on the morning of her seventeenth birthday, grace rode forth upon the new hunter, and tenderly touched 'c?sar's' flank with a whip of dainty workmanship. peter, on his black horse, accompanied her, and mr. malherb stood at the door of fox tor farm and watched them depart.
"a fine couple," he said to his wife. "one sees that grace has got my skill in horsemanship now that she is properly mounted."
"and he rides well, too."
"so, so. better than most young men. she's coming to my way of thinking. she laughs with him now and exchanges jests."
his wife shook her head.
"i misdoubt her. she's a malherb—a jog-trot tradesman will never win her."
"have done with such nonsense!" he said sharply. "he is no more a tradesman than am i. you should have better feeling than to use the word."
"she won't marry him, nevertheless," said mrs. malherb placidly.
"will she not? if i am her father she will."
he turned and departed, while his wife, with a cloud upon her countenance, watched mr. norcot and grace climb the steep side of fox tor and proceed to the heights above it.
soon afterwards, as they turned their horses' heads toward prince town, peter observed a strange, tall figure proceeding on foot in the same direction. it was as though one of the moorland crosses from the abbot's way had come to life and stole over the wilderness upon some superhuman errand.
"look!" cried norcot, "a walking scarecrow!"
grace recognised the being, and laughed.
"a 'scarecrow,' you say. that's the richest woman on dartmoor!"
"a woman—and a wealthy one? impossible!"
"'tis lovey lee, an old servant of my grandfather's. by chance she lives here within a few miles of fox tor farm. we shall pass her hovel presently."
"was it not she whom your father accused of stealing the amphora when sir nicholas died?"
"yes; and he still vows that she has it, for all her oaths to the contrary. she's a weird old woman. her grandson, john, tells me that she lives upon frogs and herb tea."
they were now abreast of the dame, and peter inspected her carefully.
"tut, tut! she does not throw away money upon her apparel," he said.
"no—isn't it horrid? i think she wears old sacks chiefly."
"and reduces them to the minimum. her naked feet must be made of iron."
"good morning, lovey," said grace. "have you been to holne? no; i see that you haven't, for you carry no basket."
"mornin', maiden; an' to you, my gentleman," she answered very civilly. "no more holne for me. i've got a better market for my poor goods now; an' nearer."
"the war prison?"
"ess fay! plenty of money there for them that have anything to sell. i can scrape a few pence out of they americans every week; though how i keep body an' soul together is my daily wonder."
"you would do it easier if you wore more petticoats, granny," said peter.
"petticoats!" she answered. "'tis very well for the likes of you, bursting wi' fatness under your fine linen, to talk o' petticoats. give me a crown an' i'll buy one—since you'm so anxious about it."
"why, you're the richest woman on the moor, lovey," said grace. "you know perfectly well that you have a gold mine hidden away somewhere."
the old woman showed her teeth and growled like a dog.
"don't you tell that trash, or you'll make me your enemy i promise you! a gold mine—some 'crock o' gold' hid at a rainbow's foot or in a dead man's grave—like the fools tell about up here. i wish i knowed where. do a woman salt down reptiles and make her meal of blind-worms and berries if she have got a gold mine hidden?"
"that's just what father says you would do," answered grace.
"tell malherb to mind his business," she answered sourly, "or 'twill be the worse for him. 'twill take him all his time to find a gold mine under fox tor, anyway, let alone the lord's hand being against him for stealing the earth from the meek, as was meant to inherit it."
"nothing of the sort," answered grace, with great indignation. "she's a horrid old story-teller, peter."
but norcot never quarrelled with man or mouse.
"mrs. lee is naturally against the duchy," he said. "the duchy we all know. but, on the other hand, nobody alive can blame your father for availing himself of its propensities."
"he'll curse himself for a fool yet, however," said the old woman.
"i shall not be friendly with you any more, lovey lee," answered grace frankly. "you're greedier than the duchy, and you don't tell the truth. you wouldn't be so unpleasant if your conscience didn't hurt you. henceforth i shall think with my father that you took the amphora."
"you may think what you please. it won't prove nothing but that you've got a malherb habit of mind and be your faither's daughter."
"come, peter!" cried grace. "i'll hear no more."
she trotted away, and, having dropped a coin behind him, mr. norcot followed. it was his sagacious custom never to lose any opportunity of making a friend. he had found possibilities of usefulness in the humblest road-mender; and this woman, with her evident strength and ferocity, attracted him. he perceived that she was one who would do anything within her power for payment.
lovey picked up the money with a loud blessing on the giver. then she watched the retreating figures.
"they be coming courting a'ready," she thought, "an' her only a half-growed giglet yet. well, let the sky fall an' the sun burn blue, a crown be still a crown."
before the old woman had reached home, grace and peter norcot passed her cabin, and the wool-stapler showed more interest before lovey's grim abode than at the more striking object close at hand. siward's cross was dismissed with a nod, but mrs. lee's lair awakened a lively attention.
"there she lives with only a wall of piled peat between her and her cows and donkey. she's got a grandson—a very handsome, courteous young fellow—and he dwells in that stable there. in her kitchen you would find stones for chairs."
"and stones for bread by the look of it. a cheerful soul. i wonder where her hiding-place may be? did you see her glittering eyes—like two diamonds set in yellow ivory—and the fingers all crooked like a hawk's claws. she's a miser, or i never met one. and yet 'god but little asks where little's given.' perhaps we wrong her."
"father never wrongs anybody," answered grace. "he storms, indeed, and will have his way; but good men always like him, and understand his noble qualities."
"most true—one in a thousand. i'm thankful beyond measure that he is pleased to think well of me; for he'd never bestow his friendship on an unworthy object."
"one word for father; two for peter norcot."
"it is so; i rise above false modesty. if a good man praises me, it is my best advertisement before the world."
"you have a wonderful way with father."
"i was looking into john guillim's book a day or two since. he is an old-time pursuivant at arms. upon your family name and the three nettle leaves, which you'll see cut in the amethyst at the handle of your riding-whip, you shall find a quaint word or two. guillim says the nettle is of so tetchie and froward a nature that no man may meddle with it, and he adds that a little girl being once stung thereby, complained to her father that there was such a curst herb in his garden, that it was worse than a dog, for it would bite them of its own house. her father told her that the herb's nature was a notable impartiality, for friend and foe were alike to it. then there's a pleasant epigram—
"'tender-handed stroke a nettle,
and it stings you for your pains;
grasp it like a man of mettle,
and it soft as silk remains."
not that that applies to mr. malherb."
"no, indeed! father is no nettle," said grace sharply.
"most true. the nettle's flower is plain, not exquisitely beautiful," he answered, looking at her. "your father has the sturdy characteristics of his house, none of the prickles. a grand singleness of purpose marks his ways."
"he feels too deeply, if anything."
"and too much feeling so often obscures perception. it is unfortunate."
"there's the war prison," said grace, changing the subject; "that dreadful thing stretching out down there—a ring within a ring. i always think it is like something in dante made real."
"dante, eh? hell, and so forth. yes, that's a hell for many a brave, lonely heart. doubtless there are lovers among 'em. by the way, i thought your dear father was a little hard upon the american prisoners—if i may dare to say so."
"he knows best," said grace firmly; "and they do give a great deal of trouble. to break away from their mother country over a paltry question of money!"
"it's wonderful how soon matters of money make every question acute—lift it into a serious affair. men will argue about their maker, or the chances of eternity, or the heat of the sun, with irreproachable temper; but let the matter be a sovereign—— as to america—taxes or no taxes—fools in our parliament or fools in their congress—it had to come. look at a map of the world."
"in this war, at any rate, they are utterly mistaken," said grace. "i know all about it, and facts are facts."
"and facts never contradict each other. that's a blessing."
"no doubt the wrong men are suffering now," she added, looking down upon the prison; "but that is a general rule in war."
"and life. what a beehive it is! 'a dungeon horrible on all sides round.' hark! you can hear the 'sorrowful sighing of the prisoners.' or rather you can hear their laughter. in fact, they appear to be playing a game in that far-off corner. it must be prisoners' base, no doubt."
"i pity every one of them, and especially the poor little powder-monkeys we captured in their ships," she said.
the huge circumference of the war prison stretched beneath them, protected from the west under north hisworthy tor; the limbo, at once famous and infamous, lay here in summer sunshine; and never had time thrown up a mushroom ring more grim, more grey, upon earth's lovely face. in the midst of wild hills and stone-crowned heights, skirted by the waters of a stream, separated from mankind by miles of scattered granite and black bog, the war prison appeared. late july ruled the land and brushed the hills with green; the light of the ling was just dawning, and all life rejoiced; but the solemn features of these stony mountains, fold upon fold and range upon range, take no softness to the stranger's eye at any season, and none who has not trodden it in freedom can love its austere face, or understand its chastened glory. purple cloud-shadows drifted over the prison, and revealed the details of alexander's sinister masterpiece. previously they had been hidden by a great dazzle of sunlight.
some thirty acres were enclosed by two walls, one within the other. the outer circle stood sixteen feet high; and separated from it by a broad military parade, extended the second wall, hung with bells on wires, and having sentry-boxes upon it at regular intervals, to overlook each prison yard. the main area of the gaol was of rounded shape, and contained five enormous rectangular masses of masonry radiating from the centre, like spokes from the hub of a wheel. at one side a segment was cut out of the circle, and this contained the governor's offices, the turnkey's place, and other official buildings, together with an open space into which the country people were admitted for their daily traffic with the prisoners. fuel, vegetables, poultry, butter, and other articles were bought and sold in this market, and upon its completion the gangs returned to their own divisions of the gaol. each of the five main buildings mentioned was constructed to hold fifteen hundred men; all had two floors, and in the roof of every one was an additional great chamber used as a promenade at times of unusually inclement weather. each block possessed its own wide exercise yard and shelter from snow or rain, its proper supply of sweet water always running, and its cachot, or prison within a prison, for punishment of the refractory and disobedient. a hospital and accommodation for petty officers included the edifices within the walls, while a quarter of a mile distant were barracks for four hundred troops, and various other buildings not all connected with the establishment of the prison. of these the more conspicuous were a ruined cottage on the slope north-eastward of the outer wall, two new taverns, about which the soldiers swarmed like red ants; bakehouses, slaughter-houses, and private habitations that rapidly grew into a little street. the prisoners themselves were scattered by the thousand over their exercise yards, with red-coats stationed upon the inner wall around them. at one point outside the war prison a large building arose and, guarded by the soldiery, a crowd of men laboured upon it.
"they are making a church," explained grace. "the french build and the americans do the carving and the woodwork inside. 'tis to be dedicated to st. michael and all angels."
"then you have a personal interest in it. and maybe i too shall have. we might even be married there."
"we might—though not to one another."
"who knows? time can work wonders."
"but only god can work miracles."
"beautiful!" he said, "and comforting too; for i am one who holds that the age of miracles has not yet gone. you shall find the man of parts will make his own miracles."
