It was a strange experience, and Douglas Graham felt awed, as presently they took each other by the hand, and he said, "Jean Lindsay, I do here take you as my wife, and, G.o.d helping me, I will be a good and faithful husband to you."

The girl's eyes burned brightly with joy as she heard the words.

"Douglas Graham," she said, "I, Jean Lindsay, do take you as my husband, and, G.o.d helping me, I will love you and obey you and be faithful to you till death."

The sun was just setting, and the whole of the Western sky was ablaze with glory. The hills, heather-covered, were enveloped in a purple haze. The evening was windless; not a sound was heard; not a bird chirped; and no one was near. He kissed the girl fondly.

"There, Jean," he said, "I kiss you as my wife."

The girl sobbed for joy.

"I never knew what happiness meant before," she said; "but, but----"

"What?" he asked eagerly.

"Must there not be a word of prayer?" she said, and her voice shook with emotion.

The two knelt down by the roadside, and in the silence of the evening they asked fervently for G.o.d's blessing on their union.

When night came, they found themselves in the inn across the border where Douglas had parted from his companions, and then he remembered the letter which the servant had given him at "Highlands" just before he parted from the family. He had read only a few lines when he started and changed colour.

"What is it, Douglas?" asked the girl.

"It is all right," he said, but his voice was hoa.r.s.e and troubled.

The following morning Douglas Graham parted from his newly-made wife at a railway station some distance from the inn.

"You are sure you must go?" she asked, and her voice was trembling.

"I simply must, Jean!" he replied. "But do not be afraid. I will be back in a few days. You can tell your father everything. In a month from now you shall be publicly proclaimed as my wife."

"I don't like letting you go!" sobbed the girl.

"I would give anything if I could stay, but I simply dare not--my whole future depends upon my going!"

The train swept into the station.

"Good-bye, Douglas, my husband!" she said. "You'll soon be back?"

"Good-bye, Jean, my wife! May G.o.d bless you! Yes, I'll soon be back."

CHAPTER I

A LEGACY OF HATE

Their meeting-place was on the Altarnun Moors, eight miles from the town of Bodmin, perhaps as many from the rugged peaks--the highest peaks in Cornwall--Router and Brown w.i.l.l.y. Almost as far as the eye could reach was bare moorland. A white streak, the road which ran between Altarnun and Bodmin, was the most striking thing seen. On either side of the road were only bare, uncultivated, uninteresting moors; and yet, perhaps, I do the district injustice. Here and there was a rugged tor, and again a few fields taken in from the moorland by some enterprising labourer who wanted to earn a living by farming.

Near this road, too, is the famous Dozmary Pool, known to all those who love folk-lore and are acquainted with the legends of the most Western county in England--a dismal piece of water, black as ink, and, so the old stories have it, bottomless. It was here that Tregellas, of Cornish myth, was set by the Devil to scoop out its water by means of a limpet-sh.e.l.l. Here, too, in old times, coaches were robbed and dark deeds done. At the time of which I am writing, however, it was simply one of the most unattractive and bleak districts in what is otherwise perhaps the most beautiful county in England. The woman had walked all the way from Launceston, a distance of not less than a dozen miles.

The youth had come from Bodmin, and he had covered nearly the same length of road. The afternoon was drawing to a close as they met. It was a November day, and darkness would be upon them by five o'clock.

No one was near, for since the days of stage-coaches the traffic on this road has been small. Occasionally a farmer's cart pa.s.ses along, or again a vehicle of more ornamental description, used by those who wish to travel either to Bodmin or to Launceston. There is no railway station within ten miles of that drear region, and it seemed a fitting meeting-place for the couple who came there that day. The woman was perhaps thirty-five years of age, and suggested the fact that in her girlhood she must have been strangely beautiful. Even yet there were times when one would have spoken of her as one possessing more than ordinary attraction. That was when her eyes became soft, and her features relaxed into a smile, but these times were very rare. As she trudged along the dreary road her face was set and stern, her lips were compressed, her eyes hard and relentless. As she pa.s.sed through Five Lanes and asked for a cup of tea at a cottage there, the villagers remarked upon her and wondered who she was. "She might be a witch,"

said one.

"No, too young for that," said another.

"But where can she be goin'? She is a straanger in thaise paarts."

"Up to no good, I reckon."

But the woman gave no confidences. Evidently her purpose was clear before her mind, and after she had obtained her cup of tea she stepped forward with the same resolution in her eyes, turning neither to the right nor to the left. She seemed as little impressed by the suggestion of beauty contained in the valley where the old Altarnun Church stands, as she was by the bleak moors on to which she presently entered. She might be looking into her own soul rather than on the vast sweep of hill and dale which presently stretched out before her.

Now and then she muttered like one talking to herself, but she never faltered on her way. She seemed to know no weariness. Firmly and resolutely she went her way, her mind evidently set upon some grim purpose. It was two o'clock when she left Five Lanes, and considerably past three when she saw a dark object in the road in front of her. "It must be he," she said to herself, and her lips quivered and her eyes shone with a new light. As they drew nearer she quickened her footsteps.

"My boy!" she said; "what will he say--what will he do? But he must know, for his own sake and for mine. He must know that his mother is an honest woman and tried to do right."

The day was dark and drear. Clouds hung heavily in the sky and the moorland was wrapt in a fine mist so peculiar to that district. The roads were heavy, and one could hear the silt crush beneath her feet as she walked.

A little later the two met, and the relationship was evident at the first glance. They were mother and son. The youth was about seventeen years of age, tall and muscular. He wore the dress of a mechanic, and there was in his appearance a suggestion of capability and of resolute resolve. Strangely handsome he was, and yet no one seemed attracted by him. During his journey from Bodmin a labourer would pa.s.s the time of day, but he seemed to take no notice. And once the driver of a farmer's cart offered to give him a lift, but he only shook his head and trudged on. There was an eager questioning look in his eyes, and he seemed to be wondering greatly as to the result of his journey. Two days before he had received a letter, urging him to come to a certain spot on Altarnun Moors, and promising him that he should hear of things concerning which he had long been anxious to know. The letter had no signature, but the address given was "Lancroft, near Launceston." Who the writer of the letter was the youth had not the slightest idea, but he never thought of refusing the request made. Almost ever since he could remember he had wondered concerning his father and mother, and now he felt sure that the time of revelation was come.

Presently the two met, and each looked steadily into the other's face, as if wondering who the other might be.

"You received a letter two days ago?" said the woman.

"Yes," was his reply.

"I wrote it." Simple as the words were, they were uttered with a sob.

He saw that she was under very strong emotion, and noted the yearning look in her eyes.

"You have wondered all your life who your father and mother are?" and the woman controlled her voice with difficulty. "I know you have. You want to know all about them, don't you?"

"I shouldn't have come here if I hadn't!" was his reply.

"I'm your mother!" said the woman.

He looked at her curiously. He had been thinking, ever since they had met, whether this might not be so; nevertheless the news came to him as a kind of shock. A woman with sad eyes and an expression of unsatisfied yearning in her face; yet handsome withal.

"Do you not believe it?" she asked. "My boy! my boy! I'm your mother, and, if I have kept silent about it, it has been for love of you!"

And she held out her hands towards him.

It seemed as though something touched his heart, as though his whole being thrilled with a recognition of the truth, and, in a way he could not understand, a great love for this lonely woman sprang suddenly into his heart.

"Yes, I believe you are my mother."

"I have come to tell you everything, Paul," she said. "It's a sad story, but I believe you'll understand."

"Yes," he replied, "I shall understand!"