eighteen months after peter norcot and john lee were laid to their rest in the dewy and tree-shadowed churchyard of chagford, there arrived a post at fox tor farm with two packets from a far country. for annabel malherb from her son-in-law, cecil stark, of vermont, came one communication; and the second reached mr. richard beer. his old companion and fellow-worker, putt, had sent it.
after the catastrophe that terminated peter norcot's life, it is to be noted that thomas putt assumed a position of some prominence. despite his family and his own straitened affairs, malherb regretted the ancient lovey's tragic end; but since she was now without further question dead and buried: at a cross road in a suicide's grave, the amphora returned to its owner; and tom putt, as the man responsible for this notable circumstance, received a very generous reward. with comparative wealth and the possibilities of a new country before him, thomas accepted service under cecil stark, and when the young sailor returned to his own country, he took with him not only his bride, but also a white and a black attendant. before the lover sailed for home, james knapps had already returned in a cartel ship to his native land; but sam cuffee rejoined stark as soon as the american procured his liberation; and sam never lost sight of his master again.
at last the mournful mansions of prince town were empty and deserted; grasses and weeds blossomed where sorrowful feet had pressed their courts; the bats squeaked and clustered in their mighty corridors; decay and desolation claimed them all. moor folk told how no sweet water would cleanse those floors of blood, how pestilence still lurked in the vaults and foul recesses, how shadows of mournful spirits here stalked together through the livelong night, wailed to the moon and only vanished when grey dawn disturbed them. dark stories gathered above the empty war prison, like crows around a corpse. rumour hinted of secret graves and murders unrecorded and unguessed; the crypts gave up human bones to the searchers; unholy inscriptions and curses against a forgetful god stared out upon dark walls at the light of torches; signs of infamy, of evil, and of all the passion, agony and heartbreak of vanished thousands appeared; hoarded horrors came to light; a spirit of misery untold still haunted the mouldering limbo. yet as time passed, the forces of nature worked within these barred gates and toiled by day and night to sweeten and purify, to obliterate and cleanse. the west wind and the rain, the frost and the mist, the sunlight and the storm all laboured here. torrents washed and hurricanes howled into every hole and alley; up-springing seeds and swelling mosses softened the old sentry-ways upon the ramparts; green things broke the cruel contours of the walls; rusting and shattered iron at a thousand windows grew red and dripped streaks of warm colour upon the weathered granite.
now the war prison has vanished, and its story is told. in the vast archives of human torment the narrative fills but a brief paragraph; and therein all that pitiful history, to the last secret tear and the last act of malice, to the last noble self-denial and unanswered prayer, is recorded, to endure for time.
mr. beer read his letter aloud after supper in the servants' hall.
"a very understanding man was thomas putt, though cunning an' tricky as a fox, as i always told him," declared kekewich, from his seat beside the fire.
"an' larned to write since he went to america, seemingly," said dinah beer. "there was nought that chap couldn't reach when he gave his intellects to it."
"he starts off with some general good wishes for all the company at fox tor farm an' his uncle bradridge, if we should chance to meet with him," began beer. "then he goes on upon affairs in general in these words."
richard read from putt's letter:—
"an' i be glad i didn't marry mason's sister to chaggyford, for to be plain, there's better here, an' a man of sense can have his pick of very fine maidens. but i ban't going to rush at 'em. i've got my own bit of ground rented from mr. stark, an' pretty soil it is too. the first crop of wheat i takes off it will more than pay the expenses of clearing! that'll make your mouths to water, i reckon. such crops as come up i never did see or hear tell about, an' if anybody had told me there was such fat virgin land in the world, just natural with never a load of muck on it since the flood, i should have said the man was a liar. an' there ban't no duchy in vermont! an' never a bigger-minded, more generous gentleman living than mr. stark. thousands upon thousands of acres he've got. blamed if i don't believe as you could put dartymoor down in the middle an' lose it! he'm a great farmer; an' i've heard un say 'tis the best of the human crafts after sailoring. t'other sorts of business teach a man to be rich, an' powerful like, an' witty; but the land—where should us be without that? it keeps the world alive an' finds food an' clothes for all the humans on the earth."
"'tis true," said woodman. "an', what's more, i hold as the land be next to the bible for keeping a man out of mischief—so long as he sticks to it. 'tis the sticking does it. if adam's self had but kept to his job——"
"putt says a bit more; us can have a tell after," interrupted beer. then, amid real and lively interest, he narrated a matter with which, elsewhere, the master and his wife were also most deeply concerned.
maurice malherb sat and calculated the value of his next year's crop of wool. as usual, he set it as high as his hopes. he had sold the malherb amphora for eighteen thousand pounds, and henceforth found himself and his farm in prosperous circumstances.
now annabel read slowly the budget from cecil stark. it was in the nature of a diary, and anon malherb, pushing his papers and figures violently from him, spoke.
"for love of heaven, leave that solid prosing, and look forward to the end. grace—how is it with her? there should be great news. but he's so balanced, so self-contained, so methodical. he'll set things in their proper order though the heavens fall. look on—look on to the end!"
"he writes from day to day, dear maurice."
"let him. we need not read so. turn the pages quickly."
mrs. malherb obeyed, glanced forward, then uttered a joyful cry and dropped the budget.
"a boy—a precious little boy; and our sweet one well—quite well—before the letter sailed. 'gloriously happy,' he says."
"i knew it! pick up the letter. a boy! they have called him maurice malherb? that is certain."
she read again; then shook her head.
"not so?" he asked with a heightened voice. "then 'tis 'malherb'—just the name. yet i could have wished——"
"no, dear heart. they have not called him malherb."
he started and flushed.
"stark's name alone, i suppose? that is not well. i marvel they could do so improper a thing! is it not enough that she has broken our hearthstone? will she also forget us?
"the little one is called john, dear maurice—only that."
he was quite silent for a moment, staring before him. his warmth died away and then he spoke.
"good—very good! well thought on! i'm glad they've done that. and the dead would be glad. perchance he is so. all is right with our girl, you say—you hide nothing?"
"all is as right as our love could wish."
"god be praised for his manifold mercies then."
she rose and came to his side.
"do you remember, maurice, how once you wished for grace's firstborn, and planned and hoped that he should be a malherb?"
"forget it," he said. "'tis but a fool's part to remember dreams."
he bent his head and his great square jaw hardened.
"no, no. this place follows me to the dust, and with me vanishes from man's memory for ever. none shall remember me after i have passed by, and none bear my name any more. let it depart, like the mist 'of the morning, and be forgotten."
"may our grandchild be even such as you, brave heart! a man among men—generous, honest, just."
malherb shook his head.
"never—never. rather pray that he follow his father. but not like me—not like me."
she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
