There came an evening in mid-September when Will sat at the open hearth and smoked, with his eyes fixed on a fire of scads.[13] He remained very silent, and Phoebe, busy about a small coat of red cloth, to keep the cold from her little son's bones during the coming winter, knew that it was not one of her husband's happiest evenings. His eyes were looking through the fire and the wall behind it, through the wastes and wildernesses beyond, through the granite hills to the far-away edge of the world, where Fate sat spinning the threads of the lives of his loved ones. Threads they looked, in his gloomy survey of that night, much deformed with knot and tangle, for the Spinner cared nothing at all about them. She suffered each to wind heedlessly away; she minded not that they were ugly; she spared no strand of gold or silver from her skein of human happiness to brighten the grey fabric of them. So it seemed to Will, and his temper chimed with the rough night. The wind howled and growled down the chimney, uttered many a sudden yell and ghostly moan, struck with claws invisible at the glowing heart of the peat fire, and sent red sparks dancing from a corona of faint blue flame.

[13] _Scad_ = the outer rind of the peat, with ling and gra.s.s still adhering to it.

"Winter's comin' quick," said Phoebe, biting her thread.

"Ess, winter's allus comin' up here. The fight begins again so soon as ever 't is awver--again and again and again, 'cordin' to the workin'

years of a man's life. Then he turns on his back for gude an' all, an'

takes his rest, wheer theer's no more seasons, nor frost, nor sunshine, in the world under."

"You'm glumpy, dear heart. What's amiss? What's crossed 'e? Tell me, an'

I lay I'll find a word to smooth it away. Nothin' contrary happened to market?"

"No, no--awnly my nature. When the wind's spelling winter in the chimbley, an' the yether's dead again, 't is wisht lookin' forrard. The airth 's allus dyin', an' the life of her be that short, an' grubbing of bare food an' rent out of her is sour work after many years. Thank G.o.d I'm a hopeful, far-seem' chap, an' sound as a bell; but I doan't make money for all my sweat, that's the mystery."

"You will some day. Luck be gwaine to turn 'fore long, I hope. An' us have got what's better 'n money, what caan't be bought."

"The li'l bwoy?"

"Aye; if us hadn't nothin' but him, theer's many would envy our lot."

"Childer's no such gert blessin', neither."

"Will! How can you say it?"

"I do say it. We 'm awnly used to keep up the breed, then thrawed o' wan side. I'm sick o' men an' women folks. Theer's too many of 'em."

"But childer--our li'l Will. The moosic of un be sweeter than song o'

birds all times, an' you'd be fust to say so if you wasn't out of yourself."

"He 'm a braave, small lad enough; but theer again! Why should he have been pitched into this here home? He might have been put in a palace just as easy, an' born of a royal queen mother, 'stead o' you; he might have opened his eyes 'pon marble walls an' jewels an' precious stones, 'stead of whitewash an' a peat fire. Be that baaby gwaine to thank us for bringing him in the world, come he graw up? Not him! Why should he?"

"But he will. We 'm his faither an' mother. Do 'e love your mother less for bearin' you in a gypsy van? Li'l Will's to pay us n.o.ble for all our toil some day, an' be a joy to our grey hairs an' a prop to our auld age, please G.o.d."

"Ha, ha!--story-books! Gi' me a cup o' milk; then us'll go to bed."

She obeyed; he piled turf upon the hearth, to keep the fire alight until morning, then took up the candle and followed Phoebe through another chamber, half-scullery, half-storehouse, into which descended the staircase from above. Here hung the pale carcase of a newly slain pig, suspended by its hind legs from a loop in the ceiling; and Phoebe, many of whose little delicacies of manner had vanished of late, patted the carcase lovingly, like the good farmer's wife she was.

"Wish theer was more so big in the sties," she said.

Arrived at her bedside, the woman prayed before sinking to rest within reach of her child's cot; while Will, troubling Heaven with no pet.i.tion or thanksgiving, was in bed five minutes sooner than his wife.

"Gude-night, lad," said Phoebe, as she put the candle out, but her husband only returned an inarticulate grunt for answer, being already within the portal of sleep.

A fair morning followed on the tempestuous night, and Winter, who had surely whispered her coming under the darkness, vanished again at dawn.

The Moor still provided forage, but all light was gone out of the heather, though the standing fern shone yellow under the sun, and the rec.u.mbent bracken shed a rich russet in broad patches over the dewy green where Will had chopped it down and left it to dry for winter fodder. He was very late this year in stacking the fern, and designed that labour for his morning's occupation.

Ted Chown chanced to be away for a week's holiday, so Will entered his farmyard early. The variable weather of his mind rarely stood for long at storm, but, unlike the morning, he had awakened in no happy mood.

A child's voice served for a time to smooth his brow, now clouded from survey of a broken spring in his market-cart; then came the lesser Will with a small china mug for his morning drink. Phoebe watched him st.u.r.dily tramp across the yard, and the greater Will laughed to see his son's alarm before the sudden stampede of a belated heifer, which now hastened through the open gate to join its companions on the hillside.

"Cooshey, cooshey won't hurt 'e, my li'l bud!" cried Phoebe, as Ship jumped and barked at the lumbering beast. Then the child doubled round a dung-heap and fled to his father's arms. From the byre a cow with a full udder softly lowed, and now small Will had a cup of warm milk; then, with his red mouth like a rosebud in mist and his father's smile magically and laughably reproduced upon his little face, he trotted back to his mother.

A moment later Will, still milking, heard himself loudly called from the gate. The voice he knew well enough, but it was pitched unusually high, and denoted a condition of excitement and impatience very seldom to be met with in its possessor. Martin Grimbal, for it was he, did not observe Blanchard, as the farmer emerged from the byre. His eye was bent in startled and critical scrutiny of a granite post, to which the front gate of Newtake latched, and he continued shouting aloud until Will stood beside him. Then he appeared on his hands and knees beside the gate-post. He had flung down his stick and satchel; his mouth was slightly open; his cap rested on the side of his head; his face seemed transfigured before some overwhelming discovery.

Relations were still strained between these men; and Will did not forget the fact, though it had evidently escaped Martin in his present excitement.

"What the deuce be doin' now?" asked Blanchard abruptly.

"Man alive! A marvel! Look here--to think I have pa.s.sed this stone a hundred times and never noticed!"

He rose, brushed his muddy knees, still gazing at the gate-post, then took a trowel from his bag and began to cut away the turf about the base of it.

"Let that bide!" called out the master sharply. "What be 'bout, delving theer?"

"I forgot you didn't know. I was coming to see you on my way to the Moor. I wanted a drink and a handshake. We mustn't be enemies, and I'm heartily sorry for what I said--heartily. But here's a fitting object to build new friendship on. I just caught sight of the incisions through a fortunate gleam of early morning light. Come this side and see for yourself. To think you had what a moorman would reckon good fortune at your gate and never guessed it!"

"Fortune at my gate? Wheer to? I aint heard nothin' of it."

"Here, man, here! D' you see this post?"

"Not bein' blind, I do."

"Yet you were blind, and so was I. There 's excuse for you--none for me.

It's a cross! Yes, a priceless old Christian cross, buried here head downward by some profane soul in the distant past, who found it of size and shape to make a gate-post. They are common enough in Cornwall, but very rare in Devon. It's a great--a remarkable discovery in fact, and I'm right glad I found it on your threshold; for we may be friends again beside this symbol fittingly enough--eh, Will?"

"Bother your rot," answered the other coldly, and quite unimpa.s.sioned before Martin's eloquence. "You doubted my judgment not long since and said hard things and bad things; now I take leave to doubt yours. How do 'e knaw this here 's a cross any more than t' other post the gate hangs on?"

Martin, recalled to reality and the presence of a man till then unfriendly, blushed and shrank into himself a little. His voice showed that he suffered pain.

"I read granite as you read sheep and soil and a crop ripening above ground or below--it's my business," he explained, not without constraint, while the enthusiasm died away out of his voice and the fire from his face. "See now, Will, try and follow me. Note these very faint lines, where the green moss takes the place of the lichen. These are fretted grooves--you can trace them to the earth, and on a 'rubbing,' as we call it, they would be plainer still. They indicate to me incisions down the sides of a cross-shaft. They are all that many years of weathering have left. Look at the shape too: the stone grows slightly thinner every way towards the ground. What is hidden we can't say yet, but I pray that the arms may be at least still indicated. You see it is the base sticking into the air, and more's the pity, a part has gone, for I can trace the incisions to the top. G.o.d knows the past history of it, but--"

"Perhaps He do and perhaps He doan't," interrupted the farmer. "Perhaps it weer a cross an' perhaps it weern't; anyway it's my gate-post now, an' as to diggin' it up, you may be surprised to knaw it, Martin Grimbal, but I'll see you d.a.m.ned fust! I'm weary of all this bunk.u.m 'bout auld stones an' circles an' the rest; I'm sick an' tired o'

leavin' my work a hunderd times in summer months to shaw gaping fules from Lunnon an' Lard knaws wheer, them roundy-poundies 'pon my land.

'Tis all rot, as every moorman knaws; yet you an' such as you screams if us dares to put a finger to the stone nowadays. Ban't the granite ours under Venwell? You knaw it is; an' because dead-an'-gone folk, half-monkeys belike, fashioned their homes an' holes out of it, be that any cause why it shouldn't be handled to-day? They've had their use of it; now 'tis our turn; an 'tis awnly such as you be, as comes here in shining summer, when the land puts on a lying faace, as though it didn't knaw weather an' winter--'tis awnly such as you must cry out against us of the soil if we dares to set wan stone 'pon another to make a wall or to keep the blasted rabbits out the young wheat."

"Your att.i.tude is one-sided, Will," said Martin Grimbal gently; "besides, remember this is a cross. We're dealing with a relic of our faith, take my word for it."

"Faith be d.a.m.ned! What's a cross to me? 'Tisdoin' more gude wheer't is than ever it done afore, I'll swear."

"I hope you'll live to see you're wrong, Blanchard. I've met you in an evil hour it seems. You're not yourself. Think about it. There's no hurry. You pride yourself on your common sense as a rule. I'm sure it will come to your rescue. Granted this discovery is nothing to you, yet think what it means to me. If I'd found a diamond mine I couldn't be better pleased--not half so pleased as now."

Will reflected a moment; but the other had not knowledge of character to observe or realise that he was slowly becoming reasonable.

"So I do pride myself on my common sense, an' I've some right to. A cross is a cross--I allow that--and whatever I may think, I ban't so small-minded as to fall foul of them as think differ'nt. My awn mother be a church-goer for that matter, an' you'll look far ways for her equal. But of coourse I knaw what I knaw. Me an' Hicks talked out matters of religion so dry as chaff."

"Yet a cross means much to many, and always will while the land continues to call itself Christian."