for two days the great blizzard continued, and cecil stark remained more or less unconscious. sometimes he recovered sufficiently to speak, and his friend's name was upon his tongue when he did so; but the sick man could neither frame a coherent sentence, nor make his desires understood to any listener. at length, however, he began to mend, and maurice malherb, who held himself something of a physician, pronounced that the lad was out of danger. for this happy circumstance he took all credit to himself, but grace declared that she it was who had saved the wanderer's life. as yet she had not seen him. her mother and dinah beer ministered to him during his unconsciousness, obeyed the master in every particular, and, with most assiduous care, steadily nursed cecil stark back into life after he had said farewell to it.
the american prisoner's return to intelligent speech brought no small annoyance for his host. stark's clothes were bought from a jew pedlar, and had not betrayed him; but he made all clear as soon as he was able to do so; and mr. malherb, stamping into the parlour after his first conversation with the invalid, announced a discovery with considerable wrath. as yet no news of the outer world had reached fox tor farm. it lay separated from all things by impenetrable barriers and drifts of snow.
"an american! a wretched prisoner who broke out of prince town on the night of the storm. one cecil stark, by a vile coincidence. doubtless that rascal who came so near to braining grace in the summer. himself and other blackguards climbed over the walls, for our sentries had been moved and wrapped in cotton wool, i suppose, to keep the weakly fools from freezing! once in the teeth of the storm, three of the six prisoners turned tail and went back as fast as their legs would carry them. three held on. one—a common sailor—was soon lost; two—this lad and another officer—struggled to within a hundred yards of my mansion. then the elder fell to rise no more, and the boy, with a last effort, reached us. the rest you know. thanks to grace and to me, he will regain his worthless life, and not lose a finger."
"but the other poor souls—how monstrous sad to think that one perished almost at our doorstep! i pray you despatch beer, woodman, and the rest instantly, dear maurice," cried mrs. malherb.
"am i a stone?" he answered. "already the men and dogs are seeking this unfortunate creature. but he is far beyond all help. it may be that we shall not find him before the melting of the snows."
mr. malherb hastened off, and annabel, taking grace with her, went to see their guest. young lee had been appointed night nurse to the sufferer, and now john met grace and her mother as they arrived.
"mr. stark is sitting up," he said. "he finds himself too weak to rise, but he awaits you very eagerly. i hear him mumbling a speech that shall express his deep regret for all the care he has given here."
"he shall say no such things," declared mrs. malherb; yet, before she could prevent it, stark began upon the theme at his heart.
"forgive me, madam, for this terrible trouble that i have brought into your home. i had better far have died outside it. yet i bless you that i still live. to sharp ears and generous courage and wonderful skill i owe my salvation, and 'tis beyond human power ever to thank you for such goodness. samaritans indeed have you been to me. you have given me back my life."
"then i pray you to set a better value on it, master stark," said annabel, "for truly you rated it but low to venture it on such a hazard."
"it shall be precious henceforth. when i grow desperate i will consider the price of skill and trouble with which you and your husband have redeemed it."
"and my daughter, sir; your best thanks are due to her, for 'twas she who heard your cry in the night."
grace, gazing down, saw a strong, young face, with wild black hair, a powerful neck, square jaw, and clean, firm mouth. stark's countenance was very thin, and the grey eyes that burnt out of it appeared dim and weary. their lids kept falling upon them. but now into his face came a flush. he had not yet looked at grace malherb, nor did he do so now.
"god bless your daughter, madam. and have they found him—my friend—the commodore? 'twas to him i shouted, and forgot that the cry might reach any other listener."
"i fear you must not hope——"
"no, no. i only trust that he may be found—his dust. oh, god of mystery! to think that i led my friend directly to your very gates and lost him then because my senses were sealed up. mayhap one word had saved him! and such a sailor as any nation might take glory in! he lies there, frozen to death; while i bide here alive, with angels to tend my good-for-nothing body."
"he's gone to greater and better work, young sir," said annabel.
"there's no greater or better work on earth or in heaven, madam, than to fight for one's country," he answered wearily.
"and is not heaven the country of us all? what nobler task than to fight for that? you shall find there—not frenchmen, nor englishmen, nor americans—but only happy souls at rest."
"your land has killed a great man," he said.
"alas, sir! of what nation on earth can less be confessed? the conqueror's path is often over noble corpses. you are young and our terrible solitudes have not yet tamed you. we shall see you again to-morrow. meantime john lee and mrs. beer are at your beck and call by night and day. and accept my earnest and prayerful thanksgiving that you are spared to do worthy work in the world."
"and mine too, mr. stark," said grace.
then, for the first time, he lifted his eyes to her face and recognised her. thereupon his slight colour faded away, and he seemed like to faint. instead, he braced himself, sat up, regarded her with deep emotion and spoke.
"i remember you! you have paid me good for evil, indeed. i——"
but here his fortitude failed him, his spirit was shaken in its present feeble state, and he turned his face away to the wall. annabel hastened her daughter out of the room and followed her immediately.
"the poor young man is reduced to the utmost weakness," she presently told her husband. "he must have all the strong and sustaining fare that we can bestow upon him to restore his masculine serenity. 'twas he whose chisel nearly destroyed dear gracie, and when he saw her and thought upon it, he hid his face to weep. 'twas a pitiful sight—happily only seen by women."
"death came so nigh that it robbed him of manhood—if americans have manhood—yet just missed to grasp at his life. we must restore him to health and to prison as quickly as may be. there is wine in my cellar—an elixir beyond reach of any now, for none remains in the market. he shall be free of it. yet i hate to think that even in the name of humanity we have suffered an american to cross this threshold."
"our country's enemy, father, not ours," said grace.
"and since when were my country's enemies not mine, chit?" he asked.
"yet you praised monsieur marliac, who is on parole at ashburton, for his riding in that noble run before the ill weather."
"his riding, yes; not him. he happens to be a marvellous fine horseman with british resource and courage. some englishman doubtless taught him. have done with that. when this boy returned to consciousness, my first demand upon him was that he should give me his parole. needless to say, he instantly agreed to do so."
the baying of a hound, the shrill barking of two terriers, and the murmur of men's voices came through the window. other sounds there were not, for the snow had long muffled up the earth and made its frozen surface dumb. glancing out of the casement, malherb saw the sight that he awaited, bade grace and her mother retire, then solemnly went forth uncovered to meet the dead.
an hour before, thomas putt, with beer, harvey woodman and mark bickford, had tramped out of doors to seek the body of cecil stark's companion. the snow no longer fell; the sky was clear, yet lacked colour; the wind, sunk from its sustained fury, now uttered gigantic but irregular sighs and slept between them. when it blew, snow-wreaths puffed aloft in little spirals, and deep white snow-banks slipped and cracked. like streams of ink the rivers wound beneath, and every rush and briar beside them bent under its proper weight of snow. the glare of the earth upthrown made mr. putt's eyes smart. a bitter, steely cold still held the moor, and every man was wrapped up in such thick garments as he possessed. mr. beer wore one of his wife's shawls wrapped round his ears, while each labourer had fashioned himself haybands to protect his legs. they held their task vain, but hoped that the dogs might do what they could not. the hound—a mastiff—rejoicing in its liberation, bellowed and plunged dewlap deep in the snow, while the terriers tumbled and rollicked after it until only their wagging tail-stumps were visible.
richard beer growled at the evil times and speculated where the farm field-walls might lie under this universal carpet.
"us might so soon seek a storm-foundered sheep or steer as a man," declared putt. "i'll be tissicked up wi' brownkitty again to-night, an' nobody to care a cuss whether my breathing be hard or easy."
"never seed any man wi' so poor a spirit as you," answered bickford. "once you get cold to the bone an' you haven't the pluck of a louse."
"i'm a poor tool when i'm cold, an' i know it," admitted putt. "now us be all getting our death for nought. if there was a live party lost 'twould be differ'nt—even though he was an enemy of the nation. but this here chap's been food for foxes these many days."
"'twas a great sign of the love o' freedom said to be born in 'em, that they yankees would rather take to the open on such a night than bide any more pent in that den of frenchmen and prison evil," mused beer.
"i'm the last to blame 'em," declared woodman.
"they'm too blown up as a nation, however," added beer. "'twas a very unhandsome thing to get in holds with us just when we had our hands full wi' boney."
"i reckon these chaps had to do what they were told, like us," declared mark bickford. "they'm sailor men, so i hear, an' 'tis no use cussing 'em same as master do. they be only earning their living. a sailor have got to do what he'm bid, like any other warrior."
"god's word! but he makes my blood boil, no matter how cold the weather be—master, i mean. i wouldn't speak to a dog like he speaks to me. the manhood in me will blaze out some day," declared putt.
"then you'll get turned off," said mr. woodman.
"'tis very well for you; though lord he knows how you can stand the mouth-speech you suffer from him in his rash moments," retorted putt.
"i stand it, like a donkey eats dachells:[*] i be built to. my family's always had a marvellous power of putting up with hard words from our betters. not from smaller men, mind you, nor yet from our equals; but what's simple impidence an' sauce not to be borne from the common sort, be just greatness of mind in the bettermost. they don't mean nothing. 'tis only the haughty blood in 'em."
[*] dachells: thistles.
"'tis just their haughty blood that these here american chaps won't sit down under no more," declared mr. beer. "there's no bettermost among them, so i'm told. a man have got to work his way to the top. he can't be born up top; though how it answers to have no gentlefolks, i ban't witty enough to guess."
malherb's great mastiff presently, by skill or accident, discovered the thing that these men sought. beside childe's desolated cenotaph the hound stopped, lifted up its head and bayed. then it began to dig, and the terriers, yelping loudly, rushed to aid it. the men with their shovels made quick work, and the corpse of jonathan miller lay revealed. neither physical agony nor mental grief clouded his features. his eyes were shut; his countenance appeared placid under the gentle snow-slumber that had led him through the valley of the shadow. all perceived that they stood before one who had been their superior. thomas putt touched his hat to the corpse. beer dragged a bottle from his pocket, then, appreciating the futility of troubling the dead, prepared to put it away again with a sorrowful oath.
but bickford proposed another course.
"he can't drink, poor hero, but us can. if you've brought brandy, gi' me a drop, for i'm in a proper case for it. my feet be just conkerbils of ice beneath me."
therefore they all drank, and woodman spoke as his turn came for the bottle.
"here's to the gen'leman," said he, "an' may he be out of trouble for evermore."
"an' here's to his wife an' family," added beer, wiping the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve before he put it to his lips. "you may be pretty sartain he's left a wife an' half a dozen, for men in new countries allus get a quiver full, according to the wonnerful wisdom of the lord."
"an' i'll drink to the sexton," said bickford, "because the ground's froze two feet, an' the digging of this carpse's grave be going to fetch out a proper sweat on some man."
"you take his honour's heels, will 'e, woodman? an' walk first. me an' putt will hold each a shoulder. you gather up the tools, bickford, an' keep back they dogs. look at thicky baggering hound! he knows he've done a clever thing an' wants the world to know it."
so they returned and cast their features into a solemn mould at the direction of richard beer.
"us can't be axed to feel no more than the proper sorrow of man for man," he explained, "but death's death; an' it might be you or me as was going feet first an' shoulder high, but for the goodness of god an' us being englishmen."
"the poor soul's feet would make a merry-andrew sober," said woodman. "what he's suffered only him an' his maker will ever know."
"they'll be cured again afore his honour wants 'em," answered richard beer. "he'll rise so well as ever he was at the trump, along with the best man amongst us."
that night a coffin was built and the dead american's remains laid with reverence therein. a few papers and a watch were found in miller's pockets, and malherb, making a packet of them, handed all to the prisoner on parole. then, two days afterwards, when the weather was bright and the temperature had a little risen, stark found himself strong enough to rise and creep about and reach the grave that had been dug for his friend.
maurice malherb selected a resting-place upon his own domain; and to bickford himself the task of sinking six feet into the frozen soil was allotted. thus within the bosom of dartmoor, as many of his countrymen before him, a good and wise son of america was laid to rest; but his compatriots' dust mouldered under the prison walls; the sailor slept on the central waste. and still his pall is the solemn-moving and purple shadow of the clouds in summer, and in winter the unstained snow; still his knell is sounded in the musical echo of sheep-bells, or the cry of birds by night. the life and activity of fox tor farm have vanished into the eternal past, and graves widely scattered hold those who buried miller then; but none sleep so grand, so solitary as he in his forgotten tomb under the heather. a repulsed civilisation has retreated before the severity of the land, before the far-flung granite, hungry peat and rough greeting of winter winds and storms; but these forces, harsh to living man, are the patient watchers beside his grave; this earth and stone he cannot tame, yet they open their hearts to him at the last.
the american was present as chief mourner at his friend's interment; while maurice malherb read the funeral service, and at his order all the human life of the farm assembled beside the grave. stark, now restored to strength, exhibited no trace of emotion during the ceremony, and at the completion of it he limped homeward with mrs. malherb and her daughter. this he did by direct command.
"your health and the weather do not permit me to allow you to follow your wish," his host said curtly; "but i shall be proxy for you in my own person."
therefore maurice malherb waited beside the grave alone until putt and bickford had completely filled it up.
