here to worship her, to give my soul, to burn it as incense before her." She drew her hands away with a quick movement, leaving his face naked like a new-born thing. " Not my body, Edith, but my soul," he was crying. "Take that. It has done nothing; it is not mine, it is yours. My body is full of wickedness. Let it go, let it be buried and damned, and let me kiss you with the kisses of the soul. You have no body either. You have angels' eyes." He went to the ground 204 Granite before her in an agony of terror, sought her feet because they had no eyes, believing she would not reject him with them, searching for the little shoes which were invisible because the deep moss had swallowed them up ; and then like a dog he tore up the moss until he found them beautiful and earth-scented like two small gardens of herbs. "I know everything now," said Edith, trembling all over. " I would not believe— but those letters ! And I have spoken to Mr Vivian." Gerard was beside himself, unable to plead, not hearing, for his senses were like flies in a web, deprived of flight, and he knew nothing except that the light of life was receding, that the only light was being taken away ; and that made him mad and kiss those shoes and cry, " Touch me, heal me, put your hand upon me. Let me feel your hand or I shall lose myself. I must be near you, I am not near enough, you are too good. Oh merciful God," he prayed, "blow upon my beloved, my Edith, the garden of my soul, that her love may flow out and comfort me, that I may hide myself in it and escape." "You must get up. I cannot have you at my feet. Listen, Gerard ! I loved you ; the first time I saw you I felt what I had not felt for anyone else. You were like my father, spoke like him, acted like him. What he hated you professed to hate — and I was happy. Stand up, Gerard." She forced him up. " Answer me. Stand up alone ; I cannot touch you — you — drunkard." He stood and shook his head blindly, until his brain cleared a little, and he could see and understand that if he could not explain he was lost. " No," he said in a strong, terrified voice, as if he had been speaking to a judge ; " I am not a drunkard. I made an oath never to touch strong drink. One night I broke it, but I tried to keep it ; I was broken down by a stronger will. I struggled, but it was like iron. It held me down." " I forgave you — as well as I could." About a Strife in the Wood 205 Gerard put a hand to his head, and said simply, " I am in pain, Edith." She trembled, and said quietly, " So am I." " Forgive me again." " How many times ? " " It is the pain that comes on at night — and the loneliness of my room. I don't seem able to think or speak, unless — unless " " This is awful ! " she whispered. " I should be false to my father and myself." "It is medicine," he muttered. " Don't say that. It is the lowest weakness of all, to sin because you think it does you good. Gerard," she murmured, with a little shuddder, "good-bye."' Like Mark accepting Patience she was to lose her life, to return to servitude and Mrs Allen ; but the act of Mark was better, for he was sacrificing, while she was saving, self ; and yet with Edith love was something fixed, nothing could cut it out, so she too was sacrificing. When Gerard perceived that she was drawing from her finger the ring whiich he had given her, he broke down again, and frightened her because she feared he might do himself some harm. "I will make the oath again — to you. It shall never be broken. I have broken an oath made to God," he cried, becoming blasphemous in his terror, "but not to you. I cannot lose you; I will suffer anything. I can." He forced his right hand into some brambles, moved it about among the thorns, brought it out bleeding ; stained his handkerchief and forced it upon her. "I have signed," he said. " Edith, I can be strong." She held out the ring, yet hesitated, for she loved it, and was afraid he might throw it into the stream. The sight of that copper-beech, one red bunch of it, was almost breaking her heart. Edith had a right to her dream, for the hand which she extended had not yet been filled with gifts. 2o6 Granite " Had it been anything else," she murmured. "This once," he prayed; "if you throw down that ring you throw away my soul." "Will you never? " she faltered. He burst into a passionate torrent of oaths. " I cannot bear this," she said. " Come with me." He followed her to the beech-tree. About a foot from the ground was a cleft in the trunk, and into this she forced the ring and covered the opening with a handful of clay. "Nobody will find it," she said. "Upon this day next year you shall meet me here again. You shall not see or speak to me until then. But I shall think of you," she said softly. " If you can tell me then you have stood up like a man and been strong, I am yours. If not — why, then I shall know I am not worth winning." Gerard looked at this quiet, cold girl, and the foolish tears were running down his cheeks. " It is too hard for me, Edith." " Not Edith now," she answered, frowning. " I must make it hard for you. Will not the victory," she added, with her first smile, " be all the greater? Good-bye." She went in time to prevent him seeing that she too was breaking down. CHAPTER XIII ABOUT AN AGONY OF THE COTTAGE A CART wobbled up the sour-apple lane, bringing Patience home. Old Coles led the pony, Mark walked some distance in front, and the girl sat among the rags, crushed, half-crying, but dressed like a lady still. That was her consolation; Temperance hadn't got such clothes, therefore she was better off than her sister. Mark kept and looked away from her, and when she spoke he answered shortly. As for Old Coles, he walked with some alacrity. His mind was as dim as his eyes; but the little maid remained a clear memory, and he thought he had her in the cart and ought to be taking her home instead of along Love Lane. Opposite Blue Violet, Mark looked up ; but Temperance did not appear, which was surprising, for a cart passing was an event to bring her out. It so happened that the well was dry, and Temperance had to walk to the nearest spring. Patience also looked up and saw a child playing with a cat. She did not change colour; she simply sat and stared as if she had never seen the place before; then she called to Mark and asked, "How many have Tempy got? " " None," he answered, without turning his head. "Whose is that? " she called. " Yours," he said. There was a short silence before she muttered, " You liar " ; but Mark took no heed, and Old ,Coles did not hear, and the child went on playing. When the cart had gone by. Patience was still looking back and murmuring to herself, " Little deary, I love children." 207 2o8 Granite "We can walk up the lane. It's bad for the cart," said Mark to his partner. "Wait here for us. I shall bring her back, I reckon." Since Mark and Patience had last walked in Love Lane, both had seen the world ; he had worked, and she had played. Very much had been gained by him and lost by her since the young hind with the bundle on his shoulder had met the young girl with Tibby the lamb ; and now all he had gained was to be added to her losses. "Fancy me and you being here again," said Patience. Anyone might have thought she was returning home with an excellent character and plenty of well-earned money, and no one could have dreamed that only a few hours back she had been fighting her companion with teeth and nails. "Seems like old times, walking down Love Lane. We have changed a lot, haven't we, Mark? You've been and educated yourself, and I talk like a lady, and I got fine clothes. I reckon we haven't done so bad. What the devil did you want to say that kid was mine for?" she said, beginning to be fierce again. "You'll spoil my character." Mark went on ahead; the lane was too narrow to walk abreast unless they had been lovers. A sweet pale face was in his memory, and he looked up mentally to that. Even a foolish knight is not to be mocked at for his worship of a Dulcinea, when that worship helps him to stand square ; and that knight who tilts at windmills is doing better than he who sits in the cellar ; for when madness and folly reach the upper house, folly may be startled to behold the madman crowned. "You will have to tell me everything," said Mark. There was no hurry. He did not want to hear. "Does the preaching pay? How much do you get a week?" she went on. " Nothing." " How are you to live then ? If I'm going to marry I'll be a lady. This costume cost six guineas, and I won't wear anything less, and if you give me any cloam to wash I shall chuck the lot out of the window." About an Agony of the Cottage 209 "I've made you a promise, and I'll keep it," Mark answered. " I shall want a servant. I'm not going to do any dirty work," said this little prostitute. " And a pony and cart. I must live somewhere where I can see plenty passing the window. I'm not a bad girl, really. I can't be, because I'm fond of children." Mark said nothing. They were near the last bend and the steep plunge down to the rocky court where Barseba would be working her life away. " I shall want some money soon,'' went on the maddening voice. " I've only got a shilling or two, and you tore my things fearful last night when you got so cross. You must give me a nice ring with real diamonds in it, won't you, deary?" she begged in wheedling tones. "Mine are only old stage stufif, and, of course, I can't wear them now." " There's your mother," said Mark. They were round the bend and could see Barseba at the pump. " My ! ain't she dirty ! " exclaimed Patience. " I wonder if she'll want to shake hands." Barseba looked up when the gate slammed, shading her eyes, and wondered when she recognised Mark with a young lady. Patience looked like one at a distance. She stood, the wind blowing her white hair about, and the brown water drip- ping from her hands, calling, " Master ! Mark ha' got a surprise vor we." Caleb was not well. Those robbers were frightening the life out of him. He was sitting at the hearth, warming himself in the smoke, preferring the sooty atmosphere to the sun out- side, smoking a huge pipe, or rather sucking at its stem, and upon his knees was a newspaper which he was pretending to read and tearing into shreds, lighting them one by one and conveying the flame to the bowl of his pipe, smoking fire and fumes of burnt paper which did not cost so much as tobacco. He put his head to one side when Barseba called and said he should be glad to have Mark Yeo with him. " My dear life ! " screamed Patience, for the old turkey was 14 2IO Granite upon her, beak, claws, and feathers, for bell, book, and candle, excommunicating her viciously. " Get home, you old devil ! " she cried ; but the fowl had conscience and duty to think of and would not be appeased. All women he hated, and this one was exceeding vile. As Mark drove him off he seemed to groan and to mutter, '-Is Mark Yeo also among the women ? " Barseba had gone inside to make herself tidy. She heard the scream, looked out, and became uneasy in her mind. "Master," she muttered, "I don't like them clothes. I ha' got fine clothes tu, but I don't ever wear 'em." Those clothes were hidden away somewhere, possibly in a chest, moth-eaten, and, if whole, antique; but for her life Barseba could not have laid her hand upon them. "Who be her? " asked Caleb. " Our maiden." Barseba made a quick movement towards the dresser, seized the old Bible, held it to her bosom as a charm against the evil power of mathematics. "Silk," she muttered. "Silk on a Saturday." Mark pushed Patience forward, telling her to go in alone, feeling that it was not for him to be present at that meeting ; and the girl obeyed, too callous to feel much, and went in with mincing step like a squire's lady visiting tenants, lifting her fine skirts and her nose ; and so entered with a stupid laugh and a vigorous, " Hello, folks ! " The door was shut, and Mark went back into the court. When he turned the blind had been drawn, and there was silence in the farmhouse. What happened in the old living-room, which had seen the coming in of life and the passing out of death for nearly three centuries, he did not know, but could guess that Barseba would play the leading part. Caleb would not worry much when he was convinced Patience had not come to rob him. Honest Barseba would be holding out her hands, telling her daughter to hold out hers, that her God and her Bible might About an Agony of the Cottage 211 judge between them, between the white hands and the hard hands, as between the sheep and the goats. Barseba, who had done nothing but work since leaving the school which had taught her nothing, who by continual labour had almost ceased to be a woman, and had become, so far as the farm was con- cerned, a force like the sun, an element like the rain, a machine like the plough ; Barseba, with the earth upon her and the old clothes which would see her out, with hardly the time for words, because deeds were waiting, calves had to be fed, young turkeys collected, cows brought home, and a hundred other things before the day was snuffed out — she would be wanting to know how a daughter of hers had spent those years, asking to see the talents, demanding the meaning of silk upon a work- day, hands with no labour marks, and all the signs of pleasure which were vice. What is there but work, if one is honest ? And those who do no work must be dishonest ; even if wealthy, they are dishonest to themselves, the earth, and Nature. To those who work all pleasure is reward ; to the idle it is a vice. Fine clothes upon the body, no money in the purse, no good report, no character, only a certain ugly prettiness. Barseba could not fail to hit. There were sounds at last : a young girl cursing her father and her mother ; and the old priest-turkey stood upon one leg, and said in his own monastic way, "Poverty, chastity, and obedience. She has missed them all." Mark drew near, and the door was flung open. Patience came out like a spirit of evil exorcised. "They won't have me. Mother tells me to go to the devil — ^just because I've been a little lively. Tell her, Mark, you're going to make me honest." Marriage absolved the past. Matrimonial regeneration washed the soul whiter than any waters of baptism. Mrs Yeo could be as she liked, but Patience Starke was a leper. Marriage would remove the white sheet from under her feet and wrap it round her body as a chrisom. Such is the law, all-powerful, because man made it. The married woman is 212 Granite forgiven every sin. God must not meddle with any man- made law. Mark entered. Old Barseba was standing against the dresser holding the big Bible to her heart. The date of her daughter's birth was recorded within it. Caleb sat in the smoke playing with his pipe. . Mark stood upon the stones and said, "I'm going to marry the girl." Barseba made a step forward. The white head was shaking violently, and the withered face was scarlet. "Yew b'ain't. Us wun't let ye. Aw, b'ain't I a woman yet ? " she cried. " Don't I see yew hates the strumpet, Mark Yeo ? " " No, mother. I don't hate her," he said. " Tak' the old Buke. Put him to your heart and look me in the eyes and say yew loves the wench " " I'll marry the maiden," he said. " Maiden ! " shouted Barseba, spitting on the stones. " That vor she and the likes o' she ! " " Take her back, mother." "Not if she wur starving. I'd throw her bread through the window, and tell she go eat it wi' the pigs. Master ! " cried Barseba, rising up against Caleb, "she'm youm. Tempy be mine." Caleb did not care. He was thinking of his " tetties," and making up his mind to climb into the barn and count them that he might be sure the rats and jackdaws had not made away with any. "Patty is young," Mark went on. "She must have her chance. When we were little children I promised to marry her. When she told me she was going to Plymouth I asked her to marry me. And now I have brought her back under the promise that I will. If I break my word she will go back." "Let her go," said Barseba. " If her can live on dirt, feed her on dirt." " She would never come back." "Who wants she?" About an Agony of the Cottage 213 " I reckon there is some one in that book who wants her/' he said bluntly. " It be the devil, then," Barseba shouted, past all charity. "Let him have she. I say, though she'm his daughter,'' pointing to the indifferent figure in the smoke, " I say she ha' got the mark of hell upon her, and I hopes she'll go there, as I hopes to go to heaven myself. Vor what be the gude o' working and keeping honest if such as she be tooken into heaven and set down beside ye ? " Before Mark could make an answer to this terrible speech he^was pushed aside and Patience passed him. Without a word, but half-crying, she hurried to the hearth and seized the great bellows. Barseba rushed forward, the girl eluded her, reached the table and flung the bellows upon it. Then she made for the door screaming, while Barseba broke down and sobbed, and even old Caleb awoke and began to shiver. " Don't worry about old superstitions," said Mark. "The curse be on who touches mun, and that be me," wailed Barseba. " Let it be on me," said Mark ; and he raised the bellows and put them back in their place beside the hearth. Temperance was home digging a piece of ground in which she proposed to grow flowers. She had fantastic notions, and when she had mentioned to Timothy a desire for more flowers he thought her mad. Still, there was plenty of rough ground about the cottage ; not all the space was required for a garden, by which was meant the growing of vegetables, and she was welcome to clear a portion for her own amusement. Indeed, he was prepared to assist, for he was not a bad husband when sober, and his unkindest critic could not have called him a poor workman. Temperance looked up, hearing footsteps, and saw her sister. " Well, dear,'' said Patience, and kissed her. " So yew ha' come back home," said Temperance. " They won't have me home." " All right," said the elder sister. " Yew'm welcome, Patty." 214 Granite She walked heavily down the path with her curious ungainly slouch, and out at the gate where Old Coles and Mark were waiting by the cart. The box was taken out and carried up to the cottage. " Me and Mark are going to get married. I reckon 'tis time for me to settle down," said Patience, as cheerfully as if no unpleasant incident had ever taken place. " You'll come and see me to-morrow, deary ? Sunday evening — we must go for a walk." " I'll come if I can," said Mark, looking at Temperance. "Good night," he said shortly. " My dear soul ! Ain't you going to cuddle me a bit ? " cried Patience. She was still the same. If there was any sort of man handy she must have her kisses. Men were made for such things, not for work or problems ; merely to hug and fondle stupid creatures who would not think. Temperance turned and went back up the path, and Mark called after her, " Will Timothy mind ? " " Not if I wants Patty here. My husband is a gude man," she answered stoutly ; and then she went in to make some sort of a sleeping-place for her sister, who had amused herself by picking a twig and was flicking Mark with it. "I've got nothing to do. I'll walk to the end of the lane with you," she said. There he had to kiss her, and discover what a bitter thing a kiss can be. As for Patience, any kiss was the same to her. "Come to-morrow," she called after him. "If you don't, I shall walk out with another fellow." Timothy Mosscrop was not concerned about the arrival of Patience that evening, because it was Saturday, and the time for worshipping strange gods. He became indeed aware of a young woman's presence in the house, but only dimly, as a beetle might know of the cook's presence in the kitchen. He did not refer to her, lest he should be making a mistake, and his wife would think he was drunk. Timothy was never drunk, and the only time he lost his temper was when Temperance About an Agony of the Cottage 215 told him he had been drinking. It was the one insult he could not endure. Yet Timothy was a good husband, and regarded in a district' which looked upon drunkenness merely as a form of sport, or, at its worst, as a kind of missing link between virtue and vice, as an honest and a sober man. He was not intemperate certainly, as he only got drunk once a week : very different from Joseph Boone, who lived and slept and had his being in the fumes. It was expensive, because Timothy was generous in the lion's den, though from that very cause he was forced to be niggardly at home. His master gave him an excellent character, and he deserved it, being a fine workman. His energies indeed appeared inexhaustible; out very early, at work all day, with the exception of a hurried hour for dinner, then home to take off his coat again, dig his own garden, sow, reap, uproot rocks, build a hedge, until and after dark. He did a day's work after his day's work was done. He was a good example of the enormous possibilities of manual labour. Had his intellect been equal to his physical powers, had he been a philosopher, he would have written many a work worth having — and yet he was spoilt. Timothy Mosscrop was very little use because of those Saturday nights. It was not enough to dig splendidly, to be untiring — a machine could have beaten him there — and not to know, nor even to think of the duty of man ; not to put by a penny for days of famine ; not to consider the future, his wife, sickness, clothes ; not to think of anything at all. And yet it was not Timothy's fault. He was the victim of a system which teaches a man nothing, except that he must not commit a murder and must not steal. He was the victim of con- vention, which winks at folly and says, " L^t the man have his pleasure. " It was true that Timothy had no pleasures, nor were any within his reach except that one, when he was staggering among the vegetables with a kind of imagination. It was the only pleasure, to join the congregation of those that gibbered and those that howled. What else could he do 2i6 Granite on Saturday nights ? Sitting with his wife was not pleasure. Besides, she was always busy ; and if the work was done, how could they sit and stare at one another ? A man must have pleasure, and if healthy forms of enjoyment are not forthcoming, he willitake the bad, which somehow are always provided. Sunday morning Timothy was himself again, and discovered that Patience was not a delusion. He showed his good heart at once by saying she was welcome ; but Temperance did not tell him the whole story then, although, when Timothy found it out, it made no difference. Patience was seeking shelter under his roof until she should be married, and by all the laws of hospitality, as Timothy understood them, he could not drive her out. But he was sorry she was going to marry Mark Yeo. " They be telling bad about he vor putting hisself above we and trying to mak' hisself a gentleman," he said. " Some of the chaps'll soon be getting nasty." " Mark b'ain't proud. He'm as nice a young fellow as ever spoke," said Temperance. "He'm taking tu much upon him," said Timothy. "The chaps don't mind what squire ses or what parson ses, but they b'ain't agwaine to be put upon by the hkes o' Mark." " It be the drunkards he'm down upon," she said. " Let 'en mind his own business. Squire Vivian and parson ain't got nought to say, and be Mark Yeo better than they ? He comes along wi' his funeral face and ses, ' Now then, yew chaps, let the liquor bide and get along home to the missis. Ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' he ses, 'sitting here and drinking.' The chaps ain't agwaine to stand much more on't, I tell ye. Mark Yeo b'ain't no gentleman, and none o' the Yeos ever ha' been gentlemen, so fur as I knows. . Old Will be the hke, 'cept that he keeps his mouth shut. Works upon his plats, then gets home. Nevers comes to sit wi' neighbours and tell his tale." "Yew knows well enough they Yeos ha' never been like other volk," Temperance reminded him. " They b'ain't no better than we," said Timothy stubbornly. About an Agony of the Cotta^ 217 " Mark ought to work vor his living, 'stead o' setting volk one against t'other." The doctrine of work came up again: going out early, ploughing, hedging, attending to sheep, then home to till the garden. It was the only work which Timothy could compre- hend. Trying to make the lives of others brighter, bringing a light into the darkness of home life, teaching self-conscious- ness, sobriety, reproaching improvidence, seeking to arrest, if only in a small way, the progress of national decay — that was not work. It was playing the fool ; it was impertinence ; it was tampering with independence. Timothy was wise because he knew nothing. He obeyed the laws of the system and walked in the paths of great cpnvention, and was respected by every- one that knew him. The Sunday of convention was after this manner : Timothy rose as early as upon any other day, because he had the sheep to see to. Afterwards he washed his face and hands at the pump, put on his best trousers and black waistcoat, brushed his boots, rolled up his shirt-sleeves lest they should get soiled, and walked about the garden with a pipe in his mouth. The Mosscrops did not attend any place of worship, though Temperance liked the church because of the hymns and the organ, but she felt that her clothes were not good enough ; while Timothy had a leaning towards the Bible Christians, but never attended their chapel because it was "not time yet." The spirit of unbelief had reached Timothy, though he was not aware of it, the old traditions of his race being strong enough to prevent the free-thought from becoming aggressive for another generation or two. Most of the morning he pottered about the garden, not working, nor venturing to think of work, for that would have been wicked, have broken the conven- tion, and neighbours would have avoided him as a Sunday- breaker ; but doing little jobs, slowly, gradually, with intervals of pipe-lighting and hands in pockets between each ; cutting away brambles with his knife, breaking sticks with his hands, uprooting a weed here and there, clearing the wild convolvulus 2i8 Granite from the peas, but very careful not to touch any implement of the week, any tool of labour, such as a pick or mattock. If Timothy had seen a neighbour digging his garden, he would have been shocked, and would probably have denounced him before the whole parish. No man could do such a thing and not be defiled. At noon Timothy went and stood upon Dry Arch, obeying the system ; while Temperance, who as a woman would not understand recreation, was amusing herself by cooking the dinner. There were cliques in Fursdon parish, as elsewhere : one knot of men assembled on Dry Arch, another at the stone- cutter's yard higher up the road, a third beneath the mine. The married men smoked and spat on the road, while the single men jeered each other and learnt new oaths. When a vehicle passed they stared until it was out of sight, and if a stranger went by on foot they became like sheep, every eye followed his movements, and every tongue asked who he might be, what he could be up to, had he ever been seen before, and was there any probability of his ever appearing again. So the time passed until the various parties broke up and sauntered home for the great event of the day, the Sunday dinner. Custom ordained that no restraint should be placed upon appetite for this meal, therefore it was not until late in the afternoon that Timothy felt himself able to stir abroad. By then people were wandering aimlessly upon the big road. Lovers were taking their walks, pushing each other about and howling affectionately ; young men wandered in groups, flourish- ing sticks ; while their seniors looked over the hedgeai4>egarding cows and sheep with dull eyes and speculative questi|it?. No married women were to be seen, because they were sl^ up like queen-bees. They had the dinner things to wash, and they could not break the system by venturing outside, in their working clothes. The unmarried girls had more freedom ; but they, too, were victims of convention, and some of them had spent two hours in making themselves presentable for an hour's walk. There was nothing going on except smoking, a lot of About an Agony of the Cottage 219 loose talk, and some lax love-making. The rector would have flung up his hands in horror had anyone proposed a game of cricket for the young men, and would have talked about con- tinental methods, decay of religious sentiment, and a desecration of the day of rest. Timothy strolled about until the church bells began, and then he brightened up, for the pleasant part of the day was coming. Attired in his black coat he joined a large assembly of men of all ages beside the tower who watched the church-goers passing. When the doors were shut, others were opening, and he went to his usual beer-house if he had any money left ; if not, he went home, sat on the stairs looking out of the cottage door, and whistled until bed-time. Temperance would still be working. It was always a wonder to Timothy why she messed about so. And yet Temperance was not happy, although she had a home, a good husband who was only a bad one once a week, and an excellent reputation. She had that imagination which made her want to grow flowers and have a garden where her mind as well as her feet could wander. Temper- ance had no business to own a mind, even if it was a little one, or rather, she had no right to discover that she owned one. The awakening had been caused possibly by some small incident years ago, something the school- teacher had said, or something she had read about which had fallen into her like a seed, and, after lying latent for a time, had germinated. She was a barren woman, so far as children were concerned ; but no soil can produce every kind of crop, and the body which contains an original mind is not the body which brings forth children. The body of Patience was fruitful soil, but the mind was of sand, producing those prickly things which grow in the desert. The body of Temperance was lichen-covered rock, but the mind was a field enriched by the matter falling each year from the growths within. The arrival of Patience produced a kind of harvest. The sisters had long days together. It was natural that Patience 220 Granite should show only the bright side of the life she had led, and Temperance listened with a kind of envy, and, being only a woman, gloated over the box of treasures which Patience had brought with her; nothing of any value, gaudy trinkets and cheap jewellery, though wonderful to Temperance; but the clothes — ^that was where the elder sister felt her weakness. She had never owned good clothes, and was never likely to possess any, and she knew it would be good to feel their comfort. It was a wet day, and Patience, who was fond of her sister and helped her a little in the housework, suggested she should dress up, put on the fine clothes and the trinkets, and " be a lady" for the time being. Poor Temperance flushed and trembled. It was an awful and a pleasant thought; but to satisfy her conscience she had to make difficulties. " I be taller than yew, Patty." "That don't matter. You are no stouter." " I be dirty," said Temperance. " You can clean yourself." So Temperance went to the pump and drew water. Then to the faggot-stack to get sticks. How weary she was of those two small walks, between pump and cottage, from the stack to the door ! and now she was to have a holiday, real pleasure. She smiled at the splashing water, did not heed the pricking of the blackthorn. She was using lier imagination, which carried her a certain distance, to the idea of a lady sauntering at her ease in her own flower-garden and no further, not to a consideration of the uses to which those clothes had been put, or the manner in which they had been procured. She was trembling with a warm excitement. What a difference it made to have some pleasure, how light the faggot seemed that day ! They went upstairs. The old ragged skirt was put off, and the great nailed boots, and Temperance washed as she had not done for years ; and then the garments of great tempta- tion were gradually assumed, the open-worked stockings, the fine linen and laces, the white-frilled petticoat, the silk dress, the dainty shoes; and Patience laughed about her, adding About an Agony of the Cottage 221 bracelets, brooches, necklets, and all manner of baubles. " Now, I must do your hair," she cried,' and Temperance sat, still shivering, thrilled all through with the touch of pleasure, scarcely daring to lay her hands upon her knees. " Oh, my dear soul ! Look, Tempy," cried the voice of vice. A looking-glass was slanted before her, and Temperance saw, not herself, but the figure which her sister had made; and yet she was happy, fearfully happy, and when she turned and saw the dirty ragged skirt she would soon have to assume again — and for ever — she could have wept. "It be lovely," she muttered. " Nobody would know you. If you went into the village they would ■ take you for a stranger. You only want some teeth, Tempy, and they don't cost much." " Us can't afford such things,'' she said. " You were always prettier than me. You would soon get pretty again if you had good food and nothing to do except enjoy yourself. Soifle teeth and clothes like these would set you up proper, Tempy." Then it occurred to Temperance that Patience was far more excited than she was, and there was something beneath the excitement which was not healthy. She was satisfied, like a child let off her lessons; but there was in Patience's eyes something she had seen in the eyes of her husband when he came home on Saturday night. "I must tak' 'em off. They'm tu fine vor me. I be a working woman," she said. " It be brave to wear 'em, Patty dear, but I must work." "You are quite young, Tempy. We used to dance to Fursdon fair." "I'll never dance again." " You're only a girl. A little while, and you'd be so pretty. I should have no chance with you, but I'm not so cold as you are. Let's have a dance, Tempy." More pleasure ! It was rising in the veins of Temperance in the form of poison emanating from those clothes, which 222 Granite seemed to cling like the robe of Deianeira steeped in the blood of Nessus about the body of Hercules, the garment which could only be wrenched off by tearing the body. She could not resist when Patience pulled her up, and they danced about the room, at first soberly, then excitedly, and at last with the fury of two Bacchantes, smiling, then laughing, and then screaming. Patience fell back upon the bed, and another scream went up. She had forgotten the child was sleeping there. She rolled over, kissed and hugged it, calling it soft names in a hard voice, for she had other things to contemplate and a bigger game to play. " Ah, my pet, dear love. Did mother wake it up ? " "She'm yourn, Patty," cried Temperance. " B'ain't she now?" Her own face was scarlet, her usually composed body was heaving, and her eyes were shining like the big raindrops hanging from the thatch. She was ready for more pleasure, more of that new wild Ufe. " No," said Patience. " She'm like yew.'' " I can't help it. She's not mine." " Yew'm cruel fond o' the child." "I love 'em all. I can love lots, but I hate my mother and the man I'm going to marry. I love everyone else," shouted Patience, jumping up, dancing about like a little fury, and dragging Temperance with her. She was lying, her sister knew it ; but Patience was a natural liar and had no sense of shame. During the days she had been in service, if her mistress asked where she had been for her walk, Patience would reply with a lie; even when there was no reason for keeping back the truth she would tell a lie, because it was easier to her somehow than the truth. " Tempy," she cried, seeing that her sister was in the m^od for anything. " Let's go for a walk." "A walk! " exclaimed Temperance. "Why, 'tis raining cruel." " A long walk ! " said Patience. " To the station." "Whatever be yew telling? Here, Patty, I must get these clothes off and set about work. The fire will be going out." About an Agony of the Cottage 223 "You have done plenty of work,' said Patience, holding her sister's hard hands, swinging her arms to and fro. " Let's go, Tempy." Still her sister did not understand. " Tempy, it's jolly," cried the tempter passionately. " Plenty to eat and drink, no work, get up when you like, it's all holiday. You go out in the evening, and the shops are all lighted up, and even if you are a bit short of money — it's jolly, Tempy." "What be yew telling?" muttered the other. " It's a bit dull by oneself; but me and you together could have a big time. I can't settle down, Tempy ; this sort of quiet hfe would kill me, and I don't want to marry Mark. He's not my sort, and we should always be fighting. I know it would make me respectable, but what's the good of it ? Being respectable don't make you happy. You are awful respectable, Tempy, but what's it done for you? I reckon you've got nothing left here but to die respectably — and you're young, Tempy," said Patience, with a shrill laugh. "Patty, don't ye, my dear. Don't ye now," pleaded poor Temperance, trying to release her hands that she might remove those trinkets from her neck. " Keep those things on. I'll give you the lot. Come on, Tempy," said Patience, her voice falling to a whisper. " There's not a soul about, and Timothy won't be home for two hours yet. We can slip out and go, just disappear. Dirty old Fursdon will never hear of us again. We can get across by the fields, nobody would know you in these clothes, and it don't matter about me. Tempy, come on. We'll go to London. A lot of girls told me it knocks Plymouth hollow ; and there's lots of money there, Tempy, and you'll soon get so pretty, Tempy dear. I've got just enough to take us there. It's no use going to Plymouth, for Mark would come and find us. He means to make a Methody of me somehow. Tempy dear, we can get to London by midnight. It's so lovely when the streets are bright, and people come from the theatres — 224 Granite they speak to you, deary, real gentlemen like Squire Vivian — and no work, Tempy, no more work." Temperance broke from her suddenly and went to the window in her fine apparel, her mind working like a butterfly bursting from its caterpillar's grave to its short and joyous resurrection. She had an imagination, and it did not necessarily incline always towards what was good; the evil was included too, for the mind which thinks embraces every- thing, and the evil thoughts, too ripe and luscious, are often uppermost. Her poor thin face was in a sweat. She was young ; she could be pretty again. A month of happy living would make a merry girl of her, give her back those years which Timothy had eaten, restore the freshness and the bloom of life. She knew nothing about the dark side of that life towards which Patience was tempting her ; she believed it was in truth all pleasure, and that belief was added to her pain. " Tempy, come on." She looked out; saw the raindrops splashing, the sloppy garden, the miserable cabbage-stalks; the pump which was part of her captivity, the black and dripping wood-stack which was another part ; and in front the dreary field where it was a wonder to see a man walk ; and, beyond, the heaving moor and ragged tors in rain-mists. She thought of the sad cottage, endless drudgery without pleasure or holiday, her lost teeth, those Saturday nights, the silence, the loneliness of the long days, the apparent injustice of it all. "Tempy, come on," screamed Patience hysterically. There was a muffled sound through the rain. It was a clock striking in the tower of the church a mile away; and inside that building she had stood, looking at a stained-glass window, and had said — " Here ! Tak' this old trade off," she cried fiercely, snapping the chain round her neck, pulling the clothes off, pushing her sobbing, shrieking sister away from her. "I be a decent woman and a wife. I ha' promised to du my duty by mun, and I will. Give me my old clothes again." CHAPTER XIV ABOUT THE WALL-BUILDERS What more fascinating work is there than wall-building ? It is congenial to every man, human instinct is in favour of it ; each individual has it in him or her to build one wall. It was the first art, and fear must have found it out. The savage, afraid of his big rough neighbour, would have hidden behind a rock, and when there was no rock handy he would search for one ; and perhaps it was not large enough, so he put another on top of it, and then another, until he screamed for joy at discovering a new thing ; and that was a wall. Some of them, the lowland walls, are made of mud and straw, a yard in width, and in almost as good a condition now as when the sun dried them, showing that savages knew how to work, or that the world is still in its infancy. Those of the moor are made of rough stones piled one upon the other, often so cunningly that the light cannot force its way through ; and the modern builders of these were in mist-land alone with the granite, high-priests of their cult ; but they were builders like the men of old time, and their walls were so like those of the savages that no man could say, " This was built by Will Yeo, this by Job Lithern, and this by the hairy ones." Custom holds all time together, and a simple deed shows how short the time is and how strong the chain. The first men are only a little time away, upon the other side of the wall. There is the flint implement just as the labourer dropped it ; he has only gone to dinner, and will be back presently. Will and Job could have talked to them, perhaps, and they could have 225 IS 226 Granite worked side by side, understanding each other because they would be doing the same work. Only the hairy man might have said after a time, "Tak' my tool, will ye, and let me use yours." Will and Job had spent their lives building walls of simplicity, stone upon stone. This was the method : the tools required were the hammer, with one edge blunt, the other keen, and the iron bar for shifting. First, a double row of large rocks, all glittering with mica and seams of quartz where the cleavages were fresh, and then the smaller stones, flat or round it did not matter, but if there were any sharp projecting points a blow or two of the keen edge knocked them off; there was a space left between the two rows, and into this the small stones and granite chips were poured and beaten down with the blunt edge; then more large rocks, the bigger the better, placed cunningly so as to secure the ends of those beneath ; it was easy, they seemed to fit naturally, and if not the hammer trimmed them. A few handfuls of turf filled up the chinks, but only the greater architects made use of such ; and these placed turf also upon the top of the wall in order that there might be grass and flowers in their season. Will and Job knew that was unnecessary, for Nature would look after the decoration of the wall, and the wind would blow soil into the crevices, and the soil would bring forth foxgloves. It was astonishing how quickly the wall could be built, and there it would stand until the sun went out, unless other savages came and knocked it down. It did not enter into the philosophy of Will and Job that they were not alone in the work, that all other men built walls, some using money-bags, others penny-an-hour bodies of victims instead of stones, and substituting for hammer and bar selfish- ness and tyranny ; and those others, again, who built their walls with the mud and straw of pride and ambition ; and the great congregation of those who built with lies, the wall of the good- intent lie raised by the churchman, the wall of the ill-intent lie erected by the money-seeker, the wall of the indifferent lie built by the statesman, some using the keen edge, others the blunt About the Wall-builders 227 edge, and others the iron bar; and still another class, the profound builders, who raised their walls, not for money nor yet to satisfy ambition, but for the good of all, the thinker, the scientist, wielding the keen edge while others were dancing, slowly, thoughtfully fitting each stone into place ; and these cannot escape from the wall, they have no dinner-hour, no Sunday, and even when they try to rest the hammer goes on trimming, the iron bar goes on shifting ; and the sadness of their work is they cannot finish, and their walls are like a ruin when they leave. The plats of Will and Job were some distance apart, but they saw each other often. Will did not cross to visit the deaf man, but Job would come to bellow across his neighbour's wall. They were both simple ; but Will's simplicity was com- plex, troubled with mysticism, and penetrated by romance. There were voices in the wind for Will and fairy-stories in the rivers, but they only came to him through the long shadows of evening. Job was elementary; he was a creature of the rocks, one of the queer things which live under them, a man reversed; his ancestry had to be looked for among strange types. He was one of those beings who rebelled against being made like a man, and spent his life trying to struggle back to his own species underneath the stones. He was a kindly animal, full of affection for those who treated him properly and did not tresspass upon his plats ; towards these he jumped as it were, bounded around them with his strange noises as if he would have licked their hands ; at others he growled and made as though he would bite and worry them. Job had tried to do his duty. He had a cottage down in Fursdon, married, brought up a family, the members of which were more or less strangers to him, because he was always up on the moor taking in the plats. That was his real home. What happiness he was capable of came to him while he swung the hammer and cleft the rocks. He could not understand the ways of civilisation, and, though he tried to conform to the system, he failed. Then his wife died, and the children whom 228 Granite he did not know were scattered and he was free. What was the use of descending to Fursdon every night and climbing back in the morning ? He only went down to sleep, to rest from the wall-building, and he could sleep as well upon the plats. He had built a shed in which to keep his tools and little cart ; and one night, when darkness came on too early, he cut heather and fern, half-filled the cart, and upon that bed he slept. The next morning he went down to Fursdon, brought up from the cottage all that he could require, a mattress, some cloam, a few cooking utensils. Some folk wUl declare he did not even take the mattress. The rest of the things and the cottage he sold. The shed became his home, in the cart he slept, upon the plats he lived ; and passed into a state of dirt and degradation shameful to civilisation, but at the same time proclaiming to it how artificial a thing it was. It was all against Job Lithern that the words he uttered were meaningless sounds. He had become angry when, as he thought, people would not understand him, and, thinking it was because he did not speak loud enough, he shouted and yelled whenever he opened his mouth, trying 'to make himself understood and hearing nothing himself. His deafness had made him fearfully and noisily dumb; and yet Old Will seemed to understand. Will himself did not find it easy to talk ; those years of solitude had rubbed rust upon his tongue. When he spoke he first straightened himself, as if about to give a military salute, and then he spoke a few words quickly, as if afraid of forgetting what he had to say. Some blows of the hammer, and then he would straighten himself again and deliver the fresh words as they had been revealed to him. Job's fearful face gesticulated over the wall and his hand waved towards a cleft in the moor, where the clouds were piling Pelion upon Ossa. A sound was proceeding from the cleft, and Job guessed as much, though he could not hear it ; but Will had been listening all day, and now that it was evening he intercepted it. About the Wall-builders ^ 229 " Gude weather," he said. " It ha' been vull and mucky tu long. Us be agwaine to get sunshine now.'' Job laughed fearfully, and made a pantomime of himself. Anyone might have thought he was threatening to climb the wall and strangle Old Will, when he was only being pleasant in his own way and striving to ask what the other wall-builder heard. "The watter be soft,'' said Will, "He be like one o' they little birds a-singing up to heaven along." It was the sound of the brook that he heard, which had a different voice to him for every weather. The brook was his barometer, and it never failed. No untrained ear could have detected any difference in the sound of the water, except that it was louder after rain than before, but its finer notes were audible to Will. He knew when it was merry "up over " and when sadj when the storm was coming and the spell of fine weather was at hand. The harsh and crude noises he left to commoner ears. Anyone could read the message of the swoollen torrent and could distinguish the meaning of that solemn winter sound, when it seemed as if the world was breaking. That was not the water alone. The thunder was made by the boulders grinding along with a ton of torrent behind each. It was only the fine ears which could know when the tiny golden pebbles were being rolled over and over. Two figures came over the moor as the sun went down, and Job Lithern escaped to his own fortified walls with one more bellow, which meant, " Good-night " ; while Old Will, shading his eyes to look over before spitting into the hollow of his hands, and seizing the hammer again, recognised his son and Gerard Spiller. Since that afternoon in the wood Gerard had sought Mark's company through fear of being alone, with the feeling that Mark was stronger than himself; and this was bad for them both. Bad for Gerard, because it angered the rector and also lowered him in the sight of church-admiring farmers ; bad for Mark, because the villagers thought he was striving to set 230 Granite himself still more above them. Gerard was an habitual letter- writer ; it was almost a vice with him ; and, as he might no longer write to Edith, he had written to Mark telling him everything, even exaggerating, like a lover declaring himself unworthy of his lady. Mark came to visit him. There was a scene, a tempest, almost a fight ; for Mark had lost his temper entirely, and had cursed Gerard. At times he exalted himself unduly, and felt no compassion for others ; but the mood did not last. He came next day, and was sorry ; forgave, and was forgiven ; and that quarrel seemed a rivet to their friendship. "I must speak to my father,'' said Mark; and Gerard followed slowly, wishing he could find upon the moor that thing which had uplifted his companion. "Mark," said Old Will, straightening himself, "what ha' yew been doing ? " " Little enough, father." "Look what 1 ha' done," said Will. "I'll finish avore I dies. I know what 'tis," he said shrewdly. "The stoanes wun't lift. Tak' the jumper to 'em, Mark; tak' the tears and feathers. Yew mun tear thikky avore yew can lift mun." " How are you keeping, father? '' "Seventy-five next birthday, and I be lusty yet. Yew couldn't lift thikky," said Will, pointing to a rock. "But I could, aw, and I will avore dark. Mark, come over." There was no apparent reason for the command, as they were standing alone, but Old Will stepped back as if he feared Usteners, and Mark followed him. The remark was only made as a hint that there was something to follow. " Annie heard some o' they drunkards telling about yew. Mun show Mark Yeo his place, they ses. He don't know it. Us mun show 'en, they ses. They wur stood in the road to Freezabeer, and Annie wur stood behind they christening- bushes. Yew knaws where I mean, Mark, corner o' the orchard, where her has tilled they vunny little rackler- posies." Mark understood that his father meant Annie had been About the Wall-builders 231 standing between the chrysanthemums and the auriculas, only those words were too great for Will, " I know they are talking," he said. " What of it ? " " There be some rough lads in Fursdon, and there be greasy ones, and I reckon the greasy be the worst. I can get hold of a stoane when he be rough, but I can't when he be greasy," said Will. " Mind George Vid, vor he'm to the bottom on't. He ha' been going from cottage to cottage telling to the volk about yew. When God made grease he warn't fur away." Mark felt uncomfortable. He was afraid of that round, rolling body and the great red, white-whiskered face; the unction of George Vid was a thing beyond him. " There be another thing, Mark, now I be telling,'' Old Will went on. " 'Tis Annie. Her mun get married. Her be teasing I," he added. " What ! You and Annie having rows ! " Mark exclaimed. " Mebbe I be getting old, and likes to be let bide, like Job. Her ses I be catankerous, there be no pleasing I, and her said last night I wur so peevish her could almost spare I." " There have been changes since I left,'' Mark muttered ; and it was true, for Old Will was gathering the windy mantle of the moor closely round him and was making himself un- fitted for a woman's care The time had come when he could not understand his daughter; she was thirty, a fine woman, and not married. Somehow Will did not think of himself when he declared it was time for Annie to get settled ; he thought of what was customary, of the duty of women; they must get married. Annie's objections alarmed him, made him suspicious of some evil enchantment upon her, and so he got peevish and worried her. He would call from his bed at midnight, " I ha' a mind to see yew settled, Annie," and he would come home at night with the reproof, " Yew watches I tu close." He had even helped himself to money without permission, though he had not spent it. Two men were after Annie, both of them rough creatures ; and one of them, Joseph Boone, was a moral wreck for whom matrimony was a 232 Granite deadly sin. The other was a miner of average merit. Old Will gave their names to Mark, and was astonished when he showed displeasure. Will appeared to be inconsistent • 'lut the truth was he did not look far enough, and, being always on the plats, he saw too little of the life below. He regarded Boone as a young man tilling his weeds, not as a man of forty with settled vices, covered with bloated flesh and part of it in the grave. He himself had grown a few weeds in the hot days of his youth, when he would run after the coaches up Fursdon Hill and get a taste from the guard's bottle if he could keep up with the horses ; but he had let them wither when he made his first marriage. He supposed that others did the same, comparing them to himself, regarding what they ought to do and somehow not seeing with that one dim eye what did happen. Those ears, which were open to sounds which were inaudible to others, were deaf to the great noises. Mark knew it was no use arguing with his father, and Annie could well take care of herself. Besides Gerard had come up, and was asking Will whether he was not tired of work and when the last stone was likely to be placed upon the wall. The old man was happy again ; no other thought could trouble him when the sermon was of stones and the big book of the rocks was opened before him. '"Tis my duty to clear mun," he said, waving his hand towards a waste of granite. "I wun't die avore 'tis done. I ha' worked up here vor sixty-five years, young master. Vor dree tree-plantings I ha' worked." He turned and pointed down to the mine, around which firs were waving, big trees that looked old. They were grown to supply timber for the workings. " I saw they planted," said Will. " I saw the trees avore they planted, and I saw the trees avore they cut down. The road warn't made when I begun to work, and there wur wild volk on Dartmoor in them days, master. Vaither would bring his gun along, vor they wild lads and maidens would nip over the wall and steal the coat of mun. Where wur yew, young About the Wall-builders 233 master," asked Will, with a twinkle in his single eye, "when I cleared yonder plats and built the wall around ? " " I W ", in the mists those days," said Gerard. " Well, that be a gude answer, I reckon. I could go along thikky wall, I tell ye, and mind every stoane like a shepherd minds his sheep. Thikky wan knocked me over, and thikky wan rolled over I. There be a story in every wan o' they gurt stoanes vor me, master." "Why, you're a stone yourself," Gerard muttered, and he was not far from the truth. Old Will looked like one of those fantastic figures which centuries of hard weather have chiselled out of the black rocks of the tors. He was so massive and dark with scars, and his old clothes clung to him like moss and lichen ; the dust of granite had become engrained in his skin : his beard was full of it, and flakes of mica glittered upon his arms, and his teeth were like quartz-splinters, his face was red with iron-ore, and his boots were green with copper. It was as if the granite had been stirred into life and had taken the form of a man. " What will you do when the work is finished ? " Gerard asked. "I'll ha' a Sunday," said Will. "I'll say I done it all myself." "What's the good of it?" Will straightened himself as if to answer, but the words did not come. He looked at his son ; but he, too, had no answer, for Mark knew well enough how all this great labour was in vain : he and his father would die, the granite and the evil would still be left unconquered. Seeds would not flourish up there, grain would not ripen, even the grass would not grow ; the furious winds went by, cutting off vegetation with a keen edge. So much for his father's work ; and for his own, sluggish opinion would stun with the blunt edge of indifference. Listeners might say, " He preaches well, he's never at a loss for a word, he's got a good voice, he ought to get on in the world, he's not so eloquent as somebody else, but he's more outspoken " ; and that would be all. 234 Granite " I reckon," said Old Will at last, " if I warn't working here I'd be doing something else " ; and that was the only answer. Gerard and Mark were silent for some time 'as they walked away. The moor was getting dark, mysterious, and in that religious gloom it seemed almost irreverent to speak, and anything trivial was out of place. Suddenly Mark removed his hat, and Gerard, without know- ing why, but anxious to imitate, followed his example. " Did you hear anything? " he asked. " That old organ," Mark replied. " Don't go down yet. I have nothing to do, and I feel safe up here." "We will go to the bogs," Mark said. "They used to haunt me as a child. I have not been that way since I came home." They took a different course, leading upwards; and the lights of Fursdon came out, as if signalling to the stars which came out too, but would not answer because they were pure lights and those below were grease. "You feel safe up here," said Mark, as if he was giving out his text. " I mean there is no temptation," Gerard replied, after a little pause. " If there was, one could hardly yield to it here. It is so solemn. There is a feeling here that one cannot be hidden. Have you treated me fairly?" he asked quickly; and then in a lower voice, " Does nothing tempt you ? " Mark smiled, and then his face grew hard. "No man was ever more tempted," he said, thinking of Edith, Patience, and Caleb's gold. "Will you tell me? " asked Gerard eagerly. " Open out to me. Let there be no secrets between us. I want to know you better and to learn." "There must be one secret between us, and if one there may as well be others. We are different," said Mark. " You are open, I am reserved. I have treated you fairly," he added almost angrily. About the Wall-builders 235 "You called me a brute." " I lost my temper. That, unfortunately, is no new thing ; but I meant what I said. I think you are weak." "Not now," cried Gerard. "I feel that I can conquer anything " "Your ambition," broke in Mark. "Your desire to stand well in the sight of bigger men than yourself, your desire to get on in the world. You are afraid of unpopularity." " I have my parents to think of and my own livhig. A man must be popular if he is to do anything." " For himself." " And for others. Would you listen to a man you disliked? " " I would if he was right and I was wrong. You feel safe here," said Mark contemptuously. " Are you not safe at home?" "Not in the evening, I come in tired and depressed; I can't work or do anything except think and look at the walls. It gets dark outside, and then I can hear my watch ticking and my heart beating. Every tick and beat seem to say, 'There's no harm. A little will do you good.' And the horrible part of it is I really want it." " Get up and go for a walk," said Mark roughly. "I know it does me good. It makes me feel happier, better, stronger. Is it so much worse than other medicine ? " " Take care," said Mark. " You are making yourself devil's advocate." " I am only speaking in self-defence. I don't know why I want it, or why I like it. I do like it. I am being honest. My head gets so painful after a day's work, and I know I can get rid of the pain, but perhaps I don't know sometimes how much I have taken ; but when I have taken it I can work, I can prepare my sermon, I can think — and it's the only time I can really speak. I am stating facts." "Here are some more. Every time you succumb to a temptation you are going down, you are increasing your weak- ness ; every time you resist it successfully you are going up, 236 Granite you are adding to your strength. You are a changed man since we first came together in the hospital ; and you have changed fearfully since we met in Teign woods. In the hospital you were strong, in the woods you were undecided, and now you are weak. The next step is " " I shall not take it. I am strong again now." " Until the craving comes again." " I shall beat it — easily. It came last night, and I threw it off. I had hardly any sleep, but I beat it. I have something which is stronger than temptation, " said Gerard happily. " Her photograph," he murmured. "She has been weak," Mark muttered. " I keep it always before me," Gerard went on. " And when the desire comes I take it up and look right into those eyes, and set my teeth and persuade myself that she knows. I have it in my bedroom with a little lamp burning in front, and when my head gets bad I look and try to believe she is there with her hand upon my forehead. Where are you ? " he cried. " What was that you said ? " "Don't pry into my mind," said Mark. "I have my thoughts as well as you." "You are rough sometimes." "I am from rough stock. I am self-made. I am a bit of the old granite which my father is made of. Never mind my words. My heart is all right." "I can't break down again," said Gerard confidently, " That which is for me is stronger than that which is against me. I have her spirit helping me. The year will go, and by then I shall be as I was in the hospital. I shall have changed again — I shall be strong." "Put the devil on his mettle," Mark muttered savagely. "You wouldn't if " "What?" cried Gerard. " If you saw that thing ahead." Gerard shuddered. " I haven't your eyes and ears," he muttered. " You are always trying to conquer people by terror." About the Wall-builders 237 "Fear is the master. Can't you see ? " said Mark strongly. " Only the rocks, or rather the outlines." " I see something going on in front. It is dark, and yet it stands out against the darkness. Now it is like a great frog hopping away. Are you blind ? " " I don't see ghosts," said Gerard rather smartly. " It seemed to me when you spoke, and said how easy it was to win, that something rolled out of you and hopped away.'' " I meant what I said," Gerard replied suddenly. " Deter- mination is half the battle. Besides I must win. Everything depends upon it, my life, death, and hereafter." Then he fell shivering all of a sudden, as if the wind had come out of an ice-cavern on the moor and had struck him in the marrow. " I am not a coward," he muttered. " Stand up then and open your eyes. Spiller," cried Mark in a fanatical manner. " If you can't hear that I believe you are done for." " I hear the brook, the wind. What is that groaning sound — not the reeds ? The dead furze-bushes," he muttered. "It is a woman with sad eyes, with sorrow beneath her eyes, playing an old hymn, playing an instument of music," Mark muttered, with something like madness in his voice. " Playing upon her own heart-strings,'' he murmured. "And looking at me." " Let's go back," said Gerard. " I have never known him like this." " You feel safe up here. You are not safe. We are both in danger of the terror. It walks here I knew it was about as a child, and tried to do good lest it should seize me. You have nothing to do — that is the other point. Nothing to do when half the people are in hell, and the other half are telling them it is heaven." "What are you doing then?" cried Gerard fiercely. " You are hard and uncharitable." "No, no, drunkard, wine-bibber, slave ' 238 Granite " I will leave you. Our friendship ends.'' " There is no friendship. I am building, I am clearing the ground, I have the rock under my hammer, and with the help of my God I shall smash it into fragments," shouted Mark. " My wall shall be thicker than my father's. If he has used an iron bar I will use a thunderbolt. I wiU climb up into heaven and bring it down. Don't touch me — my hands are full of fire." Then Gerard remembered that day when Old Will had sat beside him in the dimness of the cathedral and had " heard mun avore." It was the touch of genius, the fire which starts up in unexpected places, and if it was in the old hard body a mere stone giving out a spark when struck, it was in Mark a flame revealing by its light the bridge which led across to madness. "You are a coward," cried Mark; but Gerard did not answer him. " You were a coward upon the bridge. I said, ' Come with me, and we will sacrifice ourselves together ' : and you answered, ' I cannot come, for I love myself, I love respectability, I love cant, I love pride.' " "Be just," said Gerard quietly. "You said, 'I love a woman.' God help you for it. Your way of loving is to set the affections upon yourself." " I will not answer you." "Will you come now then? Will you be a reformed drunkard — do you talk about the pain in your head ? I have got my building — let them call it a barn, a place for beasts — so it is. Will you come there and pour out your soul, will you come sober, and teach the beasts how to stop crawling ? No answer. The man's damned. He dares not, she knows he dares not. The man loves an angel, and digs in the dirt to find her." "You shall not make me angry," said Gerard, his voice shaking like his feet, for they were at the edge of the bogs, and found themselves also among tall, straight stones. About the Wall-builders 239 " Do you still say you see nothing ? " Mark shouted. " Now we are in the temple of terror, and the lamp is burning before the altar." Gerard stopped with a great shudder, because of the tones of Mark's voice, and because he could see at last. They had reached the entrance to a long stone avenue leading down to the bogs, and were standing between two pillars like huge door- posts, cold with the dew and wind ; and the evening was very dark. " I will promise," Gerard faltered. " I will help you openly. I will not be ashamed." The lamp burnt at the end of the avenue. It was easy to scoff at it from afar, to call it idle names, to declare it was nothing. By the fire of the wood-cutters, in the camp of the oak-rhinders, in any place where the woods run down from the fringe of the moor, and the smoke of peat curls upward and there is a smell of dead fern, men whisper about it and say it is alight with death; and some will laugh, and some will shiver ; but those who have stood upon the bog at night, and seen the blue lamp hovering near the earth, suggesting what is below the earth, and seeming to cut them off for ever from what is above the earth, they think, if only for that night, to make amends. CHAPTER XV ABOUT THUNDER AND LIGHTNING " A MEETING of the Band of Mighty Men will be held in Church Beer on Friday evening, when Mr Walter Wood will deliver an address on Strength. All are welcome." So ran a little notice fastened to gate-posts and trees, a humble thing, almost lost among big posters announcing in the queer jargon of the auctioneer the forthcoming sale of all that commodious and convenient dwelling-house and that magnificent building site upon Dartmoor^ referring to some crumbling cottage and stone-covered plat hardly worth an old obolus. But the little notice was carefully read and much commented upon; and George Vid went about with one of the bills stuck upon his cart, and declared it was a step in the right direction — thank God ! This Band of Mighty Men was one of Mark's ideas, the beginning of a brotherhood, so he hoped, the sowing of dragon's teeth, and he gave his tiny army — nothing but a feeble regiment, a kind of pressed gang — its big name as a bait. He knew that men-folk loved a swelling title, to play at soldiers if there was to be no actual fighting, to act a swaggering part with old-fashioned cloaks and property swords, so he chose the title to encourage them. All he caught at the first throw were a few small fish, young men with vacant faces and muscles not hard enough, and some old fellows who had the memory of past days to smother; but just before the meeting two valuable recruits presented themselves, Eli and Oli, who were always ready for new experiences, combats, and religions ; and Eli was prepared to argue with Oli upon the points which were 240 About Thunder and Lightning 241 essential to full brotherhood by trying to put him upon his back in his own flower-garden. The barn in which the meeting was to be held had belonged in olden times to the church, or had at least been intimately connected with it. According to Old Will, whose statements were not always reliable, since he maintained that Fursdon had been once a borough town, this barn had been a sort of common-room for the parish. It commenced as a bakery, a place where the Sacramental wafers had been prepared during the reign of Popery ; and when the Reformation jumped to the opposite extreme, after the fashion of revolutions, what was left of the church still retained the barn, and as there were no more wafers to be baked, used the|building as a brew-house. Fursdon, which had another name in those days, was famous for its ales. The vestry was the local authority, which had to find money, not only for church expenses, but for every call which the Crown might be pleased to make for the maintenance of the army or its royal necessities ; and as the smallest coin of the realm was even then reserved for the offertory, other methods of raising money had to be resorted to. So the vestry gave[church ales, from which have descended a vast brood of small festivities, such as school- treats, excursions, chapel-teas, socials, bazaars ; for at these ales eatables were provided without charge. Only the liquor had to be paid for, so that even the free lunch of the publican would seem to be no new thing. During the feast the Sacra- mental oven was open to all, and the people brought food to be cooked therein, adding the same to the common stock ; and after eating and drinking they played at quarterstaff, cock- throwing, bowling, and breaking each other's heads. The ale, which was brewed by the churchwardens themselves, was very strong, and made the sport strenuous. From the baking of the Sacramental wafer to rioting and drunkenness would seem a downward step ; but it was not so really, as all the wise men of Fursdon knew; for the wafer represented Popery, it encouraged idolatry, while the ales suppUed the needs of Church and State and gave the people a merry revel. 16 242 Granite When the barn departed from the ownership of the church it was still called Church Ale, though the orgies in connection with it had disappeared ; and later it became Church Beer, because beer, bere, or bear, meaning an abode, cropped up everywhere in the neighbourhood, and ignorance connecting ale with beer, giving to the latter the meaning which the sound suggested, caused the change of title which had become fixed. Possession of the barn, if not the legal title, for there were no deeds, had passed to a farmer, who permitted Mark to have it at a moderate rental, as he was not making any use of it himself. These records of Church Beer were given by Old Will to Eli and Oli, garnished with fantastic tellings of his own. Will rarely entered the village upon a week-day and he had not visited that portion where the pink cottage stood for nearly half a century. Necessity brought him, for Will was not immortal. Rheumatism was torturing him, his right arm was " brave and hot," and a " searching pain " ran down it, causing him to drop the hammer and consider the flesh. He went to visit the brothers and implore the aid of the famous little lady- doctors which they kept. "I ha' teased mun wi' stingy trade," he observed in his broad manner, which, being interpreted, meant that he had beaten his arm with nettles. " But 'em wun't tease." Nor was it wonderful, for those arms had been exposed to the sun and storm of four generations. " Be I welcome ? " asked Will. " Us ha' plenty," suggested Eli. "A bit tu plenty," said Oli. So they decided WiU was welcome, that is to say, the little physicians were at his disposal. " Best go alone," said Oli. "They'll be kind if us goes wi' ye." " I ha' been wicked wi' 'em," said Will. " The garden war vuU of 'em as I corned through, and I hit at 'em and told 'em they wur idle. They don't like to be told 'em be idle," he said shrewdly. " How be I to mak' 'em peevish ? " he asked. About Thunder and Lightning 243 " Tap on the hives,'' said Oli. " They'll think yew'm telUng of a death," said Eli. " Stand avore the hives and keep 'em from going in. That'll mak' 'em peevish.'' Will permitted a veil to be drawn about his features, which made him chuckle and declare he felt like a maid being " took to church," where he had been thrice, he said : once for re- generation unwillingly, and twice for matrimony on his own initiative ; and he would go once more, he added, which would be like the first visit, because he wouldn't " mind " anything about it. Then he ventured into the garden, and, seeing a massive bumbledor, he knocked the insect down as a sort of declaration of war upon the entire race. Plenty of bees were circling about the hive, and the little front-door was decidedly congested with traffic. Will felt some- what nervous, put his bare arm behind his back, and muttered, " Don't ye sting I," until he saw the heads of the two brothers peeping over the fruit-bushes. Then he held out the arm which was to be operated upon, boldly, and called bitterly, "Aw, I b'ain't afeard o' yew, and so I tell ye. Proper lot of idle old toads — nought but bumble and buzz. That's what yew be." "Stand over the hive," shouted Eh. "I be agwaine to," said Will, moving forward gingerly ; and while doing so, he caught his boot in the root of an old apple-tree, stumbled and feU against a hive. Bee trumpets and drums sounded an alarm, the Amazons rushed out with their stings unsheathed, and Will was smothered. They covered him from head to foot, and, concentrating upon the bare arm, which seemed to them the weak part of the defence, they plunged their Uttle swords in to the hilt. "I don't object to it," declared Will, grinning, and then he retreated, blinded by the fl)dng squadrons, and followed by the laughing brothers. The bees settled upon them also, but though they were very angry, they remained still wise and did not sting their masters. "Du 'em hurt?" called Oli, when they were on the right 244 Granite side of the door and the garden was swelling with the noise of battle. "They wur warm," said Old Will. "Middling warm, but better than the roomy-spasms." While waiting for the bees to settle down, they discussed the meeting; and after Will had told his stories, mingling his facts with myth, regarding Church Beer, the talk became more personal, and Eli said, "Yew'm a mighty man, I reckon ? " " I be tu old vor such capers," Will answered. " Annie put a posy o' ribbon in my coat, and said 'twur a sign I wur one of 'em, but when I corned over on the plats the wind tored mun out. I don't see what gude be coming on't," he said, being averse to any new thing. " 'Tis better to work alone. When yew works wi' a mate he'm telling to yew and yew'm telling to him. His work b'ain't your work naythur. He ha' got his way and yew ha' got yourn.'' " Yew'm agwaine to the meeting ? " asked Oli. "I ha' a mind to go," said Will. "But I don't want to hearken to a foreigner." The brothers sympathised with much head-shaking. They too had no wish to hear outsiders, and they thought Mark had made a mistake. On this occasion he was too modest, over- anxious to keep himself in the background; he was intro- ducing the stranger, so that the neighbours should not think he was setting himself above them, when, as a matter of fact, it was Mark they wanted to hear. There was no satisfying them. They would not hearken to any strange voice, and they desired Mark to speak, so that they might find an oppor- tunity for condemning him. Mark was finding out something else : those that were with him were also against him. He had written various letters to societies and leaders in the temperance movement, asking that missionaries should be sent, and the replies that came, when there were any, filled him with amazement. Who was Mark ? What sort of fellow was this lonely labourer who was trying to About Thunder and Lightning 245 force himself among them ? They did not know him, but it seemed to them he might be reaping where they had sown, plunging his sickle into their wheat-field, trying to seize the credit for what they had done. It was the old story of the divided camp, the army without discipline, every private disobeying his officer, each officer calling himself commander- in-chief, the old story of religious jealousy. Even the most saintly hermit has no tender feeling for an equally saintly brother who sets up an opposition shrine on the other side of the road. Both may have the same opinions and work for the same end ; but the first hermit will have black thoughts when the votive offerings go to the rival's shrine, and he may suggest to the people that hermit number two has not quite attained to that degree of perfection which he himself enjoys, that he is in short a dangerous man, and it would be wiser to have nothing to do with him. The temperance people were most anxious that something should be done to make people more sober, but they must do it, not Mark or any other obscure person. He had no right to fish in their pond ; he was a poacher in their preserves, and they suspected he was trespass- ing for no honest purpose. At length he received a letter. A missioner was coming down, an altogether suitable person, a son of the people, one who had himself been brought up in an atmosphere' of drink, and would therefore know what he was talking about. A small fee would be required, for, although Mr Walter Wood worked entirely for the good of others, it was necessary, almost imperative, that he should live. The day arrived, and with it the man. Mark's enthusiasm was shaken when he met the missioner, a little man attired in an old frock-coat, brown boots turning up at the toes, a bowler hat, with dirty hands and an unwashed face blotched with pimples. He was a man of vast assurance, who drank water aggressively, walked defiantly with hands deep in his coat-tails, and darted his finger about as he spoke. His grammar was unlovely ; his aspirates were like the tribes of Judah, and his 246 Granite eloquence belonged to the traditional order of the tub. This parcel of materialism had been sent to Mark to perform a spiritual work. Church Beer was crowded, for a meeting of any kind was popular with the people. Ribbon-decked members of the brotherhood sat in front, with the exception of Eli and Oli, who appeared upon the platform for advertising purposes, like the piUars of Hercules. Old Will was present, but could not be induced to take his seat in front, as he had never put himself forward, so he stood near the door, looking and feeling out of place. The chair was empty until the last moment, and then Gerard came in, pale and nervous, keeping his promise to Mark at the risk of his rector's displeasure, and occupied it. Mr Wood shook hands with him emphatically, declared it was an unexpected honour, and hoped that nothing he was about to say would give offence. There was a suspicious quietness about the barn as Gerard rose to introduce the speaker. " It's his chance," Mark muttered. " Will he take it ? " Gerard did not take it, but managed instead to occupy five minutes in avoiding the subject; and while he spoke a littie thunderstorm broke outside and made the proceedings dramatic. He understood that his friend Mr Yeo was starting a social league, which had for its object the bringing together of the men into a closer relationship. That was how Gerard put it, and hurried on to remark that the audience had not come to hear him, and he would stand no longer between them and the man they wanted to hear. Gerard seemed to have lost the gift of free-speech ; his words came uneasily, and he managed to convey to the meeting an impression that he was only there because he felt he ought to be. "Young parson don't want to taUc," said one miner to another. "He knows he didn't ought to be here," said the other. " They ses he and squire gets rolling drunk." " Mark Yeo be to the bottom on't." " Thaf s how it be. Gentlevolk can get drunk, but us must About Thunder and Lightning 247 keep sober. They can drink what 'em likes, but Mark Yeo ses 'tis our duty to drink waiter." The speaker threw himself into a fighting attitude, called the assembly dear friends, described himself as a labouring man whose proud privilege it was to address them that night. Then he poured out a glass of water, held it up, and put the meeting into a good humour by describing it as an excellent beverage which had made him what he was. Everybody laughed, for as a fine specimen of a man the speaker was a failure, andj^one of the genial voices suggested, "Put a little spirit in it, master." "The spirit is coming, my lads," shouted the speaker; and just then the thunder made him inaudible and the door was pushed open gently. A murmur ran round the barn as the squire entered in his quiet way, told the men at the door not to move, smiled graciously, and said he would stand as he could not stay long. Then he took up his position against the wall and played with his eye-glasses. " I must give my countenance to this business," he muttered ; but it was a cynical countenance, and the onlookers saw some- thing upon it which suggested that the squire was not upon the side of the orator. Mr Wood kept his promise and supplied the spirit. In the injudicious manner of the extremist he observed that the man who couldn't keep sober ought to' be cleared out of the country, and those who supplied him with liquor were made to be hanged. "Brewers," he shouted. "Send 'em to hell"; and as he went on, Mark became horrified, for it was obvious that the speaker hated brewers, not because of their profession, but because they had obtained money, part of which Mr Wood considered ought to be in his pocket. Whatever the speaker's opinion might be, these crude methods, the method of exag- geration, the method of injustice, the method of sheer abuse, were merely harmful. Mark knew he could do so much better himself if the men would only let him speak. There was a pause, and Vivian could be seen quietly laugh- 248 Granite ing. "This is really very amusing," he murmured, and those who stood by heard him and passed his criticism on. Every- one was looking towards the squire, anxious to take their cue from him. He was the central figure and the master, although he stood beside the door ; he was the big man. Those upon the platform were nobodies, a foreigner and the curate who attended unwillingly; Mark hardly counted. Only a few more cynical smiles were required to give an excuse for breaking up the meeting. They had been very tolerant to allow Mr Wood to speak at all, but he was amusing them; and the whisper was passed on, " Squire ses he'm very amusing." Soon Mark felt his temper rising, for the speaker was un- masking. Mr Wood cared very little for temperance as a virtue or as an essential to morality. It was as a political force that he valued it, and now he had come to the important part of his speech. " Look 'ere, lads," he shouted. " I'm a poor man speaking to poor men, and what I've come to tell you is, we've got to stick together against the rich man. We've got to look after ourselves and get back what they've taken from us, and to do that we must keep sober, 'ave our wits about us. We must keep ourselves cool and strong and stick together in a . Brotherhood of Mighty Men to shake off the yoke what the oppressors 'ave put upon our necks. We've got to show 'em that Jack's as good as 'is master, my dear friends." So he went on, and now he was eloquent because he was speaking from his own passions. Politics he had come to preach and nothing else, and the fine ideal of perfect sobriety was nothing to him beyond a party war-cry. It was not the drunkard who was to be driven out of the country, but the landlord; not the brewer who was to be hanged, but the landowner ; and the hypocritical mask of religion was to cover every thievish countenance with a smile of tender love for the downtrodden. Mark had to sit and listen to the prostitution of his ideal, to hear his religion exhibited for political ends, and his brotherhood, his spiritual dream, dragged in the dirt About Thunder and Lightning 249 of opportunism. This temperance orator was showing his true colours. He opened his coat and displayed the red tie ; he declared death against all geese which laid golden eggs; he stormed about the platform and banged upon the table, and proclaimed the virtues of sobriety as a means for making poor men rich by robbing others, and declaimed the value of water, because it kept the body strong to strike blows and sober to commit burglary. He was earnest indeed, but he had hold of earnestness by its dark end. The listeners warmed themselves at his heat, found the fire not displeasing, although they could not understand the nature of the fuel, and some of them applauded the burning, especi- ally George Vid, who clapped his big hands together and in his usual devout fashion thanked God for sending them such a Daniel. Others looked at Vivian, found him still smiling, and they translated the smiles into sympathy with the speaker, who was preaching a doctrine few of those present were able to understand. The squire's smiles meant nothing and were dangerous on that account. Nobody had ever found him out, though he was transparent; he did not attempt to conceal anything, his nature was always upon the surface; and for this reason he remained undiscovered. Had he attempted to hide himself, he would have stood revealed. Knowing nothing of his own nature, he let it rise to the surface, with the result that no man knew more about it than he did himself. Deceiving himself, he deceived others ; he did not wish to be thought a good man, therefore he was thought to be one ; he did not desire to be kind, therefore he appeared to be so. He was regarded as the best landlord in the district, and it puzzled him to know why. "Who is that young woman?" he asked, as the orator paused to refresh himself; while Mark went round to the chairman's side and implored him to call the man to order; but Gerard could only whisper, "He's got the meeting with him. There would be a scene if I interfered"; to which Mark muttered, " Then I shall stop him myself." 250 Granite " Her be Caleb Starke's daughter," answered the miner who had been addressed. "Her bides wi' her sister, Mrs Mosscrop, and they ses she'm agwaine to marry Mark Yeo." Vivian took an interest in Mark, and was possessed of certain information concerning him ; therefore he was sur- prised, supposing that Mark would have flown at higher game. He looked again at the face of Patience, learnt something from it, asked more questions, and soon learnt a great deal more. For a moment the squire's strange face was shocked, then he smiled again, thanked his informant and said he had been very much amused. The speaker went on with his fireworks. What with his flamboyant words, the thunder, and heavy rain drumming Upon the slates, the audience became excited; for nothing affects human nature much more than weather, and a storm outside will often rouse a storm within. There was no calm moonlight around Church Beer, nor any peaceful doctrine within. Instead of temperance there was tempest. "Keep sober," shouted the speaker, intoxicated with his own grand- iloquence, "and we'll turn the rascals out"; but soberness was far away and anarchy reigned. Even the moor seemed in revolution, for the rain shifted the pebbles, the boulders were grinding as the rivers rose; lightning played weirdly about the tors, a fireball burst over the red and roaring mine, and down the great road came the sand in waves. Only Old Will was calm, for he understood storms and cared nothing about speeches. He was thinking of the plats and how fine the granite would be looking with the rain sweeping across in a dusty mist and the lightning running down and along the white cleavages. It was all music to Old Will; merely the organ playing, with its trumpet-stop out. "I like this," said Vivian; and again the message went round, but not now in a whisper, that the squire was on the side of the speaker. He was really thinking of the Mosscrops and Patience and his little property of Blue Violet. There came a storm within the storm. A voice shouted, About Thunder and Lightning 251 "Stop!" and Mark was on his feet, his face white and the scar upon it red and throbbing. That besetting weakness, his temper, had got the mastery, and now he did not care what happened; he, too, was strong with the storm and was prepared to shout against it and defy it. His duty was plain : to silence that speaker, and speak the words which had been left unspoken. He pushed Mr Wood against the table, took his place, opened his mouth, but not a sound could be heard ; for the barn was in uproar from end to end, women were screaming in fear, and men were shouting in anger; and some of the fiercer spirits were pressing forward crying, "Throw him out." Gerard called for order, perceived that the meeting was out of control, left the chair, and took up his stand at Mark's side. He had shown himself weak, but at the prospect of violence he was strong. Gerard was not made of the stuff which runs away while the fight is on. The difficulty was to get him upon the battlefield. Eli and Oli also rose, smiling at each other. If there was to be any fighting, they would certainly not be lookers on. "The young men are magnificent," muttered Vivian. "Mark Yeo is positively Pauline." "Us b'ain't agwaine to hearken to Mark Yeo," yelled a miner at his side. " Really, this is no affair of mine," said the laughing squire. " I understand a good reputation is still an asset." He went out, drawing his coat about his ears. He did not look imposing or in the least fierce; he looked ugly, but nobody saw that face which the lightning revealed. There was nothing distinguished about this well-bred man, who, with his cynical smiles and muttered expressions, had led the hostility against Mark, who could have quieted that meeting with his authority had he so desired, who could have won for the zealot a fair and patient hearing. He resembled an elderly man, genial, not proud, in whose mind existed cunning, in whose heart love and hatred were so queerly mixed that 252 Granite what he called love was really hatred. " There goes," someone might have said, "a small tradesman who has made some swindling profit." "I like Mark Yeo," he murmured gently, "and I like Spiller. I am delighted with them both." It was told about the parish next day what a turmoil there had been in Church Beer and what brave fighting : how Eli and Oli had stood upon the platform tossing the men back into the body of the building, smiling all the time ; how Mr Wood, supposing the hostility was directed against himself, had climbed aloft upon a rafter ; how Mark would have been beaten savagely had the curate not protected him. Many a lie enlarged the story as it rolled. The truth of the matter was, there had been noises, big voices, and nothing else, for George Vid and his fellows were not men who attacked boldly ; they got behind the back, they pinched and scratched, but did not strike. Eli and Oli had certainly thrown a few young fellows back who were about to rush the platform, for the fun of the thing ; but the others simply reeled about and bawled themselves thirsty ; then they paused, looked at each other, and began to push for the door. Their angry passions hissed in the rain, and went out ; and these ignorant men, who Uved under the big road and were dominated by the mine, arrived at the conclusion that they had delivered themselves from Mark Yeo, fanatics, water-drinkers, and foreigners by — mere noise. Mark and Gerard got away together in the stormy night, which was a refreshing calm after the babel of the barn. There was a method in Nature lacking in her over-vaunted work called man. The tempestuous rain was doing a great work, soaking the roots, producing growth, clearing the dirty places, filling the springs among the hills. The hard work accomplished by the elements put every Uving thing to shame ; the smallest raindrop was a greater force than the strongest brain. Nature was the predominant, man the sleeping partner; for he scatters the grain, then goes babbling, while Nature does the work, never About Thunder and Lightning 253 idle, always sober, never, in her wildest mood, losing control over the awful things she uses. If Nature should become intoxicated, what then ? If the sun should reel near the earth and the planets stray from their courses ; if the grain should become intoxicated, if horses and cattle should turn to drunken- ness, what then ? It was the storm more than anything else, the lightning, thunder, and wild rain, which proclaimed the fact that human beings are the weakest things alive, weak because they may do what they like ; weak because they will not use their strength. If the thunder and lightning had been human, the world would have been wiped out, but they are controlled by laws which men may break. "This means solitude," said Mark at last; and Gerard knew what he meant. Nobody was on his side; even those who professed to fight under the same banner were against him, because he was not one of them ; he had no political motive in view, he did not wish to float the cause of sobriety upon any financial sea. "And I am the fool. Poor Mark's alone," he added jeeringly. "Where's your hat?" "With my hopes, in Church Beer." They came under a large sycamore, its branches sweeping, and every forked leaf a small cascade ; beneath it was sheltered like a cave, dark and hollow, where the cool, fresh water dripped. " Don't have the solitude," said Gerard sharply ; and Mark did not reply to him then. " You see now how hopeless it is. You can't stop the rain. You can fight men, but not human nature. That is what you are trying to do. What did you think when you heard those shouts ? " " That I would rather be a failure." "It is no use. Believe me," said Gerard earnestly. "If a message came to me from heaven promising success if you and I went out together like the old apostles, I would go with you " "Well," interrupted Mark, "it is that message which has 254 Granite "You mistake. It comes out of yourself." " Who put it there ? " asked Mark ; and Gerard was silent. "There are some sent into the world to lead hopeless lives. We don't know why," said Mark. "We are sent here to try and move mountains." " I had your ideas once," said Gerard. " But before I met you that day in the woods I had reasoned with myself, over- come mysel f " " Damned yourself." " No, no. Don't begin that sort of thing again. I saw that any struggle against human nature must end in a wasted life. I may be weaker than you, but I am wiser." " Only two classes of beings know they are wise — drunkards and madmen." " Have it so if you like." Then Gerard put his hand upon Mark's arm and said earnestly, "Give it up. You have done enough. Not much real happiness is given to any of us ; and you have a right to your share. You have told me there is a place waiting for you. Go back to it. You can do nothing here." " And leave everything ? " said Mark. " What is there here you need regret leaving ? The people hate you." " Ah, you don't know what I mean. I should be leaving everything. He's a poor workman who throws his tools down because his master dislikes him. If I went from here before my time is up, I should be false to myself and false to the sign which has guided my life. How do you explain that, Spiller — the sign ? If it is part of myself, it still proceeds from something higher than myself. It only suggests, it does not tell me plainly what I am to do, and yet I know some- times. I know it is not leading me to honour. I know I shall never go back. I know I shall end here in Fursdon where I was born, end like a brute perhaps, kicked out by my own people, end as a miserable failure, with nothing done and damned by everyone. I can see that as plainly as you saw About Thunder and Lightning 255 the corpse-light above the bog. And I know, too, I could escape by leaving Fursdon and returning to an easy life abroad. I am going to stay and face it out. You needn't put any fine motive upon me and call me strong. I am not ; I am weak; I'm a coward, afraid of myself and horribly afraid of death. I am not afraid to stay, but I should be afraid to go, for my mind would torture me to death if I went from here before my time. There will be another meeting in Church Beer next week, and I shall speak — and so will you." "I cannot," said Gerard firmly, almost doggedly. "There will be enough trouble over this night's meeting." "You will not." "Because it is useless. If I saw the faintest chance of doing any good, I would. I must think of myself and — and obey the rector. I could show you a letter from my father " " You are going back on your promise." "You terrify people so. I promised when you frightened me on the moor, and I have kept my word. I came to the meeting " "And apologised for being there," " Well, I shall probably be asked to find another curacy as it is. It is very hard for a clergyman to get on if he is badly spoken of. I have to make a home for someone," he added gently. "It's all selfishness. A cynic said to me once, 'When a man falls in love his life is ruined.' There's a grain of truth in that, for when a man loves a woman — I am speaking of the ordinary woman — his great work ceases, his ambition falls to the ground. If he loves her, he lives for her ; if he marries, he has to maintain her ; and he has to conform to the ways of the world ; he cannot afford to make himself unpopular ; he must not fail and drag her down." " That's how I look at it," said Gerard eagerly. " You want to look at it in that way." " If you loved " 256 Granite " Ah yes," said Mark, lifting up his streaming face to the raindrops. "I am not a human being. I am incapable of feeling." "I did not say so. If you had parents who had stinted themselves to give you the best possible education, you would think of them. If you loved a girl who is almost homeless and quite unhappy, you would think of her." " If you had a being tearing at you, driving you out to do a little, even a very little good ; if you had what is generally known as a conscience, you would think of that." Lightning flashed as he spoke through the green branches, and from the opposite side of the road came the crash of a falling bough. "It is dangerous underneath this tree," cried Gerard. " It is dangerous," repeated Mark, but he was not referring to the lightning. He was thinking of the evening in the purple wood, and how he had seen Gerard shrinking' back from the still, deep water, terrified at the dark shapes of snags and fishes; and hJ was thinking also of the days ah»ad, stretching out I'ke the moorland bristling with granite, nothing over it except a light, and that the faint blue gUmmer of he corpse-candle; and only himself in the solitude. There vas something splendid in the thought of that loneliness, in rhe broodings of a mind alone ; but why was the life given, why was the mind made ? If they were useless, why all this labour in vain ? What profit was there for a lonely man to cry in the wilderness and strike his body against the rocks until the storm swept down and carried him away ? Gerard was hurrying from the sycamore, thinking of his life. "Spiller," said Mark, coming up to him, "you are going to desert me ? " " I am not," said Gerard stoutly. " I will help you in any way I can, but I must not appear on platforms with you or be seen about with you too much. You will come to my rooms, and we can talk and make plans, and — I will pray for you," he said somewhat lamely. About Thunder and Lightning 257 "We will part," said Mark. "You are with me in your tongue, but against me with your heart. Go your way, Spiller. Do you see the end of it ? " They were standing in a bare field, across which ran a foot- path. They could only see each other's faces now and then. " Don't frighten me again," Gerard pleaded. The night was so wild. "A brave man fears nothing but himself. You are your own worst enemy ; you are yielding to weakness without count- ing the cost, and when temptation comes to you again " " I shall beat it," said Gerard confidently. " You have yielded to-night. When that is known " " Where ? " interrupted Gerard. Mark thought of Edith. "Where?" cried Gerard. Mark thought of Vivian. " Where ? " shouted Gerard, for he was afraid again. Mark thought of "that other thing." 17 CHAPTER XVI ABOUT HEADS AND MINDS Vivian went on his way to Rose Ash, thinking of his man- power. He passed through Ufa jeering ; he had uttered gibes to Mrs Allen and others about his servants. " I say to this one ' Go,' and he won't ; I say to another ' Do this,' and he replies, 'Do it yourself.'" Such were his ordinary remarks, which had no truth in them; for his servants bowed down before the big, loose figure, afraid of it and yet fond of it. They liked their master even when he swore at them ; but then he was the same to every one, from the rector to the scullery- maid. His servants had no hard times ; they lived well, and did much as they liked ; the maids could stay out all night so long as their household duties were performed. The thunder rolling round his head gave the idea of his personal greatness. His power was immense, owning as he did a great part of the parish, and being wealthy enough to buy up the rest ; he could, if he liked, pull down every house in the place except the rectory, drive the inhabitants elsewhere, stop the mine which was always in financial difificulties and could only continue working by using a watercourse belong- ing to him ; he could wipe Fursdon off the map of Devon- shire. He was the local deity, god of the water, of labour, of the home ; and he had the power, without breaking any law, to bring chaos back again. One little corner of his property, a triangular patch worth little, hidden out of sight at the bend of the tiny lane, was in his mind ; and the name which he connected with that property 258 About Heads and Minds 259 was Patience Starke. He was still laughing at the memory of those faces at the meeting ; the white face of Mark the zealot, the red face of the orator, the nervous face of Gerard, and all the different types of angry faces about the barn ; but through them all he saw the silly face of Patience, pretty, but debased, and he joined it mentally in union with his cottage of Blue Violet. " Extraordinary men ! Wonderful women ! " he muttered. " What an imagination the Creator must have ! " That terror, which Mark was always hinting at, might have struck into the minds of many people entering that dark house, but it was congenial to the squire. He removed his wet things and went to the library ; a cold lamp was burning there, giving the little light that was needful. Servants were rarely seen about the passages, and invisible hands seemed to do the work. The squire had expressed a wish to see a lighted candle in a certain niche ; and there it was. All things were done without sound. The house was haunted by servants, rather than regu- lated by them ; and only the sound of some door closing in the far distance announced their presence. Vivian helped himself to liquor, then walked about, his slippers padding the polished boards like the footfalls of a tiger, his hands behind him, opening door after door to sniff at the musty smell, and to say in his contented way, " This must be the nursery. This must be the drawing-room. I think I shall like it." His mind would not work unless he moved about. To sit down after dark meant falling asleep at once; and there was something he had to think about, that bold little face, the Mosscrops, the cottage up the lane. "I like the name of Blue Violet," he murmured; and then his mind wandered off again as he entered another room, struck a match, lighted a dusty candle, and peered up at a row of black portraits. "I like the idea of ancestor- worship. It is the only religion which makes a direct appeal to me. It would amuse me to walk about the house with a pot of incense and wave it before 26o Granite these portraits. My grandmother had a strong sense of humour — dear thing. I fancy she would rather have a pinch of snufT than the best frankincense. My great-grandfather — incense, I am sure, would not satisfy him. He would rather have some old port — ah, SpUler must come and dine. I like having Spiller to dinner. I shall do up this room next year, and then I must get married and play croquet. I believe Hosken has pronounced sentence of excommunication against me. He would remove it if I learnt croquet, and if I beat him I could apply for beatification. But I think I would rather remain excommunicate." He put out the candle and resumed his wanderings, which brought him back to the library and the lamp. He took up a pen, but dropped it because he could not see to write. "I will go to-morrow morning," he said. "It is a pleasant walk to Blue Violet. Mosscrop is a good fellow. I like Mosscrop " ; and while he was thus musing he fell asleep. All night the squire's mind kept on working, casting him back to the days of his ancestors who had drowned witches, punished moral offenders, played the tyrant over their serfs. Those old aristocrats stepped out of their frames and possessed the passages, some very fine folk and good sportsmen, others hard and vindictive, others of the pharisaical type, all of them alive in the blood of their descendant. "I am almost frightened when I think of my morality," Vivian murmured, as he made the long journey from his bed- room to the verandah where he breakfasted in fine weather. " When the court is pure, subjects have no excuse to be im- moral. I could sign a death-warrant," he said, smiling affectionately, as he hurried through the last room. "Yes, I think so. But I cannot kill the vipers. It is foolish ; but they are such beautiful creatures, and they look so nice upon the rocks. What a heavenly morning ! I feel more than usual virtuous." He patted the heads of his dogs, hurried to the gate of the paddock to kiss the noses of pampered horses. "You are a About Heads and Minds 261 dear thing. Yes, and I love you too. There must be no jealousy." He frisked back through the long grass of the lawn, walked the verandah with a cup of coffee, which he drank with noisy gulps, scattered bread to the birds, shook the roses, and laughed when the petals were shed upon his boots. Sweet shadows were all around. The garden was full of soothing noises. The hollows of the green and red country were like vats filled with new wine ; and an eager breeze came off the moor, which was in a tender mood pink with young heather ; the country had been washed by the storm, and now the sun clothed it with the garment of gold wrought about with divers colours. Temperance was sweeping the path when she heard the loose stones of the lane rattling. She looked, leaning upon the handle of the broom, until the big dark figure came in sight, stooping as usual, the eye-glasses swinging, and she heard a laugh and a satisfied voice praising the beauty of the lane, the air that swept down it, and the view which could be seen from it. Temperance hurried back into the cottage and wondered if she could find a white apron to hang over that shocking old skirt ; and she called to Patience, who was still not dressed, " Squire Vivian be coming, and he'll look in here vor certain." Who would say the squire was not a gentleman? He brushed the dust from his boots with the broom, knocked at the door, called to know if Mrs Mosscrop could speak with him, removed his hat as he entered, did not sit down until he was invited to. No wonder his people thought him kind and good when he behaved as if he was one of them. They would have rather been called fools by Vivian than wise men by Mark. The squire was lord of the place and a great gentleman, and to be called a fool by him was a sort of honour, a conferring of the patent of social equality upon them. "Mrs Mosscrop," said Vivian, "your potatoes are looking well." "Ees, your honour," said the woman nervously. "My husband sees after they. He'm a gude workman, sir." 262 Granite " The cabbages, too— they are better than mine, I think." " Timothy grows fine cabbages, your honour," "The Almighty gets little credit in his own world," murmured Vivian. " I have heard nothing but good reports about Mosscrop," he said aloud. " My husband be a gude man," said proud Temperance as defiantly as she dared. " I shall certainly ask you to take the potatoes and cabbages. I am told you have a sister here." " Ees, your honour." " Who is going to marry Mark Yeo ? " The answer was the same. " Who ought to have married her some time ago ? " " No, your honour." " You must be a little less reserved, Mrs Mosscrop." Temperance struggled to find words. She fixed her eyes upon the red, bare patch where she meant to have a garden next summer, and at last she said, " Patty be biding here vor a time, till her gets married." "When will that be?" " I don't know, your honour." "Whose child is that?" Again the same answer. " Has your sister any claim upon it ? " " I don't know, your honour." "I do not like falsehoods, Mrs Mosscrop," said Vivian, smiling amiably. " Where is Mosscrop ? " " He'm cutting the hedge, sir. He b'ain't fur." " I will ask you to go for him." Temperance bowed her head and hurried down the path in her ungainly manner, while the squire went out, strolled about, and murmured aphorisms upon morality. He approached the child, which was sprawling in the dust, and bent to examine it. "A bastard ! " he said, classifying it like an insect. " There is to me an air of abandon about such creatures. I should not blame Hosken if, when he baptised these babies, he used About Heads and Minds 263 the water liberally — a complete immersion, prolonged, would get rid of a lot of hereditary mischief. The law, however, puts its clause in : better a diseased growth than none. If I had my way I would breed children scientifically, as we do horses and cattle. The weak ones would be eliminated — by baptism — and only the fittest should survive. But perhaps in that case," he added, laughing gently, " I myself should not have survived my initiation into the community." The gate clicked, the Mosscrops proceeded up the path fearfully, Timothy taking off his cap, replacing it, his arm going up and down as if he was learning to play upon the cymbals. Vivian greeted him kindly, asked his questions again, but Timothy was dumb. He also knew nothing, and he seemed indeed almost surprised to hear that Patience was lodging beneath his roof. The stupidity was natural, but the ignorance was assumed, for whatever might befall it was necessary to pro- tect his own relations. It was part of the system. " As I understand it, this young woman is a whore ? " said Vivian in his- agreeable way, which, however, was too much for Temperance, who covered her face and turned away. " I don't know, your honour," laboured Timothy. "We must come to an end of this want of knowledge. I should not Uke to be hard upon you, Mosscrop — your cabbages are the best I have seen this year — but I must keep my cottages clean. I like Blue Violet. It is one of my favourite places. I admire the view so much," said the squire, who until that morning had forgotten what the little piece of property was like. "I am too good natured with my tenants," he muttered. " Is there anything you know, Mosscrop?" " I don't know, your honour.'' "Come here, Mrs Mosscrop, please. You are two good people, and I hke you both. I am going to give you every opportunity to remain as my tenants. Go to this young woman, if you please. Tell her to pack her box, and give her an hour to leave Blue Violet. I am sure that is the best arrange- ment." 264 Granite "Aw, your honour," faltered Temperance. "Don't ye turn us out." " My dear woman, it would hurt me to turn you out. But I must purify Blue Violet." " Where can Patty go, your honour ? She'm a lively girl, and us ha' found it hard to mak' she bide here, and Mark Yeo be alius praying she to bide here quiet along wi' we. If yew turns she out, sir, there b'ain't no place for she to go. Vaither and mother wun't tak' she in, vor she ha' cursed 'em, your honour. She went and put the bellows on the table. Patty b'ain't a bad girl, sir, but she'm lively. She'm quiet now, your honour, and she'll bide quiet if yew lets she stay ; but if yew turns she out, she'll go back, sir. She'll ha' to go back, your honour, to the old trade." "I am glad you know something, Mrs Mosscrop," said Vivian, looking at the cottage with an owner's eye. " She might go and see Mr Hosken. I believe there are homes for these young women, where they are fumigated, and given an opportunity to reclaim their character, and he might be able to get her into one." If anything had been required to stiffen Timothy's determina- tion he found it in these words, for to his ignorance a home meant only one thing, and that the workhouse. No connection of his was going there, if he could help it, for the disgrace would fall also upon him ; thus he could only do his duty by refusing to let Patience go. Yet he had no ill-feeling towards the squire, who was only performing his duty, which was probably painful to one of his kindly nature. Ill-luck had brought them into opposition, and Timothy accepted the position phlegmatically and was disposed to make the best of a very bad job. " Us can't turn she out, your honour," he said respectfully. " Us wun't," said Temperance stoutly. "Well, my dear people," said the genial squire, "you shall have till lunch-time to think about it. I will send a man to receive your final answer. If the young woman goes you About Heads and Minds 265 shall stay, and I want you to stay. I shall be very sorry to see you go. And you must go. You must leave Blue Violet this very day, if you decide to keep the girl." Vivian was above the law in these small matters. He would give no notice to these people ; he would eject them at once ; and they had no redress, for they knew no law, had no money to buy it, and no courage to oppose the lord of the land. Even Timothy's master was the squire's tenant. He was king of the clay and lord also of the grass. The Mosscrops were left standing in attitudes of hopeless- ness, and could only mutter, "Where shall us go?" Any sort of habitation was in that district a prize. Every old shed had its occupant. Cottages were not to be had, and for that reason people were leaving the place, the county and the country; driven out, for want of a home, to some free land, where they were allowed to build their own. Eviction from Blue Violet seemed to mean dismissal from the place and loss of employ- ment for Timothy. There was room enough and to spare at Love Lane ; but old Barseba had her own religion, and a narrow creed, perhaps harsh, made hard by endless work and no play ; and when a mother and daughter declare war there is no peace. Vivian departed, all smiles and good-humour, after express- ing the hope that the Mosscrops would be sensible and good, as he hked good people. Timothy had to go back to the hedge-cutting, while Temperance went to her sister, and said simply, " Us ha' got to go out. Will ye come and give me a hand wi' the cloam ? " Patience was doing her hair, and, being a fine lady, that took some time. She had seen Vivian in the garden, had guessed something was up, and was not surprised when she heard the sentence. " I'll go,'' she said at once. " Us wun't let ye," said Temperance firmly. " I'll go and live with Mark. I'm going to marry him, so folks can't say anything." 266 Granite Temperance shook her head. She at least was no fool, and that mind of hers had made her far better acquainted with Mark than Patience would ever be. " He wun't ha' ye,'' she said. "Can't I go and keep house for him and old Wreford?" asked Patience. '"Tis no gude talking like that, Patty. Mark wouldn't let ye inside the door; not till yew'm married to him." " I reckon, then, I'd best get off and try my luck in London," said Patience, but without the old enthusiasm. Utterly stupid as she was she could think a little of those things which experience had forced upon her. She was lazy, she liked comforts, and the passion for doing nothing had increased upon her. She remembered the wet streets, the cold winds, the mud streaming along the gutters ; the necessity for getting a few shillings somehow; the rough and sometimes brutal treatment ; her wretched room. One got tired of it, or at least physically exhausted. On the other hand, and she began to see it now, marriage with Mark suggested possibilities. He was getting a real gentleman, he was friendly with the curate, he went about with great men like Mr Walter Wood, he was the head of a movement, he spoke better than the rector, he had a future. He seemed to have no money, but that would come, if he was going up in the world, for a gentle- man simply meant to Patience a rich man. Also she would travel, for Mark was going to settle abroad ultimately. Patience did not desire respectability, but a life of ease and comfort appealed most strongly. She did not want religion, but if there was money in it she would go on her knees at once. She did not care for Mark in the least, but if he was going to be a gentleman she was eager to swear the usual oath. All this proved at least one thing : the value of experience. Patience had been through the mill; had seen a coloured life ahead, had hurried to it, and discovered that the colours were mostly false, that what she had supposed to be red and gold were black and white. It also proved another thing: About Heads and Minds 267 the folly of advising youth. The young creature goes to the wise man and asks to be given the experience which will save him or her from passing through the grinding-mill, and the wise man gives it gladly, " You will have a hard time and a very difficult fight. Often you will feel like giving up in despair; and you can only hope to succeed in the end by struggling on, never giving way, looking forward always, never back ; and, even if you do win, it will probably not be until you have reached a time of life when most of the pleasures have lost their power to charm ; and you will find the reward not so very wonderful after all; and often you will wonder whether the hard work, the denial of self, the apparent waste of your pleasure-loving years were worth the victory." But youth is not going to listen to that sort of pessimism. " Oh, oh, that may be all very true ! " it answers. " But what has happened to you will not happen to me. I shall not have a hard time. There will be no difficult struggle for me, because you see, wise man, I know very well I shall succeed at once." Youth is the most ungrateful thing there is. It begs a favour, and upon receiving it gibes at the giver. It asks to be given the secret, and, when it receives the information, returns sneers for thanks. It must go through the mill and be crushed ; it must have its conceited oils squeezed out. You cannot force a plant into seed before it has flowered, for the seed can only be the result of the flower and its object-soul. Every star seemed adverse to the Mosscrops now that the centre of local life had turned his kindness from them. Timothy's master would not allow him the afternoon to clear his furniture out. All the work fell upon Temperance, for Patience was merely in the way. It was the last day, however ; pleasure and sadness came to Temperance together ; no more visits to that pump nor another walk from the faggot-stack. It was no use thinking of the future ; the time at Blue Violet was over. Timothy growled and swore, cursed Patience for bringing bad luck upon them ; but when the man came from Rose Ash he gave a defiant message to carry back to the 268 Granite master. He would not let Patience go, because of the system ; but it was allowable to call her names, even to express a hope she would die in the gutter. He hated her, but could not turn her out because of that pig-like stubborness which had in it a peculiar piece of virtue. "Where be us to sleep?" he asked the man who was to see that the eviction was accomplished. " Half the cottages be squire's, t'other half be parson's. Them what would tak' we in wun't tak' she." But the mind of Temperance was helping her, and she tramped off to the village. Eli and Oli were performing a surgical operation upon a boot when a tapping came upon the door. " It never rains but 'tis wet," said Oli, misquoting the proverb. " Here be more butes. Open the door, my dear." " I opened last time," said EU. " That's right," said Oli ; and he went to the door, adjusting his spectacles and looking wise. " Why, Mrs Mosscrop ! " he exclaimed. " I ain't seed yew since yew wur a maiden. Little slip of a black-eyed maiden yew wur, to be sure. My dear, 'tis Mrs Mosscrop come to visit we. Please to come in," he invited. "Us be hard to work, but us be alius busy old bumbledors. Proper grindstones us be." " Us be alius grinding one against t'other, but us ain't wored out yet," said Eli. " Aw, my dear souls, us be turned out o' house and home ! " cried Temperance, and she told the whole story to the good brothers. Oli let his piece of ironstone drop to the floor ; Eli picked up the boot and examined it; then they looked at each other. " Squire be main sot upon duty,'' said Oli. "I alius did say squire wur tu gude to volk," said Eli. "When a landlord be gude, he reckons to be paid. Yew ses to mun, ' My chimney smokes.' He ses, ' I'll soon see to About Heads and Minds 269 him,' and he du. But one day he comes along and ses, ' How about that old chimney what I spent money on ? Yew'm in my debt.' " " Us owes squire no rent," said Temperance. " Yew don't tak' me, my dear," said Eli. " Yew ha' got to du what he thinks be vitty, and if yew don't he ses, ' I ha' been gude to yew, and this be the way yew pays me back.' He ha' got yew either way. If yew ses, ' Us ha' paid the rent,' he'll answer, 'Vor every shilling yew ha' paid me I ha' spent a pound to mak' yew comfortable.' And if yew ses, 'Us wur doing our duty by taking sister in,' he'll say, ' I be doing mine by turning yew out.' Don't ye try to get the better of squire, my dear." " Mrs Mosscrop ain't come along to hearken to sermons," said Oli. " Yew should ha' waited till I had spoke. I be as old as yew." " Yew b'ain't," said Eli. " I be a lot older than yew — ten minutes, I reckon." " I ha' a mind to put yew on your back among your gilly- flowers,'' threatened Oli. " I ha' bumped my young brother's shoulders on his old cabbage-stalks till 'em wur vair blue wi' bruises," said Eli to the visitor. " I ha' half a mind to du it again." Temperance hardly heard these customary exchanges. Her mind had worried her nerves and brought on a headache. She had eaten nothing, had been dragging furniture about, and now she felt faint and sick ; longing to he down and rest somewhere, but knowing she was homeless. Keener than the other villagers, as keen in her way as Mark, she had seen through the squire, or at least she thought so. She felt sure he was not turning them out from any sense of duty. He was himself too lax, too easy-going to care if young women did lapse from virtue ; he had an ulterior motive, which was not kindly ; and Temperance had it in her mind to believe that he was harming them out of malevolence. And she could do nothing, could not touch him, could not repay evil with evil, which was said 270 Granite to be the wrong way, as it was the only just one. Yes, there was one thing, very powerful, something about the dark side of existence, if she could only find the words. That she knew could shake the strongest life, for she had seen it work. " Us ha' got no woman,'' Oli was saying ; and the old heads went together with whisperings which became louder and clearer as the child-brothers warmed to the cause of charity, and reminded each other they had been given more than they required : a pink cottage, half of it unused ; a fair garden for all the months of the year, with alleys on both sides and images cut in yew and water in perpetual motion; with a stately row of bee-hives and good air ; a money-box beneath the floor, by no means empty ; and everything they looked on was their own ; no landlord stared over their hedge. They were their own tyrants, Eli King of flowers and Oli President of vegetables ; and Tom and Ted were Vices — both good ones. " My young brother ha' got half a mind to ask ye to come here," said Oli. "Little fellow yonder ses he ha' got a mind to say yew'm welcome," added EU. " God bless yew, volks ! " cried Temperance, though she had half expected it, for she knew the big twins and the kindness of their hearts. The brothers looked at each other in their funny way and declared that the divine blessing was no new thing. It came every morning and lasted through the day ; and remained upon the garden all night, so that they could not possibly prevent the flowers and vegetables — nor were there any to equal them in the kingdom— from growing ; and when the spring frosts were distributed none fell upon their young plants. They had so many blessings they didn't know what to do with them all, and so they decided to give a few away. Soon after six Timothy was free ; he had procured a cart and a mate to help him. The moving of the things commenced, but Temperance was not there. She had gone to walk in the About Heads and Minds 271 bottoms, under the birches and alders, where the air was heavy with marsh smells and the lush vegetation of the bogs grew as high as her aching head. It was an extraordinary thing for a woman like Temperance to take a walk. They only do so when they are beside themselves, driven wild by illness, melancholy, lack of money, or worrying about that child which is never born. It was not the mind which drove Temperance out, but the head. She had done enough, and was near the breaking-point. There was not a duty she had neglected. She had cared for and resisted her sister ; she had made as good a home as she could for her husband, and had stood up for him always ; she had screwed the rent together and had rendered it scrupulously. What was her reward ? Because she had been kind to Patience her home was broken upj because she was a good wife her husband knocked her teeth out — although it was true he apologised afterwards — but neither Patience nor Timothy were responsible for that head- ache. It was the squire. His will was upon her, pressing her life out. That kindly face was making her dark inwardly ; that gentle laugh was bringing her face to face with the black art. She must perform that duty, if she should be killed for it. That almost almighty strength must be sapped somehow ; and there was a way, there was a wise one left. For one in her position the deed required almost super- human courage. It meant passing through the gates of Rose Ash, entering the house, facing the squire in his room, that dark and dreadful library, its walls a horror of strange pictures, and frowning with big, black books. It seemed an impossible act, but Temperance was not sane. These young women, married and childless, suffer from periods of madness : the same scene, the same work, the same hours of loneliness every day ; the same walls every year, the same pump and wood- stack, and the same writhing little tracks which their own boots have beaten out as the smith beats iron when it is hot. It makes them mad. Temperance knew what she was doing. She left the scented 272 Granite bottoms and climbed upwards; height after height she as- cended, as if on her way to steal stuff from heaven until she reached the big road. Then she went down towards Dry Arch. All the world was mad that day, made so by that headache and the hoarse screams behind the cottage. A cherry-tree hung over it, a stream passed through the yard behind, where Joseph Boone was staggering about translated into godliness. He had created his own world and filled it with living creat- ures ; but he was a poor God after all, for he could not control his beings, which had grown according to their own inclina- tions, and had taken upon themselves horrible shapes that he had not meant them to have ; and now they frightened him. He had tried to make butterflies, and they had grown into tarantulas and scorpions. He was splashing about the shallow stream, trying to drink, but unable to reach the water, and shouting wildly, " This is a holy day. Mother is dead. My old mother is in a box with the spiders." Judy Boone was at the door, listening with the pathetic resignation of old age, stooping very much, a queer bundle of rags, out of which peeped a marvellously wrinkled face. "Joseph b'ain't quite the boy to-day," she explained. "He fancies I be dead. Come inside, my dear." Temperance went in, and she seemed so composed that Judy could not guess what was working in her mind. Not a word nor a moment did she waste, for already the sense of duty was upon her, and she knew that the work was being neglected. She told the old woman what she had come for, but Judy did not reply at once. She drew a tattered curtain back from a dirty window covered with cobwebs and peeped into the yard. " I ha' to watch the boy," she said, speaking in the matter-of-fact tones of a nurse looking after a child and seeing that it did not get into mischief. "He gets a mind to hang hisself. He throws a rope across the bough of the cherry-tree, and I ha' to run out and tear mun down. He'm main cruel fond of a drop o' liquor, be Joseph, but he'm a About Heads and Minds 273 gude son else. He gets this way, my dear, when he fancies I be dead. Shows the gude heart that beats in mun." Temperance went on talking, but more wildly, and Judy could perceive there was trouble about. "I don't like to give it ye, my dear," she said. "Yew wun't get to act vulish ? 'Tis a whist thing to meddle wi', and I don't work it now. I be feared they'll bury me wi' my toes downwards." " Yew'm the only one," Temperance muttered. " Aw, my dear, there be plenty left. I hears 'em around in the night, making more noise than Joseph be now, as 'em rolls the barrels o' cider up over Dartmoor. I can mind the time when a dozen carts stood under Dry Arch every market day, and the varmers would come in to see me and get the medicine. Times be changed now, and I can tell ye of many a varm where 'tis easy vor black volk to get in and spoil the butter, vor 'em ha' given up keeping a Bible in the dairy. If I gives yew the medicine yew wun't say nought about it ? " Temperance promised, and the old woman knew she could be trusted. Poor old Judy professed the power of witchcraft, but she couldn't keep her house clean, and she knew no spell to cast upon her son. She went to a horrible little cupboard, groped about, and produced an aged Bible. This she opened, and pointed to a yellow scrawl of writing upon one of the blank pages ; and as Temperance could make nothing of the mystic signs she translated the silly jargon word by word. " I ha' to mak' 'en drink ? " Temperance muttered. " Ees, he mun drink, my dear. If he wun't drink 'tis enough if yew takes the cup and sprinkles a little of the watter over mun, but they du say it don't work so well. 'Tis Timothy yew wants it vor, I reckon. Mind what yew'm doing, my dear, vor the medicine be fearful strong, and 'twill mak' ye a widdy vor certain." "It b'aint Timothy," said Temperance. "I wun't say who 'tis." " Best not,'' said the old woman. " Them what don't know 18 274 Granite can't teU. I takes no money, my dear. I be old now, and ha' given it up ; but I be alius willing to help a poor soul, and let 'em say what 'em will, yew can help wi' black as well as yew can help wi' white, and I don't know how the one be any worse than t'other. Look in his eye, my dear. Look to mun strong, and don't be afeard." Vivian came in from his woods, as it was getting dark, and received the information that Blue Violet was empty. His usual amiable mood seemed to have departed from him ; but he had met Hosken, who thanked him warmly for his strong and courageous action, and his effort to improve the moral tone of the place by clearing the Mosscrops out of Blue Violet, which, he added with a struggle to remember his classics, he had himself commenced to regard as the local Augean stable of vice. The squire merely requested him not to be a damned fool, and walked on. Had the rector met him earlier, or had he come to Rose Ash and begged Vivian to assert his authority by getting rid of the Mosscrops, it was likely he would have left them undisturbed. "It is so hard to annoy Hosken," he grumbled. " And now I have pleased him." A good dinner restored the squire, and he smiled again. He had recently obtained a fresh supply of old brandy which was gu-iranteed to possess very superior quahties, and he tested it that evening with satisfactory results. It was excellent brandy, and he did not discover until he rose from his chair that it also possessed highly stimulating qualities. He was not steady ; during his walk around the table he bumped against it twice ; he found himself laughing more than usual, and indined towards hospitality. "SpUler must try this brandy," he said, looking at the steady flames of the candles. " Spiller has excused himself lately. I must tell him I cannot be treated in this manner. Willcox," he called to the invisible man who was yet within hearing, "I will have the brandy in the library — and a cup of coffee," he added, making for the passage and muttering, " I like Miss Gribbin, but she must not deprive me of my companions. There have been those About Heads and Minds 275 funny promises called lovers' vows, and there have been funny tears," he laughed, " and funny stories about knights in armour trampling upon most submissive dragons. Really, when I want to laugh I have only to think of the people. Spiller shall come and dine with me, or he won't get his living. Ah ! " he murmured, " I have made a mistake." Vivian had opened the wrong door and discovered himself in darkness, tumbling over pictures and old china littered about the floor. " I think this must be the nursery," he said. " Yes, this will do for the nursery, southern aspect, pleasant outlook. There is a tank outside the window. I must take that away and plant rose-bushes. Children like roses and butterflies, I have always noticed they like butterflies. I like them too. Willcox," he called, " light me to the library." The man appeared, with eyes that saw nothing, and ears that heard not, and preceded his master, lighting his steps with a small, cold candle. The squire lowered himself into his arm- chair, lighted a cigarette, more to keep himself awake than because he cared for smoking, and told the man he should not require him again, " You may go and embrace the maids,'' he said grimly, and the man went out with a face of stone. The long windows were open, and across them were drawn those heavy curtains which the squire loved, not meeting, but with a space between sufficient for a head to show ; and some- times a leaf-cluster of the wisteria outside was thrust between them by the breeze, rustled a moment, then departed. There was no nervousness about Vivian ; solitude and night had no terrors for him. He did not know himself how devoted he was to that loneliness and those dark passages ; and the things of night were his companions. He welcomed the white moths which fluttered in to play about the lamp ; and the beetles he called " dear things " ; even the bats were received gladly. It was a life which would have driven most men mad, but it was happiness to Vivian. He could not change; the ideals of others were his natural terrors ; the affectionate touch of a woman would have disturbed his peace ; the sight of her would 276 Granite have spoilt his tranquillity, and the voice of a companion would have made him cynical ; but the whirring of beetles and the flutterings of moths pleased his soul. He was in touch with Nature somehow, but he sought her out by a path of his own. " I must read," he said, looking about the room. " Where are you. Gibbon ? I must read my dear Gibbon.'' He stood, but not well; made a step towards one of the book-cases, then lost himself, and stared about like a man in a mist. His memory had gone ; he had no idea why he was out of his chair. " He returned to it, poured out a little brandy, smiled at it ; and then, without a sound, with not the smallest shifting of the curtains, an apparition entered, a small, hairy thing, exhausted, sadly thin and starved, as if it had been the ghost of a child, with black, piteous eyes, so tiny was it, so sad — it passed between the curtains with less noise than a moth ; and Vivian leaned forward and looked down, shading his eyes from the lamplight. The little thing must have felt those eyes. It rose upon its hind legs, pawing wildly at the air, every movement saying, " I am starving ; I have no home " ; and then rolled over on its side through weakness, but recovered itself, stood up again patiently, went on begging the big, strong creature to be kind and give it something to eat, doing all that it could, its one little trick, to soften the heart of the half-drunk god who had the power of life and death over little starving dogs, who could destroy them utterly, or raise them to great honour with a collar and a name. " I am delighted with you, dear thing," said the squire. The Uttle animal came and kissed his feet, and Vivian took it up on his knees and blessed the skin and bones, and wiped the mournful eyes with his own silk handkerchief. " I have not been so pleased with any thing for a long time. I will take you in, and you shall have food to eat and a cushion to sleep on ; and you shall be chief of all the dogs, because you are small and weak, and you begged so nicely and amused me. About Heads and Minds 277 I am very sorry for you, little dog. We will go and find some biscuits, and then you shall eat." He got up and shuffled slowly to the dining-room, and at every step the starving animal went through its dumb show, climbing on its hind legs, beating the air in supplication, while the squire laughed and was well pleased. " Dear thing. It's a darling. Yes, it is," he murmured. " It shall have a good home." With a box of biscuits he returned, hearing nothing, and he emptied the box upon the carpet, seeing nothing ; nor was it until his new companion began to choke itself that he did look up towards the curtains ; and even then he was not frightened, although for an instant there was a creeping across his head and a coldness down his back. Then he was himself again. " Who are you ? " he said angrily. There was no reply. " I really am afraid you will get yourself into trouble. What is the meaning of this — coming into my house at night, and through the window ? " Vivian could make httle of the figure. He could not see it well, for the light was dim, and there was a shawl over its head down to its eyes ; and if he could have seen that face in a strong light he might not have recognised it, for it was nearly blue, a mad thing, and it was half-dead with terror. The only sound came from the floor, where the little dog was crunching biscuits wildly. "The supply of lost souls seems to exceed the demand," muttered Vivian, conscious that the position was ridiculous. "I suppose I must touch the creature and put it out. Some woman who has lost her senses, got into the fields, saw my light, strayed here. The thing doesn't move. I should like it better if it would mutter and jump about." The figure was moving, for it was shuddering horribly, but Vivian could not see that. " I must request you not to be a damned fool and to get out," he said smoothly; and then, feeling that it would be 278 Granite necessary to take some more vigorous action against this lunatic, he reached for his glass to search for an inspiration there, sipped from it; and immediately a horribly low and gurgling voice came into the room. " Go in ! Go in ! Make him hot, and make him swell, make him thin, walk him away, work him away. Go into the arms and into the legs and into the feet Go into the face. Go into the mind in wet weather, and go into the heart in dry weather. He have got it. He have got it very well and don't know what he have got, and now he will go to his grave." The squire was leaning forward with his head on one side, listening; and when the voice ceased there was no more figure. The curtains were not shaking, and the moths went on blundering about the lamp, and the little dog was the only noisy thing as it ate and ate and could not be satisfied. "I have been cursed," said the squire, with a delighted laugh. " I am to waste away gradually to the grave. It is a more amusing world than I thought it was." CHAPTER XVII ABOUT TEMPERAMENT A CENTURY ago any sort of writing was practically unknown among the village folk of Fursdon. The character of others had to be discussed openly, yet with some care, for slandering was a danger when spoken j the lie could be traced to its origin. Then education arose, drove out the old wise men and women, the local oracles who could just read and write enough for their purposes, gathered the children into schools, fed them with strong meat, and turned them out with the conviction that Fursdon was little better than a miserable hole in the rocks. Something known as geography assured them there was a land of gold with a city of plenty awaiting their presence somewhere. Something known as history told them the voice of the people was the voice of God, and leaders of great movements had risen from the plough. They were taught also how to write and read, that is to say how to make an illiterate scrawl, and how to make sense of the scrawls of others. It was enough ; the arts were delivered into their hands ; and thus the anonymous letter came into existence. That educational tree, being shaken, rains down a few apples of discord with a quantity of dead leaves; surely the most expensive tree ever planted, and the most unprofitable. Con- sider those two beside the pump, the boy of eighteen and the old fellow of eighty. One has passed all his standards, the other has received no education at all ; but upon each face is the same expression, that vacant, almost horrible, look of semi- idiocy. The ancient is by far the readier of the two, simply 279 28o Granite because he is old ; his is the folly which knows everything ; when caught trespassing, he will say, " Aw, my dear soul, I knows all about that. I ha' never been took up in my life," and continues to trespass with what appears to be offensive- ness, but is actually idiocy. The boy, on the other hand, does not profess wisdom ; his only idea is to get good wages, which would be a laudable ambition were it not for the fact that his employer could himself perform the work in half the time occupied by standing near the boy to see that the work was done. But the lad can write and read, for a time at least ; he can send " lots of love and kisses " to his sweetheart, though he finds it easier to describe the same with the crosses which his ancestors used instead of signing their names ; he knows nothing about punctuation, and puts his capitals anywhere but their right places, and sometimes he cannot spell his own name. Still he is educated : he reads his Police Gazette on Sundays, and tries to insult the gentry, and when he receives his wages will buy a glass of whisky, just to show he is a gentleman himself. He has probably a pair of kid gloves somewhere in his clothes-box, as a visible sign that he has been educated ; and when some young soldier comes home on leave he is inclined to sneer and to say something about a poor, uneducated chap without any independence, and may also add that it would make no difference to him if his country was delivered into the hands of its enemies so long as he continued to get his beer-money. The uneducated old man is the better of the two, because he is not a dangerous lunatic. Great men cannot be kept down. A genius will rise to the top without education, because it is all in him, and one touch of nature brings it out ; and for the dull, a partial education is worse than none. A villager who learns to read and write is as rare as the public-school boy who learns Latin and Greek. Both are crammed, and the stuffing produces indigestion. The public-school boy has his chances in the future : he is shaped like a block of granite until he fits the corner into which he is to be built ; but the villager has no such chances. About Temperament 281 He must return to that condition for which the school-teacher has sought to unfit him. The result is with some discontent, in others hatred for those better situated ; and from these roots spring drunkenness and slandering. Education has paved the way ; it is a matter of safe writing instead of dangerous speak- ing. It costs a halfpenny, but the money is worth it ; and so the anonymous postcard comes into being. " I know your dirty little tricks and your immoral life, and you meeting men in that wood. Why don't you marry Mark Yeo ? He's good enough for you, for I know you are an illegitimate child yourself. You are just one of those dreadful creatures. No punishment can be too severe for such an one as you." That was one of the postcards sent to Edith. The act was so simple, costing only a halfpenny, and there was very little risk of detection, still less of any action being taken. The postmaster had read it, not altogether to himself; the postman had shown it at every door he stopped ; of course, it was true, such things are easy to believe. It is so simple to make a life wretched. It only costs a halfpenny. There was no motive. The deed had been prompted by the sheer beastliness of human nature, through hatred of the quiet, pale girl, who dared to call herself a lady. Almost every week one such card was delivered by the grinning postman, and Gerard got them too, some abusive, some warning him that Edith was no better than Patience Starke, and, indeed, worse, because she was a hypocrite. The vile things were common enough, and the writers were cunning; only those were attacked who were not likely to retaliate or could not afford to. No anonymous missive found its way to Rose Ash, for the rascals guessed that Vivian, in his struggles to detect the writer, might have torn down the village. At last a note came to Gerard, saying : " I must see you again. I am so miserable. Meet me at the Wallabrook on Thursday afternoon. I cannot be sure of the time, but not later than four. It must be there ; in the open, where only harmless devils can see me." 282 Granite It looked like waving the white handkerchief, it was a sort of surrender ; but Edith could not help it Thursday was a day when the light upon the moor was wonderful ; so clear that every stone stood out, so light that the furze-bushes barely shivered. There was no gloom at all, even the shadows were as blue as flowers, sweeping past like robes of unseen texture ; and a joyfulness was in the air, the rings of stones seemed dancing. Edith could hear the tinkling of the water as she hurried on, and she felt in love ; she made herself a garden and filled it with heroes ; she touched the blocks of granite, turned them into men, calling them hers, telling them to go out and fight, giving them hydras to vanquish, and stables to cleanse, and promising to smile when they came back victorious. What greater reward could they desire than tenderness ? She would give to each hero a crown — would it not be enough? A hero could not ask for more. She was in love ; she made herself a heaven out of the clear air and colours, and that, too, she populated ; her favourite flowers were brought in and there was no autumn ; and all the angels had kind, strong faces and rough hands, for they had worked and made their hands rough. Eli and Oli were among them, and even Old Will was within the wall ; and Mark had a place, but where was Gerard ? Certainly he was there, and yet she could not find him at first. Had he made a mistake, lost the way, or was he still wandering about on the dark side of the wall trying to find the way in? It was impossible that Gerard should be absent when even Vivian was present. There he was, muttering as usual, his kindly face peering out of the brambles which he had insisted upon bringing in with him. It was a heaven of strong things, and only those who could build and climb should enter. "There he is," she murmured. "He is straight and tall, and he is strong. No man who stood like that could possibly be weak.'' The Wallabrook itself was invisible, but a black figure like a boundary stone marked where it ran. It stood beside the About Temperament 283 huge stone clapper which made a bridge, its back towards Edith. How well he stood, how splendidly his head was carried against the breeze ! It was to be a Thursday of Thursdays, for Gerard was strong at last. "He might come to me. If I were Gerard I should run — but I have frightened him," she murmured; and then said firmly, "There must be no weakness. We must remember it is probation time." Still the figure did not move, and the head was not turned. Edith came up, breathing quickly, for she was a little nervous ; and then she placed her hand on his arm and said, " Oh, Gerard ! people are such brutes ! " He turned with a kind of shudder, and it was not Gerard. He was strong and pale-faced, an ugly scar ran across his face, he seemed to be cold ; and he was Mark Yeo. All that Edith noticed just then was that the Wallabrook was brimming, and upon the great slab of bridge was a bundle, not neat — the sort of bundle carried by the man who has no home — and she perceived also that the colours upon the moor- land were too wonderful to last. " Spiller could not come," that quiet figure was saying ; and then he, too, began to notice the colours and forget the words. "He ought to have come," Edith said, and went on saying that, because she could not think of anything else. It was not right that the rose-pink of that plateau should be diseased by the leprosy of winter. "He could not come," repeated the pale man. "He has to represent the rector at a meeting. The message came at the last moment ; I happened to pass, he called me, begged me to let you know. You would not blame him if you had seen — I don't think he is well." " But you ! Why can't I think ? " she smiled. ' ' This is the result of that day I spoke to you in the wood- You have been writing my story," said Mark boldly. "I thought I would show you how far you had got." 284 Granite " It's no use," she said. " These colours blind me." " There is a stone quite near which is said to be enchanted." "It is enchantment," she murmured; then turned, but seemed perplexed. "There are so many little streams, young ones which will be rivers soon. Is this the way ? " " Along the bank," Mark answered. " Show me the way,'' said Edith. Everywhere she saw mighty rocks like giants and heroes, all of them rounded, but none round. There was nothing finished, and, as they passed on, the place became a garden of stones, the first garden planted and shaped by water and of an excellent design. There was no trifling work, not anything carved or filmy, but all magnificent of the Doric kind. It was architecture in the highest. It was the grandeur of granite, not cramped by forms, but free, the granite in flower ; and the sculptor was the brook, working with chisels made of silver, and the hammer of the storm behind, to make fair mounds and alleys out of stone. "Is this the rock they call a tolmen?" said Edith. "It seems to have changed " ; but then everything had changed that day. It was a great mass in the bed of the brook, sloping upwards, and through it at the higher end the water had worn a hole where several could sit with their knees touching ; and the same fantastic water had wrought little basins and seats about it. This stone of knowledge was set in the midst of the garden, and an immense plot of rock-petalled water-lilies rose upon it, all of them without roughness and scented some- how, for the wonderful life which is in animals was behind the water, giving that, too, a mind. It was the rnystic place of the fresh beginning of things. Here was the dreaming circle called Scorhill, which once had slept in the arms of a young and not far-distant moon; and there a stately avenue, with other great matters called neolithic, but really nameless. The gods were there in the likeness of stones ; but there was nothing else to imagine. About Temperament 285 Edith sat upon and half within the rock, but Mark would not join her. He stood upon the lower part; and above them a garden of fountains filled the air with music. "I remember," she said. "You told me you must get inside, but they wouldn't have you. How did you manage ? " "There are many doors," Mark answered. "I got in by one at the side. The travelling did it." " The Reverend Mark Yeo," she said. " Yes, that," he cried proudly. " I promised not to mention it unless it became necessary. It is necessary. You gave me the start. I wanted to tell you, and to-day I had the chance. Here are my clothes, my Fursdon and English clothes, in a working-man's bundle, and I shall return to the village wearing them. I had determined to make the opportunity of appearing to you as I am. In this country I am a working- man." "And in Canada? " she questioned. " The door was open. I was allowed to take my place there, even though I am the son of a stone-cutter. Through you I wrote to a bishop of this country, and his answer was, ' You are not a gentleman.' Through you I went to Canada and found that there a gentleman is one who does his best." " Tell me how you managed," said Edith. "I found a big-hearted bishop and offered myself," said Mark. " After my English experience I was surprised at my welcome, but in a large country people grow large-minded. The bishop asked if I would give my life, and I consented if he would spare me five years out of it to do my work here. I told him what that work was, and he said " "What?" cried Edith, looking up as it was not right for her to look. " I will not discourage you — but go." " It was good of him." " No, it was natural. He is one of the holiest men living," said Mark reverently. "His name will never appear in the list of bishops who have resigned their Colonial sees. He 286 Granite will stay with the plough. All that he asked of me was to pass here as a layman." "Why?" "Because he had been deceived by men, no higher than myself, who wanted to better themselves and felt that a good way was to become ordained and then return to England as clergymen. He did not want it to be known how easy it is to get orders where men are wanted. Besides, he thought I should have more freedom as a layman, and he added, as if to himself, ' You are less liable to incur the enmity of the English clergy.' " " What did he mean by that ? " asked Edith quickly. "He meant, I think, that any incumbent would be furious with a strange clergyman who came into his parish to do the work which, for various reasons, he would not do himself. He guessed perhaps that if a bill to prohibit the brewing and selling of intoxicating liquors was to be introduced the people would not oppose it." " What prevents it, then ? " asked Edith. "Gold and silver on the one side; indifference, stupidity, nervousness upon the other. Every time a man gets drunk the country commits a crime against him." " But the country is getting more sober," she said eagerly. "The town is," said Mark pointedly. "It is the fashion now to ignore the country." "I went through Fursdon late one night," said Edith. "It seemed to me that everyone was drunk. I wanted to get a parcel from the carrier ; but when I asked the way to his house I couldn't find anyone to answer me, and when I did get there the carrier was too drunk to understand what I wanted." "I could tell you of worse things. The moral faculty is dying here, poisoned," said Mark; and more he could not say, because he had in his mind the newest form of knowledge produced by education, a thing beginning, the coming of free and barren love. "Tell me a little about yourself. Sit down. Here is a About Temperament 287 stone chair in which an arch-druid might be glad to loll. Tell me about the future." " How far ahead? " he asked, trying to shake the gloom off him, for the future is always terrible to the prophet. " Beyond the five years." "The fatal period," he muttered, thinking of Patience, and wondering if Edith had heard. " You are going too far. A great general could conquer the world in five years." " Now it is four.'' " And I have succeeded in making everyone hate me." " I will not talk of the present. I want to hear about the end of the period when you go back to Canada," said Edith. "What is that Hfe to be ? " "Too easy. I shall have my mission, a little wooden church, a congregation of sober, hard-working people. No better, no kinder, exist, but they don't require a clergyman," said Mark firmly. " In those very places where missionaries are sent there is often no vice. The heathen and the savages are here, in this country. What is the use of preaching to the converted ? I have been sent to the tents of heathen Indians and found them leading good and moral lives, free from almost all the vices of this Fursdon. What am I to say to them? Change your lives. Are they to change what is good, and if they do change must it not be for the worse ? I have seen them changed," said Mark, " into liars and drunkards." "You know," said Edith softly, "this will never do for the world. I should like you to look upon the future as a rest and reward," she went on. " If you regard it in that way you will be happy, and to wear a smile instead of that frown." " Ah, the doctrine of looking happy sounds a good one, but it is selfish," he answered. " It is simply an acknowledgment that pleasure is the only god worth following. How is it possible to smile when, as I go along the road, I am sure to see some dirty woman coming out of one of the inns with a jug beneath her shawl ? " 288 Granite " Don't talk of the ugly things," cried Edith. " Not here. Now, if you listen " She put out her hand for silence, leant forward, looking frail upon the rock, and her face seemed as if there was some- thing hungry behind. "I hear laughing, down in the little green pools of bubbles and splashes. Every splash is a laugh, and the bubbles are dimples." "I hear bells," said Mark, "like those which ring off Boscastle beneath the sea, the bells of wreckers." "Then look higher," said she. "Was there ever in the world such colour ? " The flat rocks went away in flight upon flight up the bed of the brook, and between them stuff called water spouted, but not the water of prose-life, flat and dark ; here all was white, giving forth breath and Ufe. There were a hundred fountains behind the living rocks — good word that living — white, like liquid mercury, and the spray from them was as pollen from the willows blown about. It was the beautiful vision which makes men and women feel unexpectedly, and so briefly, that life is excellent, the deed is possible, good is easy ; gives them the quick, joyous flush of faith ; lends them greatness. This thrill, which is everything but real, comes to every one, especially to those who would love weU and to those who would think well. It is false, because it reveals too much, and neither lover nor thinker can reach high enough. Each sees and feels, then hurries off from the fountains in the rock, from the bed of white flowers in the moonlight ; but, with the mistress in his arms, or the pen between his fingers, what is he but a man again ? The divinity has trickled out of his clay. The fruit remains upon the top of the tree. And yet it shows there must be a soul-world somewhere, for the mind has felt it. A thing of the soul is this thriU, and colour is the soul of beauty. "There is no name to it," cried Edith, and she spoke weU. She was in love with heroes, giants, and great romances. She was in love with the gods, and good. "I see it," cried Mark. He, too, leaned forward to have About Temperament 289 the vision and the joy of it, which did not last, for something was with it. "I have no right," he murmured. " Did you feel anything ? " asked Edith eagerly. " I felt as if something inside me awoke and asked, "Is it time ? " and a voice answered, " Not yet. Go to sleep again." "I dream," she said, "but you must not." Then she said, looking at him, " How you must have worked ! " He made no answer, and she went on admiringly, "The first time I saw you I was afraid. You seemed to me like any other countryman until you spoke." " Even then I could not speak my own language." " Didn't you find it very hard ? " "Harder than I expected. I was ill once, and after that everything seemed to come to me." "What made you ill?" " I am not strong." Edith went on questioning until she learnt the history of those months spent over books, the days and nights fighting with the remorseless thing knowledge; how to prevent himself from falling asleep he would plunge his head into cold water. " The Sunday holiday kept me going," he said. " I used to drive forty miles to take services." " Some clergy would call that work," she said. " Well, the weather would be bad sometimes," he admitted. " I call it magnificent," she said. " It is a gospel of hard work." "And nothing to show for it," said Mark, for the colours had gone and mist came instead. "You don't mean that," said Edith. "If you had done nothing more than lift yourself it would be great ; but you are lifting others. I am sure of it. You are stirring men in spite of themselves ; digging stones out of their dull holes, like your old father." "The granite will kill him in time." " He has beaten it for a long life. It is better to be crushed at once than to wear away. You are stronger than your father.' 19 290 Granite " He would never let me work with him, because I was not strong enough." " But you can lift men." "There is not one," cried Mark, "not a man in this country whom I have lifted." "Your brotherhood," she reminded him. "It is a failure. Its members are drawn from the ranks of the converted, good sober souls like the Rescorlas, or from the thoughtless, who look upon the matter as a joke." "There is Church Beer, the centre of your movement," she went on. "Yes, I know it seems a failure, but you are only beginning ; you are clearing the ground. Everyone fails at the start, but those who fight on will win." " When the parson finds me at work and says, ' This is my land you are clearing,' and when the squire comes along and says, ' These people are mine ' " "Don't listen. Fight on," cried Edith. "You will win, because you must. Mr Vivian is with you. So is Gerard. Why do you frown ? " " Mr Vivian is not with me." " How can you say so? He has given you money and has promised more." "I have to look upon both sides. You can ruin a poor man by giving him an elephant. By the act of giving you can take away. If I give a drunkard a bottle of brandy, what am I taking from him ? That night of the meeting I learnt that Mr Vivian was an opponent." Edith flushed, and was almost angry with this stubborn man, who would not recognise his friends. Excellent as her character was, and perhaps on account of it, she could not read the characters of others ; she took them literally, and could not translate them. When Gerard succumbed to temptation she shrank in horror, not from his character, but from his deed; and she did not guess that the character was behind the deed and the cause of it. For the same reason she was offended with Mark, thinking him ungrateful, looking only at About Temperament 291 the deed, and not having the depth of mind to find the cause. Edith was typical of her generation. When the stream was polluted she wanted to work hard and bale the dirty water out. It did not occur to her to search for the cause of pollution and remove that. " You will not say Gerard does not help you ? " she said ; and then, as Mark did not reply, she answered herself, "Of course he does. He took the chair at your meeting ; " but Mark only watched the waterspouts until Edith became restless, and at last she said, " You are not friends now ? " "He does not give himself," Mark answered, and Edith pondered. When asked for manhood and his soul Gerard would give weakness and a vice, believing they were himself ; perhaps they were ; but if so — why, this was not hard rock but water running through the fingers, and not battling water which had made the boulders smooth, but stagnant stuff, unable to free itself, never reaching the plateau of rose-colour. " Gerard has done a great deal," she said firmly. " He is as bold as you ; now isn't he ? " Mark looked at her, saw those shadows beneath her eyes threatening to get darker, saw also that perfection of face and figure and all those little glories which illuminate the loved woman. He could not hurt her, that were a greater sin than lying, so he answered nothing. Edith in her heart admired Mark more than Gerard, and yet neither of them came up to her standard, for her mind was full of Olympian deities who could nod the world straight, and she desired her men to be like them, forgetting that deeds of strength are as natural to omnipotent beings as acts of weak- ness are to mortals. Therefore she admired Vivian, whose careless strength seemed so irresistible, and again made the mistake of regarding the man and ignoring the position which made him, so far as power went, what he was. She left Mark almost abruptly. There was something about him which frightened her. He had managed to bring his dark images into her life, and she had enough without them, and 292 Granite when she went away his place in her heaven was lower than it had been. The lowly influences of his birth could not be restrained. The morbid tastes of his class kept rising to the surface. He could neither look nor think cheerfully, his frown was constant. So she thought, without seeing that these things covered the very character she was in search of, that Mark's frown was the sign of that steadfastness of purpose which she attributed to Gerard's smile. " Do I love Gerard enough ? " she murmured, stopping to gaze at a queer little oak which never grew and never died, but managed to exist somehow between two rocks in the form of a problem, because, though its existence was not necessary, it seemed to be immortal. " Or do I want to escape ? Per- haps I hardly know," she said quaintly. " Here am I. Mrs Allen is this rock, and the world is this one, and Gerard is the oak between them. I hate you," she said to the Allen rock. " I know so little about you," to the world rock. " And as for you, poor diseased only-just-alive tree, I should like to dig you up and plant you in a nice garden, where you could learn to grow. Then you would shelter me and shut out the ugly sights. That's pity," she reminded herself " I am sorry for the little tree and I'm sorry for myself Do I love it, and, if I do, is it because it could shelter me and shut out the ugly sights ? Now I am getting to a hard catechism, and there is something creeping up called dimsy. It is all wicked selfish- ness, you know,'' she declared as she hurried on. "Perhaps I only want men to be sober and respectable, not for their own sakes at all, but just to make drunken Devonshire a nice place for me to live in. I shall tell Mr Vivian about those post- cards,'' she added. " The brutes won't dare to send any more, if they know he is making inquiries." Edith was to be given an opportunity for visiting the squire. The next day Mrs Allen took it into her head to go shopping, not that she required anything, but she had to pass the time in some sort of indolence, and there was always a fascination in entering shops and pulling things about. Mrs Allen had been About Temperament 293 subdued lately ; she had not assaulted Edith for some time ; her health was hardly good enough, and Edith was getting stronger, she thought, more inclined to retaliate and rebel against wholesome discipline. There was also another good reason ; a kind of lassitude was over Mrs Allen, which was due to a happy discovery that the pleasures of life were not used up, there was still something " to do," a fresh avenue of pleasant sensations to be exploited. She had exhausted the possibilities of religion, had slaughtered good specimens of every living creature not yet extinct in the local fauna, had used up all the " nice feelings," which included walking upon the gravel of the drive with bare feet, a popular pastime for a period among her decadent friends ; and now it was borne upon her that the best gift of the gods to suflFering humanity had remained until then undiscovered. At the eleventh hour, as it were, the crown of life was to be granted her, something prepared from the leaves of a shrub, a stimulant, a narcotic called cocaine. It was the old story, if the shrub had not been created to give happiness to mortals, what had it been created for? Such matters as use and abuse partook of the nature of metaphysics to Mrs Allen. Her brain could not deal with them, but it could respond to the drug, and wonderfully well, for she said witty things to her friends and composed clever prayers — for Mrs Allen was a pious woman — and she had wonderful dreams straight from heaven, and sometimes she thought seriously of writing a great book, but that was too laborious a deed, and besides she couldn't spell the words. So Mrs Allen went shopping, Edith accompanying her to carry bag, purse, smelling-salts and drugs, and all manner of parcels. She slept in the carriage, and was permitted a vision of angels ascending and descending. She slept again during the railway journey, and was granted another vision. Upon the streets of Plymouth it was not lawful to sleep ; but if she was not able to command a vision, she could at least entertain strange ideas. It occurred to Edith that Mrs Allen was behaving strangely in the shops. She moved in an unpleasant 294 Granite fashion, there was a horrid expression on her face, a beastly cunning in her eyes, a certain nervousness when any assistant came too near her. " Keep by me," she went on saying. " Do exactly as I tell you — and remember I'm not feeling very well." Edith obeyed, and presently she noticed that a shopwalker, who was standing behind a pile of goods, seemed to be watch- ing her in an offensive way. She turned, and at the same moment Mrs Allen said angrily, "Don't move. You have spoilt it." "What is the matter?" asked Edith. Mrs Allen went on to another counter, upon which were baskets of fancy-work, and said, " Stand here. Near to me. Put your arms out, as if you were going to arrange your hair." Then Edith saw what was going on. She looked round, almost ready to cry out, perceived the shopwalker again, and knew now he was not looking at her. " Oh don't ! " she cried faintly, as the man came suddenly striding towards them. "I must request you to come with me, please, madam," he said in the voice of cold politeness. Then there was a scene. Mrs Allen lost control over her- self; she was strong enough ; it was Edith who was half-fainting as the shop-assistants came round and customers walked up to stare, and presently a policeman entered the shop, and Edith was conscious of some one pointing, and saying, " Over there." She knew that Mrs Allen was being conducted into a private room, and she followed, glad to get away from the con- temptuous eyes, and saw the search, saw the stolen goods disgorged, heard the manager's voice saying, "This is not from our establishment,'' and heard also the criminal's angry retort, " It is all a vile mistake. I was going to pay for them. Give me my purse, Edith." " Is there any charge against this young lady ? " asked the practical policeman. " You may search me as much as you like," said Edith, waking up. About Temperament 295 " There is no charge against you," she heard a bland voice saying, and knew somehow it was the shopwalker. "We should like to know what other shops this lady has visited, as some of the articles do not concern us." " I didn't know what I was doing. I don't believe now thai I took them," cried Mrs Allen wildly. " She may have taken them," pointing to Edith; but the shopwalker said quietly, " Madam, I saw you take two articles." " I am not responsible for my actions. I will pay anything you like. For God's sake, Edith, say something. Haven't I had a neurotic temperament ever since you have known me?" But Edith had nothing to say in defence, and, even had she been disposed to speak kindly, the loathing upon her face would have gone hard against the culprit. " I don't know what you mean," she began ; and guessing that worse was coming, the miserable woman rushed at her, pulled her across the room to a corner out of hearing, and began to string together the whisperings — "Say you did it. Confess you stole the things and passed them on to me — that I didn't know you had taken them. I'll give you anything, do anything for you. I'll help you to marry the curate, I'll pay your rent, I'll give you a regular income — only swear you did it. I have a reputation. Every one knows me. I can't get at any of the magistrates here. They will treat me as if I was a thief, a poor woman, something common. It's not as if I was at home, brought before my own friends. You are nobody, Edith. You haven't got any reputa- tion to lose. You are — hardly a lady, you know ; a week in prison wouldn't do you any harm, and I'll make it all up to you. I'll see that you lose nothing, and I'll come and swear you are -not quite right in your head sometimes." "We do not wish to detain you, madam, if you will kindly leave your name and address," said the manager, coming forward. " It's all right," gasped Mrs Allen. " This girl has confessed. 296 Granite She did take the things. She is only my companion, and I took her without a character." The woman was obviously beside herself if she thought Edith's aid could be obtained in that way. The speech was so foolish that it was almost unnecessary for the girl to say, " She is lying " ; but she knew by one furious glance what a war was being declared, and she began to count her friends on the fingers of one little hand and wonder where she could find a home. She heard the words, "The lady refuses her name and address,'' and she gave them composedly, while Mrs Allen collapsed and made herself a public nuisance. How they got back Edith hardly remembered, but she was conscious the whole time how glad she was people were all about them, first in the streets and then in the train. She dreaded that privacy which must begin the attack. Mrs Allen said nothing, except that she should never live through it. She groaned, smelt salts, and wept privily ; and when the station- master opened the door for them at the end of the journey she implored him not to believe anything he might hear about her, because it wasn't true. She raised the same cry to the coach- man, then entered the carriage, and, as Edith was about to follow, she pushed her back with a few expressions, of which "thief" was the loudest. The carriage drove off, and the girl stood in the dust, with a few sniggering faces behind. Mrs Allen was right when she said she had a reputation to lose and Edith had none. If any evil had been committed the dull fellows at the station guessed who was the culprit : not Mrs Allen, who was a lady of property, but her companion, who, as was so well known, met men in a certain dark and secret wood. " I would rather they threw stones at me than laugh behind their hands. It would be more honest," was Edith's comment, as she walked away burning with shame. " Poor child ! " she murmured. "Now there will be something like bloodshed. How helpless a girl is ! A man puts his clothes into a bundle, walks off along the road and finds fortune somehow. Mark About Temperament 297 Yeo goes away a farm-labourer and comes back a gentleman. Oh, thank God for green ferns ! " she exclaimed, having passed the curve in the road and seeing a cool lane where the soft fronds waved. She went up it a little to get rid of that heat and to rub the dew on her pretty, sad eyes. " I'm so tired. It is nasty of her to make me walk six miles.'' Edith tried to think as she walked on, but could not. Nothing came except the stupid idea that she was a handsome girl, and, if that was so, she ought to be pampered instead of persecuted ; but perhaps she made others nervous of her. She spoke too boldly, and looked for too high a standard. All that walk she could not think of Mrs Allen. Her own poor little self pushed that creature out of the way, but indirectly her mind consented to refer to the day's events, and she found herself saying, " I must go and see Mr Vivian. I shan't say anything to Gerard. I won't humble myself and crawl." Reaching the end of her journey, which did not mean home, she entered by the back-door and came upon a scene of quiet confusion in the kitchen. Mrs Allen was lying down, had taken stimulants, said prayers, sent for the doctor, and had also made it known how she had been unjustly accused of appropriating goods. "I suppose she told you I am the thief?" said Edith; and the cook, who was not unfriendly to her, admitted this was so ; but, as Edith was going up to her room, she followed, and whispered in the darkness of the stairs, " If I was you, miss, I should keep a good stick handy." Edith went into her room, took off her boots, and rested. Presently the cook brought her something to eat ; and after- wards she felt better, but a suspicion remainpd that something was going to happen, for Mrs Allen would be probably under the influence of stimulants, the doctor had not arrived, and in that diseased state might be actually not responsible for her actions. Edith put out the light, but could not lock the door, for the key had been removed, owing to her unscrupulous use of it. Her bed seemed dangerous, so she tried to make herself 298 Granite comfortable upon two chairs near the window and drew the curtains across them. The night was perfectly dark. There had been noises the whole time, deep groans and strugglings, suggesting gradual suffocation, and feet padded the floor irregularly ; but presently Edith knew the sounds were in the passage. She heard the door open and felt the presence which she could not see. She was sure it was near the bed and bending down. "Bessie," she heard in a sharp whisper. Edith started up inspired, put her head out between the curtains, and answered, "Yes." "You know that blue flower which grows beneath the dining-room window?" " Yes," muttered Edith. " In the morning go and dig it up. Bring me a bit of the root. It is good for headaches. " "Yes," said Edith. " Miss Edith is probably going away. If you don't see her about, you will know she has gone." Edith did not answer, for she was feeling sick. " Do you understand, Bessie ? Miss Edith has got another place. She may go off at once. I don't want people to know she has gone." " Yes," the girl managed to murmur ; and the door was shut, and the groans and strugglings went on again as if a lot of evil spirits were wrestling. Mrs Allen had come into the wrong room. Bessie was her maid, her favourite, whom she trusted ; and the name of the blue flower was monk's-hood ; and there were some horribly dark and secret cellars underneath that house. CHAPTER XVllI ABOUT THE SYSTEM AND THE STANDARD It was a day of searching rain, which passed down the moor in cloudy shape, darkening the rivers, awakening a thousand runnels among the hills, to drench the valleys beneath ; a day when the turf-cutters had to make themselves shelters, those simple, chair-shaped huts of stones, roofless and open, but a defence against the weather, for upon Dartmoor rain drives and never falls in straight lines : a day also of melancholy, for human nature will be glad under a bright sky, and sad beneath black clouds ; and laughter and snakes are both alike in their love for sun-scorched rocks. Summer borrows days from November, but pays them back when the time comes with an unexpected shower of gold. Few consider the sadness caused by the wet day, the amount of human misery provoked or added to by rain ; the slushing through mire, the depression, the oozing of banks, the eternal leaf-drip, and the malice of the wind which drives those clouds along. Edith opened her window to see if there was any hope in the distance ; but the mist was full, and the world ended at the first terrace. She dressed, putting on her oldest skirt, for she knew there would be walking that day, went down shivering as she touched the damp woodwork, looked out of the dining- room window. The clump of monk's-hood had not been disturbed ; the spikes of bloom nodded reassuringly. It was strange, thought Edith, that so much beauty should arise from roots of a deadly poison. She was calm and strong again ; and as she stood at the window an idea occurred, she could 299 300 Granite not resist it ; she put out her hand, wrenched off a spike of the purple flower, fastened it into her blouse, and then went towards Mrs Allen's room. She walked up and down the dark passage, listening to the rain, hearing nothing else until footsteps sounded below. She hurried to the door, knocked, opened it ; Mrs Allen was sitting up in bed scrawling notes in pencil ; her face and distended eyes told a good deal concerning the night and what she had taken to make her sleep. " I thought I had better see you," said Edith, coming for- ward to the bed. Immediately the door opened Mrs Allen saw, not Edith, but the thing she was wearing. What had happened in the night she could not remember, but she did know that during the drive home she had thought of some plan for getting the girl out of the way — although, of course, not that — and upon reach- ing the garden had seen the monk's-hood and remembered what she had been told about it, how that its root contained the active principle of aconitine, although she could never dream of making use of it. Mrs Allen was not born to be bad ; but the cursed idleness of her life had done for her ; that, too much money, and a complete disdain for what she regarded as the lower order of beings, had made her bad. Unhealthy tastes, the society of fools, nothing to do, a desire to shed blood, the reading of books which described murder as one of the fine arts, and those drugs and waking nightmares — even a strong mind would have been shaken. " Call Bessie," muttered Mrs Allen. It seemed to her she had given Bessie an order ; but she didn't like to think about it now it was morning. " I want to speak to you about yesterday," said Edith, pro- tecting herself by means of that spike of bloom. " I must see Bessie. Where did you get that thing ? " cried Mrs Allen fiercely. " This flower ? " said Edith quietly. " Why, I picked it. Don't you know it grows just beneath the dining-room window ? " About the System and the Standard 301 Memory was at work in its subtle way, and it seemed to the frightened woman that either she had uttered those very words lately or that someone had spoken them to her. " It is good for headaches," Edith went on. "Did I say that?" "When?" asked Edith. " Just now. Did I say it was good for headaches, or did you?" " I did. I suppose somebody told me." "Did you dig it up? Don't you know " Mrs Allen stopped and tore a piece of paper furiously. " I picked it," said Edith. " Why should I dig it up ? " " I had horrible dreams. I don't remember them now. Look here, Edith — I can't think of anything. I hate you, Edith." " I know that, Mrs Allen." Those years of young life, slaughtered like nestlings by a cat, passed before Edith in a procession of ghosts, and she gave way to her anger. " You hate me enough to " she unfastened the spike of monk's- hood and threw it on the bed. Mrs Allen did not make a noise. She sat and stared, and stared and shivered. It was one thing to contemplate a crime and another to think of the consequences. Presently she said in a dazed and stupid voice, " What were you doing in my room last night ? " " I did not come near you." " You heard me talking in my sleep. If it had not been for you I should never have been found out." "You told me I had no reputation. I was a nobody," said Edith fiercely. "Well, I spoke the truth, as you will soon find out. I'm not going to keep you any longer, and I won't give you a penny. When you find yourself out in the rain without a home to go to, you may be sorry for yourself." Mrs Allen did not speak in her usual vehement way, for she was stupid with drugs and was frightened by the purple flower which looked like a venomous snake upon the bed ; and she 302 Granite had the sense to know that Edith as a witness could give damaging testimony against her ; but hatred, as usual, won the day. It is a peculiarity among women of Mrs Allen's disposi- tion that they imagine themselves to be the ill-treated ones and their victims to be guilty of the very faults they themselves have committed. " I am a servant and therefore entitled to a month's notice," said Edith. " But I shall prepare my own food," she murmured. Just then the doctor arrived, and Edith departed to her breakfast ; and afterwards a message came, and she went to find her aunt in tears. Mrs Allen had never looked less for- midable, but the evil spirit was there ready to curse. "It's all out. Some wretched farmer was in Plymouth, heard about it, and has spread the report all over the place — and they beUeve I did it." " Well," said Edith. " You stand there and grin — you who were the cause of it all, you who gave a signal to that beastly man, and then said you saw me do it and gave my name. If I did take the things I didn't know what I was doing. The doctor says that's quite right, and he's going to give evidence that I have a neurotic temperament. He says I shall have to go before the magis- trates and be committed for trial, just as if I was a thief, and appear at the assizes, and the judge may not be gentleman enough to understand that I didn't know what I was doing. You know, Edith, when I tore up your father's photograph I hadn't the least idea what I was doing." "Well," said Edith again. " Do you mean to say you don't beUeve me? You will be principal witness. What are you going to say ? " "The truth." "Oh Edith, I implore you, I pray you for your dead mother's sake, do stand up for me. I know I have a beastly temper, I can't help being made like that ; but I like you really, and if I had died you would have found I had left you — some- thing. Tell a few lies for me. Say anyhow I was queer in About the System and the Standard 303 the morning, that you felt I wasn't responsible. Bessie is going to say that, and if you swear the opposite they may not believe her. We must stand up for each other." " I am not going to commit perjury," said Edith. " I am sure we have to tell lies sometimes. We can always repent afterwards. Edith, if you will stand up for me and I leave the court without a stain upon my character, I will make you a present of five hundred pounds. I will pay the money to any solicitor you like to name before the trial. You are the only one against me besides the shop people, and they don't know anything about the wretched state of my health. You shall have that money, and then you can marry as many curates as you like," she said hysterically. It was hard upon Edith. On the one side liberty and what was for her a big sum of money, large enough to keep her in comfort until she was settled in life ; on the other side nothing so far as she could see, for Gerard was only a curate, and in any case she had vowed not to marry him until the days of his purification were accomplished. Still there was no wavering ; the memory of her sentence upon Gerard would alone have settled that ; and there was something else which brought to nought the golden promise of the temptress — the standard, not the system of the villagers, the loafing, the drinking, the shirking of work, but her own standard of giants and heroes. Where would she be in her heaven of strong men if she fell below the standard which she had appointed for them? It seemed easy to follow the system, to lie with the doctor and the maid ; but it was not easy, because it would destroy the standard and herself. " If I am to give evidence against you I shall say nothing in malice, and I shall try to speak the truth," she answered ; and Mrs Allen knew that sentence could not be shaken. So she began to curse and swear, and the evil spirit rolled out of her, black and grinning. "Then I have done with you. Do your worst against me. I turn you out, you can go on the streets for all I care, and I 304 Granite hope you starve. Yes, I did want to poison you, but you can't prove that against me. You only found it out by listening at my door. You will go from here without a character, and you can go to hell. I don't want your help, I have plenty of friends who will stand up for me through thick and thin. Take your beastly religious face out of here and out of my house. You want to be revenged upon me, and you call that religion — like your father who ruined my poor sister — a dirty, low-bred curate without a clean shirt to his back ; and you — I can't find words to describe the filthy little brute who has sponged upon me " The evil spirit went on, but Edith heard no more. She went out, pressing a hand to her head, for that woman's face made her feel dizzy, then to her room and put on her walking things, only alarmed by one thing, and that her own face, which was almost ghastly, and her eyes looked bruised. " It seems bad to-day," she said ; " but it will be nothing this time next year. And now for the wind and the rain." By the moor a mile was cut off, but half an hour was put on ; the smooth road was both the longest and shortest way to Rose Ash. Edith had no doubts in her mind regarding Vivian's friendship. To him everyone in trouble went; she knew his kindness, remembering how he had tried to make excuses for Gerard's shortcomings ; his cynicism was merely a cloak to hide the goodness of his heart : he was the sun of the village system, the sample of the standard, the big central figure which could not be cast down. That was how Edith regarded this juggler with the lives and souls of human beings. She was blinded by the position and wealth, and it was too dark in the passages of Rose Ash for the truth to be revealed. Reaching the house, all wet and mud-bespattered, she felt nervous and did not like to go in alone. The squire would make such a fuss, want her to dry her clothes, have a meal ; he would turn the place upside down to make her comfortable, and with Oriental hospitality would implore her to look upon the house as hers and himself as her slave. About the System and the Standard 305 Edith hovered about, longing for a companion, until an owl hooted and made her start. So damp and gloomy was it that the owl supposed it was evening ; but Edith imagined that the bird was scolding her, telling her not to be afraid of the master who never suffered anything to be hurt upon his property ; and then the man-servant, who was surely no human being but a monstrous toy made by the squire, for he seemed to be deaf, dumb, and blind, while he spoke, heard, and saw as much as he was wanted to, came along the drive and said to Edith, who was fumbling with the iron gates in a business-like way by this time, " Mr Vivian will be pleased to see you, miss.'' The squire had been watching out of one of those dark windows, trying to guess what had brought Edith there, and, seeing that her courage was failing, had sent out the man to make sure of her. " Now this is very good of you," he began at once. " You must have some lunch. What can I give you? I must give you something to keep the cold out. You shall take off your boots — indeed you shall, and my housekeeper must find you some shoes. Light the fire in the library, Willcox, and — yes, bring up the old port. Miss Gribbin must have a glass of the old port to keep the cold out." " I am alone, Mr Vivian. I ought not to come in, but I do want to have a talk with you," said Edith. " We are in Fursdon parish fortunately. Anything immoral can be done in Fursdon. I hope I am respectable. I do try to be. I want you to have some luncheon. It will be such a pleasure to me, entertaining you." While talking he was fussing about Edith, feeling her dress, brushing her down tenderly with his handkerchief, and a little dog was always running at his heels, very much of a mongrel, but fat and happy, an altogether different creature from the outcast which had sought hospitality and had found an affectionate master and a home that same day the Mosscrops had lost theirs. "Come along," said the squire. "We will go into the 20 3o6 Granite library, and I shall be delighted to hear your news. How is Mrs Allen ? I like Mrs Allen. Now, you must not be afraid of me. I do have lady visitors sometimes, widows generally, who tell me how the house ought to be arranged. It is very good of you to come and see me in the rain. I like wet days. I stand at the window and listen to the water splashing. I am really a very contented and middle-class person." Edith went, understanding that it would be difficult to dis- obey this amiable man, and was glad to be seated, warming her feet and hands; and her next task was to refuse the various liquors which were forced upon her for the sake of her health. " I have never tasted wine in my life," she said. " Really most people could make your confession. Hosken, whose article of faith is one bottle a day, drinks a port which would burn me to death ; but the poor thing knows no better, and his palate is ruined now. He dined here one night and almost abused my wine. I have not forgiven him yet, at least I have only forgiven him as a duty, not as a pleasure. I should very much like you to try the old brandy," he said almost wistfully. " Do you want to make me drunk ? " asked Edith with a sad smile. " Well, it would be quite an orthodox proceeding for Fursdon. I am so afraid you will take cold and die. You young girls have a silly trick of dying. I don't like people to die, and I don't like drunkenness either,'' the squire went on. " There is too much of it. I don't know whether it is the fashion in other parts, but here, when a man wants to thank God for any blessing bestowed upon him, he gets drunk. I think that is rather crude. It shows so little imagination." Edith roused herself ; the warmth made her drowsy after a sleepless night, and Vivian, she knew, was a bad listener. " Have you heard anything about Mrs Allen ? " she asked, directly she had the chance. " The last I heard she was trying to get some ferocious dogs for the purpose of enjoying a little private rabbit-coursing. I About the System and the Standard 307 don't care much for rabbits ; but if it had pleased the Creator to turn me out as one, I should not have made my burrow in Mrs Allen's field. She has a trick of forgetting to be gentle. How am I looking ? " asked the squire, roaming off again and chuckling. " I am stricken with a mortal illness, I am rotting away in wet weather and withering up in fine. I am immensely pleased with the idea." "Are you really ill?" asked Edith, with a sweet concern which was wasted. " It is a sort of joke between the Evil One and some unknown person that I am. It is rather a private joke and has amused me so much that I am putting on flesh. I hope there is nothing wrong with Mrs Allen. You will stay to luncheon. I think there will be something nice, for the cook was singing a hymn of praise just before you came, and a plain meal is usually prepared with a penitential psalm. I am so pleased with you for coming to see me. '' " You saw me standing at your gate ? " said Edith. "I did, indeed." "I was frightened," she went on. "Mr Vivian, I want your help. I am looking out for a situation. Mrs Allen and I have quarrelled and fought. I am turned out, and Mrs Allen is going to be sent to prison. I thought I would come and tell you the truth before you heard lies." "Really,'' said the squire laughing, "I do admire your powers of compression. You have given me several columns of a newspaper in a few words." Edith told him the story, and Vivian laughed more than ever and expressed himself as delighted with it. "What a crumbling of reputations there will be," he said genially. " Mrs Allen robs shopkeepers, instead of allowing them to rob her, and loses her reputation in the eyes of those who have not yet been found out. She throws the blame upon you, and you lose your reputation. I rather like stealing when it is done honestly. Shopkeepers make fortunes out of it, professional men live by it. The business is perfectly 3o8 Granite decent when it is done neatly; but if you bungle, the law has you, not because you are a thief, but because you don't know your business. Mrs Allen could have bought the things and then have refused to pay. That is the artistic way of doing it j but by lifting them off the counter and hiding them under her cloak she offends the law. I am afraid Mrs Allen is not a clever woman, and the law has very little sympathy for fools. Two of a trade never get on together." " She is nearly off her head now. She wants me to tell lies about her, swear she isn't responsible, and of course I refused, and that means the end of me," said Edith. " I think you ought to.'' " What ! commit perjury ! " cried the girl. "We never give ugly things their names. When a friend becomes a raving maniac we say he is not very well. When a man goes hopelessly bankrupt he is temporarily embarrassed. Yes, I think you ought to stand up for Mrs Allen. It is what is called playing the game. By speaking the truth about her you do no good, and only make yourself unpopular." " But she is a thief, a common thief," cried Edith. Vivian began to shuffle about the room, shaking with laughter. " No, no, my dear Miss Edith, it won't do, you must come into the world. It's no use standing outside among the angels. Mrs Allen is a lady, well-off, very well-known in the district, a sportswoman, a supporter of the church, a subscriber to charities. Her position renders it impossible for her to be a thief. Suppose I went into a jeweller's shop and slipped a trinket into my pocket, and suppose I defied the tradesman by declaring I had come to steal and I would steal, who would call me a thief? People would say I had done it for fun. Suppose I went into Hosken's house and made off with his silver candlesticks, who would convict me ? If I went on my knees to the local magistrates and begged them to send me for trial, they wouldn't. I hold too many mortgages. People are always asking for a motive. They say it is im- possible for anyone to steal for any purpose other than the About the System and the Standard 309 desire of gain. They practically deny the criminal instinct. You must become one of us, Miss Edith." "You think Mrs Allen will get off?" she cried. " I am quite sure she will. It will be argued that she has plenty of money, and. can afford to pay for the things ; and she has also that valuable asset known as the neurotic temperament. Being a lady, she cannot have criminal instincts ; and because she steals a few articles she must have the neurotic temperament. The whole thing is very amusing," he added pleasantly. Edith sat silent, crushed by a new burden, for Vivian had shown her another side to his character, and she was griev- ously disappointed and distressed. He was below the standard, he appeared to go with the rest, he was only strong in his own interests. It seemed to her that life was made up of artifice, each human being playing a game of cunning against everyone else, each wearing a mask and acting, nobody natural because that did not pay. The world had become dishonest, and the few honest people left were the criminals. Still Vivian was himself kind, she was sure of that, if goodness of heart went for anything. His cynicism was plainly directed against the system. He was not in favour of it, and only adopted it because it was "playing the game." And yet it was sad to find the image of stone supported upon feet of clay. Already his manner had changed towards her, and when she begged him to say no more about Mrs Allen but to advise her, he became reserved, then dropped his laughter, which pleased Edith for the moment, for she felt he was going to be serious, and he became a trifle hostile, or, if not that, indifferent. Though the squire had often scoffed at the idea of being a fine gentleman, he prided himself upon it, and the traditions of respectability were strong upon him ; and it annoyed him to think that Edith was in revolt against her own class, desiring to break from it and to give evidence against it. Nor was it respectable for a girl to be homeless and without friends ; it was a kind of poverty which seemed to him indecent. When 3IO Granite a distressed villager came to Rose Ash, Vivian would supply his stomach with a good dinner and his pocket with half-a- crown. He was sorry for the poor man who had got himself into difficulties, but he felt little sympathy for a girl of gentle birth whose difficulties were forced upon her. " I should advise you to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, if you really do regard Mrs Allen as such. She is only weak— poor thing. She takes cocaine too. That will be very much in her favour. As she is related to you, there are bound to be quarrels, and I expect you take them too seriously. You should treat these matters as Hosken would tell you, if he spoke the truth, as religion, not as a game of croquet. I am always calling my servants damned fools, but they like me for it. You must go back to Mrs Allen, assure her she is a saint and a martyr, laugh at her temper, pay her back in her own coin if you will, only stay with her until you marry." " It is impossible," said Edith. " I have not told you every- thing. I must go out and make my living. I would rather scrub floors than stay with her. Couldn't you recommend me as housekeeper or something of the kind ? " Vivian felt uncomfortable. He did not like a young lady to be talking of such low affairs, and at the same time sitting in his library. It was something like an insult, and her pretty pale face made no appeal, because he was blind to beauty unless it was that of a plant or shrub. He liked to talk with women, but always despised them. He preferred Mrs Allen to Edith, although he regarded her as much the biggest fool. "You had better advertise," he said. "It is very easy to get a situation, but you take too high a view. I think you expect far too much. You would be wiser if you stayed with your aunt and played thunder to her lightning. A young woman of your lofty ideals won't find it congenial to be among the pots. How about that wedding ? The living is not ready yet, as the pig-breeder continues to flourish. Instead of being a shepherd he is a swineherd, and has converted the church- About the System and the Standard 311 yard into a farmyard. But Spiller is going the wrong way to work if he wants that living. I promised it on the under- standing that he pleased me, and he is good enough to decline now to have anything to do with me. Do you know how I have offended him?" " Yes, it is my fault," said Edith. " I made him promise not to dine with you." " But I like having him. Why should I be deprived of his company ? " asked the squire in his blandest manner. " Gerard has a weakness, as you know. He cannot resist your hospitality." " He suffers from neuralgia and melancholy— poor fellow. I live here alone, but I never suffer from melancholy. So he has made a lover's promise not to dine with the ogre of Rose Ash?" * Not that at all," said Edith. " He has promised not to drink wine, and if he dines here he is sure to give way." " I hope you don't think I fasten him to a chair and pour selected brands down his throat ? " " You are not to blame. I have always said so. But Gerard easily gets excited. He likes wine unfortunately, and when it is offered he finds it hard to refuse. If we do marry it cannot be for some time," Edith added. " In the meantime I must do something to earn my own living. Now I must go out into the rain again," she said rather mournfully. "The world seems unkind to-day." "The world has nothing to do with us. We make the world," said Vivian. " I am sorry you will not stay to lunch," he went on, no longer pressing her, for he wanted to be alone and mutter his own thoughts. " If you hear of anything likely to do for me, will you let me know ? " she begged. " I will, indeed. Certainly I will try to help you. I shall write several letters to-day on your behalf." "Thank you very much. There is one other thing," said Edith. " If you hear nasty things about me, you won't believe 312 Granite them. I have been getting terrible postcards, the most loath- some things. They make me so wild, and I am helpless, for it's impossible to find out who sends them." "They are quite common," said the squire. "Between you and me I believe Hosken gets these halfpennyworths of flattery sometimes. You should cultivate the habit of cynicism. It is most helpful." "No girl can afford to lose her good name," said she proudly. " This reputation is a fanciful kind of thing. Some people rejoice to be told they haven't got one, and I rather like the idea of going without one. Laugh at these postcards. Let them amuse you." " I am afraid I am too serious," said Edith. " But if I am leaving here it does not matter." " When you have lived as long as I have, you will know that nothing matters. What can I give you ? I like my guests to have something to take away with them. Shall I give you some flowers?" " Thanks very much. I can't very well carry them." " But you must have something. You shall not be the first guest to depart empty-handed. You shall have a book, I will get you a book to take with you." He shufHed back into the library, and presently returned to the hall with a small book wrapped in paper, and Edith was forced to take it, so that the reputation of the house for hospitality should be maintained; a reputation, which in the words of the squire, was a fanciful kind of thing. Rain and wind met Edith on the road as if they hated her, and she had need to remind herself often how all this misery would be nothing a year hence. Hard weather makes a mile long, but wretchedness makes it longer. She had never supposed Vivian would defend Mrs Allen, and her impression was that he had done so; and then she remembered how annoyed she had felt with Mark because he had said the squire was against him; and somehow the idea went with About the System and the Standard 313 Edith that he was against her too. Was this hospitality a cloak, was the endless giving of presents a bribe; were they both an attempt to throw dust into the eyes which tried to look into his mind ? Against the name of Vivian Edith placed a question-mark. But the squire was too strong for her. When Edith came home at last, and entered as usual by way of the kitchen, only the cook saw her, and she exclaimed, " Why, miss, I thought you was never coming back. Missis said you had gone for good, and Bessie be packing your things now." " I shall stay as long as I like,'' said Edith defiantly. " You know what has happened, I suppose ? " " I reckon I do, and as soon as missis be fit to talk to I'm going to give her notice. I'm not going to live with a thief. I come of honest folk, and lady or no lady she's not good enough for me." Edith felt refreshed at hearing a decided opinion with some naked truth in it. " I am wet through and very hungry. I must change my things," she said, moving towards the door ; but the cook hurried forward and stopped her. " It ain't safe for you to bide in this house, and so I tell ye. If missis warn't off her head when she stole they things she's off it now, and she's got the gun in her room what she shoots rabbits with. You get out of here, miss, or we'll be having policeman along for something a cruel lot worse than stealing." " If she is like that," murmured Edith. " But where can I go?" "Get along to my home, miss. 'Tis only a little farm, Chagford way ; but my folks will give ye a hearty welcome." " I have hardly any money," Edith said painfully. " Would they trust me ? I have a little jewellery." "That's all right, miss. If us poor folk didn't trust each other the world would get main hard. I'll get you a bit to eat, and then you slip out, and I'll have your box sent over to-morrow. Cheer up, miss. I'll be dancing at your wedding before the year's out." 314 Granite While Edith waited for her meal she opened Vivian's present. It was a very little book, printed in the eighteenth century, and entitled. Aphorisms of Lavater. He had, no doubt, taken the first small volume that came to his hand. As there was a piece of paper folded inside, the book opened at that place, and Edith read the aphorism, " Good may be done by the bad, but the good alone may be good," and she discovered that the piece of paper was a ten-pound note. The squire was almost beyond comprehension. His gifts had to be accepted. This note was intended for her, as he had scrawled upon it in pencil the words, " For advertis- ing," and she knew he would not take it back. Edith was disarmed and conquered ; her face softened as she murmured, " How very kind ! " and Vivian's name went back without the question-mark into the list of giants and heroes. It was all a species of corruption, had she known it, one of the moves in the game which Vivian was master of. He made no resolve to do harm. He had no intention of bringing ruin into the lives of young people, there was no active and malevolent devil about him ; but he could not restrain his power nor yet his love for conjuring with souls, tossing them up and down to see how they acted, and if any fell and were damaged it was all in the game. He would continue to like them even when they were spoilt. The danger was in this — he thought himself master of his mind when he was its slave ; and his mind despised and hated his fellow-creatures while his tongue declared it liked them. His tongue spoke from his heart when he said he would help Edith and Gerard ; but his mind acted without words, remembered how amusing it had been to see Gerard drunk, how presumptuous the boy had been to refuse invitations, and it was angry with Edith for interfering and depriving it of its human toy. Vivian enjoyed his luncheon and laughed over it. " Willcox," he called : " Send into the village and inquire if Mr Spiller will be at home this evening. If so, let him know About the System and the Standard 315 I will visit him. And he must have something. Let a basket of grapes be taken to Mr Spiller with my kind regards." Then he patted his dogs and fed them, smiled at the torrents of rain, and observed that they would find out the weak places in every cottage roof, and paced his passages talking about matrimony, love, and children ; poking his head into the musty rooms and, as usual, explaining to himself what they were to be used for on that day in the Greek Kalends when he took a wife ; but what he did not do was to write those letters on behalf of Edith, because it was an act which his tongue had promised and his mind had never intended to perform. Darkness and damp were upon Gerard more heavily than upon others. He travelled through the mud with a bundle of limp and lethargic things called parish magazines, forcing them upon those who would accept, and this mission was depressing. Every cottage seemed like an ark in water, and when the doors opened smoke poured out ; and every interior had its old man or old woman grumbling ; none of them cheerful, all mumbling about the end of everything, the dilapidation of themselves, and the splendour of the past. He went into the hovel of the Vids ; it was nothing more, although it served as the seat of the magnificent George ; a tall and narrow hut of cob, roofed with huge sponges of golden moss, and chickens were pattering in and out, fouling the place ; and the slit of window was a gross caricature of a grocer's shop ; a tin of biscuits, some candles and soap, and gaudy trade placards blocking the light out. George Vid did not require a parish magazine^thank God ! He had quite recently descended to the local Jordan and been dipped among the trout to the accompaniment of great hymn-singing ; and when the sins had accumulated he would go and be dipped again, the bigger the sins the colder the water ; there was nothing like a dash of frost to kill a sin, and to be submerged during a snowstorm meant salvation. In search of sunshine, Gerard went to the garden of the giants, but the black cloud was there too. Oli took a magazine, and 3i6 Granite Eli paid the penny ; but the big men were not happy. Life had not run smoothly since the Mosscrops had come there to dwell, for Timothy refused to change his spots ; there had been Saturday-night tumblings among the flowers ; there had been quarrels between him and Patience, and the brothers had interfered with their strong arms to prevent Temperance from losing what teeth remained. The Rescorlas were excellent old fellows, honest and sober themselves, but indifferent concerning others. They did not appreciate drunkenness, but recognised that any man had a perfect right to get intoxicated every day, weather and money permitting ; only that man must not disturb them nor do any injury to their garden. Patience, too, was doing that which was evil. She would stand at the gate and smile in a stupid way as the men passed ; young fellows were generally loafing about after dark, and there would be a noise of unholy laughter beneath the hedges. " Mrs Mosscrop be a gude woman, but they others du what 'em likes," complained Eli ; and Oli added, " Me and my young brother b'ain't peaceful now. Us ha' got a woman to look after we " " Her ha' got a man to look after she," chimed in Eli. " And he ha' got a devil to look after he," said Oli. " Get rid of them," said Gerard. " That be what my young brother ses when my plants be smothered wi' green-fly. But it b'ain't so easy, sir. They sticks." " They'm cuckoos," said Oli. " They comes and lays their egg in our nest, and now 'em wants to turn we out on't. They ses, sir, charity be cold, and so 'tis I reckon. Me and little brother be vair froze wi't." Gerard went home and found a message awaiting him. The squire would be pleased to visit him presently, and the news cheered him a little. Dark weather, walls, and loneliness were taking hold of his mind. He was not a happy-minded young man, and the rain which meant discomfort to many was misery to him. He exaggerated it into a species of torture About the System and the Standard 317 sent to try him. That black sky became to him the frown of fate, and the cold wind was its blustering hatred. Heaven was against him : he was a failure ; and he had meant to do so much, rise in the church, be a leader of thought, fight against cant, strangle those things which strangle religion, cut off the vicious growths as with a surgeon's knife, and above all things to speak out. But strength was not behind the mind; he had approached the mountain of established custom to remove it with a spade ; he had proposed to cut down the tree of the system with a penknife. It was so simple to say, " I will lead. I will destroy this," before the work began ; but when it was time, and he looked down upon a vast sea of calm impassive faces, caring nothing for him or his ideas, when between him and the goal towered the great unclimbable wall of indifference, what, could any man do but lower the little banner, give up his weapons, and go into captivity ? Gerard knew he must get rubbed into the orthodox shape to fit the world, so he dropped the habit of plain speaking ; he must win his ease, so he joined the majority. He had been shown his little hole in space and what atmosphere he dis- placed. If he had preached a Good Friday sermon then, he would have said it was not his duty to judge those who accepted Christianity but not its sorrowful side ; and if the rector had died he would have told the congregation that their time would not produce such another man ; and he would have refrained from adding, after the manner of George Vid, " Thank God." But there are punishments for defection. It is hard for a man who is pressed to perform an unpopular duty ; it is cruel that he should be born ; but since he has come he must get through what he can. If he refuses he is a traitor, and he receives a traitor's punishment. He lives indeed in his body, but he dies spiritually. Those pre-natal instructions must be accounted for ; why so remains a terror; and those who have heard small things may well be thankful ; for to those who have heard much are the greater pain, the greater temptation, the greater punishment. 3i8 Granite As Gerard sat in his lonely room, with rain streaming down the window, something came, as always through the body, a small thing, but like all small things, insects which make an island, trickles of water which begin a river, leading towards a great issue. It was a pain, nervous and irritable, in his teeth and head. It was enough. A carriage rolled up and stopped. The cottage door opened, wind and rain entered, and afterwards a genial voice, " Spiller ! Where is Mr Spiller ? Are you in, my dear fellow ? " Gerard went to the door. A manservant was bringing a large hamper from the carriage; and then he brought another, a smaller one. "I am so glad to see you," said the squire. "As you will not come and dine with me I have come to dine with you. Do not be disturbed, as I have brought the dinner. Where is your good woman ? ' ' Vivian fussed about, giving instructions regarding the dinner, then rejoined Gerard, overflowing with kindness and good- humour and bringing an atmosphere of fellowship into the dreary place. "A photograph of my little friend Miss Edith, an excellent one. I have seen her to-day. She seemed very bright and happy. A pretty girl. I like her very much. How are you, Spiller ? I am afraid you are not very well. It is very good of you to let me come here." " I am under the weather," said Gerard. " It is a mistake to take much notice of the weather. We will draw the curtains and forget it. I think I have brought quite a good dinner. Really, it is very good of you to let me come and cheer you up." It was not easy to answer, but no reply was necessary, as Vivian had a gift of rambling talk which never came to an end. When dinner was ready they sat down, and the squire laughed long and joyfully when he perceived there were no wine-glasses. " It is evidently the rigorous order of this house to imbibe wine from tumblers. As I knew you would not offer me any- About the System and the Standard 319 thing to drink I brought it with me. I could not dine without my wine. I have brought some champagne, but not for you. It would be so good for your head, but you must not touch it. Miss Edith has been telling me what a very puritanical person she is making you." "Did she tell you that? " began Gerard, and stopped. "Something about knights and dragons,'' laughed Vivian. " I hear she has threatened you with all sorts of penalties if you aren't good. I don't like an absolute monarchy of that kind, but I suppose you young men enjoy it rather until you are married, and then you take your foot off the dragon and let the poor docile beast run about a bit. Does the order prohibit the use of a corkscrew?" " I have one, ' ' said Gerard stupidly. The sight of those bottles gave him a certain pleasure. There was an easy way of forgetting the rain, that pain in his head, the forlorn and unwieldy thing called body. Why was Edith so severe upon him? " You must not ask me to join you," he said. "My dear fellow, I'm not going to dream of such a thing. Indeed, I prohibit you. I shall not allow you to touch the wine. Ah, that is the old brandy. Surely it was you who used to say — why, of course ! You used to say it did your head good. I must request you not to go near it, or Miss Edith will be angry. Would you mind opening the champagne for me ? " Gerard did so, and the fresh scent of the wine bubbled up to his nostrils and made his face white. He returned to his seat, helped himself to cold, unsympathetic water, which brought no benefit to his head, and his longing for something which would make him laugh and talk — and forget — did not decrease. " I ought to have brought you some mineral-water, but, to tell you the truth, I have no mercy upon teetotalers. They appear to me unsociable, almost unfriendly ; and sometimes I ask myself if you men who drink water are really quite serious — do you deserve to be presented with livings if you will not dine with the patron ? " 320 Granite " I suppose all the clergy about here drink ? " said Gerard rather wildly. " Yes, I think so. I do not know of any teetotalers, but they are moderate men. The last of the two-bottle parsons died some years ago. I am afraid Hosken uses a large bottle, but then he has plenty of money, and it is after all poverty which gives people virtuous ideas. This champagne is quite satisfactory, Spiller. I am sorry you must not have a glass. You are looking rather unhappy. What can I do to cheer you up ? " " I always get neuralgia in this weather." "A little of the old brandy would do you good. I really think you were foolish to make that promise. I never did like the idea of young men making vows. They are such brittle things. Pass me the bottle, Spiller, and do not help yourself," said the squire with his boyish laugh. " I don't think Edith would mind, if she understood," said Gerard excitedly. "You may be quite certain I should not tell her." "What is the diiference between a doctor's medicine and this?" "Well, as a man who has studied medicine, I should certainly prescribe the old brandy for neuralgia and recommend it as a means to procure a good night's rest. Pass your glass, Spiller. No — I forgot. I cannot permit you to break your promise. I should like to see you more cheerful. Miss Edith has queer notions, and I don't care about the idea of petticoat government. Water-drinkers really do not make progress. A little of every- thing good, and moderation in everything. I am sorry you have been rather a damned fool, Spiller," said the squire lazily. "Smell this. Just put your nose to it. Perhaps the bouquet will do you good . . . ." It was nearly midnight, and Vivian was being assisted to his carriage, murmuring in a satisfied way, "I like Spiller. He shall have that living. Decidedly he shall have that living when the pig-breeder dies. I am delighted with Spiller. He About the System and the Standard 321 must come and dine often " ; and the subject of his remarks was standing in the little room, laughing, feeling very well, not unhappy ; he swayed as he stood, almost overbalanced, and straightened himself with jerks. " Splendid fellow, the squire. Best friend in the world," he muttered as the carriage moved away ; and then, reaching out his hand in a fit of uncontroll- able devilment, he knocked something from a bracket to the other end of the room, not in the least knowing what it was, until the next morning he found Edith's photograph upon the floor. 21 CHAPTER XIX ABOUT THE LIE After that night Gerard took the step downwards, thinking he could escape that way ; but the lie is a cruel monster, for when one of its heads is cut off, nine others spring from the neck. The suffering which followed that night did him no good, because he emerged from it armed with cunning ; he resolved to be a man of two lives, a hero out of doors, a beast at home. When Edith wrote, which she did after settling in her lodgings, he made up his mind it would be good for them both not to think of the past. It was in some ways a cold and formal letter, but a pretty simplicity was in it. " Life has changed so much lately that I have to write, my dear Mr Spiller, to say that I want to meet you again. Don't think I am not mistress of myself, for I am, and just as much as, I am sure, you are master of yourself. I have not broken down, and when you see me you will find someone quite as erect and dignified as she who begged you to recover your real self, your Gerard-self, in the pine wood, and offered you a year to make the search. Am I the coldest girl alive because I freeze my heart and swear it shall not be thawed except by love worth having ? Very likely ; but I am afraid — your manner in the wood that day did make me tremble. Let us be mad when we are good, and wild when we have conquered. I thought I had throttled my bad little self, but when Mrs Allen told me I had no character, I saw horrid things, like red worms. I could have killed her ; and so, you see, we have to keep ourselves in training. 322 About the Lie 323 ' ' I have made a great discovery, and though wise men would laugh at it, I shall cling to it still. I have found out all the beautiful things in the world were created to make us good. I want you to go walks, please, Mr Spiller, and think about that. Go a little walk every day, not along the road, because men made that and it is hard, but into the woods, especially among the firs — those nice smells were given to make us good — along by the river, upon the moor. When you don't feel strong, go for a walk. When you feel troubled, go for a walk. And when the bad self rises and says, ' Have at you again,' go for a walk. Take all the worries and fears and temptations that are in you into the woods and toss them into the bushes, and they will sink into the peat like a lot of dirty water ; and then you see the flowers and smell the soul of things and every little leaf whispers in the wind, 'How easy!' Among the trees it is easy to be good. It is no virtue at all, and if you will take the flowers and trees about with you — and though I have nothing of my own, I give you all the oaks in Teign woods — they will make you like themselves, strong and without thorns. Last evening I was walking in these woods, and I sat upon the logan stone — where I shall meet you — and cried, a thing I have not done for years. I cried for sheer happiness to find so much that was for me and so little that was against me, just as some people cry when they are touched with music. On one side all Nature, and against me one woman's ill-temper, a few countryfolk who don't know what they do, and one sorrow — there is no blame in this — and I realised that I had made no mistake when I made you promise. And I saw the sun going down at the end of the gorge, and the thick golden light came across the river, and then I thought to myself, people really want to be good, only they don't know the way. Nobody shows them the woods and the beautiful things ; they begin and end their lives without knowing what good is ; and so they get bad because they have never been shown the way." There was more, for Edith had to say she was seeking a 324 Granite situation, which might take her away from those parts. In the meantime, she was helping about the farm, feeding the poultry, and making cream which, she declared, was not good for the complexion ; but she was happy, and if that life went on it was hkely she would get fat. At the appointed time Gerard went into the gorge of memories, for it was in the midst of it he had camped by himself, had traced out Edith's initials with glow-worms, had met the whistling sailor who was Mark. He seemed to have grown old since then. The solitude, once a friend, was now an enemy. He could not have sat in his tent and watched the water, and listened to the voices of the wood, where once had lived the genius of enchantment, where he had seen the flower-buds forming and the blooms breaking, and had learnt the language of the birds ; for the golden age had gone by. That horror of Mark's was there, but not in the woods ; it did not creep about in those green depths; it was in himself. And there was Edith sitting upon the rock. " Do I frighten you ? " she said. The first word that he spoke, something loathsome seemed to drop from his mouth and fall between them ; for he said he was not frightened, and it was a lie. She held something doubled up, a hateful scrap of card, and this she unfolded and held out to him, saying, " I had it this morning. I cannot escape from my persecutors. Read it." "You are a nice person, I fancy. We thought we knew what you was, but now they say you are a thief as well as a . As for that young curate, he has been drunker than an old sow." That was a postcard written in a bold, round hand, so that nobody should miss a word. " Is there any truth in that ? " " No," said Gerard. " I want you to look up — into my eyes. Is it true ? " " No," he cried. " I believe you," she said ; and then slipped off the stone, AtDout me L.ie 325 which would not log because the weather had made it fixed, and asked, " Are you tired ? " in her gentle way ; and Gerard answered ' ' No " ; that being the word he had brought with him, though he was always tired in those days. " Then we will walk through the gorge. Don't you find it easier to think when you are walking? When I stand the river and the ferns make me dream." Only the water travelling faster than themselves told them they were going downwards, for the rough path went often upward, and it was narrow, so that they could not walk side by side. Edith went in front, and Gerard, looking now up, then down, and often stumbling, saw the little boots rather worn at the heels, and the neck where the soft hair grew luxuriantly from the pleasant ground of sun-browned skin. When her head half turned he saw the profile pale against the green oaks, as cold as the river, as hard as the rock ; and he did not know that the coldness and hardness were upon the surface as weapons of defensive pride. Gerard could not understand this mind which treated him with apparent con- tempt until he should rise to the height required; for love was to him something aggressive, and its possession wiped out every fault. If a man loved well, surely there could be no fault in him. He did not go on to argue that if a man cannot conquer himself his love is vain, a thing of weakness, and nothing better than a lie. " Won't you call me Gerard again ? " he urged. "Oh no," said Edith. "A contract is no good if any part is broken. Not until next year. " " You are very hard upon me." She walked more slowly before she answered. " If you will turn that remark inside out you will find some selfishness in it. You have been hard upon me. I am alone, fighting my own battles." " I am alone too — without you." "A man can never be alone in the sense that a girl is. Men help each other. Women hinder each other." Then 326 Granite she went on to speak of her plans. " I have advertised for a situation as companion-help, preferably to a lady not very strong. I don't want to be beaten," she smiled. " Besides, I like looking after weak people. It seems my mission. I can guide better than I can follow, and I believe I have it in me to make others happy, if they will only be obedient. So many people refuse to be happy because they will rule themselves." "You may be going right away from here.'' "I hope not. My interests are here. My beech-tree," she murmured. "And you." " Then I am an interest ? " " Why, you are the first interest. You ought to know that," she said coldly. " Edith " " You must not. Do you want to make me angry and leave you ? I will not give way," she said in her hardest voice. "I should feel so much happier." " I don't want you to feel happy yet. I mean, I want you to be sorry. I believe this year of — ^well, misery let us say, will be the making of us both. Look upon it as a bad voyage, and don't blame the compass. There are calm seas and favouring winds ahead." They came out upon the bridge, crossed it — Gerard seemed to see in the dust the footprints of himself and Mark, those which had gone on and those which were backsliding — and they entered the wood upon the other side, where all was young and tender. They had passed out from the valley of rocks. Here everything was soft and dim, for the sun could hardly struggle through the leaves and only reached the ground by shooting his arrows through. As they went on it became deeper and darker; and so they passed in silence into the land of old romance, very far from the modern road, into the place where the stories come from, beside the long- deserted camps of charcoal-burners and oak-rhinders, where the old huts stood still, and in the garden of the wood about About the Lie 327 them were rings of mushrooms. The light was green, and if smell can bear a colour that too was green. They had crossed the frontier and were walking in the country of truth, which some call the land of imagination, because the stories coming from there seem so impossible. The mind would not move in their direction, making out of truth a mystery like the beginning and end of things. It is not easy to speak a lie beside the deserted camp of the oak-rhinders. The shadows terrify ; Nature is blowing in the organ-pipes, and the music is religious; and love becomes more dreadful, a longing not of man for woman, nor woman for man, but for that which such longing suggests, something higher, a union with the green shadow, marriage with a perfume, one breath mingling with another and passing together, making music. "I must say this to you," said Edith at last: "if you do not want me, let me go." Then Gerard looked up, and said in a simple way, " I must win you. I would do anything.'' " Don't say that. I mean, if you feel I am not worth it, if you feel you cannot make yourself what I want you to be, let us end it here. I don't ask for freedom j I don't want it ; but you know yourself— and I could be doing something else." " If you would be kinder," he muttered. "I should not take a situation and wait for you," Edith went on. " I could use myself better. I should offer myself for some work, where I could tell ignorant people of the beautiful things around them. Love is the first thing in life. I am sure of that, because it is the foundation-stone of strength, and you can put nothing in its place. But if you make me change my love I must. It is necessary to love ; but life is not wasted if you love nothing better than the grass." "If you would only let me call you Edith," he said, not seeing the sorrow on her face. This was to her sinful, a giving way instead of fighting. It was this weakness which made her doubt whether she ought to wait for Gerard, though she wanted him. Her foolish little heart was crying out for the 328 Granite pale-faced, troubled boy in a simple, earthly way, but behind the heart was a resolution which was not little. If Gerard could not reach the standard, he must go, and better then than later. " Come to me next year," she said, in a clear voice, sounding almost childish in the dark wood. "Say, 'I have kept my promise, and I have come to claim yours.' You will not find me cold. " He turned away to hide his face from her. "Am I worth it?" "You know you are." "Why, then, your way should be easy. Is it hard to be given a pleasant duty?" " If you will not have me, I shall leave the church. I shall go to the bad," he said passionately. " Will you, if I have to refuse you ? " "Yes, I know I shall. There will be nothing to live for." "Except one girl," she said sorrowfully. "Everything thrown away because one girl remembers she has her being to think of. This is not learning the lesson.'' " You would not be the ruin of me ? " " You are cruel to say that. If I married you now, I could not prevent you from ruining yourself; and if I married you next year, I still could not prevent you." "I should never give way if I had you always with me,'' he cried. " I am always with you." " It is not enough. I want to see you." " Is memory nothing ? " " It is not enough. When my head is bad, if you were only there to place yoiir hand upon my forehead." " Would it help you if I let you write to me ? " "A little." "Only a little?" " If I could see you in the room, follow your movements, hear you speaking " About the Lie 329 " You would not ? " " I should not be afraid." Edith drew herself up, for she saw the enemy. " It sounds as if you were yielding,'' she said. "The temptation has come again. Well, of course, you simply get up and say, ' How fine it is to be strong and able to resist ' " " Yes," he said eagerly. " Yes, I do." " It comes again ? " " It keeps on coming." "That shows you have been half-hearted," but Edith's voice shook a little, and she began to ask herself questions. Liars the villagers were, but they were also fools, and invented little; they simply imputed a bad motive and gave an ugly twist to "every deed of innocence. The anonymous coward who had informed her about Gerard might possibly have built some lie upon the truth. " You can only be afraid of a thing which is stronger than you are," she went on. "I try my hardest," he cried. "You don't know how hard it has been. You do believe me ? " " I trust you. I am sure you would not deceive me. Why will you turn your back upon me ? " "I feel, I am always feeling, I cannot make myself worthy of you." Edith came towards him. Somehow they had managed to place between them what had once been a wall, but a long time ago, for nothing was left except a few stones covered with moss. Gerard could have stepped across it, but he shrank back ; and the old ruin of the wall divided them ; and Edith put out her hand and touched him. "Are you sure," she said earnestly, "are you quite sure that you have not in the smallest sense broken thd vow that you made to me ? " she said, still in the clear, almost childish voice, wonderfully pathetic. " Remember you are dealing with my life as well as with your own. If you are going down, you would drag me too. If your future looks hopeless spiritually, you 330 Granite must not darken mine. Tell me truly now — perhaps you answered too quickly when I asked before — tell me, is there a grain of truth, is there any possible ground for the report that you have — you have been drinking ? " Could he answer that? Could he in the place of truth answer the girl whom he loved with a lie and bring her down with him? Could he drop from his mouth that loathsome word again ? At such a moment calm thought was impossible. To answer with the truth meant losing her altogether, for Edith would never depart from her word. To answer with a lie, if it was possible, meant keeping her, winning her in the end; for he would not fall again, he would refuse; there was plenty of time and still a chance, and Vivian would not betray him. Gerard saw that. To answer with a lie meant also certain and ultimate misery to them both, and that he did not see. Once he looked up, saw a delicate face and those dark eyes suffering for him, he thought, not because of him. Possibly he did not know what he was doing ; her hand was upon his arm, and it seemed to hold, to ask him to stay, desiring to keep him, seeming to say, " I cannot let you go. Even if you are wicked, I love you ; I must keep you ; I can make you strong." In an instant everything seemed to pass by, all the evil deeds that had ever convulsed the world went sweeping through the gorge, and the leaves whispered in suppressed admiration. One deed made another, one life made another, one lie made another, and so on for ever ; but a man must never look back. There was always a chance ahead; if a battle was lost, the issue still remained in doubt, the war was not over, victory might come at last. So he lied. CHAPTER XX ABOUT THE DAY It was night, and a dark figure came along the cart-track which ran beside a nameless brook. Figure and brook passed down together, and both made a noise as they went over the stones. Mark it was, and upon reaching the plats he turned, stopped beside what might have been taken for a stable, and pushed his head in. A roar received him, then a rock was thrown ; but Mark forced the crazy boards back, went in, and the face of Job Lithern became a smile of magnitude. There was some bond of unity between him and the Yeos, and he was fond of Mark. He had thrown the rock in terror when he saw that face. " You didn't know me," said Mark. " It's no wonder, for I don't know myself." Job bellowed a welcome. On one side of the miserable shed was his cart, and he was sitting in it near a yellow lantern ; he had been watching the queer shadows, for his eyes were good, and thinking, for his memory was keen. He saw granite rocks and thought in them ; he reckoned every man by his capacity for splitting, shaping, and heaving, and he was thinking of the mass he was going to move that autumn ; and the thought was a pleasure, because it was not work, but going to warfare, and that big mass which loomed up in the night outside represented the next campaign. What Job tried to say was this: "You look frightened. You have been running. Is there anyone outside after you ? I will take my hammer and go out to him " ; but all that came from his throat was a noise that seemed to make the place shiver. 331 332 Granite "I wanted to speak to someone who couldn't hear me, and I remembered you," said Mark. " I can say what I like to you, because you are deaf, and you can hardly see my lips moving in this light. Your name is Job, and it's a good name. I can talk to you in your own whirlwind. " Job, too, had a story to tell about his life, and the rocks which were left, and the walls he had built ; so he too shouted parables. " We knew each other before the accident which knocked the hearing out of you," Mark went on. "I used to run about with you, and throw snowballs at you sometimes. You were always a kind fellow. The end is coming, Job. To-night I am frightened. It's a glorious night on the moor, hardly a sound and no wind, with just enough light to bring out the flat rocks like tombstones, and enough water coming along to tell the weather. I went out to think for a bit, as to-morrow I've got to see the one creature that I hate, and settle the day when I am to marry her. I am making my confession to you. Job. I want the end to come, but I'm afraid of it. I have been a natural coward all my life, although nobody has suspected it, for I have fought against the weakness and knocked it under; but it's there. I'm afraid of every man. Job. It's an agony to me to stand up and face another ; but I do it somehow, for I chip bits of strength off the granite as I go about, and use 'em when the time comes. " That's one thing, and another is, I'm a blasphemer. Some- thing buzzes about me and makes me curse my old father, my religion, everything I believe in and try to believe in. Those who call me Mark the Methodist don't know what I say to myself. When I stand up in Church Beer, I have it in my mind to preach a devil's sermon, to encourage every form of vice, damn all religion, but I can't do it, Job. Something else is there, something stronger than myself, and it puts other words in my mouth. I speak them, and am hated when I want to lie and be liked." Job was roaring away, enjoying the good company, and About the Day 333 laughing at the thoughts of his own imagination. With his great noise he exaggerated and sought to explain that the rock he was about to attack was as large as Fursdon Church. " You don't know what this life is. A viper might know, if it had a human mind ; for when he puts his head out he gets trodden on. One year has gone, but there are not four more. There is not one. That is why I am running to-night, frightened by my own blasphemous self. This is as far as I have gone. Job. I hold meetings in Church Beer which are generally broken up. In every village I visit I speak from the cart. People listen ; some laugh, others throw stones ; but most are indifferent. Sometimes I speak in the chapels, but I only succeed in offending everyone, because I say what I hold to be true. I have the people against me and the gentry against me. Squire Vivian gives me money, then urges his men to go and listen to me, for he is sure they will be amused. To him I am a performing bear. The rector meets me and says plainly he shall apply for a summons to restrain me from inciting the people to destroy property. To him I am an anarchist. To-day I hear a plot is hatching to get rid of me. I know what that means. They won't use violence. They will simply make my life unendurable. I shall have to leave old Wreford. If I don't, his cart will be destroyed, or his pony maimed ; and if I go home to Freezabeer my father will miss his tools, windows will be broken. I can't keep the curse to myself. I have to communicate it to others, like a disease. But I'm not going yet. Job. I'll do something. There are two I'm going to bid for, and I've sworn to have them — sworn it with curses, I daresay. I'm going to have the worst girl and the worst drunkard in this parish. I'm going to drag them out somehow. I'm going to have Patience and Joseph Boone. I'll win them before I go." Job had ceased his noise. He was huddled in the cart, which was his bed, staring at Mark, and he picked up the lantern and warmed his face against it. " You can't hear me, Job. You don't know much about 334 Granite love, and perhaps I don't either. We are only beasts, and we feel. It was not until I felt — call it love. Job— that I began to blaspheme, for that was the stone which hit me. Is it hard to marry a girl that you must hate if you don't love vice, when your heart and your soul and your mind are poured out upon another, just as the river pours over the rock ? Now I have told you. I'm a coward and a blasphemer, and I'm going to marry a wench who has never a clean thought — and I'm done for. Job. That's what I wanted to confess to someone who couldn't hear me, and that's why I was running to-night, looking for a place to hide myself. It was the terror of the end, the knowledge that I can't get away from the end ; and I saw it. Job. It came rolling across the moor, big and dark like a wounded beast, with a great red hole in its side — and I ran from it." Job began to bellow again, but in a different fashion. He had used his eyes, and could guess that Mark was talking darkly, and something within was warning him he could not be always a hewer of rocks, and an end would come also for him ; and this is what he would have said — " You are talking about unpleasant things. You ought to work with your father and help him clear the plats and do a man's work, and then you would be happy all the days of your life." Mark went to the side of the cart and held the strange creature's hand and shook it, saying, "Good-bye, old Job Lithern. We may not meet again. They call you a savage, but if every man was like you, I should be taking my ease at home." Then he went out, but Job was after him, the lantern swinging from his hand, and he would not leave Mark until he had lighted him across to the well-worn track. " He and my good bishop," Mark said, " are the only two men who have offered me a light when the way was dark." The next morning Mark went along Love Lane, passing the empty cott^e of Blue Violet, the wet wood-stack and the About the Day 335 melancholy pump. It was the silent time of year, when the birds did not sing, but sat puffed out upon the branches taking stock of berries, and the brown squirrels were bustling to their holes with nuts. Birch-trees grew from either hedge, and their twigs met in a marvellous tangle and were bound together with barbed brambles. Half-way to the farm was a gate, serving no obvious purpose, and as Mark swung it open, he saw, huddled beneath the arched roots of an oak, what appeared to be a bundle of feathers. It was the dead body of the old stag-turkey. " I believe he was glad to die," said Mark. He dragged the body out with gentle hands, surprised at its lightness, for, now that life was gone, there was little left but feathers. The bird had starved itself to death. That was the idea which came to Mark as he felt the old sharp bones. Hating the farmyard world, ^nd weary of its Hfe, that portion of mind allotted to the bird bade it go and hide beneath the ferns, away from the racketing of hens and the vulgar tussle for grain, and there to die like an old Stoic, preferring suicide to surrender. " I believe he knew," said Mark, as he walked on, carrying the bundle of feathers, " that Barseba meant to kill him, and rather than shame himself he died." A smother of smoke was over the farm and pouring from the door where Barseba looked out to get some air. Seeing Mark, she came across the court, and he placed the dead body at her feet that she might pronounce an epitaph. " So the old toad be dead," she said, kicking the feathers and finding no profit in them. " He wur no gude, and he hated I. Birds and beasts be born to du their duty. He don't leave no young ones. He never had none," she said disdainfully. '' I'll get my spade and till mun into the garden. He wur no gude while he lived, but he'll mak' manure now he'm dead." " How is the master ? " said Mark. " Be 'em telling about he ? " asked Barseba, pushing the blackened hair from her eyes with grimy fingers. 336 Granite " He wrote to me and said he was in terror of his hfe." "He'm witched," said Barseba. "That's how it be. He walks under the hedges wi' his gun, and he don't mind how he shoots. Birds and rabbuts, they'm all alike to he. He fancies there be volk around to rob him." "You know what he has up yonder?" said Mark, nodding to the old barn. " Aw, them bukes," said Barseba tremulously. "Nothing else?" " Nought that I knows on." "Money?" / " My dear soul, master ain't got ia penny. Can't hardly find the rent, he ses. Money ! I wish ^e had, vor I ha' worked and worked," said Barseba. " See they old hands, my dear. Be 'em the hands of an old womlan whose master ha' got money put away ? " ', " Why is he afraid of being robbed ? " Mark asked, hoping he might open the eyes of this simple old woman. " 'Tis the witchery on mun. Yew minds the day when yew brought Patty down along, and heir throwed the bellows on the table — God forgive she, vor I wun't ? Master ha' been mazed since then, he ain't hardly spoke to me, and he'm alius in the barn or scrattling about the hedges. I b'aint lamed," cried Barseba, " and I be thankful I b'aint, vor 'tis a sure thing volk go to the bad when 'em lams figures. I knows one thing, Mark, I knows witchery be got by bukes, vor I seed a witch's buke when I wur a young maid, and he wur vuU o' black writing. There be only one buke what b'ain't bad, and I takes he to bed wi' me to keep the witches out. So I ses to myself, ' 'Tis they bukes what be witching master, and 'tis they bukes what made Patty so bad.' I be burning 'em," said Barseba shrilly. " I burns a few every day. When master be scrattling under the hedges I goes into the barn and fills my apron. I be burning 'em now. Aw, my dear, I can vair hear they witches scream as the smoke goes up the chimney. " " Does he miss them ? " said Mark. About the Day 337 " Well, I reckon he du. He don't sot no value on 'em, but he fancies volk be getting into the barn to rob 'en. That be the witchery, my dear. When the bukes be all burnt master will be free again. But he wun't get free till I gets hold o' they two what George Vid took away. Yew minds 'em, the two master gave to yew, and George wouldn't let yew tak' 'em ? I reckons they be the baddest and blackest o' the lot. They wur vuU o' black writing, both of 'em. I wun't get easy in my mind till I ha' burnt they two.'' " One was the Pilgrim's Progress ; but it was very old and dirty," said Mark. " I don't think that book could hurt the master." " There wur awful writing in him,'' said Barseba. " Yef-w . J larned and knows how to beat the witchery, Mark, but y?s don't know. When I sees black writing, I ses, ' Put himi^n the fire. If he b'ain't witchery he b'ain't wanted, and if he^oe witchery fire be a brave cure.' God made one buke, J^ark, and the devil made the rest." ^ " Shall I go and see the master ? " said l^ark, knowing that all the wise arguments in the world wo'/ild not shake the opinions of Barseba. a " Best not. Let mun bide. He'm pfeaceful now, and if he sees yew he'll get mazed and be ups^t all day. Wait till all the bukes be burnt. There be awfjful wicked pictures in some of 'em," she muttered. / Mark hesitated, until, seeing that marseba was anxious to tackle the work, he said quietly, " I'm j^oing now to have a talk with Patience." I " I don't want to hear anything afbout she," cried the old woman. / " She is your daughter." / " Her b'ain't now." "There is Temperance," he said, ar"