"You glumpy auld Dowl!" growled a labouring man.

"All right, all right. You just wait, all of 'e! Wheer's the man? How much longer be I to bide his pleasure? March! d.a.m.n it all! be the Law a laughing-stock?" The Inspector was growing very hot and excited.

"He's gone," said Phoebe, as Mr. Lamacraft entered the farm, put one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, then turned for further orders.

"He's gone, before light. He rested two hours or so, then us harnessed the trap an' he drove away to Moreton to take fust train to Plymouth by way o' Newton Abbot. An' he said as Ted Chown was to go in arter breakfast an' drive the trap home."

"Couldn't tell me nothin' as had pleased me better," said the miller.

"'T is a weight off me--an' off him I reckon. Now you 'm answered, my son; you can telegraph back as you corned wi' your auld handcuffs tu late by hours, an' that the man's on his way to give hisself up."

"I've only got your word for it."

"An' what better word should 'e have?" piped Billy, who in the s.p.a.ce of half a minute had ranged himself alongside his master. "You to question the word o' Miller Lyddon, you crooked-hearted raven! Who was it spoke for 'e fifteen year ago an' got 'em to make 'e p'liceman 'cause you was tu big a fule to larn any other trade? Gert, thankless twoad! An' who was it let 'em keep the 'Green Man' awpen two nights in wan week arter closin' time, 'cause he wanted another drop hisself?"

"Come you away," said the Inspector to his constable. "Ban't for the likes of we to have any talk wi' the likes o' they. But they'll hear more of this; an' if theer's been any hookem-snivey dealin's with the Law, they'll live to be sorry. An' you follow me likewise," he added to his son, who stood hard by. "You come wi' me, Ted, for you doan't do no more work for runaway soldiers, nor yet bald-headed auld antics like this here!"

He pointed to Mr. Blee, then turned to depart.

"Get off honest man's land, you black-bearded beast!" screamed Billy.

"You 'm most like of any wan ever I heard tell of to do murder yourself; an' auld as I be, I'd crawl on my hands an' knees to see you scragged for 't, if 't was so far as the sun in heaven!"

"That's libel," answered Mr. Chown, with cold and haughty authority; "an' you've put yourself in the grip of the Law by sayin' it, as you'll knaw before you 'm much aulder."

Then, with this trifling advantage, he retreated, while Lamacraft and Ted brought up the rear.

"So theer's an end of that. Now us'll fall to wi' no worse appet.i.tes,"

declared Miller. "An' as to Will," he added, "'fore you chaps go, just mind an' judge no man till you knaw what's proved against him. Onless theer's worse behind than I've larned so far, I'm gwaine to stand by un."

"An' me, tu!" said Mr. Blee, with a fine disregard for his recent utterances. "I've teached the chap purty nigh all he knaws an' I ban't gwaine to turn on un now, onless 't is proved blue murder. An' that Chown 's a disgrace to his cloth; an' I'd pull his ugly bat's ears on my awn behalf if I was a younger an' spryer man."

CHAPTER XVII

SUSPENSE

The fate of John Grimbal was learned within an hour or two of Inspector Chown's departure from Monks Barton; and by the time that Martin Grimbal had been apprised of the matter his brother already lay at the Red House.

John had been found at daybreak upon the gra.s.s-land where he rode overnight on his journey to intercept the mail. A moment after he descried the distant cart, his horse had set foot in a hole; and upon the accident being discovered, the beast was found lying with a broken leg within twenty yards of its insensible master. His horse was shot, John Grimbal carried home with all despatch, and Doctor Parsons arrived as quickly as possible, to do all that might be done for the sufferer until an abler physician than himself reached the scene.

Three dreary days saw Grimbal at the door of death, then a brief interval of consciousness rewarded unceasing care, and a rumour spread that he might yet survive. Martin, when immediate fear for his brother's life was relieved, busied himself about Blanchard, and went to Plymouth.

There he saw Will, learned all facts concerning the letter, and did his best to win information of the prisoner's probable punishment. Fears, magnified rumours, expressed opinions, mostly erroneous, buzzed in the ears of the anxious party at Monks Barton. Then Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford and there came an evening when those most interested met after supper at the farm to hear all he could tell them.

Long faces grouped round Martin as he made his statement in a grey June twilight. Mr. Blee and the miller smoked, Mrs. Blanchard sat with her hand in her daughter's, and Phoebe occupied a comfortable arm-chair by the wood fire. Between intervals of long silence came loud, juicy, sounds from Billy's pipe, and when light waned they still talked on until Chris stirred herself and sought the lamp.

"They tell me," began Martin, "that a deserting soldier is punished according to his character and with regard to the fact whether he surrenders himself or is apprehended. Of course we know Will gave himself up, but then they will find out that he knew poor John's unfortunate letter had reached its destination--or at any rate started for it; and they may argue, not knowing the truth, that it was the fact of the information being finally despatched made Will surrender. They will say, I am afraid, as they said to me: 'Why did he wait until now if he meant to do the right thing? Why did he not give himself up long ago?'"

"That's easy answered: to please others," explained Mr. Lyddon. "Fust theer was his promise to Phoebe, then his mother's illness, then his other promise, to bide till his wife was brought to bed. Looking back I see we was wrong to use our power against his awn wish; but so it stands."

"I ought to go; I ought to be alongside un," moaned Phoebe; "I was at the bottom of everything from fust to last. For me he run away; for me he stopped away. Mine's the blame, an' them as judge him should knaw it an' hear me say so."

"Caan't do no such vain thing as that," declared Mr. Blee. "'T was never allowed as a wife should be heard 'pon the doin's of her awn husband.

'Cause why? She'd be one-sided--either plump for un through thick an'

thin, or else all against un, as the case might stand."

"As to the sentence," continued Martin, "if a man with a good character deserts and thinks better of it and goes back to his regiment, he is not as a rule tried by court-martial at all. Instead, he loses all his former service and has to begin to reckon his period of engagement--six or seven years perhaps--all over again. But a notoriously bad character is tried by court-martial in any case, whether he gives himself up or not; and he gets a punishment according to the badness of his past record. Such a man would have from eighty-four days' imprisonment, with hard labour, up to six months, or even a year, if he had deserted more than once. Then the out-and-out rascals are sentenced to be 'dismissed her Majesty's service.'"

"But the real gude men," pleaded Phoebe--"them as had no whisper 'gainst 'em, same as Will? They couldn't be hard 'pon them, 'specially if they knawed all?"

"I should hope not; I'm sure not. You see the case is so unusual, as an officer explained to me, and such a great length of time has elapsed between the action and the judgment upon it. That is in Will's favour. A good soldier with a clean record who deserts and is apprehended does not get more than three months with hard labour and sometimes less. That's the worst that can happen, I hope."

"What's hard labour to him?" murmured Billy, whose tact on occasions of universal sorrow was sometimes faulty. "'Tis the rankle of bein' in every blackguard's mouth that'll cut Will to the quick."

"What blackguards say and think ban't no odds," declared Mrs. Blanchard.

"'Tis better--far better he should do what he must do. The disgrace is in the minds of them that lick theer lips upon his sorrow. Let him pay for a wrong deed done, for the evil he did that gude might come of it. I see the right hand o' G.o.d holding' the li'l strings of my son's life, an' I knaw better'n any of 'e what'll be in the bwoy's heart now."

"Yet, when all's said, 'tis a mournful sarc.u.mstance an' sent for our chastening," contended Mr. Blee stoutly. "Us mustn't argue away the torment of it an' pretend 'tis nought. Ban't a pleasing thing, 'specially at such a time when all the airth s gwaine daft wi' joy for the gracious gudeness o' G.o.d to the Queen o' England. In plain speech, 't is a d.a.m.n dismal come-along-of-it, an' I've cried by night, auld though I am, to think o' the man's babes grawin' up wi' this round theer necks. An' wan to be born while he 'm put away! Theer 's a black picksher for 'e! Him doin' hard labour as the Law directs, an' his wife doin' hard labour, tu--in her lonely bed! Why, gormed if I--"

"For G.o.d's sake shut your mouth, you horrible old man!" burst out Martin, as Phoebe hurried away in tears and Chris followed her. "You're a disgrace to humanity and I don't hesitate--I don't hesitate at all to say you have no proper feeling in you!"

"Martin's right, Billy," declared Mr. Lyddon without emotion. "You 'm a thought tu quick to meet other people's troubles half way, as I've told 'e before to-night. Ban't a comely trait in 'e. You've made her run off sobbing her poor, bruised heart out. As if she hadn't wept enough o'

late. Do 'e think us caan't see what it all means an' the wisht cloud that's awver all our heads, lookin' darker by contrast wi' the happiness of the land, owing to the Jubilee of a gert Queen? Coourse we knaw.

But't is poor wisdom to talk 'bout the blackness of a cloud to them as be tryin' to find its silver lining. If you caan't lighten trouble, best to hold your peace."

"What's the use of cryin' 'peace' when us knaws in our hearts 'tis war?

Us must look inside an' outside, an' count the cost same as I be doin'

now," declared Mr. Blee. "Then to be catched up so harsh 'mong friends!

Well, well, gude-night, all; I'll go to my rest. Hard words doan't break, though they may bruise. But I'll do my duty, whether or no."

He rose and shuffled to the door, then looked round and opened his mouth to speak again. But he changed his mind, shook his head, snorted expressively, and disappeared.

"A straange-fashioned chap," commented Mrs. Blanchard, "wi' sometimes a wise word stuck in his sour speech, like a gude currant in a bad dumpling."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NIGHT OF JUBILEE

Unnumbered joy fires were writing the nation's thanksgiving across the starry darkness of a night in June. Throughout the confines of Britain--on knolls arising beside populous towns, above the wild cliffs of our coasts, in low-lying lands, upon the banks of rivers, at the fringes of forests and over a thousand barren heaths, lonely wastes, and stony pinnacles of untamed hills, like some mundane galaxy of stars or many-tongued outbreak of conflagration, the bonfires glimmered. And their golden seed was sown so thickly, that from no pile of those hundreds then brightening the hours of darkness had it been possible to gaze into the night and see no other.

Upon the s.h.a.ggy fastnesses of Devon's central waste, within the bounds, metes, and precincts of Dartmoor Forest, there shone a whole constellation of little suns, and a wanderer in air might have counted a hundred without difficulty, whilst, for the beholders perched upon Yes Tor, High Wilhays, or the bosom of Cosdon during the fairness and clearness of that memorable night, fully threescore beacons flamed. All those granite giants within the field of man's activities, all the monsters whose enormous shades fell at dawn or evening time upon the hamlets and villages of the Moor, now carried on their lofty crowns the flames of rejoicing. Bonfires of varying size, according to the energy and importance of the communities responsible for them, dotted the circ.u.mference of the lonely region in a vast, irregular figure, but thinned and ceased towards the unpeopled heart of the waste. On Wattern, at Cranmere, upon Fur Tor, and under the h.o.a.ry, haunted woods of Wistman, no glad beacons blazed or voices rang. There Nature, ignorant of epochs and heeding neither olympiad nor l.u.s.trum, cycle nor century, ruled alone; there, all self-centred, self-contained, unwitting of conscious existence and its little joys, her perfection above praise and more enduring than any chronicle of it, asking for no earthborn acclamations of her eternal reign, demanding only obedience from all on penalty of death, the Mother swayed her sceptre unseen. Seed and stone, blade and berry, hot blood and cold, did her bidding and slept or stirred at her ordinance. A nightjar harshly whirred beneath her footstool; wan tongues of flame rose and fell upon her quaking altars; a mountain fox, pattering quick-footed to the rabbit warren, caught light from those exhalations in his round, green eyes and barked.

Humanity thronged and made merry around numberless crackling piles of fire. Men and women, boys and girls, most noisily rejoiced, and from each flaming centre of festivity a thin sound of human shouting and laughter streamed starward with the smoke.