"They was flam-new when first my parents married and comed to Newtake, many a year ago; and now I want 'em to go back theer. They've seed three generations, an' I'd be well pleased that a fourth should kick its li'l boots out against them. They 'm stout enough yet. Sweat went to building of chairs an' tables in them days; now it's steam. Besides, 'twill save Will's pocket a tidy bit."

Chris, however, though she could deny Will nothing, was divided here, for why should her mother part from those trifles which contributed to the ample adornment of her cottage? Certain stout horsehair furniture and a piano were the objects Mrs. Blanchard chiefly desired should go to Newtake. The piano, indeed, had never been there before. It was a present to Damaris from her dead husband, who purchased the instrument second-hand for five pounds at a farm sale. Its wiry jingle spoke of evolution from harpsichord or spinet to the modern instrument; its yellow keys, from which the ivory in some cases was missing, and its high back, stained silk front, and fretted veneer indicated age; while above the keyboard a label, now growing indistinct, set forth that one "William Harper, of Red Lion Street, Maker of piano-fortes to his late Majesty" was responsible for the instrument very early in the century.

Now Will joined the discussion, but his mother would take no denial.

"These chairs and sofa be yours, and the piano's my present to Phoebe.

She'll play to you of a Sunday afternoon belike."

"An' it's here she'll do it; for my Sundays'll be spent along with you, of coourse, 'cept when you comes up to my farm to spend 'em. That's what I hope'll fall out; an' I want to see Miller theer, tu, after he've found I'm right and he'm wrong."

But the event proved that, even in his new capacity as a man of money and a landholder, Will was not to win much ground with Mr. Lyddon. Two circ.u.mstances contributed to the continued conflict, and just as Phoebe was congratulating herself and others upon the increasing amity between her father and her husband matters fell out which caused the miller to give up all hope of Will for the hundredth time. First came the occupancy of Newtake at a rent Mr. Lyddon considered excessive; and then followed a circ.u.mstance that touched the miller himself, for, by the offer of two shillings more a week than he received at Monks Barton, Will tempted into his service a labourer held in great esteem by his father-in-law.

Sam Bonus appeared the incarnation of red Devon earth, built up on solid beef and mutton. His tanned face was framed in crisp black hair that no razor had ever touched; his eyes were deep-set and bright; his narrow brow was wrinkled, not with thought, but as the ape's. A remarkably tall and powerful frame supported Sam's little head. He laboured like a horse and gave as little trouble, triumphed in feats of brute strength, laughed at a day's work, never knew ache or pain. He had always greatly admired Blanchard, and, faced with the tempting bait of a florin a week more than his present wage, abandoned Monks Barton and readily followed Will to the Moor. His defection was greatly deplored, and though Will told Mr. Blee what he intended beforehand, and made no secret of his design to secure Sam if possible, Billy discredited the information until too late. Then the miller heard of his loss, and, not unnaturally, took the business ill.

"Gormed if it ban't open robbery!" declared Mr. Blee, as he sat and discussed the matter with his master one evening, "an' the thankless, ill-convenient twoad to go to Blanchard, of all men!"

"He'll be out of work again soon enough. And he needn't come back to me when he is. I won't take him on no more."

"'Twould be contrary to human nature if you did."

"Human nature!" snapped the miller, with extreme irritation. "'Twould puzzle Solomon to say what's come over human nature of late days."

"'Tis a nut wi' a maggot in it," mused Billy: "three parts rotten, the rest sweet. An' all owing to fantastic inventions an' new ways of believin' in G.o.d wi'out church-gwaine, as parson said Sunday. Such things do certainly Play h.e.l.l with human nature, in a manner o'

speakin'. I reckon the uprising men an' women's wickeder than us, as sucked our mothers in quieter times afore the railroads."

"Bonus is such a fule!" said Mr. Lyddon, harking back to his loss. "Yet I thought he belonged to the gude old-fashioned sort."

"I told un he was out in his reckoning, that he'd be left in the cold bimebye, so sure as Blanchard was Blanchard and Newtake was Newtake; but he awnly girned his gert, ear-wide girn, an' said he knawed better."

"To think of more gude money bein' buried up theer! You've heard my view of all ground wi' granite under it. Such a deal ought to have been done wi' that thousand pound."

"Oughts are noughts, onless they've strokes to 'em," declared Billy.

"'Tis a poor lookout, for he'm the sort as buys experience in the hardest market. Then, when it's got, he'll be a pauper man, with what he knaws useless for want o' what's spent gettin' it. Theer's the thought o' Miss Phoebe, tu,--Mrs. Blanchard, I should say. Caan't see her biding up to Newtake nohow, come the hard weather."

"'Wedlock an' winter tames maids an' beastes,'" said Mr. Lyddon bitterly. "A true saw that."

"Ess; an' when 'tis wedlock wi' Blanchard, an' winter on Dartymoor, 'twould tame the daughter of the Dowl, if he had wan."

Billy laughed at this thought. His back rounded as he sat in his chair, his head seemed to rise off his lower jaw, and the yellow frill of hair under his chin stood stiffly out.

"He's my son-in-law; you 'pear to forget that, Blee," said Mr. Lyddon; "I'm sure I wish I could, if 'twas even now an' again."

Thereupon Billy straightened his face and cast both rancour and merriment to the winds.

"Why, so he be; an' grey hairs should allus make allowance for the young youths; though I ain't forgot that spadeful o' muck yet, an' never shall. But theer's poison in bwoy's blood what awnly works out of the brain come forty. I'm sure I wish nothing but well to un. He's got his saving graces, same as all of us, if we could but see 'em; an' come what may, G.o.d looks arter His awn chosen fules, so theer's hope even for Blanchard." "Cold consolation," said Mr. Lyddon wearily; "but't is all we've got. Two nights since I dreamt I saw un starvin' on a dunghill. 'T was a parable, I judge, an' meant Newtake Farm."

CHAPTER IV

DEFEATED HOPES

Below Newtake Farm the river Teign wound, with many a foaming fall and singing rapid, to confluence with her twin sister in the valley beneath.

Here, at a certain spot, above the forest and beneath the farm, stood Martin Grimbal on a bright afternoon in May. Over his head rose a rowan, in a soft cloud of serrated foliage, with cl.u.s.ters of grey-green flower buds already foretelling the crimson to come; about his feet a silver army of uncurling fronds brightened the earth and softened the sharp edges of the boulders scattered down the coomb. Here the lover waited to the music of a cuckoo, and his eyes ever turned towards a stile at the edge of the pine woods, two hundred yards distant from him.

The hour was one of tremendous possibilities, because Fate had been occupied with Martin through many days, and now he stood on the brink of great joy or sorrow. Clement Hicks had never spoken to him. During his quarrel with Chris, which lasted a fortnight, the bee-keeper purposely abstained from doing her bidding, while after their reconciliation every other matter in the world was swallowed up for a time in the delight of renewed love-making. The girl, a.s.suming throughout these long weeks that Martin now knew all, had met him in frank and kindly spirit on those occasions when he planned to enjoy her society, and this open warmth awoke renewed heart for Grimbal, who into her genial friendship read promise and from it recruited hope. His love now dominated his spiritual being and filled his life. Grey granite was grey granite only, and no more. During his long walks by pillar-stone, remote row, and lonely circle, Chris, and Chris alone, occupied his brain. He debated the advisability of approaching Will, then turned rather to the thought of sounding Mrs. Blanchard, and finally nerved himself to right action and determined to address Chris. He felt this present heart-shaking suspense must be laid at rest, for the peace of his soul, and therefore he took his courage in his hands and faced the ordeal.

That day Chris was going up to Newtake. She had not yet settled there, though her brother and Sam Bonus were already upon the ground, but the girl came and went, busying her fingers with a hundred small matters that daily increased the comfort of the little farm. Her way lay usually by the coomb, and Martin, having learned that she was visiting Will on the occasion in question, set out before her and awaited her here, beside the river, in a lonely spot between the moorland above and the forest below. He felt physically nervous, yet hope brightened his mind, though he tried to strangle it. Worn and weary with his long struggle, he paced up and down, now looking to the stile, now casting dissatisfied glances upon his own person. Shaving with more than usual care, he had cut his chin deeply, and, though he knew it not, the wound had bled again since he left home and ruined both his collar and a new tie, put on for the occasion.

Presently he saw her. A sunbonnet bobbed at the stile and Chris appeared, bearing a roll of chintz for Newtake blinds. In her other hand she carried half a dozen bluebells from the woods, and she came with the free gait acquired in keeping stride through long tramps with Will when yet her frocks were short. Martin loved her characteristic speed in walking. So Diana doubtless moved. The spring sunshine had found Chris and the clear, soft brown of her cheek was the most beautiful thing in nature to the antiquary. He knew her face so well now: the dainty poise of her head, the light of her eyes, the dark curls that always cl.u.s.tered in the same places, the little updrawing at the corner of her mouth as she smiled, the sudden gleam of her teeth when she laughed, and the abrupt transitions of her expression from repose to gladness, from gladness back again into repose.

She saw the man before she reached him, and waved her bluebells to show that she had done so. Then he rose from his granite seat and took off his hat and stood with it off, while his heart thundered, his eye watered, and his mouth twitched. But he was outwardly calm by the time Chris reached him.

"What a surprise to find 'e here, Martin! Yet not much, neither, for wheer the auld stones be, theer you 'm to be expected."

"How are you, Chris? But I needn't ask. Yes, I'm fond of the stones."

"Well you may be. They talk to 'e like friends, seemingly. An' even I knaw a sight more 'bout 'em now. You've made me feel so differ'nt to 'em, you caan't think."

"For that matter," he answered, leaping at the chance, "you've made me feel different to them."

"Why, how could I, Martin?"

"I'll tell you. Would you mind sitting down here, just for a moment? I won't keep you. I've no right to ask for a minute of your time; but there's dry moss upon it--I mean the stone; and I was waiting on purpose, if you'll forgive me for waylaying you like this. There's a little thing--a big thing, I mean--the biggest--too big for words almost, yet it wants words--and yet sometimes it doesn't--at least--I--would you sit here?"

He was breathing rather hard, and his words were tripping. Managing his voice ill, the tones of it ran away from ba.s.s to shrill treble. She saw it all at a glance, and realised that Martin had been blundering on, in pure ignorance and pure love, all these weary weeks. She sat down silently and her mind moved like light along the wide gamut of fifty emotions in a second. Anger and sorrow strove together,--anger with Clem and his callous, cynic silence, sorrow for the panting wretch before her. Chris opened her mouth to speak, then realised where her flying thoughts had taken her and that, as yet, Martin Grimbal had said nothing. Her unmaidenly att.i.tude and the sudden reflection that she was about to refuse one before he had asked her, awoke a hysteric inclination to laugh, then a longing to cry. But all the anxious-visaged man before her noted was a blush that waved like auroral light from the girl's neck to her cheek, from her cheek to her forehead. That he saw, and thought it was love, and thanked the Lord in his clumsy fashion aloud.

"G.o.d be praised! I do think you guess--I do think you guess! But oh, my dear, my dear, you don't know what 's in my heart for you. My little pearl of a Chris, can you care for such a bear of a man? Can you let me labour all my life long to make your days good to you? I love you so--I do. I never thought when the moment came I should find tongue to speak it, but I have; and now I could say it fifty thousand times. I'd just be proud to tie your shoe-string, Chris, my dear, and be your old slave and--Chris! my Chris! I've hurt you; I've made you cry! Was I--was I all wrong? Don't, don't--I'll go--Oh, my darling one, G.o.d knows I wouldn't--"

He broke off blankly and stood half sorrowful, half joyous. He knew he had no right as yet to go to the comfort of the girl now sobbing beside him, but hope was not dead. And Chris, overcome by this outpouring of love, now suffered very deep sorrow, while she turned away from him and hid her face and wept. The poor distracted fool still failed to guess the truth, for he knew tint tears are the outcome of happiness as well as misery. He waited, open-mouthed, he murmured something--G.o.d knows what--then he went close and thought to touch her waist, but feared and laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Don't 'e!" she said; and he began to understand and to struggle with himself to lessen her difficulty.

"Forgive me--forgive me if you can, Chris. Was I all wrong? Then I ought to have known better--but even an old stick like me--before you, Chris.

Somehow I--but don't cry. I wouldn't have brought the tears to your eyes for all the world--dense idiot I am--"

"No, no, no; no such thing 't all, Martin. 'Tis I was cruel not to see you didn't knaw. You've been treated ill, an' I'm cryin' that such a gude--gude, braave, big-hearted man as you, should be brought to this for a fule of a gal like me. I ban't worthy a handshake from 'e, or a kind word. An'--an'--Clem Hicks--Clem be tokened to me these two year an' more. He'm the best man in the world; an' I hate un for not tellin'

'e--an'--an'--"

Chris sobbed herself to the end of her tears; and the man took his trial--like a man. His only thought was the sadness his blunder had brought with it for her. To misread her blush seemed in his humility a crime. His consistent unselfishness blinded him, for an instant at least, to his own grief. He blamed himself and asked pardon and prepared to get away out of her sight as soon as possible.

"Forgive me, Chris--I needn't ask you twice, I know--such a stupid thing--I didn't understand--I never observed: but more shame to me. I ought to have seen, of course. Anybody else would--any man of proper feeling."

"How could 'e see it with a secret chap like him? He ought to have told 'e; I bid un speak months since; an' I thought he had; an' I hate un for not doing it!"

"But you mustn't. Don't cry any more, and forget all about it. I could almost laugh to think how blind I've been. We'll both laugh next time we meet. If you're happy, then I'll laugh always. That's all I care for.

Now I know you're happy again, I'm happy, too, Chris--honour bright.