the destruction of childe's tomb awoke no protest upon the county-side, for antiquaries had not yet turned their attention to the interesting and obscure relics of former ages scattered over dartmoor. a few intelligent men mourned that another medi?val landmark had been sacrificed to the advance of civilisation; then the matter was forgotten, save at fox tor farm, where great unrest still reigned among the workers.
the women exhibited chief concern; but while annabel and grace malherb showed sentimental regret and the master laughed at them for their folly, dinah beer and mary woodman took a far more serious view of the incident, and reduced their husbands to the extremity of uneasiness. they foretold disaster upon all concerned; mr. kekewich they specially tormented, and declared that, as arch instigator of the outrage, upon him the first grief must fall. he cared nothing; but richard, harvey, and others went in growing fear. they longed for weeks and months to pass that they might be removed by time from the hour of their evil deed; then, as each uneventful day dwindled and each night passed by, they drew a little nearer toward peace of mind. after a month had passed they plucked up spirit and faced the unseen with steadier gaze.
"another week gone an' nothing said," whispered putt one morning to harvey woodman, where they worked at wall-building. he glanced sideways up to heaven as he spoke with a gesture of suspicion.
"no—the world goes on very easy. what did peter norcot give 'e for taking the pack-horse with his leather boxes back to chaggyford?"
"there again—good luck surely. a crown i got by it; an' i ate my meat with mason's mother an' sister who live there. mason be mr. norcot's man, and his sister is called tryphena. an' i be going over again, for she said, when i axed her, that pinky rims to the eyes didn't stand against a chap in her judgment. she thought 'twas a beauty, if anything. her be a few year older'n me; but that often works very well, an' keeps down the family."
"you'd best to be careful, all the same," said woodman. "the woman as you meets half-way, often makes you go t'other half afore you think you've started."
"i won't hear no word against that female from you or any man," declared thomas putt, growing very red.
"from me you certainly won't, seeing as i never heard tell of her afore this minute," replied woodman calmly. "only, as a married man, i say go slow. when a girl tells you such eyes as yourn be beautiful, she's getting to that state of mind when they put a home of their own afore truth and common sense an' everything."
putt was about to answer rather warmly when richard beer appeared. his beard blew about him; his eyes were sunk into his head, and dull care stared from them.
"it's come!" he said. "i've held my peace these twenty-four hours; an' longer i will not. the ill luck have set in! there's no more doubt about it."
"have it hit you?" asked putt, his anger vanishing; "because if so, us ban't safe neither."
"not directly. it strikes the farm. there's scores o' dozens o' moles in the meadow; and the rats have come to the pig-styes in an army."
"they be natural things," declared putt. "you might expect 'em. where there's pigs there's rats."
"yes, but not like a plague. they've come up in a night, same as them frogs in egypt."
"you'm down-daunted about nought," answered woodman. "read what some of they bible heroes had to suffer. there's nought like dipping into the prophet job when you'm out of heart with your luck. 'twill make you very contented. my gran'faither always read job slap through after he'd had a row wi' the duchy."
"as for me, i shall bide wi' the man so long as he can pay wages," said putt.
they passed to their work; and elsewhere maurice malherb, not ignorant of the verminous inroad upon fields and styes, was debating whether he should sink his pride and summon leaman cloberry. but while time passed by and he hesitated, there came a post and tidings so momentous that the rats and moles were forgotten.
now, indeed, did trouble like an armed man break in on fox tor farm; the light of the malherbs vanished, and their hope set in lasting sorrow. noel malherb, serving under sir rowland hill, with the right of lord wellington's army in the peninsula, had fallen before vittoria.
annabel and her daughter took this grief into secrecy, and were hidden from the world through many weeks; malherb fought it down, and concealed his emotion from all eyes. he laughed not less seldom, he fell into anger more often than of yore.
"pharaoh cracked his heart when his first was took," said woodman to kekewich; "but this man——"
"his heart's hid in his breast, not open to your eye," answered the other. "his heart be cracked all right, though he don't come to us an' say so. but i know—by the voice of 'un, an' the long, lonely rides he takes all about nothing, an' his look when he stares at his darter—a miser's eyes—same as that old mully-grub lovey lee when she claws a bit of money."
"'childe's tomb' have done its work—uncle smallridge didn't lie."
"seeing as this poor young gentleman was shot down and dust in his grave weeks an' weeks afore we touched the cussed cross—for i heard master say so—you'll allow you're talking foolishness."
"the lord can work backwards so easy as he can work forwards. miss grace will be the next, you mark me."
"norcot'll have her come presently," said kekewich. "she've got to wipe her mother's tears for the present. this here cruel come-along-of-it have cut ten years off the life of missis."
the ancient spoke truth, for annabel malherb's sufferings under her great trial proved terrible. they were more objective than her husband's. the family and the race were nothing to her; she only knew that a french bullet had taken the life of her firstborn, and she would never look into his brown eyes again or put her cheek against his. even her boy's beloved dust was buried within the hecatombs of spain, and her tears would never fall upon his grave. but malherb, beside this present misfortune of his son's sacrifice for the country, had a deeper and more lasting pang of ambition blighted and hope for ever dead. he had toiled in vain; he had lifted this stout dwelling as a heritage for none. presently his daughter would wed with norcot, and no young eyes of his own race would see the larches and scotch firs of his planting grow into trees; no heir would note the ebony and golden lichens write dignity and age upon his roof of slate, nor see the mosses mellow his granite walls. aliens must follow and the name of malherb would vanish, like the fragrant memory of last year's fern.
then, within six weeks of the ill tidings, a great conceit suddenly flashed upon malherb; and as the witch of endor called forth that awful shade of samuel to her own admiration, so did this man raise the unexpected spirit of a thought. suddenly, amidst the mean and familiar imaginings of life, uprising like a giant from among the dwarfish throng of practical and common notions, there stalked tremendous an idea; and he stood astonished before it, appraised its magnitude and welcomed it for an inspiration from the gods.
this fancy came to malherb as he pursued the prosaic business of casting figures; and he threw down his pen, picked up his hat, and hastened into the little walled garden of the farm to find his wife. he longed to tell of this message that seemed to point to peace; but his impatience was not set at rest for the space of hours. mrs. malherb had ridden out on a pillion behind mr. beer, and dinah could say nothing of their destination.
irritated at the accident, maurice himself strode on to the moor, and proceeded towards fox tor, that he might note his wife returning and reach her as quickly as possible.
his way took him past a favourite haunt of his daughter's, and when he reached the broken stonework of the tor, malherb surprised grace in serious conversation with a young man.
the girl had gone out alone to pass her summer hours with mournful thoughts. the horizon of her life was clouded now, and already sorrow in the present and cares for the future robbed her young days of their former contentment. her heart was warm—a delicious empty chamber that awaiteth one as yet unknown. beyond the dark grief of her brother's death, another now lurked, and time, that should have dawdled with her in these rosy hours of youth, while yet her heart had never throbbed to one loved name, raced fast and pitiless as the east wind. down his closing avenues, outlined immediately ahead, stood one at the horizon of her life, appeared a man as the goal and crown of her maiden race. there beamed the neat, trim, and amiable apparition of mr. peter norcot. it was no precocity that forced poor grace into thinking so much of love, while yet she knew it not; but in her esteem, love and marriage embraced the same idea, and now she marvelled mutely to find not love, but a very active aversion reigning in her mind against the wool-stapler. her father's attitude and repeated assurances that wed with peter she must, had thus thrown her thoughts upon the affairs of womenkind, herself not yet a woman. but love haunted her, and wonder concerning it. the chance young squire, who visited fox tor farm, had been fluttered to his green heart's core could he have seen what was in grace's mind or behind her drooping lids. with interest she regarded the better-looking amongst her father's visitors, wondered who loved them beside their mothers, speculated as to what would happen if some sudden, invisible spark flashed from their bosoms and found fuel within her own.
one friend she had, and he was a boy even as she was a girl. john lee belonged to the people, yet he revealed a different mien from them. the common speech was upon his tongue, the common clothes of earth-colour hid his shapely form; yet he had a way of speaking the one and wearing the other that set a mark of distinction upon him. this lad possessed more imagination than diligence; he knew the moor with a different knowledge to that of beer, or woodman, or leaman cloberry. he had garnered its legends and its mysteries. he understood something of the spirit of the eternal hills; he loved
their colours and their rainbows and their clouds,
and their fierce winds and desolate liberty."
he could read, and owned a book or two hidden in the hay-loft where he dwelt outside his grandmother's cottage. he called the plants by their local names, and was skilled in the lore of wild things and the weather.
grace found him very agreeable company and, upon first mentioning at home that she sometimes met and spoke with him, her father did not take it amiss.
"get the boy to tell you where that old demon on the hill has hidden my amphora," he said.
"as if he knew!" murmured mrs. malherb, who was a woman of literal mind.
"the boy doubtless knows nothing," her husband answered; "but 'tis within the bounds of possibility that he might find out."
henceforward grace, holding herself at liberty to do so, often met john lee and often made appointments to meet him. he taught her dartmoor; he rode his pony by her side and gloried in the manifold virtues of her new hunter, the great and gallant 'c?sar.'
while peter norcot was at fox tor farm, young john kept clear of it. indeed, he had plenty of work when he chose to work, and toiled by fits and starts at peat-cutting, lichen-gathering, or attending upon some military sportsman from the war prison. but his desire and ambition at eighteen years of age was to win employment in the kennels of sir thomas tyrwhitt. from such a position, if blessed by good luck, he trusted some day to rise and become a whipper-in. of any higher destiny he did not dream. to be huntsman was a position in life that rose almost as much above his hopes as to be master.
now, some while before maurice malherb had entered on to the moor, so that he might see and meet his wife returning home, john lee, walking near a spot very well known to him as one of grace's favourite haunts, found her there where the grass made pleasant cushions amid the granite boulders upon the southern slope of fox tor; where the music of a little waterfall rose and fell softly at the pleasure of the wind; and where the beam's mighty shoulders basked under the sun and took a tremulousness of outline in the hot air which arose from off them.
rising suddenly out of the hollows where the streamlet ran, john lee appeared within thirty yards of grace, and, to his dismay and concern, discovered that she wept. some coincidence of thought with the solemn natural things about her; some clash or chime of sadness at the spectacle of her future and the vast and featureless mountain uplifted before her eyes, struck the emotional chord that loosens tears, and grace suffered them to flow and carry away a little of her sorrow in the glittering drops. she was young, and hope her proper heritage, therefore she grew happier presently, and when the miser's grandson appeared, hesitated, and, with a rueful countenance, began to creep away, she called to him and bade him come.
"i'm only crying, john lee. hast never seen a girl cry before?"
he advanced upon this, and his handsome young face was all blushes.
"never, miss grace; an' never want to. i would i could take your trouble on my own shoulders."
"your grandmother never weeps?"
"not she. a granite wall sweats more moisture than her eyes fall tears. but you—— the young gentleman, your brother, died like a hero. 'tis a great and noble thing to be a hero."
"how can a word stand for his dear beautiful face and bright eyes and kind voice? never a maid had such a brother as noel. hero! hero!" she lifted her voice bitterly. "an empty-handed, senseless sound to take the place of a dear brother. not one pang does it lessen—no, not even in my father's heart, though he says the syllables over and over again, like a parrot. our hope and our glory gone—that is what his death means."
"i can't say nothing—i wish i could. i'd go and die to-morrow if 'twould bring him back," declared john earnestly. "you'll think 'tis easy to tell such things, but god's my judge, i mean it."
"you are not unlike him in a way, john. he had your manner of holding up his neck, and your mouth and your neat ears."
"i'm an awful fuzz-poll—like they curly-haired coloured men at the war prison."
she did not answer for a moment, then spoke again of her sorrows.
"my heart's an empty nest now—all my plans to live with noel for ever and love his children are broken down. and i had a secret hope that he"—she stopped, then decided to finish the sentence—"that he might soften my father."
"your father be stern enough, but not to you—sure never to you."
he spoke with conviction and grace did not reply. a black-and-orange humble bee was working in the wild thyme at her feet. it tumbled and laboured from cluster to cluster of the flowers, pulled each tiny purple corolla to itself and dipped into each for the stores there hidden. it droned hither and thither, full of business, and at last, lifting itself heavily, flew away with a cheerful boom of thanksgiving. so near grace's ear did it go, that she started, and lee, though grave enough at heart, laughed.
"he won't hurt 'e. they bumbles have no spears, i believe—anyway they never use 'em."
"i hate peter norcot!" she said aloud, suddenly, and with such vehemence that john started and stared.
"i hate him—hate—hate—hate him! hark at the echo. i've told the echo that many a time. and the echo always answers very wisely, 'hate him!'"
"what have you got against him, if i may ax?"
"nothing; and that's everything. he's perfect."
"an' do love your very shadow, so they say."
"i forgot that. there is reason enough for not liking him."
"then you'll have to hate every man on the moor. they all love you—even i dare to do it."
"love me?"
"ess fay! be it uncivil in me to say so, miss?"
"i should think it was, indeed!"
"truth's truth. i can't help it. never seed nothing like you. i'd go to the end of the world for you. i wish 'twas my happy lot to be your servant."
"would you kill mr. norcot for me?"
he was silent; then he nodded.
"well, john lee, i had sooner you loved me than mr. norcot should."
"don't say it even in fun. you don't know what it means to me. i'm up eighteen year old now—a man. but i hate mr. peter, too, for that matter."
"because i do?"
"yes, an' for another reason; because granny likes him. he gived her money once. she said afterwards that there was that in his face pleased her fancy, for he'd got a depth in it that would make rocks and water do his will."
"she's quite wrong there. he's a most superficial man and amiable to weakness. he is always making feeble jests and quoting the poets. he is a thing of shreds and patches. he put your grandmother into an old verse once. i laughed, though i hate him. he said:—
"'through regions by wild men and cannibals haunted,
old dame lovey lee goes alone and undaunted;
but, bless you, the risk's not so great as it's reckoned;
she's too plain for the first and too tough for the second!'"
"he may laugh at her," replied john lee. "but she don't laugh at him. when he'd gone that day, she told me that he was the first man ever she clapped eyes on as could be her master if he liked; and i shivered to hear her say it."
"he's welcome to be her master; he never shall be mine," said grace resolutely; and as she spoke, her father suddenly appeared before them.
