had mr. norcot heard the conversation which he interrupted between john lee and grace, it must have amazed him exceedingly and reminded him of his lady's youth and inexperience.
those most concerned knew nothing of the relation that now obtained between grace and her servant, for that a daughter of his could look upon a groom was an idea beyond the wildest mental flight of maurice malherb; but humbler folks found themselves not wholly ignorant of recent developments. harvey woodman had hinted to his wife that the girl spent a great deal of her time in riding with miser lee's grandson, and mary woodman murmured in secret upon this unquiet theme with dinah beer. the question in their minds related to mrs. malherb.
"ought us to tell her?" asked mary. "such a good, high-minded lady as her be. an' miss gracie—so promising as a march calf, bless her."
"'tis a hard thing. i've nought against the boy for my part either," declared dinah. "he's civil an' smart, an' his face would soften a stone. but they'm both young, an', loramercy! what nature teaches boys an' girls ban't wisdom, for sartain! mr. norcot will never come it over her, for she hates him. her told me once, when i catched her crying all alone, poor maiden, that she couldn't abide his shadow, an' when i said as her parents knowed best about it, she talked treason wi' the fire in her cheeks. 'love can't be made to order,' her said; an' when i telled something about her duty, she cut me short an' axed, 'do you love your richard, dinah?' 'ess fay!' i sez. 'an' if your faither an' mother had told you to marry some person else—what then?' she sez. 'there, miss, let me get to my work,' i answered her; but the truth—i couldn't tell it: that me an' dick runned an' got married against faither's orders, as meant for me to take a cordwainer to tavistock."
"shall we tell kekewich?" suggested mrs. woodman. "for all his wickedness he'd never do an unwitty thing. he's terrible wise—not after the event, when us all be—but in time."
"i couldn't," declared dinah. "it do always bring a cloud to my heart when i see his pain-stained face—such a prophet of evil as he be."
"he never promises any good to anybody, so he's always right," answered mrs. woodman, who was in a pessimistic vein.
"my husband don't like him, no more don't i," replied the other woman. "don't say nought to him—a baggering old job's comforter. he'd get john lee turned off without a character. us have right an' reason to trust miss grace in such a thing. only i do wish the proper one would turn up. she never sees a young man but him."
"a terrible pretty chap—lee, i mean. have 'e noticed how mincing he gets in's speech?"
"dick an' your husband was laughing at him for it last night. he picks it up from miss grace."
"which shows they must have a lot to say to one another."
dinah nodded, and with an uneasy sense of guilt changed the conversation. but the truth was in fact nearer their suspicions than they guessed, and grace malherb, by slow degrees, had come to make a close friend and confidant of john lee. he possessed other charms than beauty, for his mind was simple; his heart was generous; his disposition kindly. romance and some mystery hovered round him; and grace, left much to her own devices, found the groom too often in her mind, his voice too often upon her ear.
a critical conversation fell out between them upon the day of norcot's return to fox tor farm. for three months lee had now served his new master, and attended grace to all parts of the moor. sometimes mr. malherb accompanied these expeditions, and generally he superintended grace's hurdle practice, for she was to hunt during the coming season; but the father did not always find himself at leisure to follow this pleasant task, and lee, whose first duty was to wait upon miss malherb, went far afield with her alone.
from indifference grace woke to pleasure at his delicate and refined nature. she encouraged him to talk, and presently heard as much of his scanty story as he himself knew. the narrative fired her imagination, and lent him a romantic interest to her mind. gradually she divulged a few of her own secrets, and the less he apparently desired to know, the more she found herself telling him. his courteous reserve even piqued her upon occasion. once she quarrelled with him, and bade him retire. but her apology upon the following day, brought him quickly to her side.
"'twas not indifference, god knows, miss grace," he told her. "i held back for fear i might seem too forward in your affairs. every breath you draw is a thing of account to me. i do know by the very light in your eyes whither your thoughts be tending—up or down. an' i'm loth to call mr. norcot into your mind; for his name brings a shadow over your face, like a cloud across noon sunshine."
"i thought you yawned yesterday, john, when i mentioned him. that is what angered me."
"'yawned'! i've never yawned since i knowed you."
"since you knew me, john. you are so slow to mend that weak ending of the past tense. 'tis a part of devon speech—a thing in their blood—but not in yours."
"i wish i knew all that was in my blood," he answered.
"you will some day. light will come. sometimes i think old lovey stole you, as gipsies steal little children. 'tis monstrous to suppose that you are kin of hers."
"not so; her daughter was my dear good mother without a doubt."
"'tis strange how a man's heart warms to the very name of his mother, though he has never known her," said grace.
"mine does, but i can only remember a white face and great frightened eyes that belonged to her. and when i ask my granddam for my father, she laughs—that laugh like tin beating on tin—and tells me to look in the river and i'll see him."
"he was a very handsome man then. you've got about the most beautiful ears i ever saw on anybody."
she spoke in a pensive and a critical tone with her eyes lifted to the hills, as though she spoke to them.
"good lord, miss grace. have i?"
and so they talked and daily drifted nearer danger. a conversation of moment happened between them concerning lovey lee. john ransacked his memory for grace's benefit and told her of early recollections, of his mother's funeral, of his arrival with mrs. lee at siward's cross when a child, and of his first labours upon the moor.
"i had to collect the lichen of which they make dyes," he said; "then i went wool-gathering, and grew very clever at setting briars in the sheep-tracks. later i learned to plait rexens, or rushes as i should call 'em; then a man taught me how to ride. and as i grew and got sense, my grandmother became a greater wonder and mystery to me. she lived two lives, and of one i knew nothing. oftentimes i found that she went abroad by night. lying in my straw near the cattle, with their sweet breath coming to me, i'd wake and see light in the slits of the boards overhead where granny slept. then she would dout the flame—put it out, i mean—and the boards would creak and she'd come down the ladder and go out into the night. 'twas moonlight she always chose, and once, when i was a bit of a lad, up home twelve years old, i reckoned i'd follow after and see what 'twas that took her off so secret when all things slept. but 'twas a poor thought for me. i followed 'pon a summer night in staring moonlight; and half a mile from fox tor, under which she went, my foot slipped where i was sneaking along a hundred yards behind her and i fell into a bog. she heard me splash out of it, and afore i could crouch down and hide, her cat's eyes had marked me and she turned and catched me, breathless an' soaking wet to the waist."
"alack, john! and what did she do?" asked the girl, reining up her horse to hear his answer.
"well, 'tisn't too strong a word to say that she very nearly knocked the life out of me. she changed from a woman into a demon. she screamed like to a horrid vampire, and clapper-clawed me from head to foot. 'you'd spy, you li'l devil!' she said. 'i'll larn you to peep 'pon my doings; i'll tear your liver out, i'll——' then under her blows i went off fainty, an' she scratched me like a cat-a-mountain, an', no doubt, left me for dead. i was only a little boy, of course, and she was just the same as she is now, only six years stronger. when i come to again she'd gone; but i thought i'd waked to die, for there was a dreadful bitter pang in my breast. i crawled back to the cottage somehow, and next day, when she was out of the way, i caught a donkey she had, and got up to prince town. the doctor at the prison by good fortune passed me as i came, and i made bold to tell him i was ill, and he had a look at me and said two of my ribs were broken. they kept me at a cottage up there, where granny was known, and 'twas a round six weeks afore i went back to her. then first thing she said was that she'd kill me and salt me down in her snail barrel if ever i spied on her again; so you may be sure i never did."
the story fascinated grace.
"how you must have suffered! but to think of the secrets that horrid old woman has hidden! it makes my mouth water, john. father believes that she knows all about the malherb amphora—the priceless glass vase that vanished, you know—and i believe she knows all about you. these things must be discovered; and 'twill be your task to find them out, john lee."
"ah! if i could find my father. but that's a search i'm almost fearful to make. i——"
he broke off, and grace felt the matter too delicate for comment. her interest in lee grew daily, and, ignorant of love, the girl now believed her emotion towards him must be called by that name. he for his part loved indeed with all his young heart and soul. care clouded his life, because he knew that he was wrong to think twice about his mistress. by night, when alone, his courage sometimes increased; but daylight and duty quenched it. under darkness he dreamed dreams, yet when he rose to hear rough men laugh at his amended speech, and see malherb order him hither and thither, as he ordered the rest, john lee's folly stared him in the face. he fought with himself to relinquish his task and depart from fox tor farm; he fancied that he had conquered himself, and determined to go; then would come a long, lonely ride with grace, and a return to vain unquiet hopes. his conscience urged him away; his power of will proved insufficient to take him beyond temptation. as for the girl, her tender feeling was an unconscious instinct of self-preservation. she desired a strong protector rather than a lover; and he who might secure her safety was sure to win her active regard. grace's delight in john lee, her increasing admiration for his goodness, honesty and chivalrous nature, she mistook for love. the fatuity of such a conclusion was not impressed on the girl's virgin mind; and the secret of john's parentage proved no obstacle to attachment, but rather an incentive. that he was a gentleman in every vital particular she perceived.
upon this day a barrier fell down between them. she had found herself sad and weak before the approaching shadow of peter norcot; and john had waxed desperate, and forgotten everything in heaven and on earth but the lovely, mournful maid beside him. they were but seventeen and eighteen; of the world they knew nothing at all; but his world was in her eyes, and she believed that her future welfare and hopes of happiness now rode at her elbow in the handsome shape of the lad.
"john," she said, exactly one hour before mr. norcot's horse appeared nigh cater's beam—"john, he's coming to-day."
"i know it. i know the weather of your heart, miss grace, as soon as i look upon you; for the eyes are the sky of the mind."
"come closer," she answered; "come closer and comfort me."
"mr. peter is a great man now—head of the wool factory, and worth many thousands of pounds."
"cold comfort! if he was made of gold with diamond eyes he would still be peter norcot."
"'tis strange, but you are the only person in the world that don't like him."
"and you," she said quickly, "you hate him too."
"yes, i hate him well enough—because he's a coward and a hard-hearted man at bottom to plague you so, when you've made it clear you cannot love him. i hate him for that, i promise you. i could believe dark things against him gladly. do you know what tom putt said?"
"no," replied grace. "not that putt's opinion is of much moment save in matters of salmon."
"he is courting a maiden at chagford; and her brother—a man called mason—is an outdoor servant to mr. norcot. and last sunday, when the women were at church, putt had speech with this man, and they got merry over drink. tom praised mr. norcot mightily, and his servant said with great admiration that he believed as like as not, mr. peter had killed his uncle to get head of the wool factory. mason said he couldn't pay mr. norcot a higher compliment for skill and cleverness; but tom putt was rather afeared about it, and he's in doubt now whether to go on courting that man's sister."
"there was a mystery," declared grace. "peter norcot last saw his uncle alive on the moor. oh, john—to think of it! he is cruel, for he sets man-traps and spring-guns in his woods. a man who would do that would—he may be even a murderer! under all his rhymes and nonsense he surely has a tiger's heart!"
"you mustn't think of it—either that he could do so wicked a deed, or that you are going to marry him. most gentlefolks put man-traps in their preserves nowadays. but, to be honest, he don't, for i heard him tell master he didn't last time he was here. and as for you, the right man must soon come. he——"
"stop there, john! 'tis like your kind self to talk so to me; yet i know very well how it hurts you."
"sweet!" he cried. "i have told you how i love you. i couldn't choke it down longer. and you forgave me, and pitied me a little. you must let me hope and pray for the right man, since 'tis impossible i can ever be anything to you." grace was silent, and he continued.
"i've learned better since that moment. i'm not a fool. my love at least is too big a pattern to offer it to you again."
"can a man love a maid too much then?" she exclaimed.
"he may love too little and so offer himself. i love—there, my love's all of me. but who am i to dare to lift eyes to you?"
"'tis just that, john," she said with a fluttering heart. "who are you?"
"until 'tis known——"
"what difference can that make? can a fact not known alter a fact known? mr. norcot taught me that much. facts never contradict themselves, he said once; and the fact is—you love me. if a king was your father, you still love me; and you are you—honest and true, and generous. and—and you've got a dear face like my dead brother's."
he stared in front of him, and grace mused over his virtues.
suddenly he spoke.
"you'll make me mad again!" he cried. "i ought to spur away for dear life, and for honour and right; i ought to turn my back and gallop to the ends of the world; but i can't—i can't do it—more shame to me."
"you certainly love me with all your heart, john. well, john dear, i think i love you too!"
"no, no," he said. "you must not; it can't be; 'tisn't in sober reason."
"so much more likely to be real," she answered. "true love is not reasonable, john. and you must fight a great battle for me, because all the world is against us."
"the world—the world's here—here! the rest i can put under my foot and forget. you love me—oh! grace, my star—is it true?"
"yes, for i've never felt so before, and i've done almost everything but fall in love in my time. 'tis quite a new thing—sure it must be love; for what other name is there to give it? i love your beautiful face, and your voice, and your gentle ways; and i love you best of all for loving me, john."
"every living thing loves you," he said solemnly. "yet you can come to a useless, poor, humble man like me, and trust me with yourself!"
"yes, i trust you, john," she said with gravity equal to his. "i know not what may betide; but you must stand between me and—and that man. do you love me well enough to run risks and dangers for me?"
"may time prove it!"
"your love is shield and buckler both to me," she said.
"and yours such a blessing as god almighty never poured into any life before," he answered earnestly. "'tis my prayer henceforth that i may lift myself up to be worthy."
"i love you with all my heart, indeed. and some day, far on, when the world rolls kinder and everybody's wiser, and mr. norcot is an angel or a married man—then i'll be your wife, john lee."
the lad appeared more weighted by this mighty promise than jubilant at it.
"do 'e call home all it means, my lovely?" he asked. "do 'e know that your whole beautiful life rests on whether 'tis a wise deed or a vain one?"
grace nodded.
"love casts out all fear," she said.
"then i can only fall back upon god to be on our side," he answered. "'tis my life and light and heaven on earth to hear you say that. ay—you shall be my song for evermore. i'll try to live worthy of such bounty. there's no going back now—none, for i'm only flesh and blood, and michael and all his angels shan't take 'e from me any more!"
before she could speak he was close at her side and she felt his arm about her waist, his kisses raining upon her cheeks.
"for ever and ever, grace!"
"oh yes, dear john. love never dies."
"if we could ride away over the hills now——" he said, dreaming his golden dream.
"we should meet mr. norcot, for there he comes," she answered.
"i feel that i should like to go to him and take him out of his saddle and crush him like an eggshell."
"my valiant sweetheart! you may indeed have to do so some day. drop back now, dear john, and let my cheeks cool. oh, how lovely a thing it is to have this mighty secret between us!"
"if i died now," he said, "i should have had far, far more than my share of the good of the world."
"talk not of dying. you must live for me."
"that will i—and die for you if need be."
"we'll live and die together, john. now fall you back, my own dear love—else mr. peter will grow jealous."
thus it came about that when the manufacturer winked at young lee and called him "a lucky dog," he uttered a great truth, although he was quite ignorant of the fact.
