Chris looked at him curiously.

"You 'm right. An' that, for some queer reason, puts me in mind of the other wan, Martin Grimbal. He was very pleasant to me."

"He's too late, thank G.o.d!"

"Ess, fay! An' if he'd comed afore 'e, Clem, he'd been tu early. Theer's awnly wan man in the gert world for me."

"My gypsy!"

"But I didn't mean that. He wouldn't look at me, not even if I was a free woman. 'T was of you I thought when I talked to Mr. Grimbal. He'm well-to-do, and be seekin' a house in the higher quarter under Middledown. You an' him have the same fancy for the auld stones. So you might grow into friends--eh, Clem? Couldn't it so fall out? He might serve to help--eh? You 'm two-and-thirty year auld next February, an' it do look as though they silly bees ban't gwaine to put money enough in the bank to spell a weddin' for us this thirty year to come. Theer's awnly your aunt, Widow Coomstock, as you can look to for a penny, and that tu doubtful to count on."

"Don't name her, Chris. Good Lord! poor drunken old thing, with that crowd of hungry relations waiting like vultures round a dying camel!

Never think of her. Money she has, but I sha'n't see the colour of it, and I don't want to."

"Well, let that bide. Martin Grimbal's the man in my thought."

"What can I do there?"

"Doan't knaw, 'zactly; but things might fall out if he got to like you, being a bookish sort of man. Anyway, he's very willing to be friends, for that he told me. Doan't bear yourself like Lucifer afore him; but take the first chance to let him knaw your fortune's in need of mendin'."

"You say that! D' you think self-respect is dead in me?" he asked, half angry.

There was no visible life about them, so she put her arms round him.

"I ax for love of 'e, dearie, an' for want of 'e. Do 'e think waitin' 's sweeter for me than for you?"

Then he calmed down again, sighed, returned the caress, touched her, and stroked her breast and shoulder with sudden earthly light in his great eyes.

"It 's hard to wait."

"That's why I say doan't lose chances that may mean a weddin' for us, Clem. Theer 's so much hid in 'e, if awnly the way to bring it out could be found."

"A mine that won't pay working," he said bitterly, the pa.s.sion fading out of eyes and voice. "I know there 's something hidden; I feel there 's a twist of brain that ought to rise above keeping bees and take me higher than honey-combs. Yet look at hard truth. The clods round me get enough by their sweat to keep wives and feed children. I'm only a penniless, backboneless, hand-to-mouth wretch, living on the work of laborious insects."

"If it ban't your awn fault, then whose be it, Clem?"

"The fault of Chance--to pack my build of brains into the skull of a pauper. This poor, unfinished abortion of a head-piece of mine only dreams dreams that it cannot even set on paper for others to see."

"You've given up trying whether it can or not, seemin'ly. I never hear tell of no verses now."

"What 's the good? But only last night, so it happens, I had a sort of a wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled for hours and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme."

"Will 'e read it to me?"

He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a sc.r.a.p of paper out of his, pocket. Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart's criticism of his verses.

"It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied, you know. I call it 'A Devon Courting.'"

He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an accent that Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and Drake.

"Birds gived awver singin', Flittermice was wingin', Mists lay on the meadows-- A purty sight to see.

Down-long in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy, Down-long in the dimpsy Theer went a maid wi' me.

"Five gude mile o' walkin', Not wan word o' talkin', Then I axed a question And put the same to she.

Up-long in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light, Up-long in the owl-light, Theer corned my maid wi' me.

"But I wonder you write the common words, Clem--you who be so much tu clever to use 'em."

"The words are well enough. They were not common once."

"Well, you knaw best. Could 'e sell such a li'l auld funny thing as that for money?"

He shook his head.

"No; it was only the toil of making it seemed good. It is worthless."

"An' to think how long it took 'e! If you'd awnly put the time into big-fashioned verses full of the high words you've got. But you knaw best. Did 'e hear anything of them rhymes 'bout the auld days you sent to Lunnon?"

"They sent them back again. I told you 't was wasting three stamps. It 's not for me, I know it. The world is full of dumb singers. Maybe I haven't got even a pinch of the fire that _must_ break through and show its flame, no matter what mountains the earth tumbles on it. G.o.d knows I burn hot enough sometimes with great thoughts and wild longings for love and for sweeter life and for you; but my fires--whether they are soul-fires or body-fires--only burn my heart out."

She sighed and squeezed his hand, understanding little enough of what he said.

"We must be patient. 'T is a solid thing, patience. I'm puttin' by pence; but it 's so plaguy little a gal can earn, best o' times and with the best will."

"If I could only write the things I think! But they vanish before pen and paper and the need of words, as the mists of the night vanish before the hard, searching sun. I am ignorant of how to use words; and those in the world who might help me will never know of me. As for those around about, they reckon me three parts fool, with just a little gift of re-writing names over their dirty shop-fronts."

"Yet it 's money. What did 'e get for that butivul fox wi' the goose in his mouth you painted 'pon Mr. Lamacraft's sign to Sticklepath?"

"Ten shillings."

"That's solid money."

"It isn't now. I bought a book with it--a book of lies."

Chris was going to speak, but changed her mind and sighed instead.

"Well, as our affairs be speeding so poorly, we'd best to do some gude deed an' look after this other coil. You must let Will knaw what 's doin' by letter this very night. 'T is awnly fair, you being set in trust for him."

"Strange, these Grimbal brothers," mused Clement, as the lovers proceeded in the direction of Chagford. "They come home with everything on G.o.d's earth that men might desire to win happiness, and, by the look of it, each marks his home-coming by falling in love with one he can't have."

"Shaws the fairness of things, Clem; how the poor may chance to have what the rich caan't buy; so all look to stand equal."

"Fairness, you call it? The d.a.m.ned, cynical irony of this whole pa.s.sion-driven puppet-show--that's what it shows! The man who is loved cannot marry the woman he loves lest they both starve; the man who can give a woman half the world is loathed for his pains. Not that he 's to be pitied like the pauper, for if you can't buy love you can buy women, and the wise ones know how to manufacture a very lasting subst.i.tute for the real thing."

"You talk that black and bitter as though you was deep-read in all the wickedness of the world," said Chris; "yet I knaw no man can say sweeter things than you sometimes."

"Talk! It 's all talk with me--all snarling and railing and whining at hard facts, like a viper wasting its venom on steel. I'm sick of myself--weary of the old, stale round of my thoughts. Where can I wash and be clean? Chrissy, for G.o.d's sake, tell me."