THE SHIP OF STARS. 

by

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (Q)

1899

To THE RIGHT HON. LEONARD HENRY COURTNEY, M. P. 

My Dear Mr. Courtney, It is with a peculiar pleasure and, I dare to hope, with someappropriateness that I dedicate to you this story of the WestCountry, which claims you with pride. To be sure, the places herewritten of will be found in no map of your own or any neighbouringconstituency. A visitor may discover Nannizabuloe, but only towonder what has become of the lighthouse, or seek along thesand-hills without hitting on Tredinnis. Yet much of the tale istrue in a fashion, even to fact. One or two things which happen toSir Harry Vyell did actually happen to a better man, who lived andhunted foxes not a hundred miles from the "model borough" ofLiskeard, and are told of him in my friend Mr. W. F. Collier's memoirof Harry Terrell, a bygone Dartmoor hero: and a true account of whatfollowed the wreck of the Samaritan will be found in a chapter ofRemembrances by that true poet and large-hearted man, Robert StephenHawker. 

But a novel ought to be true to more than fact: and if this one comenear its aim, no one will need to be told why I dedicate it to you. If it do not (and I wish the chance could be despised!), its authorwill yet hold that among the names of living Englishmen he could havechosen none fitter to be inscribed above a story which in the tellinghas insensibly come to rest upon the two texts, "Lord, make men astowers!" and "All towers carry a light. " Although for you Heaven hasseen fit to darken the light, believe me it shines outwards over thewaters and is a help to men: a guiding light tended by brave hands. We pray, sir--we who sail in little boats--for long life to the towerand the unfaltering lamp. 

A. T. Q. C. St. John's Eve, 1899. 

CONTENTS

I. THE BOY IN THE GATE-HOUSE. 

II. MUSIC IN THE TOWN SQUARE. 

III. PASSENGER'S BY JOBY'S VAN. 

IV. THE RUNNING SANDS. 

V. TAFFY RINGS THE CHURCH BELL. 

VI. A COCK-FIGHT. 

VII. GEORGE. 

VIII. THE SQUIRE'S SOUL. 

IX. ENTER THE KING'S POSTMAN. 

X. A HAPPY DAY. 

XI. LIZZIE REDEEMS HER DOLL AND HONORIA THROWS A STONE. 

XII. TAFFY'S CHILDHOOD COMES TO AN END. 

XIII. THE BUILDERS. 

XIV. VOICES FROM THE SEA. 

XV. TAFFY'S APPRENTICESHIP. 

XVI. LIZZIE AND HONORIA. 

XVII. THE SQUIRE'S WEIRD. 

XVIII. THE BARRIERS FALL. 

XIX. OXFORD. 

XX. TAFFY GIVES A PROMISE. 

XXI. HONORIA'S LETTERS. 

XXII. MEN AS TOWERS. 

XXIII. THE SERVICE OF THE LAMP. 

XXIV. FACE TO FACE. 

XXV. THE WRECK OF THE "SAMARITAN". 

XXVI. SALVAGE. 

XXVII. HONORIA. 

XXVIII. A L'OUTRANCE. 

XXIX. THE SHIP OF STARS. 

THE SHIP OF STARS. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE BOY IN THE GATE-HOUSE. 

Until his ninth year the boy about whom this story is written livedin a house which looked upon the square of a county town. The househad once formed part of a large religious building, and the boy'sbedroom had a high groined roof, and on the capstone an angel carved, with outspread wings. Every night the boy wound up his prayers withthis verse which his grandmother had taught him:

 "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on. Four corners to my bed, Four angels round my head; One to watch, one to pray, Two to bear my soul away. "

Then he would look up to the angel and say: "Only Luke is with me. "His head was full of queer texts and beliefs. He supposed the threeother angels to be always waiting in the next room, ready to bearaway the soul of his grandmother (who was bed-ridden), and that hehad Luke for an angel because he was called Theophilus, after thefriend for whom St. Luke had written his Gospel and the Acts of theHoly Apostles. His name in full was Theophilus John Raymond, butpeople called him Taffy. 

Of his parents' circumstances he knew very little, except that theywere poor, and that his father was a clergyman attached to the parishchurch. As a matter of fact, the Reverend Samuel Raymond was seniorcurate there, with a stipend of ninety-five pounds a year. Born atTewkesbury, the son of a miller, he had won his way to a servitorshipat Christ Church, Oxford; and somehow, in the course of one LongVacation, had found money for travelling expenses to join a readingparty under the Junior Censor. The party spent six summer weeks at afarmhouse near Honiton, in Devon. The farm belonged to an invalidwidow named Venning, who let it be managed by her daughter Humilityand two paid labourers, while she herself sat by the window in herkitchen parlour, busied incessantly with lace-work of that beautifulkind for which Honiton is famous. He was an unassuming youth; andalthough in those days servitors were no longer called upon to blackthe boots of richer undergraduates, the widow and her daughter soondivined that he was lowlier than the others, and his position anawkward one, and were kind to him in small ways, and grew to likehim. Next year, at their invitation, he travelled down to Honitonalone, with a box of books; and, at twenty-two, having taken hisdegree, he paid them a third visit, and asked Humility to be hiswife. At twenty-four, soon after his admission to deacon's orders, they were married. The widow sold the small farm, with its stock, and followed to live with them in the friary gate-house; this havingbeen part of Humility's bargain with her lover, if the word can beused of a pact between two hearts so fond. 

About ten years had gone since these things happened, and their childTaffy was now past his eighth birthday. 

It seemed to him that, so far back as he could remember, his motherand grandmother had been making lace continually. At night, when hismother took the candle away with her and left him alone in the dark, he was not afraid; for, by closing his eyes, he could always see thetwo women quite plainly; and always he saw them at work, each with apillow on her lap, and the lace upon it growing, growing, until thepins and bobbins wove a pattern that was a dream, and he slept. He could not tell what became of all the lace, though he had a collarof it which he wore to church on Sundays, and his mother had onceshown him a parcel of it, wrapped in tissue-paper, and told him itwas his christening robe. 

His father was always reading, except on Sundays, when he preachedsermons. In his thoughts nine times out of ten Taffy associated hisfather with a great pile of books; but the tenth time with somethingtotally different. One summer--it was in his sixth year--they hadall gone on a holiday to Tewkesbury, his father's old home; and herecalled quite clearly the close of a warm afternoon which he and hismother had spent there in a green meadow beyond the abbey church. She had brought out a basket and cushion, and sat sewing, while Taffyplayed about and watched the haymakers at their work. Behind them, within the great church, the organ was sounding; but by-and-by itstopped, and a door opened in the abbey wall, and his father cameacross the meadow toward them with his surplice on his arm. And thenHumility unpacked the basket and produced a kettle, a spirit-lamp, and a host of things good to eat. The boy thought the wholeadventure splendid. When tea was done, he sprang up with one ofthose absurd notions which come into children's heads:

"Now let's feed the poultry, " he cried, and flung his last scrap ofbun three feet in air toward the gilt weather-cock on the abbeytower. While they laughed, "Father, how tall is the tower?" hedemanded. 

"A hundred and thirty-two feet, my boy, from ground to battlements. "

"What are battlements?"

He was told. 

"But people don't fight here, " he objected. 

Then his father told of a battle fought in the very meadow in whichthey were sitting; of soldiers at bay with their backs to the abbeywall; of crowds that ran screaming into the church; of others chaseddown Mill Street and drowned; of others killed by the Town Cross; andhow--people said in the upper room of a house still standing in theHigh Street--a boy prince had been stabbed. 

Humility laid a hand on his arm. 

"He'll be dreaming of all this. Tell him it was a long time ago, andthat these things don't happen now. "

But her husband was looking up at the tower. 

"See it now with the light upon it!" he went on. "And it has seen itall. Eight hundred years of heaven's storms and man's madness, andstill foursquare and as beautiful now as when the old masons tookdown their scaffolding. When I was a boy--"

He broke off suddenly. "Lord, make men as towers, " he added quietlyafter a while, and nobody spoke for many minutes. 

To Taffy this had seemed a very queer saying; about as queer as thatother one about "men as trees walking. " Somehow--he could not saywhy--he had never asked any questions about it. But many times hehad perched himself on a flat tombstone under the church tower athome, and tilted his head back and stared up at the courses andpinnacles, wondering what his father could have meant, and how a mancould possibly be like a tower. It ended in this--that whenever hedreamed about his father, these two towers, or a tower which was moreor less a combination of both, would get mixed up with the dream aswell. 

The gate-house contained a sitting-room and three bedrooms (onehardly bigger than a box-cupboard); but a building adjoined it whichhad been the old Franciscans' refectory, though now it was divided bycommon planking into two floors, the lower serving for a feoffeeoffice, while the upper was supposed to be a muniment-room, in chargeof the feoffees' clerk. The clerk used it for drying hisgarden-seeds and onions, and spread his hoarding apples to ripen onthe floor. So when Taffy grew to need a room of his own, and hisfather's books to cumber the very stairs of the gate-house, the moneywhich Humility and her mother made by their lace-work, and whicharrived always by post, came very handy for the rent which the clerkasked for his upper chamber. 

Carpenters appeared and partitioned it off into two rooms, communicating with the gate-house by a narrow doorway pierced in thewall. All this, whilst it was doing, interested Taffy mightily; andhe announced his intention of being a carpenter one of these days. 

"I hope, " said Humility, "you will look higher, and be a preacher ofGod's Word, like your father. "

His father frowned at this and said: "Jesus Christ was both. "

Taffy compromised: "Perhaps I'll make pulpits. "

This was how he came to have a bedroom with a vaulted roof and awindow that reached down below the floor. 

CHAPTER II. 

MUSIC IN THE TOWN SQUARE. 

This window looked upon the Town Square, and across it to theMayoralty. The square had once been the Franciscans' burial-ground, and was really no square at all, but a semicircle. The townspeoplecalled it Mount Folly. The chord of the arc was formed by a largeAssize Hall, with a broad flight of granite steps, and a cannonplanted on either side of the steps. The children used to climbabout these cannons, and Taffy had picked out his first letters fromthe words _Sevastopol_ and _Russian Trophy_, painted in white ontheir lead-coloured carriages. 

Below the Assize Hall an open gravelled space sloped gently down to aline of iron railings and another flight of granite steps leadinginto the main street. The street curved uphill around the base ofthis open ground, and came level with it just in front of theMayoralty, a tall stuccoed building where the public balls weregiven, and the judges had their lodgings in assize time, and theColonel his quarters during the militia training. 

Fine shows passed under Taffy's window. Twice a year came thejudges, with the sheriff in uniform and his chaplain, and his coach, and his coachman and lackeys in powder and plush and silk stockings, white or flesh-coloured; and the barristers with their wigs, and thejavelin men and silver trumpets. Every spring, too, the RoyalRangers Militia came up for training. Suddenly one morning, in theheight of the bird-nesting season, the street would swarm withcountrymen tramping up to the barracks on the hill, and back, withbundles of clothes and unblackened boots dangling. For the next sixweeks the town would be full of bugle calls, and brazen music, andcompanies marching and parading in suits of invisible green, andclanking officers in black, with little round forage caps, and silverbadges on their side-belts; and, towards evening, with men loungingand smoking, or washing themselves in public before the doors oftheir billets. 

Usually too, Whitsun Fair fell at the height of the militia training;and then for two days booths and caravans, sweet-standings andshooting-galleries lined the main street, and Taffy went out with ashilling in his pocket to enjoy himself. But the bigger shows--themenagerie, the marionettes, and the travelling Theatre Royal--werepitched on Mount Folly, just under his window. Sometimes the theatrewould stay a week or two after the fair was over, until even the boygrew tired of the naphtha-lamps and the voices of the tragedians, andthe cornet wheezing under canvas, and began to long for the time whenthey would leave the square open for the boys to come and play atprisoners' bars in the dusk. 

One evening, a fortnight before Whitsun Fair, he had taken his bookto the open window, and sat there with it. Every night he had tolearn a text which he repeated next morning to his mother. Already, across the square, the Mayoralty house was brightly lit, and thebandsmen had begun to arrange their stands and music before it; forthe Colonel was receiving company. Every now and then a carriagearrived, and set down its guests. 

After a while Taffy looked up and saw two persons crossing thesquare--an old man and a little girl. He recognised them, havingseen them together in church the day before, when his father hadpreached the sermon. The old man wore a rusty silk hat, cocked alittle to one side, a high stock collar, black cutaway coat, breechesand gaiters of grey cord. He stooped as he walked, with his handsbehind him and his walking-stick dangling like a tail--a verypositive old fellow, to look at. The girl's face Taffy could notsee; it was hidden by the brim of her Leghorn hat. 

The pair passed close under the window. Taffy heard a knock at thedoor below, and ran to the head of the stairs. Down in the passagehis mother was talking to the old man, who turned to the girl andtold her to wait outside. 

"But let her come in and sit down, " urged Humility. 

"No, ma'am; I know my mind. I want one hour with your husband. "

Taffy heard the door shut, and went back to his window-seat. 

The little girl had climbed the cannon opposite, and sat theredangling her feet and eyeing the house. 

"Boy, " said she, "what a funny window-seat you've got! I can seeyour legs under it. "

"That's because the window reaches down to the floor, and the benchis fixed across by the transom here. "

"What's your name?"

"Theophilus; but they call me Taffy. "

"Why?"

"Father says it's an imperfect example of Grimm's Law. "

"Oh! Then, I suppose you're quite the gentleman? My name'sHonoria. "

"Is that your father downstairs?"

"Bless the boy! What age do you take me for? He's my grandfather. He's asking your father about his soul. He wants to be saved, andsays if he's not saved before next Lady-day, he'll know the reasonwhy. What are you doing up there?"

"Reading. "

"Reading what?"

"The Bible. "

"But, I say, can you really?"

"You listen. " Taffy rested the big Bible on the window-frame; it justhad room to lie open between the two mullions--"_Now when they hadgone throughout Phrygia and Galatia, and were forbidden of the HolyGhost to preach the word in Asia, after they were come to Mysia theyassayed to go into Bithynia; but the Spirit suffered them not. And they, passing by Mysia, came down to Troas. And a visionappeared to Paul in the night_. . . . "

"I don't wonder at it. Did you ever have the whooping-cough?"

"Not yet. "

"I've had it all the winter. That's why I'm not allowed in to playwith you. Listen!"

She coughed twice, and wound up with a terrific whoop. 

"Now, if you'd only put on your nightshirt and preach, I'd be thecongregation and interrupt you with coughing. "

"Very well, " said Taffy, "let's do it. "

"No; you didn't suggest it. I hate boys who have to be told. "

Taffy was huffed, and pretended to return to his book. By-and-by shecalled up to him:

"Tell me, what's written on this gun of yours?"

"Sevastopol--that's a Russian town. The English took it by storm. "

"What! the soldiers over there?"

"No, they're only bandsmen; and they're too young. But I expect theColonel was there. He's upstairs in the Mayoralty, dining. He's quite an old man, but I've heard father say he was as brave as alion when the fighting happened. "

The girl climbed off the gun. 

"I'm going to have a look at him, " she said; and turning her back onTaffy, she sauntered off across the square, just as the band struckup the first note of the overture from _Semiramide_. A waltz ofStrauss followed, and then came a cornet solo by the bandmaster, anda medley of old English tunes. To all of these Taffy listened. It had fallen too dark to read, and the boy was always sensitive tomusic. Often when he played alone broken phrases and scraps ofremembered tunes came into his head and repeated themselves over andover. Then he would drop his game and wander about restlessly, trying to fix and complete the melody; and somehow in the process themelody always became a story, or so like a story that he never knewthe difference. Sometimes his uneasiness lasted for days together. But when the story came complete at last--and this always sprang onhim quite suddenly--he wanted to caper and fling his arms about andsing aloud; and did so, if nobody happened to be looking. 

The bandmaster, too, had music, and a reputation for imparting it. Famous regimental bands contained pupils of his; and his old pupils, when they met, usually told each other stories of his atrocioustemper. But he kept his temper to-night, for his youngsters wereplaying well, and the small crowd standing quiet. 

The English melodies had scarcely closed with "Come, lasses andlads, " when across in Mayoralty a blind was drawn, and a windowthrown open, and Taffy saw the warm room within, and the officers andladies standing with glasses in their hands. The Colonel was givingthe one toast of the evening:

"Ladies and gentlemen--The Queen!"

The adjutant leaned out and lifted his hand for signal, and the bandcrashed out with the National Anthem. Then there was silence for aminute. The window remained open. Taffy still caught glimpses ofjewels and uniforms, and white necks bending, and men leaning back intheir chairs, with their mess-jackets open, and the candle-lightflashing on their shirt-fronts. Below, in the dark street, thebandmaster trimmed the lamp by his music-stand. In the rays of it hedrew out a handkerchief and polished the keys of his cornet; thenpassed the cornet over to his left hand, took up his baton, andnodded. 

What music was that, stealing, rippling, across the square?The bandmaster knew nothing of the tale of Tannhauser, but waswishing that he had violins at his beck, instead of stupid flutes andreeds. And Taffy had never heard so much as the name of Tannhauser. Of the meaning of the music he knew nothing--nothing beyond itswonder and terror. But afterward he made a tale of it to himself. 

In the tale it seemed that a vine shot up and climbed on the shadowsof the warm night; and the shadows climbed with it and made a trellisfor it right across the sky. The vine thrust through the trellisfaster and faster, dividing, throwing out little curls and tendrils;then leaves and millions of leaves, each leaf unfolding about a dropof dew, which trickled and fell and tinkled like a bird's song. 

The beauty and scent of the vine distressed him. He wanted to cryout, for it was hiding the sky. Then he heard the tramp of feet inthe distance, and knew that they threatened the vine, and with thathe wanted to save it. But the feet came nearer and nearer, trampingterribly. 

He could not bear it. He ran to the stairs, stole down them, openedthe front door cautiously, and slipped outside. He was half-wayacross the square before it occurred to him that the band had ceasedto play. Then he wondered why he had come, but he did not go back. He found Honoria standing a little apart from the crowd, with herhands clasped behind her, gazing up at the window of thebanqueting-room. 

She did not see him at once. 

"Stand on the steps, here, " he whispered, "then you can see him. That's the Colonel--the man at the end of the table, with the big, grey moustache. "

He touched her arm. She sprang away and stamped her foot. 

"Keep off with you! Who _told_ you?--Oh! you bad boy!"

"Nobody. I thought you hated boys who wait to be told. "

"And now you'll get the whooping-cough, and goodness knows what willhappen to you, and you needn't think I'll be sorry!"

"Who wants you to be sorry! As for you, " Taffy went on sturdily, "Ithink your grandfather might have more sense than to keep you waitingout here in the cold, and giving your cough to the whole town!"

"Ha! you do, do you?"

It was not the girl who said this. Taffy swung round, and saw an oldman staring down on him. There was just light enough to reveal thathe had very formidable grey eyes. But Taffy's blood was up. 

"Yes, I do, " he said, and wondered at himself. 

"Ha! Does your father whip you sometimes?"

"No, sir. "

"I should if you were my boy. I believe in it. Come, Honoria!"

The child threw a glance at Taffy as she was led away. He could notbe sure whether she took his side or her grandfather's. 

That night he had a very queer dream. 

His grandmother had lost her lace-pillow, and after searching forsome time, he found it lying out in the square. But the pins andbobbins were darting to and fro on their own account, at anincredible rate, and the lace as they made it turned into a singingbeanstalk, and rose and threw out branches all over the sky. Very soon he found himself climbing among those branches, up and upuntil he came to a Palace, which was really the Assize Hall, with aflight of steps before it and a cannon on either side of the steps. Within sat a giant, asleep, with his head on the table and his facehidden; but his neck bulged at the back just like the bandmaster'sduring a cornet solo. A harp stood on the table. Taffy caught thisup, and was stealing downstairs with it, but at the third stair theharp--which had Honoria's head and face--began to cough, and wound upwith a _whoop!_ This woke the giant--he turned out to be Honoria'sgrandfather--who came roaring after him. Glancing down below as heran, Taffy saw his mother and the bandmaster far below with axes, hacking at the foot of the beanstalk. He tried to call out andprevent them, but they kept smiting. And the worst of it was, thatdown below, too, his father was climbing into a pulpit, quite as ifnothing was happening. The pulpit grew and became a tower, and hisfather kept calling, "Be a tower! Be a tower, like me!"

But Taffy couldn't for the life of him see how to manage it. The beanstalk began to totter; he felt himself falling, and leapt forthe tower. . . . And awoke in his bed shuddering, and, for the firsttime in his life, afraid of the dark. He would have called for hismother, but just then down by the turret clock in Fore Street thebuglers began to sound the "Last Post, " and he hugged himself andfelt that the world he knew was still about him, companionable andkind. 

Twice the buglers repeated their call, in more distant streets, eachtime more faintly; and the last flying notes carried him into sleepagain. 

CHAPTER III. 

PASSENGERS BY JOBY'S VAN. 

At breakfast next morning he saw by his parents' faces that somethingunusual had happened. Nothing was said to him about it, whatever itmight be. But once or twice after this, coming into the parloursuddenly, he found his father and mother talking low and earnestlytogether; and now and then they would go up to his grandmother's roomand talk. 

In some way he divined that there was a question of leaving home. But the summer passed and these private talks became fewer. Toward August, however, they began again; and by-and-by his mothertold him. They were going to a parish on the North Coast, right awayacross the Duchy, where his father had been presented to a living. The place had an odd name--Nannizabuloe. 

"And it is lonely, " said Humility, "the most of it sea-sand, so faras I can hear. "

It was by the sea, then. How would they get there?

"Oh, Joby's van will take us most of the way. "

Of all the vans which came and went in the Fore Street, none couldcompare for romance with Joby's. People called it the Wreck Ashore;but its real name, "Vital Spark, J. Job, Proprietor, " was painted onits orange-coloured sides in letters of vivid blue, a blue not oftenseen except on ship's boats. It disappeared every Tuesday andSaturday over the hill and into a mysterious country, from which itemerged on Mondays and Fridays with a fine flavour of the sea renewedupon it and upon Joby. No other driver wore a blue guernsey, orrings in his ears, as Joby did. No other van had the same mode ofprogressing down the street in a series of short tacks, or broughtsuch a crust of brine on its panes, or such a mixture of mud and finesand on its wheels, or mingled scraps of dry sea-weed with the strawon its floor. 

"Will there be ships?" Taffy asked. 

"I dare say we shall see a few, out in the distance. It's a poor, outlandish place. It hasn't even a proper church. "

"If there's no church, father can get into a boat and preach; justlike the Sea of Galilee, you know. "

"Your father is too good a man to mimic the Scriptures in any suchway. There is a church, I believe, though it's a tumble-down one. Nobody has preached in it for years. But Squire Moyle may dosomething now. He's a rich man. "

"Is that the old gentleman who came to ask father about his soul?"

"Yes; he says no preaching ever did him so much good as yourfather's. That's why he came and offered the living. "

"But he can't go to heaven if he's rich. "

"I don't know, Taffy, wherever you pick up such wicked thoughts. "

"Why, it's in the Bible!"

Humility would not argue about it; but she told her husband thatnight what the child had said. "My dear, " he answered, "the boy mustthink of these things. "

"But he ought not to be talking disrespectfully, " contended she. 

One Tuesday, towards the end of September, Taffy saw his father offby Joby's van; and the Friday after, walked down with his mother tomeet him on his return. Almost at once the household began to pack. The packing went on for a week, in the midst of which his fatherdeparted again, a waggon-load of books and furniture having been sentforward on the road that same morning. Then followed a day or twoduring which Taffy and his mother took their meals at thewindow-seat, sitting on corded boxes; and an evening when he went outto the cannon in the square, and around the little back garden, saying good-bye to the fixtures and the few odds and ends which wereto be left behind--the tool-shed (Crusoe's hut, Cave of Adullam, andTreasury of the Forty Thieves), the stunted sycamore-tree which hehad climbed at different times as Zacchaeus, Ali Baba, and Man Fridaywith the bear behind him; the clothes' prop, which, on the strengthof its forked tail, had so often played Dragon to his St. George. When he returned to the empty house, he found his mother in thepassage. She had been for a walk alone. The candle was lit, and hesaw she had been crying. This told him where she had been; for, although he remembered nothing about it, he knew he had oncepossessed a small sister, who lived with him less than two months. He had, as a rule, very definite notions of death and the grave; buthe never thought of her as dead and buried, partly because his motherwould never allow him to go with her to the cemetery, and partlybecause of a picture in a certain book of his, called _Child's Play_. It represented a little girl wading across a pool among water-lilies. She wore a white nightdress, kilted above her knees, and a darkcloak, which dragged behind in the water. She let it trail, whileshe held up a hand to cover one of her eyes. Above her were treesand an owl, and a star shining under the topmost branch; and on theopposite page this verse:

 "I have a little sister, They call her Peep-peep, She wades through the waters, Deep, deep, deep; She climbs up the mountains, High, high, high; This poor little creature She has but one eye. "

For years Taffy believed that this was his little sister, one-eyed, and always wandering; and that his mother went out in the dusk topersuade her to return; but she never would. 

When he woke next morning his mother was in the room; and while hewashed and dressed she folded his bed-clothes and carried them downto a waggon which stood by the door, with horses already harnessed. It drove away soon after. He found breakfast laid on thewindow-seat. A neighbour had lent the crockery, and Taffy wasgreatly taken with the pattern on the cups and saucers. He wanted torun round again and repeat his good-byes to the house, but there wasno time. By-and-by the door opened, and two men, neighbours oftheirs, entered with an invalid's litter; and, Humility directing, brought down old Mrs. Venning. She wore the corner of a Paisleyshawl over her white cap, and carried a nosegay of flowers in placeof her lace-pillow; but otherwise looked much as usual. 

"Quite the traveller, you see!" she cried gaily to Taffy. 

Then the woman who had lent the breakfast-ware came running to saythat Joby was getting impatient. Humility handed the door-key toher, and so the little procession passed out and down across MountFolly. 

Joby had drawn his van up close to the granite steps. They were theonly passengers, it seemed. The invalid was hoisted in and laid withher couch across the seats, so that her shoulders rested against oneside of the van and her feet against the other. Humility climbed inafter her; but Taffy, to his joy, was given a seat outside the box. 

"C'k!"--they were off. 

As they crawled up the street a few townspeople paused on thepavement and waved farewells. At the top of the town they overtookthree sailor-boys, with bundles, who climbed up and perchedthemselves a-top of the van, on the luggage. 

On they went again. There were two horses--a roan and a grey. Taffy had never before looked down on the back of a horse, andJoby's horses astonished him; they were so broad behind, and sonarrow at the shoulders. He wanted to ask if the shape were at allcommon, but felt shy. He stole a glance at the silver ring in Joby'sleft ear, and blushed when Joby turned and caught him. 

"Here, catch hold!" said Joby handing him the whip. "Only youmustn't use it too fierce. "

"Thank you. "

"I suppose you'll be a scholar, like your father? Can ee spell?"

"Yes. "

"Cipher?"

"Yes. "

"That's more than I can. I counts upon my fingers. When they beused up, I begins upon my buttons. I ha'n't got no buttons--visiblethat is--'pon my week-a-day clothes; so I keeps the long sums forSundays, and adds 'em up and down my weskit during sermon. Don't tell any person. "

"I won't. "

"That's right. I don't want it known. Ever see a gipsy?"

"Oh, yes--often. "

"Next time you see one you'll know why he wears so many buttons. You've a lot to learn. "

The van zigzagged down one hill and up another, and halted at aturnpike. An old woman in a pink sun-bonnet bustled out and handedJoby a pink ticket. A little way beyond they passed the angle of amining district, with four or five engine-houses high up like castleson the hillside, and rows of stamps clattering and working up anddown like ogres' teeth. Next they came to a church town, with agreen and a heap of linen spread to dry (for it was Tuesday), and aflock of geese that ran and hissed after the van, until Joby took thewhip and, leaning out, looped the gander by the neck and pulled himalong in the dust. The sailor-boys shouted with laughter and struckup a song about a fox and a goose, which lasted all the way up a longhill and brought them to a second turnpike, on the edge of the moors. Here lived an old woman in a blue sun-bonnet; and she handed Joby ayellow-ticket. 

"But why does she wear a blue bonnet and give yellow tickets?" Taffyasked, as they drove on. 

Joby considered for a minute. "Ah, you're one to take notice, I see. That's right, keep your eyes skinned when you travel. "

Taffy had to think this out. The country was changing now. They hadleft stubble fields and hedges behind, and before them the graniteroad stretched like a white ribbon, with moors on either hand, dottedwith peat-ricks and reedy pools and cropping ponies, and rimmed inthe distance with clay-works glistening in the sunny weather. 

"What sort of place is Nannizabuloe?"

"I don't go on there. I drop you at Indian Queens. "

"But what sort of place is it?"

"Well, I'll tell you what folks say of it:"

 'All sea and san's, Out of the world and into St. Ann's. '

"That's what they say, and if I'm wrong you may call me a liar. "

"And Squire Moyle?" Taffy persevered. "What kind of man is he?"

Joby turned and eyed him severely. "Look here, sonny. I got myliving to get. "

This silenced Taffy for a long while, but he picked up his courageagain by degrees. There was a small window at his back, and hetwisted himself round, and nodded to his mother and grandmotherinside the van. He could not hear what they answered, for thesailor-boys were singing at the top of their voices:

 "I will sing you One, O! What is your One, O? Number One sits all alone, and ever more shall be-e so. "

"They're home 'pon leave, " said Joby. The song went on and reachedNumber Seven:

 "I will sing you Seven, O! What is your Seven, O? Seven be seven stars in the ship a-sailing round in Heaven, O!"

One of the boys leaned from the roof and twitched Taffy by the hair. "Hullo, nipper! Did you ever see a ship of stars?" He grinned andpulled open his sailor's jumper and singlet; and there, on his nakedbreast, Taffy saw a ship tattooed, with three masts, and ahalf-circle of stars above it, and below it the initials W. P. 

"D'ee think my mother'll know me again?" asked the boy, and the othertwo began to laugh. 

"Yes, I think so, " said Taffy gravely; which made them laugh morethan ever. 

"But why is he painted like that?" he asked Joby, as they took uptheir song again. 

"Ah, you'll larn over to St. Ann's, being one to notice things. "The nearer he came to it, the more mysterious this new home ofTaffy's seemed to grow. By-and-by Humility let down the window andhanded out a pasty. Joby searched under his seat and found a pasty, twice the size of Taffy's, in a nose-bag. They ate as they went, holding up their pasties from time to time and comparing progress. Late in the afternoon they came to hedges again, and at length to aninn; and in front of it Taffy spied his father waiting with afarm-cart. While Joby baited his horses, the sailor-boys helped tolift out the invalid and trans-ship the luggage; after which theyclimbed on the roof again, and were jogged away northward in thedusk, waving their caps and singing. 

The most remarkable thing about the inn was its signboard. This boreon either side the picture of an Indian queen and two blackamoorchildren, all with striped parasols, walking together across adesert. The queen on one side wore a scarlet turban and a blue robe;but the queen on the other side wore a blue turban and a scarletrobe. Taffy dodged from side to side, comparing them, and had notmade up his mind which he liked best when Humility called him indoorsto tea. 

They had ham and eggs with their tea, which they took in a greathurry; and then his grandmother was lifted into the cart and laid ona bed of clean straw beside the boxes, and he and his motherclambered up in front. So they started again, his father walking atthe horse's head. They took the road toward the sunset. As the duskfell closer around, Mr. Raymond lit a horn lantern and carried itbefore them. The rays of it danced and wheeled upon the hedges andgorse bushes. Taffy began to feel sleepy, though it was long beforehis usual bedtime. The air seemed to weigh his eyelids down. Or wasit a sound lulling him? He looked up suddenly. His mother's arm wasabout him. Stars flashed above, and a glimmer fell on her gentleface--a dew of light, as it were. Her dark eyes appeared darker thanusual as she leaned and drew her shawl over his shoulder. 

Ahead, the rays of the lantern kept up their dance, but they flarednow and again upon stone hedges built in zigzag layers, and uponunknown feathery bushes, intensely green and glistening like metal. 

The cart jolted and the lantern swung to a soundless tune that filledthe night. When Taffy listened it ceased; when he ceased listening, it began again. 

The lantern stopped its dance and stood still over a ford of blackwater. The cart splashed into it and became a ship, heaving andlurching over a soft, irregular floor that returned no sound. But suddenly the ship became a cart again, and stood still before ahouse with a narrow garden-path and a light streaming along it froman open door. 

His father lifted him down; his mother took his hand. They seemed towade together up that stream of light. Then came a staircase androom with a bed in it, which, oddly enough, turned out to be his own. He stared at the pink roses on the curtains. Yes; certainly it washis own bed. And satisfied of this, he nestled down in the pillowsand slept, to the long cadence of the sea. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE RUNNING SANDS. 

He awoke to find the sun shining in at his window. At first hewondered what had happened. The window seemed to be in the ceiling, and the ceiling sloped down to the walls, and all the furniture hadgone astray into wrong positions. Then he remembered, jumped out ofbed, and drew the blind. 

He saw a blue line of sea, so clearly drawn that the horizon mighthave been a string stretched from the corner eaves to the snow-whitelight-house standing on the farthest spit of land; blue sea andyellow sand curving round it, with a white edge of breakers; inshore, the sand rising to a cliff ridged with grassy hummocks; fartherinshore, the hummocks united and rolling away up to inland downs, butbroken here and there on their way with scars of sand; over all, white gulls wheeling. He could hear the nearest ones mewing as theysailed over the house. 

Taffy had seen the sea once before, at Dawlish, on the journey toTewkesbury; and again on the way home. But here it was blueraltogether, and the sands were yellower. Only he felt disappointedthat no ship was in sight, nor any dwelling nearer than thelight-house and the two or three white cottages behind it. He dressed in a hurry and said his prayers, repeating at the close, as he had been taught to do, the first and last verses of the MorningHymn:

 "Awake, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily stage of duty run; Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise To pay thy morning sacrifice. 

 "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. "

He ran downstairs. In this queer house the stairs led right downinto the kitchen. The front door, too, opened into the kitchen, which was really a slate-paved hall, with a long table set betweenthe doorway and the big open hearth. The floor was always strewnwith sand; there was no trouble about this, for the wind blew plentyunder the door. 

Taffy found the table laid, and his mother busily slicing bread forhis bread and milk. He begged for a hot cake from the hearth, andran out of doors to eat it. Humility lifted the latch for him, forthe cake was so hot that he had to pass it from hand to hand. 

Outside, the wind came upon him with a clap on the shoulder, quiteas if it had been a comrade waiting. 

Taffy ran down the path and out upon the sandy hummocks, setting hisface to the wind and the roar of the sea, keeping his head low, andstill shifting the cake from hand to hand. By-and-by he fumbled anddropped it; stooped to pick it up, but saw something which made himkneel and peer into the ground. 

The whole of the sand was moving; not by fits and starts, butconstantly; the tiny particles running over each other and driftingin and out of the rushes, like little creatures in a dream. While helooked, they piled an embankment against the edge of his cake. He picked it up, ran forward a few yards, and peered again. Yes, here too; here and yonder, and over every inch of that longshore. 

He ate his cake and climbed to the beach, and ran along it, watchingthe sandhoppers that skipped from under his boots at every step, andwere lost on the instant. The beach here was moist and firm. He pulled off his boots and stockings, and ran on, conning hisfootprints and the driblets of sand split ahead from his bare toes. By-and-by he came to the edge of the surf. The strand here wasglassy wet, and each curving wave sent a shadow flying over it, andcame after the shadow, thundering and hissing, and chased it up theshore, and fell back, leaving for a second or two an edge of delicatefroth which reminded the boy of his mother's lace-work. 

He began a sort of game with the waves, choosing one station afteranother, and challenging them to catch him there. If the edge offroth failed to reach his toes, he won. But once or twice the watercaught him fairly, and ran rippling over his instep and about hisankles. 

He was deep in this game when he heard a horn blown somewhere high onthe towans behind him. 

He turned. No one was in sight. The house lay behind thesand-banks, the first ridge hiding even its chimney-smoke. He gazedalong the beach, where the perpetual haze of spray seemed to haveremoved the light-house to a vast distance. A sense of desolationcame over him with a rush, and with something between a gasp and asob he turned his back to the sea and ran, his boots dangling fromhis shoulders by their knotted laces. 

He pounded up the first slope and looked for the cottage. No sign ofit! An insane fancy seized him. These silent moving sands wereafter _him_. 

He was panting along in real distress when he heard the baying ofdogs, and at the same instant from the top of a hummock caught sightof a figure outlined against the sky, and barely a quarter of a mileaway; the figure of a girl on horseback--a small girl on a very tallhorse. 

Just as Taffy recognised her, she turned her horse, walked him downinto the hollow beyond, and disappeared. Taffy ran towards the spot, gained the ridge where she had been standing, and looked down. 

In a hollow about twenty feet deep and perhaps a hundred wide weregathered a dozen riders, with five or six couples of hounds and twoor three dirty terriers. Two of the men had dismounted. One ofthese, stripped to his shirt and breeches, was leaning on along-handled spade and laughing. The other--a fellow in a shabbyscarlet coat--held up what Taffy guessed to be a fox, though itseemed a very small one. It was bleeding. The hounds yapped andleapt at it, and fell back a-top of each other snarling, while theWhip grinned and kept them at bay. A knife lay between hiswide-planted feet, and a visgy[1] close behind him on a heap ofdisturbed sand. 

The boy came on them from the eastward, and his shadow fell acrossthe hollow. 

"Hullo!" said one of the riders, looking up. It was Squire Moylehimself. "Here's the new Passon's boy!"

All the riders looked up. The Whip looked up too, and turned to theold Squire with a wider grin than before. 

"Shall I christen en, maister?"

The Squire nodded. Before Taffy knew what it meant, the man wasclimbing toward him with a grin, clutching the rush bents with onehand, and holding out the blood-dabbled mask with the other. The child turned to run, but a hand clutched his ankle. He saw theman's open mouth and yellow teeth; and, choking with disgust andterror, slung his boots at them with all his small force. At thesame instant he was jerked off his feet, the edge of the bankcrumbled and broke, and the two went rolling down the sandy slope ina heap. He heard shouts of laughter, caught a glimpse of blue sky, felt a grip of fingers on his throat, and smelt the verminous odourof the dead cub, as the Whip thrust the bloody mess against his faceand neck. Then the grip relaxed, and--it seemed to him, amid deadsilence--Taffy sprang to his feet, spitting sand and fury. 

"You--you devils!" He caught up the visgy and stood, daring all tocome on. "You devils!" He tottered forward with the visgy lifted--itwas all he could manage--at Squire Moyle. The old man let out anoath, and the curve of his whip-thong took the boy across the eyesand blinded him for a moment, but did not stop him. The grey horseswerved, and half-wheeled, exposing his flank. In another momentthere would have been mischief; but the Whip, as he stood wiping hismouth, saw the danger and ran in. He struck the visgy out of thechild's grasp, set his foot on it, and with an open-handed cuff senthim floundering into a sand-heap. 

"Nice boy, that!" said somebody, and the whole company laughed asthey walked their horses slowly out of the hollow. 

They passed before Taffy in a blur of tears; and the last rider to gowas the small girl Honoria on her tall sorrel. She moved up thebroad shelving path, but reined up just within sight, turned herhorse, and came slowly back to him. 

"If I were you, I'd go home. " She pointed in its direction. 

Taffy brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. "Go away. I hate you--I hate you all!"

She eyed him while she smoothed the sorrel's mane with herriding-switch. 

"They did it to me three years ago, when I was six. Grandfathercalled it 'entering' me. "

Taffy kept his eyes sullenly on the ground. Finding that he wouldnot answer, she turned her horse again and rode slowly after theothers. Taffy heard the soft footfalls die away, and when he lookedup she had vanished. 

He picked up his boots and started in the direction to which she hadpointed. Every now and then a sob shook him. By-and-by the chimneysof the house hove in sight among the ridges, and he ran toward it. But within a gunshot of the white garden-wall his breast swelledsuddenly and he flung himself on the ground and let the big tearsrun. They made little pits in the moving sand; and more sand driftedup and covered them. 

"Taffy! Taffy! Whatever has become of the child?"

His mother was standing by the gate in her print frock. He scrambledup and ran toward her. She cried out at the sight of him, but he hidhis blood-smeared face against her skirts. 

[1] Mattock. 

CHAPTER V. 

TAFFY RINGS THE CHURCH BELL. 

They were in the church--Squire Moyle, Mr. Raymond, and Taffy closebehind. The two men were discussing the holes in the roof and otherdilapidations. 

"One, two, three, " the Squire counted. "I'll send a couple of menwith tarpaulin and rick-ropes. That'll tide us over next Sunday, unless it blows hard. "

They passed up three steps under the belfry arch. Here a big bellrested on the flooring. Its rim was cracked, but not badly. A longladder reached up into the gloom. 

"What's the beam like?" the Squire called up to someone aloft. 

"Sound as a bell, " answered a voice. 

"I said so. We'll have en hoisted by Sunday, I'll send a waggon overto Wheel Gooniver for a tackle and winch. Damme, up there!Don't keep sheddin' such a muck o' dust on your betters!"

"I can't help no other, Squire!" said the voice overhead; "such acauch o' pilm an' twigs, an' birds' droppins'! If I sneeze I'm alost man. "

Taffy, staring up as well as he could for the falling rubbish, couldjust spy a white smock above the beam, and a glint of daylight on thetoe-scutes of two dangling boots. 

"I'll dam soon make you help it. _Is_ the beam sound?"

"Ha'n't I told 'ee so?" said the voice querulously. 

"Then come down off the ladder, you son of a--"

"Gently, Squire!" put in Mr. Raymond. 

The Squire groaned. "There I go again--an' in the House of Goditself! Oh! 'tis a case with me! I've a heart o' stone--a heart o'stone. " He turned and brushed his rusty hat with his coat-cuff. Suddenly he faced round again. "Here, Bill Udy, " he said to the oldlabourer who had just come down the ladder, "catch hold of my hat an'carry en fore to porch. I keep forgettin' I'm in church, an' then onhe goes. "

The building stood half a mile from the sea, surrounded by therolling towans and rabbit burrows, and a few lichen-spottedtombstones slanting inland. Early in the seventeenth century aLondon merchant had been shipwrecked on the coast below Nannizabuloeand cast ashore, the one saved out of thirty. He asked to be shown achurch in which to give thanks for his preservation, and the peopleled him to a ruin bedded in the sands. It had lain since the days ofArundel's Rebellion. The Londoner vowed to build a new church thereon the towans, where the songs of prayer and praise should minglewith the voice of the waves which God had baffled for him. The people warned him of the sand; but he would not listen to reason. He built his church--a squat Perpendicular building of two aisles, the wider divided into nave and chancel merely by a granite step inthe flooring; he saw it consecrated, and returned to his home anddied. And the church steadily decayed. He had mixed his mortar withsea-sand. The stonework oozed brine, the plaster fell piece-meal;the blown sand penetrated like water; the foundations sank a foot onthe south side, and the whole structure took a list to leeward. The living passed into the hands of the Dean and Chapter of Exeter, and from them, in 1730, to the Moyles. Mr. Raymond's predecessor wasa kinsman of theirs by marriage, a pluralist, who lived and died atthe other end of the Duchy. He had sent curates from time to time;the last of whom was dead, three years since, of solitude and drink. But he never came himself, Squire Moyle having threatened to set thedogs on him if ever he set foot in Nannizabuloe; for there had beensome dispute over a dowry. The result was that nobody went tochurch, though a parson from the next parish held an occasionalservice. The people were Wesleyan Methodists or Bryanites. Each sect had its own chapel in the fishing village of Innis, on thewestern side of the parish; and the Bryanites a second one, at thecross-roads behind the downs, for the miners and warreners andscattered farmfolk. 

_Ding--ding--ding--ding--ding_. 

It was Sunday morning, and Taffy was sounding the bell, by a thinrope tied to its clapper. The heavy bell-rope would be ready nextweek; but Humility must first contrive a woollen binding for it, toprevent its chafing the ringer's hands. 

Out on the towans the rabbits heard the sound, and ran scampering. Others, farther away, paused in their feeding, and listened withcocked ears. 

_Ding--ding--ding_. 

Mr. Raymond stood in the belfry at the boy's elbow. He wore hissurplice, and held his prayer-book, with a finger between the pages. Glancing down toward the nave, he saw Humility sitting in the bigvicarage pew--no other soul in church. 

He took the cord from Taffy, "Run to the door, and see if anyone iscoming. "

Taffy ran, and after a minute came back. 

"There's Squire Moyle coming along the path, and the little girl withhim, and some servants behind--five or six of them. Bill Udy's one. "

"Nobody else?"

"I expect the people don't hear the bell, " said Taffy. "They livetoo far away. "

"God hears. Yes, and God sees the lamp is lit. "

"What lamp?" Taffy looked up at his father's face, wondering. 

"All towers carry a lamp of some kind. For what else are theybuilt?"

It was exactly the tone in which he had spoken that afternoon atTewkesbury about men being like towers. Both these sentences puzzledthe boy; and yet Taffy never felt so near to understanding him as hehad then, and did again now. He was shy of his father. He did notknow that his father was just as shy of him. He began to ring withall his soul--ding--ding-ding, ding-ding. 

The old Squire entered the church, paused, and blew his noseviolently, and taking Honoria by the hand, marched her up to the endof the south aisle. The door of the great pew was shut upon them, and they disappeared. Before Honoria vanished Taffy caught a glimpseof a grey felt hat with pink ribbons. 

The servants scattered and found seats in the body of the church. He went on ringing, but no one else came. After a minute or twoMr. Raymond signed to him to stop and go to his mother, which he did, blushing at the noise of his shoes on the slate pavement. Mr. Raymond followed, walked slowly past, and entered thereading-desk. 

"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hathcommitted, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall savehis soul alive. . . . "

Taffy looked towards the Squire's pew. The bald top of the Squire'shead was just visible above the ledge. He looked up at his mother, but her eyes were fastened on her prayer-book. He felt--he could nothelp it--that they were all gathered to save this old man's soul, andthat everybody knew it and secretly thought it a hopeless case. The notion dogged him all through the service, and for many Sundaysafter. Always that bald head above the ledge, and his father and thecongregation trying to call down salvation on it. He wondered whatHonoria thought, boxed up with it and able to see its face. 

Mr. Raymond mounted an upper pulpit to preach his sermon. He chosehis text from Saint Matthew, Chapter vii. , verses 26 and 27:

"_And every one that heareth these sayings of mine and doeth themnot, shall be likened unto a foolish man which built his house uponthe sand_;

"_And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell; and great was the fall ofit_. "

Taffy never followed his father's sermons closely. He would listento a sentence or two, now and again, and then let his wits wander. 

"You think this church is built upon the sands. The rain has come, the winds have blown and beaten on it; the foundations have sunk andit leans to leeward. . . . By the blessing of God we will shore itup, and upon a foundation of rock. Upon what rock, you ask? . . . Upon that rock which is the everlasting foundation of the Churchspiritual. . . . Hear what comfortable words our Lord spake to Peter. . . . Our foundation must be faith, which is God's continuingPresence on earth, and which we shall recognise hereafter as GodHimself. . . . Faith is the substance of things hoped for, theevidence of things not seen. . . . In other words, it is the rock wesearch for. . . . Draw near it, and you will know yourself in God'svery shadow--the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. . . . Aswith this building, so with you, O man, cowering from wrath, as thesewalls are cowering. . . . "

The benediction was pronounced, the pew-door opened, and the old manmarched down the aisle, looking neither to right nor to left, withhis jaw set like a closed gin. Honoria followed. She had not somuch as a glance for Taffy; but in passing she gazed frankly atHumility, whom she had not seen before. 

Humility was rather ostentatiously cheerful at dinner that day; asure sign that at heart she was disappointed. She had looked for abigger congregation. Mrs. Venning, who had been carried downstairsfor the meal, saw this and asked few questions. Both the women stoleglances at Mr. Raymond when they thought he was not observing them. He at least pretended to observe nothing, but chatted awaycheerfully. 

"Taffy, " he said, after dinner, "I want you to run up to Tredinniswith a note from me. Maybe I will follow later, but I must go to thevillage first. "

CHAPTER VI. 

A COCK-FIGHT. 

A footpath led Taffy past the church, and out at length upon a highroad, in face of two tall granite pillars with an iron gate between. The gate was surmounted with a big iron lantern, and the lantern witha crest--two snakes' heads intertwined. The gate was shut, but thefence had been broken down on either side, and the gap, through whichTaffy passed, was scored with wheel-ruts. He followed these down anill-kept road bordered with furze-whins, tamarisks, and clumps ofbannel broom. By-and-by he came to a ragged plantation of stonepines, backed by a hedge of rhododendrons, behind which the houndswere baying in their kennels. It put him in mind of the "Pilgrim'sProgress. " He heard the stable clock strike three, and caught aglimpse, over the shrubberies, of its cupola and gilt weather-cock. And then a turn of the road brought him under the gloomy northernface of the house, with its broad carriage sweep and sunless portico. Half the windows on this side had been blocked up and painted black, with white streaks down and across to represent framework. 

He pulled at an iron bell-chain which dangled by the great door. The bell clanged far within and a dozen dogs took up the note, yelping in full peal. He heard footsteps coming; the door wasopened, and the dogs poured out upon him--spaniels, terriers, lurchers, greyhounds, and a big Gordon setter--barking at him, leaping against him, sniffing his calves. Taffy kept them at bay asbest he could and waved his letter at a wall-eyed man in a dirtyyellow waistcoat, who looked down from the doorstep but did not offerto call them off. 

"Any answer?" asked the wall-eyed man. 

Taffy could not say. The man took the letter and went to inquire, leaving him alone with the dogs. 

It seemed an age before he reappeared, having in the interval slippeda dirty livery coat over his yellow waistcoat. "The Squire saysyou're to come in. " Taffy and the dogs poured together into a high, stone-flagged hall; then through a larger hall and a long darkcorridor. The footman's coat, for want of a loop, had been hitchedon a peg by its collar, and stuck out behind his neck in the mostludicrous manner; but he shuffled ahead so fast that Taffy, trippingand stumbling among the dogs, had barely time to observe this beforea door was flung open and he stood blinking in a large room full ofsunlight. 

"Hallo! Here's the parson's bantam!"

The room had four high, bare windows through which the afternoonsunshine streamed on the carpet. The carpet had a pattern of pinkpeonies on a delicate buff ground, and was shamefully dirty. And thevast apartment, with its white paint and gilding and Italian sketchesin water-colour and statuettes under glass, might have been a lady'sdrawing-room. But paint and gilding were tarnished; the chintzchair-covers soiled and torn; the pictures hung askew; and a smell ofdog filled the air. 

Squire Moyle sat huddled in a deep chair beside the fire-place, facing the middle of the room, where a handsome, high-complexionedgentleman, somewhat past middle age, lounged on a settee and dangleda gold-mounted riding crop. A handsome boy knelt at the back of thesettee and leaned over the handsome gentleman's shoulder. On thefloor, between the two men, lay a canvas bag; and something movedinside it. At the end of the room, by the farthest window, Honoriaknelt over a big portfolio. She wore the grey frock and pink sashwhich Taffy had seen in church that morning, and she tossed her darkhair back from her eyes as she looked up. 

The Squire crumpled up the letter in his hand. 

"Put the bag away, " he said to the handsome gentleman. "'Tis Sunday, I tell 'ee, and Parson will be here in an hour. This is youngsix-foot I was telling about. " He turned to Taffy--

"Boy, go and shake hands with Sir Harry Vyell. "

Taffy did as he was bidden. "This is my son George, " said Sir Harry;and Taffy shook hands with him, too, and liked his face. 

"Put the bag away, Harry, " said the Squire. 

"Just to comfort 'ee, now!"

"I tell 'ee I won't look at en. "

Sir Harry untied the neck of the bag, and drew out a smaller one;untied this, and out strutted a game-cock. 

The old Squire eyed it. "H'm, he don't seem flourishing. "

"Don't abuse a bird that's come twelve miles in a bag on purpose tocheer you up. He's a match for anything you can bring. "

"Tuts, man, he's dull--no colour nor condition. Get along with 'ee;I wouldn' ask a bird of mine to break the Sabbath for a wastrel likethat. "

Sir Harry drew out a shagreen-covered case and opened it. Within, ona lining of pale blue velvet, lay two small sharp instruments ofsteel, very highly polished. He lifted one, felt its point, replacedit, set down the case on the carpet, and fell to toying with the earsof the Gordon setter, which had come sniffing out of curiosity. 

"You're a very obstinate man, " said Squire Moyle. After a long pausehe added, "I suppose you're wanting odds?"

"Evens will do, " said Sir Harry. 

The old man turned and rang the bell. 

"Tell Jim to fetch in the red cock, " he shouted to the wall-eyedfootman--who must have been waiting in the corridor, so promptly heappeared. 

"And Jim won't be long about it either, " whispered Honoria. She hadcome forward quietly, and stood at Taffy's elbow. 

Sir Harry shook a finger at her and laid it on his lips. But the oldSquire did not hear. He sat glum, pulling a whisker and keeping asour eye on the bird, which was strutting about in rather foolishbewilderment at the pink peonies on the carpet. 

"I'm giving you every chance, " he grumbled at length. 

"Oh, as for that, " Sir Harry replied, equably, "have it out in theyard, if you please, on your own dunghill. "

"No. Indoors is bad enough. "

Jim appeared just then, and turned out to be Taffy's old enemy, theWhip, bearing the Squire's game-cock in a basket. He took it out; avery handsome bird, with a hackle in which gold, purple and therichest browns shone and were blended. 

Sir Harry had picked up his bird and was heeling it with the longsteel spurs; a very delicate process, to judge by the time occupiedand the pucker on his good-tempered brow. 

"Ready?" he asked at length. 

Jim, who had been heeling the Squire's bird, nodded and the pair wereset down. They ruffled and flew at each other without an instant'shesitation. The visitor, which five minutes before had been staringat the carpet so foolishly, was prompt enough now. For a moment theypaused, beak to beak, eye to eye, furious, with necks outstretchedand hackles stiff with the rage of battle. They began to rise andfall like two feathers tossing in the air, very quietly. But for thesoft whir of wings there was no sound in the room. Taffy couldscarcely believe they were fighting in earnest. For a moment theyseemed to touch--to touch and no more, and for a moment only--but inthat moment the stroke was given. The home champion fluttered down, stood on his legs for a moment, as if nothing had happened, thentoppled over and lay twitching, as his conqueror strutted over himand lifted his throat to crow. 

Squire Moyle rose, clutching the corner of his chair. His mouthopened and shut, but no words came. Sir Harry caught up his bird, whipped off his spurs, and thrust him back into the bag. The old mandropped back, letting his chin sink on his high stock-collar. 

"It serves me right. Who shall deliver me from the wrath to come?"

"Oh! as for that--" Sir Harry finished tying the neck of the bag, andlazily fell to fingering the setter's ear. 

The old man was muttering to himself. Taffy looked at the dead bird, then at Honoria. She was gazing at it too, with untroubled eyes. 

"But I _will_ be saved! I tell you, Harry, I _will!_ Take thosebirds away. Honoria, hand me my Bible. It's all here"--he tappedthe heavy book--"miracles, redemption, justification by faith--I_will_ have faith. I _will_ believe, every damned word of it!"

Sir Harry broke in with a peal of laughter. Taffy had never heard alaugh so musical. 

The old man was adjusting his spectacles; but he took them off andlaid them down, his hands shaking with rage. 

"You came here to taunt me"--his voice shook as his hand--"me, anold man, with no son to my house. You think, because I'm seekinghigher things, there's no fight left in us or in the parish. I tellyou what; make that boy of yours strip and stand up, and I'll backthe Parson's youngster for doubles or quits. Off with your coat, myson, and stand up to him!"

Taffy turned round in a daze. He did not understand. His eyes metHonoria's, and they were fastened on him curiously. He was white inthe face; the sight of the murdered game-cock had sickened him. 

"He doesn't look flourishing. " Sir Harry mimicked the Squire's recentmanner. 

Taffy turned with the look of a hunted animal. He did not want tofight. He hated this house and its inhabitants. The other boy wasstripping off his jacket with a good-humoured smile. 

"I--I don't want--" Taffy began fumbling with a button. "Please--"

"Off with your coat, boy! You were game enough t'other day. If youlick en, I'll put a new roof on your father's church. "

Taffy was still fumbling with his jacket-button when a bell sounded, clanging through the house. 

"The parson!"

Squire Moyle clutched at his Bible like a child who has been caughtplaying in school. Sir Harry stepped to the window and flung up thesash. "Out you tumble, youngsters--you too, Miss, if you like. Pick up your coat, George--cut and run to the stables; I'll be roundin a minute--quick, out you go!"

The children scrambled over the sill and dropped on to the stoneterrace. As his father closed the sash behind him, George Vyelllaughed out. Then Taffy began to laugh; he laughed all the way asthey ran. When they reached the stables he was swaying withlaughter. There was a hepping-stock by the stable-wall, and he flunghimself on to the slate steps. He could not stop laughing. The two others stared at him. They thought he had gone mad. 

"Here comes Dad!" cried George Vyell. 

This sobered Taffy. He sat up and brushed his eyes. Sir Harrywhistled for Jim, and told him to saddle the horses. 

George and Honoria stood by the stable-door and watched the saddling. The horses were led out; Sir Harry's, a tall grey, George's, a roancob. 

"Look here!" Sir Harry said to Jim; "you take my bird, and comfortyour master with him. I don't want him any more. "

The two rode out of the yard and away up the avenue. Honoria plantedherself in front of Taffy. 

"Would you have fought just now?" she asked. 

"I--I don't know. That's my father calling. "

"But, would you have fought?"

"I must go to him. " He would not look her in the face. 

"Tell me. "

"Don't bother! I don't know. "

He ran out of the yard. 

CHAPTER VII. 

GEORGE. 

It appeared that Honoria and Taffy were to do lessons together, andMr. Raymond was to teach them. This had been the meaning of hisvisit to Tredinnis House. They began the very next day in thelibrary at Tredinnis--a deserted room carpeted with badgers' skins, and lined with undusted books--works on farriery, veterinary surgery, and sporting subjects, long rows of the _Annual Register_, the_Arminian Magazine_. 

Taffy began by counting the badgers' skins. There were eighteen, andthe moths had got into them, so that the draught under the doorpuffed little drifts of hair over the polished boards. Then hesettled down to the first Latin declension--_Musa_, a muse; vocative, _Musa_, O muse!; genitive, Musae, of a muse. Honoria began upon theABC. 

Mr. Raymond brought a pile of his own books, and worked at them, scribbling notes in the margin or on long slips of paper, while thechildren learnt. A servant came in with a message from Squire Moyle, and he left them for a while. 

"I call this nonsense, " said Honoria. "How am I to get these sillyletters into my head?"

Taffy was glad of the chance to show off. "Oh, that's easy. Youmake up a tale about them. See here. A is the end of a house; it'sjust like one with a beam across. B is a cat with his tail curledunder him--watch me drawing it. C is an old woman stooping; and D isanother cat, only his back is more rounded. Once upon a time, therelived in a cottage an old woman who went about with two cats, one oneach side of her--that's how you go on. "

"But I can't go on. You must do it for me. "

"Well, each of these cats had a comb, and was combed every Saturdaynight. One was a good cat, and kept his comb properly--like E, yousee. But the other had broken a tooth out of his--that's F--"

"I expect he was a fulmart, " said Honoria. 

Taffy agreed. He didn't know what a fulmart was, but he was notgoing to confess it. So he went on hurriedly, and Honoria thoughthim a wonder. They came to W. 

"So they got into a ship (I'll show you how to make one out of paper, exactly like W), and sailed up into the sky, for the ship was a Shipof Stars--you make X's for stars; but that's a witch-ship; so itstuck fast in Y, which is a cleft ash-stick, and then came a strokeof lightning, Z, and burnt them all up!" He stopped, out of breath. 

"I don't understand the ending at all, " said Honoria. "What is aShip of Stars?"

"Haven't you ever seen one?"

"No. "

"I have. There's a story about it--"

"Tell me about it. "

"I'll tell you lots of stories afterwards; about the Frog-king andAladdin and Man Friday and The Girl who trod on a Loaf. "

"And the Ship of Stars?"

"N--no. " Taffy felt himself blushing. "That's one of the storiesthat won't come--and they're the loveliest of all, " he added, in aburst of confidence. 

Honoria thought for a moment, but did not understand in the least. All she said was, "what funny words you use!" She went back to heralphabet--A, house; B, cat. It came more easily now. 

After lessons she made him tell her a story; and Taffy, who wished tobe amusing, told her about the "Valiant Tailor who killed Seven at aBlow. " To his disgust, it scarcely made her smile. But after thisshe was always asking for stories, and always listened solemnly, withher dark eyes fixed on his face. She never seemed to admire him atall for his gift, but treated it with a kind of indulgent wonder, asif he were some queer animal with uncommon tricks. This dashed Taffya bit, for he liked to be thought a fine fellow. But he went ontelling his stories, and sometimes invented new ones for her. George Vyell was much more appreciative. Sir Harry had heard of thelessons, and wrote to beg that his son might join the class. So George rode over three times a week to learn Latin, which he didwith uncommon slowness. But he thought Taffy's stories stunning, andadmired him without a shade of envy. The two boys liked each other;and when they were alone Taffy stood an inch or two higher inself-conceit than when Honoria happened to be by. But he took morepains with his stories if she was listening. As for her lessons, Honoria got through them by honest plodding. She never quite saw theuse of them, but she liked Mr. Raymond. She learnt more steadilythan either of the boys. 

One day George rode over with two pairs of boxing-gloves danglingfrom his saddle. After lessons he and Taffy had a try with them, ina clearing behind the shrubberies where the gardener had heaped hissweepings of dry leaves to rot down for manure. 

"But, look here, " said George, after the first round; "you'll neverlearn if you hit so wild as that. You must keep your head up, andwatch my eyes and feint. "

Taffy couldn't help it. As soon as ever he struck out, he forgotthat it was not real fighting. And he felt ashamed to look Georgestraight in the face, for his own eyes were full of tears ofexcitement. At the end of the bout, when George said, "Now we mustshake hands; it's the proper thing to do, " he looked bewildered for amoment. It made George laugh in his easy way, and then Taffy laughedtoo. 

After this they had a bout almost every day; and he was soon able tohold his own and treat it as sport. But somehow he always felt apassion behind it, whispering to him to put some nastiness into hisblows, especially when Honoria came to look on. And yet he likedGeorge far better than he liked Honoria. Indeed, he adored George, and the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings when George appearedwere the bright spots in his week. Lessons were over at twelveo'clock; by one o'clock Taffy had to be home for dinner. Lonelinessfilled the afternoons, but the child peopled them with extravagantfancies. He and George were crusaders sworn to defend the HolySepulchre, and bound by an oath of brotherhood, though George was aRed Cross Knight and he a plain squire; and after the most surprisingadventures Taffy received the barbed and poisoned arrow intended forhis master, and died most impressively, with George and Honoria, andRichard Coeur de Lion, and most of the characters from "Ivanhoe, "sobbing round his bed. There was a Blondel variant too, with Georgeimprisoned in a high tower; and a monstrous conglomerate tale inwhich most of the heroes of history and romance played second fiddleto George, whose pre-eminence, though occasionally challenged byAchilles, Sir Lancelot, or the Black Prince, was regularly vindicatedby Taffy's timely help. 

This tale, with endless variations, actually lasted him for two goodyears. The scene of it never lay among the towans, but round abouthis old home or the well-remembered meadow at Tewkesbury. That washis plain of Troy, his Field of Cressy, his lists of Ashby de laZouche. The high road at the back of the towans crossed a stream, bya ford and a footbridge; and the travelling postman, if he had anyletters for the Parsonage, would stop by the footbridge and blow ahorn. He little guessed what challenges it sounded to the small boywho came running for the post. 

The postman came by, as a rule, at two o'clock or thereabouts. One afternoon in early spring Mr. Raymond happened to be starting fora walk when the horn was blown, and he and Taffy went to meet thepost together. There were three or four letters which the Vicaropened; and one for Humility, which he put in his pocket. In themidst of his reading, he looked up, smiled over his spectacles, andsaid:

"Oxford has won the boat-race. "

Taffy had been deep in the Fifth Aeneid for some weeks, andboat-racing ran much in his mind. 

"Who is Oxford?" he asked. 

Mr. Raymond took off his spectacles and wiped them. It came on himsuddenly that this child, whom he loved, was shut out from many ofhis dearest thoughts. 

"Oxford is a city, " he answered; and added, "the most beautiful cityin the world. "

"Shall I ever go there?" Taffy asked. 

Mr. Raymond walked off without seeming to hear the question. But that evening after supper he told the most wonderful tales ofOxford, while Taffy listened and hoped his mother would forget hisbedtime; and Humility listened too, bending over her _guipure_. The love with which he looked back to Oxford was the second passionof Samuel Raymond's life; and Humility was proud of it, not jealousat all. He forgot all the struggle, all the slights, all the grip ofpoverty. To him those years had become an heroic age, and menHomeric men. And so he made them appear to Taffy, to whom it waswonderful that his father should have moved among such giants. 

"And shall I go there too?"

Humility glanced up quickly, and met her husband's eyes. 

"Some day, please God!" she said. Mr. Raymond stared at the embersof wreck-wood on the hearth. 

From that night Oxford became the main scene of Taffy's imaginings; awholly fictitious Oxford, pieced together of odds and ends frompicture-books, and peopled with all the old heroes. And so, withcontests on the models of the Fifth Aeneid, the story went forwardgallantly for many months. 

But the afternoons were long; and at times the interminablesand-hills and everlasting roar of the sea oppressed the child with asense of loneliness beyond words. The rabbits and gulls would notmake friends with him, and he ached for companionship. Of that achewas born his half-crazy adoration of George Vyell. There were hourswhen he lay in some nook of the towans, peering into the ground, seeing pictures in the sand--pictures of men and regiments andbattles, shifting with the restless drift; until, unable to bear it, he flung out his hands to efface them, and hid his face in the sand, sobbing, "George! George!"

At night he would creep out of bed to watch the lighthouse winkingaway in the north-east. George lived somewhere beyond. And again itwould be "George! George!"

And when the happy mornings came, and George with them, Taffy was asshy as a lover. So George never guessed. It might have surprisedthat very careless young gentleman, when he looked up from his verbswhich govern the dative, and caught Taffy's eye, could he have seenhimself in his halo there. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE SQUIRE'S SOUL. 

Two years passed, and a third winter. The church was now well on itsway to restoration. The roof had been repaired, the defectivetimbers removed and sound ones inserted, the south wall strengthenedwith three buttresses, the foundations on that side examined andshored up. The old Squire did not halt here. Furniture arrived forthe interior; a handsome altar cloth, a small gilt cross, a dozenhanging lamps, an oaken lectern, cushions, hymn-books, a big newBible with purple book-markers. He promised to take out the eastwindow--which was just a patchwork of common glass, like a cucumberframe--and replace it with sound mullions and stained glass, inmemory of his only daughter, Honoria's mother. She had run away fromTredinnis House, and married a penniless captain; and Honoria'ssurname was Callastair, though nobody uttered it in the old man'shearing. Husband and wife had died in India, of cholera, withinthree years of their marriage; and the old man had sent for thechild. Having relented so far, he went on to do it thoroughly, inhis own fashion. He neglected Honoria; but she might have anythingshe wanted for the asking. It seemed, though, that she wanted verylittle. 

He allowed Mr. Raymond to choose the design for this window. He onlystipulated that the subject should be Jonah and the whale. "There's no story'll compare with it for trying a man's faith. "

When the window came, and was erected, he complained that it left outmost of the whale, of which the jaws and one wicked little red eyewere all that appeared. "It looks half-hearted. Why didn't theyswim en all in? 'Tis neck or nothin' wi' that story; but they'vemade it neck _and_ nothin'. An' after colouring en violet too!"

In return, the Vicar had hunted up some county histories and heraldicworks in the library at Tredinnis, and was now busy re-emblazoningwith his own hand the devices carved on the Moyle pew. 

Little by little, too, the congregation had grown. The people cameshyly at first. They mistrusted the Established Church. But theytreated the Vicar with politeness when he visited them. And seeinghim so awkward, and how with all his book-learning he listened totheir opinions and blushed when he offered any small service, theygrew to like him, being shy themselves. They pitied him too, knowingthe old Squire better than he did. So from Sunday to Sunday Taffy, pulling at his rope in the belfry, counted the new-comers, andHumility talked about them on the way home and at dinner. They werefisher folk for the most part; the men in blue guernseys and corduroytrousers, and some with curled black beards and rings in their ears;the women, in gayer colours than you see in an up-country church; asouthern-seeming race, with southern-sounding names--Santo, Jose, Hugo, Bennet, Cara. They belonged--so Mr. Raymond often toldhimself--to the class which Christ called His Apostles. Sometimes, scanning an olive-coloured face, he would be minded of the Sea ofGennesareth; and, a minute later, the sight of the grey coast-linewith its whirled spray would chill the fancy. 

The congregation always lingered outside the porch after service; andthen one would say to another: "Wall, there's more in the man thanyou'd think. See you up to the meetin' this evenin' I s'pose?So long!"

But having come once, they came again. And the family at theParsonage were full of hope, though Taffy longed sometimes for aplay-fellow, and sometimes for he knew not what, and Humility bentover her lace pillow and thought of green lanes and of Beer Villageand women at work by sunshiny doorways; and wondered if their faceshad changed. 

 "O, that I were where I would be! Then would I be where I am not; But where I am, there I must be, And where I would be, I cannot. "

She never told a soul of her home thoughts. Her husband neverguessed them. But Taffy (without knowing why), whenever this versefrom his old playbook came into his head, connected it with hismother. 

But the old Squire was getting impatient. He took quite a feudalview of the saving of his soul, and would have dragged the wholeparish to church by main force, had it been possible. 

Late one afternoon, Taffy was lying in one of his favourite nooks inthe lee of the towans, when he heard voices and looked up. And theresat the old gentleman gazing down on him from horseback, with BillUdy at his side. The Squire was in hunting dress. 

"What be doin' down there?" he asked. "Praying?"

"No, sir. "

"I wish you would. I wish you'd pray for me. I've heerd that achild'll do good sometimes when grown folk can't. I doubt yourfather isn't goin' to do the good I looked for from en. He don'tbelieve in sudden conversion. Here, Bill, take the mare and lead herhome. "

He dismounted, and seated himself with a groan on the edge of thesand-pit. 

"Look here; I've got convictions of sin, but I can't get no forrader. What's to be done?"

"I don't know, sir, " Taffy stammered, with his eyes on the Squire'sspurs. 

"You can pray for me, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, do it. Do it to-night. I've got convictions, boy; but myheart's like a stone. I've had a wisht day of it. If the weatherholds back, we'll kill a May fox this year. But where's the comfort?All the time to-day 'twas '_Lippety-lop, no peace for the wicked!Lippety-lop, no peace for the wicked!_' I couldn't stand it; I cameaway. You'll do it, won't 'ee?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Is your father at home? I'll call an' speak to en. He does megood; but he can't melt what I carry here. "

He tapped his breast and rising without another word strode offacross the sand-hills with his head down and his hands claspedbeneath his coat-tails, which flapped in the wind as he went. 

Taffy ran and overtook Bill Udy and the mare. 

"He's in a wisht poor state, id'n a'?" said Bill Udy, who was parishclerk. "Bless 'ee, tidn' no manner of use. His father before en wastook in just the same way. Turned religious late in life. Whatd'ee think he did? Got his men together one Sunday mornin', marchedthem up to Meetin' house, up to Four Turnin's; slipped his ridin'crop through the haps o' the door, an' 'Now my Billies, ' says he, through the key-hole, 'not a man or woman of 'ee leaves the placetill you've said that Amazin' Creed. Come along, ' he says, '_Whosoever will be saved_ an' the sooner 'tis over, the sooneryou gets home to dinner. ' A fine talk there was! Squire, he's justsuch another. Funny things he've a-done. Married a poor soul fromRoseland way--a Miss Trevanion--quite a bettermost lady. When MissSusannah was born--that's Miss Honoria's mother--she went to bechurched. What must he do, to show his annoyance that 'twasn't aboy, but drive a she-ass into church? Very stiff behaviour. He drove the beast right fore an' into the big pew. The Moyles, yousee, 've got a mule for their shield of arms. He've had his own waytoo much; that's of it. 

"One day he dropped into church just before sarmon-time. There was arabbit squattin' outside 'pon his father's tombstone. Squire crep'up an' clapped his Sunday hat 'pon top of en. Took en into church. One o' the curate chaps was preachin'--a timorous little fellah. By-'n'-by Squire slips out his rabbit. 'Wirroo, boys! Coorse en, coorse en--we'll have en for dinner!' Aw, a pretty dido! The curatefellah ran out to door an' the rabbit after en. Folks did say therabbit was the old Squire's soul, an' that he'd turned black insidethe young Squire's hat. Very stiff behaviour. 

"He've had his own way too much; that's what it is. When he waspricked for sheriff, he hired a ramshackle po'shay, painted a mule'pon the panel, an' stuffed the footmen's stockings with bran till itlooked a case of dropsy. He was annoyed at bein' put to the expense. The judge lost his temper at bein' met in such a way, an' pitchedinto en in open court, specially about the mule. He didn't know'twas the Squire's shield of arms. Squire stood it for some time;but at last he ups an' says, 'If you was an old woman of _mine_, I'ddress 'ee different; an' if you was an old woman of mine an' kep'scolding like that, I'd have 'ee in the duckin'-stool for yoursauce!' He almost went to gaol for that. But they put it on theground the judge had insulted his shield of arms, an' so he got off. 

"Well, wish-'ee-well! Don't you trouble about _he_. He've had hisown way too much, but he won't get it this time. "

That night Taffy dreamt that he met Squire Moyle walking along theshore; but the sand clogged him, and his spurs sank in it and hisriding-boots. When he was ankle deep he began to call out, "Pray forme!" Then Taffy saw a black rabbit running on the firm sand to thebreakers; and the Squire cried "Pray for me! I must catch en!'Tis my father's soul running off!" and put his hand into his breastand drew out a stone and flung it. But the stone, as soon as ittouched the sand, turned into another rabbit, and the pair ran offtogether along the shore. The old man tried to follow, but the sandheld him; and the tide was rising. . . . 

CHAPTER IX. 

ENTER THE KING'S POSTMAN. 

A faint south wind murmured beneath the eaves. It died away, and foran hour there was peace on the towans. Then the sands began totrickle again, and the rushes to whisper and bend away from the sea, toward the high moors over which the gulls had flown yesterday anddisappeared. By-and-by a spit or two of rain came flying out of theblack north-west. The drops fell in the path of the sand, but thesand drove over and covered them, racing faster and faster. 

Day rose, and Taffy awoke. The house walls were shaking. With eachblow the wind ran up a scale of notes and ended with a howl. He looked out. Sea and sky had melted into one; only now and thenwhite surf line heaved into sight, and melted back into grey. After breakfast he and his father started to battle their way toTredinnis House, while Humility barricaded the door behind them. Taffy wore a suit of oilers, of which he was mightily proud. 

They made their way under the lee of the towans to escape thestinging sand. Within Tredinnis Gates they found a couple ofpine-trees blown down across the road, and scrambled over theirtrunks. Before lessons, Taffy boasted a lot of his journey toHonoria, and almost forgot to be sorry that George did not appear, though it was Wednesday. 

They had no trouble in reaching home. The gale hurled them along. Taffy, leaning his back against it, could scarcely feel his feettouching ground. Humility unfastened the door, looking white andanxious. Before they could close it again, the wind swept a big dishoff the dresser with a crash. 

Taffy slept soundly that night. He did not hear a knocking whichsounded on the house-door, soon after eleven o'clock. The man whoknocked came from Tresedder, one of the moor farms. "Oh, sir! did'ee see the rockets go up over Innis? There'll be dead men down 'ponthe Island rocks. "

Taffy slept on. When he came downstairs next morning there was astranger in the kitchen--a little old man, huddled in a blanketbefore the great fireplace, where a line of clothes hung drying. Humility was stooping to wedge a sand-bag under the door. She lookedup at Taffy with a wan little smile. 

"There has been a wreck, " she said. 

"Glory be!" exclaimed the stranger from the fire-place. 

Taffy glanced at him, but could see little more than the back of abald head above the blankets. 

"Where's the ship?" he asked. 

"Gone, " answered the Vicar, coming at that moment from the inner roomwhere his books were. "She must have broken up in less than tenminutes after she struck the Island--parted and gone down in sixfathoms of water. "

"And the men? Was father there?" It bewildered Taffy that all thisshould have happened while he was sleeping. 

"There was no time to fix the rocket apparatus. She was late inmaking her distress signals. But I doubt if anything could have beendone. She went down too quickly. "

"But--" Taffy's gaze wandered to the bald head. 

"He was washed clean over the ridge where she struck, and swept intoInnis Pool--one big wave carried him into safety--one man out ofsix. "

"Hallelujah!" cried the rescued man facing round in his chair. "Might ha' been scat like an egg-shell, and here I be shoutin'praises!" Taffy saw that he was a clean-shaven little fellow, withpuckered cheeks and two wisps of grey hair curling forward from hisears. 

Mr. Raymond frowned. "I am sure, " said he, "you ought not to betalking so much. "

"I will sing and give praise, sir, beggin' you pardon, with the bestmember that I have. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is offendedand I burn not? Hallelujah! A-men!"

He took his basin of bread and milk from Humility's hand, and ate bythe fire. She had wrung his clothes through fresh water, and as soonas they were thoroughly dry he retired upstairs to change. He cameback to his seat by the fire. 

"Now, I be like 'Possel Paul, " he said, rubbing his hands, andstretching them out to the blaze. "After his shipwreck, you know, when the folks 'pon the island showed en kindness. This is theLord's doing, and it is marvellous in your eyes. 

 "'Not fearing nor doubting, With Christ by my side, I hopes to die shouting, The Lord will provide!'"

Humility thought that for certain the shipwreck had turned his head. 

"But where do you come from?" she asked. 

"They call me Jacky Pascoe, ma'am; but I calls myself the King'sPostman--

 "'Jacky Pascoe is my name, Wendron is my nation, Nowhere is my dwelling-place, For Christ is my salvation--'

"I was brought to a miner, over to Wheal Jewel, in Illogan Parish;but got conversion fifteen years since, an' now I go about praisingthe Name. I've been miner, cafender, cooper, mason, seaman, scissor-grinder, umbrella-mender, holli-bubber, all by turns. I sticks my hands in my pockets, an' waits on the Lord; an' what hetells me to do, I do. This day week I was up to Fowey, working onthe tip. [1] There was a little schooner there, the _Garibaldi_, ofNewport, discharging coal. The Lord said to me, 'Arise, go in thatthere schooner!' I sought out the skipper, and said, 'Where be boundfor next?' 'Back to Newport, ' says he. 'That'll suit me, ' I says, an' persuaded en to take me. But the Lord knew where she were boundbetter'n the skipper; and here I be!"

It seemed to his hearers that this man took little thought of hisdrowned shipmates. Mr. Raymond looked up as he strapped his bookstogether. 

"You were not the only man in that schooner, " he said, ratherseverely. 

"Glory be! Who be I, to question the Lord's ways? One day I pickedup a map, an' seed a place on it called 'Little Sins. ' 'Little Sinswants great Deliverance, ' says I, an' I started clane off an' walkedto the place, though I'd never so much as heard of it till then. 'Twas harvest-time there, an' I danced into the field, shouting'Glory, glory. The harvest is plenty, but the labourers be few!'The farmer was moved to give me a job 'pon the spot. I bided theretwo year, an' built them a chapel an' preached the Word in it. They offered me money to stop an' preach; and I laid it before theLord. But He said, 'You're the King's Postman. Keep moving, keep onmoving! 'I've built two more chapels since then. "

Late that afternoon three bodies were recovered from the sea--thecaptain, the mate, and a boy of about sixteen; and were buried in thechurchyard next day, as soon as the inquest was over. Pascoefollowed the coffins, and pointed the service at the grave-side withinterjaculations of his own. "Glory be!" "A-men!" "Hallelujah!""Great Redemption!" To the Vicar's surprise the small crowd after aminute began to follow the man's lead, until at length he couldscarcely read for these interruptions. 

At supper that night Pascoe sprang a question on the Vicar. 

"Be you convarted?" he asked, looking up with his mouth full of breadand cheese. 

"I hope so. "

"Aw, you _hopes!_ 'Tis a bad case with 'ee, then. When a man'sconvarted, he _knows_. Seemin' to me, you baint. You don't showenough of the bright side. Now, as I go along, my very toes keepticking salvation. Down goes one foot, 'Glory be!' Down goes theother, 'A-men!' Aw! I must dance for joy!"

He got up and danced around the kitchen. 

"I wish the man would go, " Humility thought to herself. 

His very next words answered her wish. "I'll be leavin' to-morrow, friends. I've got a room down to the village, an' I've borreyed arazor. I'm goin' to tramp round the mines at the back here, an'shave the miners at a ha'penny a chin. That'll pay my way. There'sa new preacher planned to the Bible Christians, down to Innis, an'I'm goin' to help he. My dears, don't 'ee tell me the Lord didn'know what He was about when He cast the _Garibaldi_ ashore!"

He left the Parsonage next day. "Ma'am, " he said to Humility onleaving, "I salute this here house. Peace be on this here house, forit is worthy. He that receiveth a prophet in the name of a prophetshall receive a prophet's reward. "

Two mornings later, Taffy, looking out from his bedroom window soonafter daybreak, saw the prophet trudging along the road. He had aclean white bag slung across his shoulder; it carried his soap andrazors, no doubt. And every now and then he waved his walking-stickand skipped as he went. 

[1] Loading vessels from the jetties. 

CHAPTER X. 

A HAPPY DAY. 

A volley of sand darkened and shook the pane. Taffy, sponginghimself in his tub and singing between his gasps, looked up hastily, then flung a big towel about him and ran to the window. 

Honoria was standing below; and Comedy, her gray pony, with a creeland a couple of fishing rods strapped to his canvas girth. 

"Wake up! I've come to take you fishing. "

Mr. Raymond had started off at daybreak to walk to Truro on business;so there would be no lessons that morning, and Taffy had been lookingforward to a lonely whole holiday. 

"I've brought two pasties, " said Honoria, "and a bottle of milk. We'll go over to George's country and catch trout. He is to meet usat Vellingey Bridge. We arranged it all yesterday, only I kept itfor a surprise. "

Taffy could have leapt for joy. "Go in and speak to mother, " hesaid; "she's in the kitchen. "

Honoria hitched Comedy's bridle over the gate, walked up the barrenlittle garden, and knocked at the door. When Mrs. Raymond opened itshe held out a hand politely. 

"How do you do?" she said, "I have come to ask if Taffy may gofishing with me. "

Except in church, and outside the porch for a formal word or two, Humility and Honoria had never met. This was Honoria's first visitto the Parsonage, and the sight of the clean kitchen and shining potsand pans filled her with wonder. Humility shook hands and made asilent note of the child's frock, which was torn and wanted brushing. 

"He may go, and thank you. It's lonely for him here, very often. "

"I suppose, " said Honoria gravely, "I ought to have called before. I wish--" She was about to say that she wished Humility would cometo Tredinnis. But her eyes wandered to the orderly dresser and thescalding-pans by the fireplace. 

"I mean--if Taffy had a sister it would be different. "

Humility bent to lift a kettle off the fire. When she faced roundagain, her eyes were smiling though her lip trembled a little. 

"How bright you keep everything here!" said Honoria. 

"There's plenty of sand to scour with; it's bad for the gardenthough. "

"Don't you grow any flowers?"

"I planted a few pansies the first year; they came from my home up inDevonshire. But the sand covered them. It covers everything. "She smiled, and asked suddenly, "May I kiss you?"

"Of course you may, " said Honoria. But she blushed as Humility didit, and they both laughed shyly. 

"Hullo!" cried Taffy from the foot of the stairs. Honoria moved tothe window. She heard the boy and his mother laughing and makingpretence to quarrel, while he chose the brownest of the hot cakesfrom the wood-ashes. She stared out upon Humility's buried pansies. It was strange--a minute back she had felt quite happy. 

Humility set them off, and watched them till they disappeared in thefirst dip of the towans; and then sat down in the empty kitchen andwept a little before carrying up her mother's breakfast. 

Honoria rode in silence for the first mile; but Taffy sang andwhistled by turns as he skipped alongside. The whole world flashedand glittered around the boy and girl; the white gulls fishing, theswallows chasing one another across the dunes, the lighthouse on thedistant spit, the white-washed mine-chimneys on the ridge beside theshore. Away on the rises of the moor one hill-farm laughed toanother in a steady flame of furze blossom--laughed with a tinklingof singing larks. And beyond the last rise lay the land of wonders, George's country. "Hark!" Honoria reined up. "Isn't that thecuckoo?" Taffy listened. Yes, somewhere among the hillocks seawardits note was dinning. 

"Count!"

 "Cuckoo, cherry-tree, Be a good bird and tell to me How many years before I die?"

"Ninety-six!" Taffy announced. 

"Ninety-two, " said Honoria, "but we won't quarrel about it. Happy month to you!"

"Eh?"

"It is the first of May. Come along; perhaps we shall meet theMayers, though we're too late, I expect. Hullo! there's a miner--let's ask him. "

The miner came upon them suddenly--footsteps make no sound among thetowans; a young man in a suit stained orange-tawny, with a tallowcandle stuck with a lump of clay in the brim of his hat, and astriped tulip stuck in another lump of clay at the back and nodding. 

"Good-morning, miss. You've come a day behind the fair. "

"Is the Maying over?" Honoria asked. 

"Iss, fay. I've just been home to shift myself. "

He walked along with them and told them all about it in thefriendliest manner. It had been a grand Maying--all the boys andgirls in the parish--with the hal-an-tow, of course--such dancing!Fine and tired some of the maids must be--he wouldn't give much forthe work they'd do to-day. Two May mornings in one year would make agrass-captain mad, as the saying was. But there--'twas a poor spiritthat never rejoiced. 

"Which do you belong to?" Taffy nodded toward the mine-chimneys onthe sky-line high on their left, which hid the sea, though it layless than half a mile away and the roar of it was in their ears--justsuch a roar as the train makes when rushing through a tunnel. 

"Bless you, I'm a tinner. I belong to Wheal Gooniver, up the valley. Wheal Vlo there, 'pon the cliff, he's lead. And the next to him, Wheal Penhale, he's iron. I came a bit out of my way with you forcompany. "

Soon after parting from him they crossed the valley-stream (Taffy hadto wade it), and here they happened on a dozen tall girls at work"spalling" the tin-ore, but not busy. The most of them leaned ontheir hammers or stood with hands on hips, their laughter drowningthe _thud, thud_ of the engine-house and the rattle of the stamps upthe valley. And the cause of it all seemed to be a smaller girl whostood by with a basket in her arms. 

"Here you be, Lizzie!" cried one. "Here's a young lady and gentlemancoming with money in their pockets. "

Lizzie turned. She was a child of fourteen, perhaps; brown skinned, with shy, wild eyes. Her stockings were torn, her ragged clothesdecorated with limp bunches of bluebells, and her neck and wristswith twisted daisy chains. She skipped up to Honoria and held out abasket. Within it, in a bed of fern, lay a May-doll among a fewbirds' eggs--a poor wooden thing in a single garment of pink calico. 

"Give me something for my doll, miss!" she begged. 

"Aw, that's too tame, " one of the girls called out, and pitched hervoice to the true beggar's whine: "Spare a copper! My only child, dear kind lady, and its only father broke his tender neck in ablasting accident, and left me twelve to maintain!"

All the girls began laughing again. Honoria did not laugh. She wasfeeling in her pocket. 

"What is your name?" she asked. 

"Lizzie Pezzack. My father tends the lighthouse. Give me somethingfor my doll, miss!"

Honoria held out a half-crown piece. 

"Hand it to me. "

The child did not understand. "Give me something--" she began againin her dull, level voice. 

Honoria stamped her foot. "Give it to me!" She snatched up the dolland thrust it into the fishing creel, tossed the coin into Lizzie'sbasket, and taking Comedy by the bridle, moved up the path. 

"She've adopted en!" They laughed and called out to Lizzie that shewas in luck's way. But Taffy saw the child's face as she stared intothe empty basket, and that it was perplexed and forlorn. 

"Why did you do that?" he asked, as he caught up with Honoria. She did not answer. 

And now they turned away from the sea, and struck a high road whichtook them between upland farms and across the ridge of cultivatedland to a valley full of trees. A narrow path led inland up thisvalley. They had followed it under pale green shadows, in Indianfile, the pony at Honoria's heels and Taffy behind, and stepped outinto sunlight again upon a heathery moor where a trout streamchattered and sparkled. And there by a granite bridge they foundGeorge fishing, with three small trout shining on the turf besidehim. 

This was a day which Taffy remembered all his life, and yet mostconfusedly. Indeed there was little to remember it by--little to betold except that all the while the stream talked, the larks sang, andin the hollow of the hills three children were happy. George landedhalf a dozen trout before lunch-time; but Taffy caught none, partlybecause he knew nothing about fishing, partly because the chatter ofthe stream set him telling tales to himself and he forgot the rod inhis hand. And Honoria, after hooking a tiny fish and throwing itback into the water, wandered off in search of larks' nests. She came slowly back when George blew a whistle announcing lunch. 

"Hullo! What's this?" he asked, as he dived a hand into her creel. "Ugh! a doll! I say, Taffy, let's float her down the river. What humbug, Honoria!"

But she had snatched the doll and crammed it back roughly into thecreel. A minute later, when they were not looking, she lifted thelid again and disposed the poor thing more gently. 

"Why don't you talk, one of you?" George demanded, with his mouthfull. 

Taffy shook himself out of his waking dream--"I was wondering whereit goes to, " he said, and nodded toward the running water. 

"It goes down to Langona, " said George, "and that's just a creek fullof sand, with a church right above it in a big grass meadow--thequeerest small church you ever saw. But I've heard my father tellthat hundreds of years back a big city stood there, with seven finechurches and quays, and deep water alongside and above, so that shipscould sail right up to the ford. They came from all parts of theworld for tin and lead, and the people down in the city had nothingto do but sit still and grow rich. "

"Somebody must have worked, " interrupted Honoria; "on the buildingsand all that. "

"The building was done by convicts. The story is that convicts weretransported here from all over the kingdom. "

"Did they live in the city?"

"No; they had a kind of camp across the creek. They dug out theharbour too, and kept it clear of sand. You can still see the marksof their pickaxes along the cliffs; I'll show them to you some day. My father knows all about it, because his great-great-great-great--grandfather (and a heap more 'greats, ' I don't know how many) was theonly one saved when the city was buried. "

"Was he from the city, or one of the convicts?" asked Honoria, whohad not forgiven George's assault upon her doll. 

"He was a baby at the time, and couldn't remember, " George answered, with fine composure. "They say he was found high up the creek, justwhere you cross it by the foot-bridge. The bridge is covered at highwater; and if you try to cross below, especially when the tide isflowing, just you look out! Twice a day the sands become quickthere. They've swallowed scores. I'll tell you another thing:there's a bird builds somewhere in the cliffs there--a crake, thepeople call it--and they say that whenever he goes crying about thesands, it means that a man will be drowned there. "

"Rubbish! I don't believe in your city. "

"Very well, then, I'll tell you something else. The fishermen haveseen it--five or six of them. You know the kind of haze that gets upsometimes on hot days, when the sun's drawing water? They say thatif you're a mile or two out and this happens between you and LangonaCreek, you can see the city quite plain above the shore, with theseven churches and all. "

"_I_ can see it!" Taffy blurted this out almost without knowing thathe spoke; and blushed furiously when George laughed. "I mean--I'msure--" he began to explain. 

"If you can see it, " said Honoria, "you had better describe George'sproperty for him. " She yawned. "He can't tell the story himself--not one little bit. "

"Right you are, miss, " George agreed. "Fire away, Taffy. "

Taffy thought for a minute, then, still with a red face, began. "It is all true, as George says. A fine city lies there, coveredwith the sands; and this was what happened. The King of Langona hada son, a handsome young Prince, who lived at home until he waseighteen, and then went on his travels. That was the custom, youknow. The Prince took only his foster-brother, whose name was John, and they travelled for three years. On their way back, as they cameto Langona Creek, they saw the convicts at work, and in one of thefields was a girl digging alone. She had a ring round her ankle, like the rest, with a chain and iron weight, but she was the mostbeautiful girl the Prince had ever seen. So he pulled up his horseand asked her who she was, and how she came to be wearing the chain. She told him she was no convict, but the daughter of a convict, andit was the law for the convict's children to wear these things. 'To-night, ' said the Prince, 'you shall wear a ring of gold and be aPrincess, ' and he commanded John to file away the ring and take herupon his horse. They rode across the creak and came to the palace;and the Prince, after kissing his father and mother, said, 'I havebrought you all kinds of presents from abroad; but best of all I havebrought home a bride. ' His parents, who wondered at her beauty, andnever doubted but that she must be a king's daughter, were full ofjoy, and set the bells ringing in all the seven churches. So for ayear everybody was happy, and at the end of that time a son wasborn. "

"You're making it up, " said Honoria. Taffy's _own_ stories alwayspuzzled her, with hints and echoes from other stories shehalf-remembered, but could seldom trace home. He had too cunning agift. 

George said, "Do be quiet! Of course he's making it up, but who wantsto know _that?_"

"Two days afterward, " Taffy went on, "the Prince was out hunting withhis foster-brother. The Princess in her bed at home complained toher mother-in-law, 'Mother, my feet are cold. Bring me another rugto wrap them in. ' The Queen did so, but as she covered thePrincess's feet she saw the red mark left by the ankle ring, and knewthat her son's wife was no true Princess, but a convict's daughter. And full of rage and shame she went away and mixed two cups. The first she gave to the Princess to drink; and when it had killedher (for it was poison) she dipped a finger into the dregs and rubbedit inside the child's lips, and very soon he was dead too. Then shesent for two ankle-chains and weights--one larger and one verysmall--and fitted them on the two bodies and had them flung into thecreek. When the Prince came home he asked after his wife. 'She issleeping, ' said the Queen, 'and you must be thirsty with hunting?'She held out the second cup, and the Prince drank and passed it toJohn, who drank also. Now in this cup was a drug which took away allmemory. And at once the Prince forgot all about his wife and child;and John forgot too. 

"For weeks after this the Prince complained that he felt unwell. He told the doctors that there was an empty place in his head, andthey advised him to fill it by travelling. So he set out again, andJohn went with him as before. On their journey they stayed for aweek with the King of Spain, and there the Prince fell in love withthe King of Spain's daughter, and married her, and brought her homeat the end of a year, during which she, too, had brought him a son. 

"The night after their return, when the Prince and his second wifeslept, John kept watch outside the door. About midnight he heard thenoise of a chain dragging, but very softly, and up the stairs came alady in white with a child in her arms. John knew his formermistress at once, and all his memory came back to him, but she put afinger to her lips and went past him into the bed-chamber. She wentto the bed, laid a hand on her husband's pillow, and whispered:"

 'Wife and babe below the river, Twice will I come and then come never. '

"Without another word she turned and went slowly past John and downthe stairs. "

"I know _that_, anyhow, " Honoria interrupted. "That's 'East of theSun and West of the Moon, ' or else it's the Princess whose brotherwas changed into a Roebuck, or else--" But George flicked a pebbleat her, and Taffy went on, warming more and more to the story:--

"In the morning, when the Prince woke, his second wife saw his pillowon the side farthest from her, and it was wet. 'Husband, ' she said, 'you have been weeping to-night. ' 'Well, ' said he, 'that is queer, though, for I haven't wept since I was a boy. It's true, though, that I had a miserable dream. ' But when he tried to remember it, hecould not. 

"The same thing happened on the second night, only the dead wifesaid:"

 'Wife and babe below the river, Once will I come and then come never. '

"And again in the morning there was a mark on the pillow where her wethand had rested. But the Prince in the morning could remembernothing. On the third night she came and said:"

 'Wife and babe below the river, Now I am gone and gone for ever, '

"And went down the stairs with such a reproachful look at John thathis heart melted and he ran after her. But at the outer door a flashof lightning met him, and such a storm broke over the palace and cityas had never been before and never will be again. 

"John heard screams, and the noise of doors banging and feet runningthroughout the palace; he turned back and met the Prince, his master, coming downstairs with his child in his arms. The lightning strokehad killed his second wife where she lay. John followed him out intothe streets, where the people were running to and fro, and throughthe whirling sand to the ford which crossed the creek a mile abovethe city. And there, as they stepped into the water, a woman rosebefore John, with a child in her arms, and said: 'Carry us. 'The Prince, who was leading, did not see. John took them on hisback, but they were heavy because of the iron chains and weights ontheir ankles, and the sands sank under him. Then, by-and-by, thefirst wife put her child into John's arms and said, 'Save him, ' andslipped off his back into the water. 'What sound was that?' askedthe Prince. 'That was my heart cracking, ' said John. So they wenton till the sand rose half-way to their knees. Then the Princestopped and put his child into John's arms. 'Save him, ' he said, andfell forward on his face; and John's heart cracked again. But hewent forward in the darkness until the water rose to his waist, andthe sand to his knees. He was close to the farther shore now, butcould not reach it unless he dropped one of the children; and this hewould not do. He bent forward, holding out one in each arm, andcould just manage to push them up the bank and prop them there withhis open hand; and while he bent, the tide rose and his heart crackedfor the third time. Though he was dead, his stiff arms kept thechildren propped against the bank. But just at the turning of thetide the one with the ankle-weight slipped and was drowned. The other was found next morning by the inland people, high and dry. And some _do_ say, " Taffy wound up, "that his brother was not reallydrowned, but turned into a bird, and that, though no one has seenhim, it is his voice that gives the '_crake_, ' imitating the soundmade by John's heart when it burst; but others say it comes from Johnhimself, down there below the sands. "

There was silence for a minute. Even Honoria had grown excitedtoward the end. 

"But it was unfair!" she broke out. "It ought to have been theconvict-child that was saved. "

"If so, I shouldn't be here, " said George; "and it's not very nice ofyou to say it. "

"I don't care. It was unfair; and anyone but a boy "--with scorn--"would see it. " She turned upon the staring Taffy--"I hate your tale;it was horrid. "

She repeated it, that evening, as they turned their faces homewardacross the heathery moor. Taffy had halted on the top of a hillockto wave good-night to George. For years he remembered the scene--thebrown hollow of the hills; the clear evening sky, with the faintpurple arch, which is the shadow of the world, climbing higher andhigher upon it; and his own shadow stretching back with his hearttoward George, who stood fronting the level rays and waved hisglittering catch of fish. 

"What was that you said?" he asked, when at length he tore himselfaway and caught up with Honoria. 

"That was a horrid story you told. It spoiled my afternoon, and I'lltrouble you not to tell any more of the sort. "

CHAPTER XI. 

LIZZIE REDEEMS HER DOLL AND HONORIA THROWS A STONE. 

A broad terrace ran along the southern front of Tredinnis House. It had once been decorated with leaden statues, but of these only thepedestals remained. 

Honoria, perched on the terraced wall, with her legs dangling, wasmaking imaginary casts with a trout-rod, when she heard footsteps. Achild came timidly round the angle of the big house--Lizzie Pezzack. 

"Hullo! What do you want?"

"If you please, miss--"

"Well?"

"If you please, miss--"

"You've said that twice. "

Lizzie held out a grubby palm with a half-crown in it: "I wants mydoll back, if you please, miss. "

"But you sold it. "

"I didn't mean to. You took me so sudden. "

"I gave you ever so much more than it was worth. Why, I don'tbelieve it cost you three ha'pence!"

"Tuppence, " said Lizzie. 

"Then you don't know when you're well off. Go away. "

"'Tisn't that, miss--"

"What is it, then?"

Lizzie broke into a flood of tears. 

Honoria, the younger by a year or so, stood and eyed her scornfully;then turning on her heel marched into the house. 

She was a just child. She went upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked herwardrobe, and took out the doll, which was clad in blue silk, andreposed in a dog-trough lined with the same material. Honoria hadrecklessly cut up two handkerchiefs (for underclothing) and herSunday sash, and had made the garments in secret. They wereprodigies of bad needlework. With the face of a Medea she strippedthe poor thing, took it in her arms as if to kiss it, but checkedherself sternly. She descended to the terrace with the doll in onehand and its original calico smock in the other. 

"There, take your twopenny baby!"

Lizzie caught and strained it to her breast; covered its poornakedness hurriedly, and hugged it again with passionate kisses. 

"You silly! Did you come all this way by yourself?"

Lizzie nodded. "Father thinks I'm home, minding the house. He's offduty this evening, and he walked over here to the Bryanite Chapel, upto Four Turnings. There's going to be a big Prayer Meeting to-night. When his back was turned I slipped out after him, so as to keep himin sight across the towans. "

"Why?"

"I'm terrible timid. I can't bear to walk across the towans bymyself. You can't see where you be--they're so much alike--and itmakes a person feel lost. There's so many bones, too. "

"Dead rabbits. "

"Yes, and dead folks, I've heard father say. "

"Well, you'll have to go back alone, any way. "

Lizzie hugged the doll. "I don't mind so much now. I'll keep alongby the sea and run, and only open my eyes now and then. Here's yourmoney, miss. "

She went off at a run. Honoria pocketed the half-crown and went backto her fly-fishing. But after a few casts she desisted, and took herrod to pieces slowly. The afternoon was hot and sultry. She satdown in the shadow of the balustrade and gazed at the long, blankfacade of the house baking in the sun; at the tall, uncurtainedwindows; at the peacock stalking to and fro like a drowsy sentinel. 

"You are a beast of a house, " she said contemplatively; "and I hateevery stone of you!"

She stood up and strolled toward the stables. The stable yard wasempty but for the Gordon setter dozing by the pump-trough. Across from the kitchens came the sound of the servants' voiceschattering. Honoria had never made friends with the servants. 

She tilted her straw hat further over her eyes, and sauntered up thedrive with her hands behind her; through the great gates and out uponthe towans. She had started with no particular purpose, and had nonein her mind when she came in sight of the Parsonage, and of Humilityseated in the doorway with her lace pillow across her knees. 

It had been the custom among the women of Beer Village to work intheir doorways on sunny afternoons, and Humility followed it. 

She looked up smiling. "Taffy is down by the shore, I think. "

"I didn't come to look for him. What beautiful work!"

"It comes in handy. Won't you step inside and let me make you a cupof tea?"

"No, I'll sit here and watch you. " Humility pulled in her skirts, andHonoria found room on the doorstep beside her. "Please don't stop. It's wonderful. Now I know where Taffy gets his cleverness. "

"You are quite wrong. This is only a knack. All his clevernesscomes from his father. "

"Oh, books! Of course, Mr. Raymond knows all about books. He's writing one, isn't he?"

Mrs. Raymond nodded. 

"What about?"

"It's about St. Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews; in Greek, you know. He has been working at it for years. "

"And he's indoors working at it now? What funny things men do!"She was silent for a while, watching Humility's bobbins. "But Isuppose it doesn't matter just _what_ they do. The great thing is todo it better than anyone else. Does Mr. Raymond think Taffy clever?"

"He never talks about it. "

"But he _thinks_ so. I know; because at lessons when he saysanything to Taffy it's quite different from the way he talks toGeorge and me. He doesn't favour him, of course; he's much too fair. But there's a difference. It's as if he _expected_ Taffy tounderstand. Did Mr. Raymond teach him all those stories he knows?"

"What stories?"

"Fairy tales, and that sort of thing. "

"Good gracious me, no!"

"Then _you_ must have. And you _are_ clever, after all. Asking meto believe you're not, and making that beautiful lace all the while, under my very eyes!"

"I'm not a bit clever. Here's the pattern, you see, and there's thethread, and the rest is only practice. I couldn't make the patternout of my head. Besides, I don't like clever women. "

"A woman must try to be _something_. " Honoria felt that this wasvague, but wanted to argue. 

"A woman wants to be loved, " said Mrs. Raymond thoughtfully. "There's such a heap to be done about the house that she won't findtime for much else. Besides, if she has children, she'll be planningfor them. "

"Isn't that rather slow?"

Humility wondered where the child had picked up the word. "Slow?" she echoed, with her eyes on the horizon beyond the dunes. "Most things are slow when you look forward to them. "

"But these fairy-tales of yours?"

"I'll tell you about them. When my mother was a girl of sixteen shewent into service as a nursemaid in a clergyman's family. Every evening the clergyman used to come into the nursery and tellthe children a fairy-tale. That's how it started. My mother leftservice to marry a farmer--it was quite a grand match for her--andwhen I was a baby she told the stories to me. She has a wonderfulmemory still, and she tells them capitally. When I listen I believeevery word of them; I like them better than books, too, because theyalways end happily. But I can't repeat them a bit. As soon as Ibegin they fall to pieces, and the pieces get mixed up, and, worst ofall, the life goes right out of them. But Taffy, he takes the piecesand puts them together, and the tale is better than ever: quitedifferent, and new, too. That's the puzzle. It's not memory withhim; it's something else. "

"But don't you ever make up a story of your own?" Honoria insisted. 

Now you might talk with Mrs. Raymond for ten minutes, perhaps, andthink her a simpleton; and then suddenly a cloud (as it were) parted, and you found yourself gazing into depths of clear and beautifulwisdom. 

She turned on Honoria with a shy, adorable smile: "Why, of course Ido--about Taffy. Come in and let me show you his room and hisbooks. "

An hour later, when Taffy returned, he found Honoria seated at thetable and his mother pouring tea. They said nothing about theirvisit to his room; and though they had handled every one of histreasures, he never discovered it. But he did notice--or rather, hefelt--that the two understood each other. They did; and it was anunderstanding he would never be able to share, though he lived to bea hundred. 

Mr. Raymond came out from his study and drank his tea in silence. Honoria observed that he blinked a good deal. He showed no surpriseat her visit, and after a moment seemed unaware of her presence. At length he raised the cup to his lips, and finding it empty set itdown and rose to go back to his work. Humility interfered andreminded him of a call to be paid at one of the upland farms. The children might go too, she suggested. It would be very littledistance out of Honoria's way. 

Mr. Raymond sighed, but went for his walking-stick; and they set out. 

When they reached the farmhouse he left the children outside. The town-place was admirably suited for a game of "Follow-my-leader, "which they played for twenty minutes with great seriousness, to thedisgust of the roosting poultry. Then Taffy spied a niche, high up, where a slice had been cut out of a last year's haystack. He fetcheda ladder. Up they climbed, drew the ladder after them, and played atbeing Outlaws in a Cave, until the dusk fell. 

Still Mr. Raymond lingered indoors. "He thinks we have gone home, "said Honoria. "Now the thing would be to creep down and steal one ofthe fowls, and bring it back and cook it. "

"We can make believe to do it, " Taffy suggested. 

Honoria considered for a moment. "I'll tell you what: there's agreat Bryanite meeting to-night, down at the Chapel. I expectthere'll be a devil hunt. "

"What's that?"

"They turn out the lights and hunt for him in the dark. "

"But he isn't _really_ there?"

"I don't know. Suppose we play at scouts and creep down the road?If the Chapel is lit up we can spy in on them; and then you cansqueeze your nose on the glass and make a face, while I say 'Boo!'and they'll think the Old Gentleman is really come. "

They stole down the ladder and out of the town-place. The Chapelstood three-quarters of a mile away, on a turfed wastrel where twohigh roads met and crossed. 

Long before they reached it they heard clamorous voices and groans. 

"I expect the devil hunt has begun, " said Honoria. But when theycame in sight of the building its windows were brightly lit. The noise inside was terrific. 

The two children approached it with all the precaution proper toscouts. Suddenly the clamour ceased and the evening fell so silentthat Taffy heard the note of an owl away in the Tredinnis plantationsto his left. This silence was daunting, but they crept on and soonwere standing in the illuminated ring of furze whins which surroundedthe Chapel. 

"Can you reach up to look in?"

Taffy could not; so Honoria obligingly went on hands and knees, andhe stood on her back. 

"Can you see? What's the matter?"

Taffy gasped. "_He's_ in there!"

"What?--the Old Gentleman?"

"Yes; no--your grandfather!"

"What? Let me get up. Here, you kneel--"

It was true. Under the rays of a paraffin lamp, in face of thekneeling congregation, sat Squire Moyle; his body stiffly upright onthe bench, his jaws rigid, his eyes with horror in them fastened uponthe very window through which Honoria peered--fastened, it seemed toher, upon her face. But, no; he saw nothing. The Bryanites werepraying; Honoria saw their lips moving. Their eyes were all on theold man's face. In the straining silence his mouth opened--but onlyfor a moment--while his tongue wetted his parched lips. 

A man by the pulpit-stairs shuffled his feet. A sigh passed throughthe Chapel as he rose and relaxed the tension. It was Jacky Pascoe. He stepped up to the Squire, and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said, gently, persuasively, yet so clearly that Honoria could hearevery word:

"Try, brother. Keep on trying. O, I've knowed cases--You can nevertell how near salvation is. One minute the heart's like a stone, andthe next maybe 'tis melted and singing like fat in a pan. 'Tis working! 'tis working!"

The congregation broke out with cries: "Amen!" "Glory, glory!"The Squire's lips moved and he muttered something. But stony despairsat in his eyes. 

"Ay, glory, glory! You've been a doubter, and you doubt no longer. Soon you'll be a shouter. Man, you'll dance like as David dancedbefore the Ark! You'll feel it in your toes! Come along, friends, while he's resting a minute! Sing all together--oh, the blessedpeace of it!--

 "'I long to be there, His glory to share--'"

He pitched the note, and the congregation took up the second linewith a rolling, gathering volume of song. It broke on the night likethe footfall of a regiment at charge. Honoria scrambled off Taffy'sback, and the two slipped away to the high road. 

"Shall you tell your father?"

"I--I don't know. "

She stooped and found a loose stone. "He shan't find salvationto-night, " she said heroically. 

As the stone crashed through the window the two children pelted off. They ran on the soft turf by the wayside, and only halted to listenwhen they reached Tredinnis's great gates. The sound of feet runningfar up the road set them off again, but now in opposite ways. Honoria sped down the avenue, and Taffy headed for the Parsonage, across the towans. Ordinarily this road at night would have beenfull of terrors for him; but now the fear at his heels kept himgoing, while his heart thumped on his ribs. He was just beginning tofeel secure, when he blundered against a dark figure which seemed torise straight out of the night. 

"Hullo!"

Blessed voice! The wayfarer was his own father. 

"Taffy! I thought you were home an hour ago. Where on earth have youbeen?"

"With Honoria. " He was about to say more, but checked himself. "I left her at the top of the avenue, " he explained. 

CHAPTER XII. 

TAFFY'S CHILDHOOD COMES TO AN END. 

The summer passed. There was a talk in the early part of it that theBishop would be coming, next spring, to consecrate the restoredchurch and hold a confirmation service. Taffy and Honoria were to beconfirmed, and early in August Mr. Raymond began to set apart an houreach day for preparing them. In a week or two the boy's head wasfull of religion. He spent much of his time in the church, watchingthe carpenter at work upon the new seats; his mind ran on the storyof Samuel, and he wished his mother had followed Hannah's example anddedicated him to God; he had a suspicion that God would be angry withher for not doing so. 

He did not observe that, as the autumn crept on, a shadow gathered onHumility's face. One Sunday the old Squire did not come to church;and again on the next Wednesday, at the harvest festival, Honoria satalone in the Tredinnis pew. The shadow was on his mother's face ashe chatted about this on their way home to the Parsonage; but the boydid not perceive it. He loved his parents, but their lives layoutside his own, and their sayings and doings passed him like a vainshow. He walked in the separate world of childhood, and it seemed anenormous world yet, though a few weeks were to bring him abruptly tothe end of it. 

But just before he came to the precipice he was given a glimpse ofthe real world--and of a world beyond that, far more splendid andromantic than any region of his dreams. 

The children had no lessons during Christmas, or for three weeksafter. On the last morning before the holidays George brought aletter for Mr. Raymond, who read it, considered for a while, and laidit among his papers. 

"It's an invitation, " George announced in a whisper. "I wonder ifhe'll let you come. "

"Where?" whispered Taffy. 

"Up to Plymouth--to the Pantomime. "

"What's that?"

"Oh--clowns, and girls dressed up like boys, and policemen on slides, and that sort of thing. "

Taffy sat bewildered. He vaguely remembered Plymouth as a mass ofroofs seen from the train, as it drew up for a minute or two on ahigh bridge. Someone in the railway carriage had talked of an enginecalled _Brutus_, which (it appeared) had lately run away and crashedinto the cloak-room at the end of the platform. He still thought ofrailway engines as big, blundering animals, with wills of their own, and of Plymouth as a town rendered insecure by their vagaries; butthe idea that its roofs covered girls dressed up like boys andpolicemen on slides was new to him, and pleasant on the whole, thoughdaunting. 

"Will you give my thanks to Sir Harry, " said Mr. Raymond, afterlessons, "and tell him that Taffy may go. "

So on New Year's Day Taffy found himself in Plymouth. It was anexperience which he could never fit into his life except as a gaudyinterlude; for when he awoke and looked back upon it, he was nolonger the boy who had climbed up beside Sir Harry and behind SirHarry's restless pair of bays. The whirl began with that drive tothe station; began again in the train; began again as they steppedout on the pavement at Plymouth, just as a company of scarlet-coatedsoldiers came down the roadway with a din of brazen music. The crowd, the shops, the vast hotel, completely dazed him, and heseriously accepted the waiter, in his black suit and big whiteshirt-front, as a contribution to the fun of the entertainment. 

"We must dine early, " Sir Harry announced at lunch; "the Pantomimebegins at seven. "

"Isn't--isn't this the Pantomime?" Taffy stammered. 

George giggled. Sir Harry set down his glass of claret, stared atthe boy, and broke into musical laughter. Taffy perceived he hadmade some ridiculous mistake and blushed furiously. 

"God bless the child--the Pantomime's at the theatre!"

"Oh!" Taffy recalled the canvas booth and wheezy cornet of his earlydays with a chill of disappointment. 

But with George at his side it was impossible to be anything buthappy. After lunch they sallied out, and it would have been hard tochoose the gayest of the three. Sir Harry's radiant good-temperseemed to gild the streets. He took the boys up to the Hoe andpointed out the war-ships; he whisked them into the Camera Obscura;thence to the Citadel, where they watched a squad of recruits atdrill; thence to the Barbican, where the trawling-fleet lay packedlike herring, and the shops were full of rope and oilskin suits andmarine instruments, and dirty children rolled about the roadwaybetween the legs of seabooted fishermen; and so up to the town again, where he lingered in the most obliging manner while the boys staredinto the fishing-tackle shops and toy shops. On the way he led themup a narrow passage and into a curious room, where fifteen or twentymen were drinking, and talking at the top of their voices. The mostof them seemed to know Sir Harry well and greeted him with an oddmixture of respect and familiarity. Their talk was full ofmysterious names and expressions, and Taffy thought at first theymust be Freemasons. "The Moor point-to-point was a walk-over for theMilkman; Lapidary was scratched, which left it a soft thing, unlessSir Harry fancied a fox-catcher like Nursery Governess, in whichcase Billy behind the bar would do as much business as he liked atsix-to-one. " After a while Taffy discovered they were talking abouthorses, and wondered why they should meet to discuss horses in adingy room up a back yard. "Youngster of yours is growin', Surrarry, " said a red-faced man. "Who's his stable companion?" Taffywas introduced, and to his embarrassment Sir Harry began to relatehis ridiculous mistake at lunch. The men roared with laughter. 

He made another, quite as ridiculous, at the pastry-cook's where SirHarry ordered tea. "What'll you take with it? Call for what youlike, only don't poison yourselves. " Taffy referring his gaze fromthe buns and confections on the counter to the card in his hands, which was inscribed with words in unknown tongues, made a bold plungeand announced that he would take a "_marasheno_. "

This tickled Sir Harry mightily. He ordered the waitress with a winkto "bring the young gentleman a _marasheno_"; and Taffy, who hadexpected something in the shape of a macaroon, was confronted with atiny glass of a pale liquor, which, when tasted, in the mostsurprising manner put sunshine into his stomach and brought tearsinto his eyes. But under Sir Harry's quizzical gaze he swallowed itdown bravely, and sat gasping and blinking. 

It may have been that the maraschino induced a haze upon the rest ofthe afternoon. The gas-lamps were lit when they left thepastry-cook's and entered a haberdasher's where Taffy, withoutknowing why, was fitted with a pair of white kid gloves. Of dinnerat the hotel he remembered nothing except that the candles on thetables had red shades, of which the silverware gave funnyreflections; that the same waiter flitted about in the penumbra; andthat Sir Harry, who was dressed like the waiter, said, "Wake up, young Marasheno! Do you take your coffee black?" "It's usually palebrown at home, " answered Taffy; at which Sir Harry laughed again. "Black will suit you better to-night, " he said, and poured out asmall cupful, which Taffy drank and found exceedingly nasty. And amoment later he was wide awake, and the three were following a youngwoman along a passage which seemed to run in a complete circle. The young woman flung open a door; they entered a little room with abalcony in front; and the first glorious vision broke on the childwith a blaze of light, a crash of music, and the murmur of hundredsof voices. 

Faces, faces, faces!--faces mounting from the pit below him, up andup to the sky-blue ceiling, where painted goddesses danced andscattered pink roses around the enormous gasalier. Fauns piping onthe great curtain, fiddles sawing in the orchestra beneath, ladies ingay silks and jewels leaning over the gilt balconies opposite--whichwere real, and which a vision only? He turned helplessly to Georgeand Sir Harry. Yes, _they_ were real. But what of Nannizabuloe, andthe sand-hills, and the little parsonage to which that very morninghe had turned to wave his handkerchief?

A bell rang, and the curtain rose upon a company of russet-brownelves dancing in a green wood. The play was _Jack the Giant-killer_;but Taffy, who knew the story in the book by heart, found the storyon the stage almost meaningless. That mattered nothing; it was theworld, the new and unimagined world, stretching deeper and stilldeeper as the scenes were lifted--a world in which solid wallscrumbled, and forests melted, and loveliness broke through the ruins, unfolding like a rose; it was this that seized on the child's heartuntil he could have wept for its mere beauty. Often he had soughtout the trout-pools on the moors behind the towans, and lying at fulllength had watched the fish moving between the stones andwater-plants; and watching through a summer's afternoon had longed tochange places with them and glide through their grottoes or anchoramong the reed-stalks and let the ripple run over him. As long backas he could remember, all beautiful sights had awakened this ache, this longing--

 "O, that I were where I would be! Then would I be where I am not; For where I am I would not be, And where I would be, I cannot. "

It seemed to him that these bright beings on the stage had brokenthrough the barriers, had stepped beyond the flaming ramparts, andwere happy. Their horseplay, at which George laughed soimmoderately, called to Taffy to come and be happy, too; and whenJack the Giant-killer changed to Jack in the Beanstalk, and when inthe Transformation Scene a real beanstalk grew and unfolded itsleaves, and each leaf revealed a fairy seated, with the limelightflashing on star and jewelled wand, the longing became unbearable. The scene passed in a minute. The clown and pantaloon came on, andpresently Sir Harry saw Taffy's shoulders shaking, and set it downto laughter at the harlequinade. He could not see the child's face. 

But, perhaps, the queerest event of the evening (when Taffy came toreview his recollections) was this: He must have fallen into a stuporon leaving the theatre, for when he awoke he found himself on a couchin a gas-lit room, with George beside him, and Sir Harry was shakinghim by the collar, and saying, "God bless the children, I thoughtthey were in bed hours ago!" A man--the same who had talked aboutracehorses that afternoon--was standing by the table, on which aquantity of cards lay scattered among the drinking-glasses; and helaughed at this, and his laugh sounded just like the rustling ofpaper. "It's all very well--" began Sir Harry, but checked himselfand lit a candle, and led the two boys off shivering to bed. 

The next morning, too, had its surprises. To begin with, Sir Harryannounced at breakfast that he must go and buy a horse. He might bean hour or two over the business, and meanwhile the boys had bettergo out into the town and enjoy themselves. Perhaps a sovereignapiece might help them. 

Taffy, who had never in his life possessed more than a shilling, wasstaring at the gold piece in his hand, when the door opened, and SirHarry's horse-racing friend came in to breakfast and nodded"Good-morning. "

"Pity you're leaving to-day, " he said, as he took his seat at a tablehard by them. 

"My revenge must wait, " Sir Harry answered. 

It seemed a cold-blooded thing to be said so carelessly. Taffy wondered if Sir Harry's search for a horse had anything to dowith this revenge, and the notion haunted him in the intervals of hismorning's shopping. 

But how to lay out his sovereign? That was the first question. George, who within ten minutes had settled his own problem bypurchasing a doubtful fox-terrier of the Boots of the hotel, saw nodifficulty. The Boots had another pup for sale--one of the samelitter. 

"But I want something for mother, and the others--and Honoria. "

"Botheration! I'd forgotten Honoria, and now the money's gone! Never mind; she can have my pup. "

"Oh!" said Taffy ruefully. "Then she won't think much of mypresent. "

"Yes, she will. Suppose you buy a collar for him--you can get onefor five shillings. "

They found a saddler's and chose the dog-collar which came to fourshillings; and for eighteenpence the shopman agreed to have"_Honoria from Taffy_, " engraved on it within an hour. Humility'spresent was chosen with surprising ease--a large, framed photographof the Bishop of Exeter; price, six shillings. 

"I don't suppose, " objected George, "your mother cares much for theBishop of Exeter. "

"Oh, yes, she does, " said Taffy; "he's coming to confirm us nextspring. Besides, " he added, with one of those flashes of wisdomwhich surely he derived from her, "mother won't care what it is, solong as she's remembered. And it costs more than the collar. "

This left him with eight-and-sixpence; and for three-and-sixpence hebought a work-box for his grandmother, with a view of Plymouth Hoe onthe lid. But now came the crux. What should he get for his father?

"It must be a book, " George suggested. 

"But what kind of a book? He has so many. "

"Something in Latin. "

The bookseller's window was filled with yellow-backed novels andtoy-books, which obviously would not do. So they marched in anddemanded a book suitable for a clergyman who had a good many booksalready--"a middle-aged clergyman, " George added. 

"You can't go far wrong with this, " suggested the bookseller, producing Crockford's "Clerical Directory" for the current year. But this was too expensive; "and, " said Taffy, "I think he wouldrather have something in Latin. " The bookseller rubbed his chin, went to his shelves, and took down a small _De Imitatione Christi_, bound in limp calf. "You can't go far wrong with this, either, " heassured them. So Taffy paid down his money. 

Just as the boys reached the hotel, Sir Harry drove up in a cab; andfive minutes later they were all rattling off to the railway station. Taffy eyed the cab-horse curiously, never doubting it to be SirHarry's new purchase; and was extremely surprised when the cabmanwhipped it up and trotted off--after receiving his money, too. But in the bustle there was no time to ask questions. 

It was about three in the afternoon, and the sun already low in thesouth-west, when they came in sight of the cross-roads and Sir Harrypulled up his bays. And there, on the green by the sign-post, stoodMrs. Raymond. She caught Taffy in her arms and hugged him till hefelt ashamed, and glanced around to see if the others were looking;but the phaeton was bowling away down the road. 

"But why are _you_ here, mother?"

Mrs. Raymond gazed a while after the carriage before speaking. "Your father had to be at the church, " she said. 

"But there's no service--" He broke off "See what I've brought foryou!" And he pulled out the portrait. "Do you know who it is?"

Humility thanked him and kissed him passionately. There wassomething odd with her this afternoon. 

"Don't you like your present?"

"Darling, it is beautiful, " she stooped and kissed him again, passionately. 

"I've a present for father, too; a book. Why are you walking sofast?" In a little while he asked again, "Why are you walking sofast?"

"I--I thought you would be wanting your tea. "

"Mayn't I take father his book first?"

She did not answer. 

"But mayn't I?" he persisted. 

They had reached the garden-gate. Humility seemed to hesitate. "Yes; go, " she said at length; and he ran, with the _De ImitationeChristi_ under his arm. 

As he came within view of the church he saw a knot of men gatheredabout the door. They were pulling something out from the porch. He heard the noise of hammering, and Squire Moyle, at the back of thecrowd, was shouting at the top of his voice:

"The church is yours, is it? I'll see about that! Pitch out thefurnitcher, my billies--_that's_ mine, anyway!"

Still the hammers sounded within the church. 

"Don't believe in sudden convarsion, don't 'ee? I reckon you willwhen you look round your church. Bishop coming to consecrate it, ishe? Consecrate _my_ furnitcher? I'll see you and your bishop toblazes first!"

A heap of shattered timber came flying through the porch. 

"_Your_ church, hey? _Your_ church?"

The crowd fell back and Mr. Raymond stood in the doorway, betweenBill Udy and Jim the Huntsman. Bill Udy held a brazen ewer andpaten, and Jim a hammer; and Mr. Raymond had a hand on one shoulderof each. 

For a moment there was silence. As Taffy came running through thelych-gate a man who had been sitting on a flat tombstone andwatching, stood up and touched his arm. It was Jacky Pascoe, theBryanite. 

"Best go back, " he said, "'tis a wisht poor job of it. "

Taffy halted for a moment. The Squire's voice had risen to a suddenscream--he sputtered as he pointed at Mr. Raymond. 

"There he is, naybours! Get behind the varmint, somebody, and stophis earth! Calls hisself a minister of God! Calls it _his_ church!"

Mr. Raymond took his hands off the men's shoulders, and walkedstraight up to him. "Not _my_ church, " he said, aloud anddistinctly. "God's church!"

He stretched out an arm. Taffy, running up, supposed it stretchedout to strike. "Father!"

But Mr. Raymond's palm was open as he lifted it over the Squire'shead. "God's church, " he repeated. "In whose service, sir, I defyyou. Go! or if you will, and have the courage, come and stand whileI kneel amid the ruin you have done and pray God to judge betweenus. "

He paused, with his eyes on the Squire's. 

"You dare not, I see. Go, poor coward, and plan what mischief youwill. Only now leave me in peace a little. "

He took the boy's hand and they passed into the church together. No one followed. Hand in hand they stood before the dismantledchancel. Taffy heard the sound of shuffling feet on the walkoutside, and looked up into Mr. Raymond's face. 

"Father!"

"Kiss me, sonny. "

The _De Imitatione Christi_ slipped from Taffy's fingers and fellupon the chancel step. 

So his childhood ended. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BUILDERS. 

These things happened on a Friday. After breakfast next morningTaffy went to fetch his books. He did so out of habit and withoutthinking; but his father stopped him. 

"Put them away, " he said. "Some day we'll go back to them, but notyet. "

Instead of books Humility packed their dinner in the satchel. They reached the church and found the interior just as they had leftit. Taffy was set to work to pick up and sweep together the scrapsof broken glass which littered the chancel. His father examined thewreckage of the pews. 

While the boy knelt at his task, his thoughts were running on thePantomime. He had meant, last night, to recount all its wonders andthe wonders of Plymouth; but somehow the words had not come. After displaying his presents he could find no more to say: andfeeling his father's hand laid on his shoulder, had burst into tearsand hidden his face in his mother's lap. He wanted to console them, and they were pitying _him_--why he could not say--but he knew it wasso. 

And now the Pantomime, Plymouth, everything, seemed to have slippedaway from him into a far past. Only his father and mother had drawnnearer and become more real. He tried to tell himself one of the oldstories; but it fell into pieces like the fragments of coloured glasshe was handling, and presently he began to think of the glass in hishands and let the story go. 

"On Monday we'll set to work, " said his father. "I dare say Joel"--this was the carpenter down at Innis village--"will lend me a fewtools to start with. But the clearing up will take us all to-day. "

They ate their dinner in the vestry. Taffy observed that his fathersaid: "_We_ will do this, " or "_Our_ best plan will be so-and-so, "and spoke to him as to a grown man. On the whole, though the duskfound them still at work, this was a happy day. 

"But aren't you going to lock the door?" he asked, as they wereleaving. 

"No, " said Mr. Raymond. "We shall win, sonny; but not in that way. "

On the morrow Taffy rang the bell for service as usual. To hisastonishment Squire Moyle was among the first-comers. He led Honoriaby the hand, entered the Tredinnis pew and shut the door with a slam. It was the only pew left unmutilated. The rest of the congregation--and curiosity made it larger than usual--had to stand; but a wife ofone of the miners found a hassock and passed it to Humility, whothanked her for it with brimming eyes. Mr. Raymond said afterwardthat this was the first success of the campaign. 

Not willing to tire his audience, he preached a very short sermon;but it was his manifesto, and all the better for being short. Hetook his text from Nehemiah, Chapter II. , verses 19 and 20--"_But when Sanballat the Horonite, and Tobiah the servant, theAmmonite, and Geshem the Arabian, heard it, they laughed us to scorn, and despised us, and said: 'What is this thing that ye do? Will yerebel against the King?_'"

"_Then answered I them and said unto them, 'The God of Heaven, Hewill prosper us; therefore, we His servants will arise and build_. '

"Fellow-parishioners, " he said, "you see the state of this church. Concerning the cause of it I require none of you to judge. I enterno plea against any man. Another will judge, who said, '_Destroythis temple and in three days I will rear it up_. ' But He spake ofthe temple of His body; which was destroyed and is raised up; and itsliving and irrevocable triumph I, or some other servant of God, will celebrate at this altar, Sunday by Sunday, that whosoever willmay see, yes, and taste it. The state of this poor shell is but alittle matter to a God whose majesty once inhabited a stable; yet thehonour of this, too, shall be restored. You wonder how, perhaps. _It may be the Lord will work for us; for there is no restraint tothe Lord to save by many or by few_. Go to your homes now and ponderthis; and having pondered, if you will, pray for us. "

As the Raymonds left the church they found Squire Moyle waiting bythe porch. Honoria stood just behind him. The rest of thecongregation had drawn off a little distance to watch. The Squirelifted his hat to Humility, and turned to Mr. Raymond with a sourfrown. 

"That means war?"

"It means that I stay, " said the Vicar. "The war, if it comes, comesfrom your side. "

"I don't think the worse of 'ee for fighting. You're not going tolaw then?"

Mr. Raymond smiled. "I don't doubt you've put yourself within thereach of it. But if it eases your mind to know, I am not going tolaw. "

The Squire grunted, raised his hat again and strode off, grippingHonoria by the hand. 

She had not glanced towards Taffy. Clearly she was not allowed tospeak to him. 

The meaning of the Vicar's sermon became plain next morning, when hewalked down to the village and called on Joel Hugh, the carpenter. 

"I knows what thee'rt come after, " began Joel, "but 'tis no use, parson dear. Th' old fellow owns the roofs over us, and if I do aday's work for 'ee, out I goes, neck and crop. "

Mr. Raymond had expected this. "It's not for work I'm come, " saidhe; "but to hire a few tools, if you're minded to spare them. "

Joel scratched his head. "Might manage that, now. But, Lord bless'ee! thee'll never make no hand of it. " He chose out saw, hammer, plane and auger, and packed them up in a carpenter's frail, with afew other tools. "Don't 'ee talk about payment, now; naybors must benayborly. Only, you see, a man must look after his own. "

Mr. Raymond climbed the hill toward the towans with the carpenter'sfrail slung over his shoulder. As luck would have it, near the tophe met Squire Moyle descending on horseback. The Vicar nodded"Good-morning" in passing, but had not gone a dozen steps when theold man reined up and called after him. 

"Hi!"

The Vicar halted. 

"Whose basket is that you're carrying?" Then, getting no answer, "Wait till next Saturday night, when Joel Hugh comes to thank you. I suppose you know he rents his cottage by the week?"

"No harm shall come to him through me, " said the Vicar, and retracedhis steps down the hill. The Squire followed at a foot-pace, grinning as he went. 

That night Mr. Raymond went back to his beloved books, but not toread; and early next morning was ready at the cross-roads for the vanwhich plied twice a week between Innis village and Truro. He hadthree boxes with him--heavy boxes, as Calvin the van-driver remarkedwhen it came to lifting them on board. 

"Thee'rt not leaving us, surely?" said he. 

"No. "

"But however didst get these lumping boxes up the hill?"

"My son helped me. "

He had modestly calculated on averaging a shilling a volume for hisbooks; but discovered on leaving the shop at Truro that it worked outat one-and-threepence. He returned to Nannizabuloe that night withone box only--but it was packed full of tools--and a copy of Fuller's"Holy State, " which at the last moment had proved too precious to beparted with--at least, just yet. 

The woodwork of the old pews--painted deal for the most part, butmixed with a few boards of good red pine and one or two of teak, relics of some forgotten shipwreck--lay stacked in the belfry andaround the font under the west gallery. Mr. Raymond and Taffy spentan hour in overhauling it, chose out the boards for their first pew, and fell to work. 

At the end of another hour the pair broke off and looked at eachother. Taffy could not help laughing. His own knowledge ofcarpentry had been picked up by watching Joel Hugh at work, and justsufficed to tell him that his father was possibly the worst carpenterin the world. 

"I think my fingers must be all thumbs, " declared Mr. Raymond. 

The puckers in his face set Taffy laughing afresh. They both laughedand fell to work again, the boy explained his notions of thedifficult art of mortising. They were rudimentary, but sound as faras they went, and his father recognised this. Moreover, when the boyhad a tool to handle he did it with a natural deftness, in spite ofhis ignorance. He was Humility's child, born with the skill-of-handof generations of lace-workers. He did a dozen things wrongly, buthe neither fumbled, nor hammered his fingers, nor wounded them withthe chisel--which was Humility's husband's way. 

At the end of four days of strenuous effort, they had their first pewbuilt. It was a recognisable pew, though it leaned to one side, andthe door (for it had a door) fell to with a bang if not cautiouslytreated. The triumph was, the seat could be sat upon without risk. Mr. Raymond and Taffy tested it with their combined weight on theSaturday evening, and went home full of its praises. 

"But look at your clothes, " said Humility; and they looked. 

"This is serious, " said Mr. Raymond. "Dear, you must make us acouple of working suits of corduroy or some such stuff: otherwisethis pew-making won't pay. "

Humility stood out against this for a day or two. That _her_ husbandand child should go dressed like common workmen! But there was nohelp for it, and on the Monday week Taffy went forth to work inmoleskin breeches, blue guernsey, and loose white smock. As for Mr. Raymond, the only badge of his calling was his round clerical hat;and as all the miners in the neighbourhood wore hats of the same softfelt and only a trifle higher in the crown, this hardly amounted to adistinction. 

Humility's eyes were full of tears as she watched them from the doorthat morning. But Taffy felt as proud as Punch. A little beforenoon he carried out a board that required sawing, and rested it on aflat tombstone where, with his knee upon it, he could get a goodpurchase. He was sawing away when he heard a dog barking, and lookedup to see Honoria coming along the path with George's terrierfrisking at her heels. 

She halted outside the lych-gate, and Taffy, vain of his new clothes, drew himself up and nodded. 

"Good-morning, " said Honoria. "I'm not allowed to speak to you andI'm not going to, after this. " She swooped on the puppy and heldhim. "See what George brought home from Plymouth for me. Isn't hea beauty?"

Held so, by the scruff of his neck, he was not a beauty. Taffy hadit on the tip of his tongue to tell her about the collar. He wishedhe had brought it. 

"I wonder, " she went on pensively, "your mother had the heart todress you out in that style. But I suppose now you'll be growing upinto quite a common boy. "

Taffy decided to say nothing about the collar. "I like the clothes, "he declared defiantly. 

"Then you can't have the common instincts of a gentleman. Well, good-bye! Grandfather has salvation all right this time; he saidhe'd put the stick about me if I dared to speak to you. "

"He won't know. "

"Won't know? Why I shall tell him, of course, when I get back. "

"But--but he _mustn't_ beat you!"

She eyed him for a moment or two in silence. "Mustn't he? I adviseyou to go and tell him. " She walked away slowly, whistling; butby-and-by broke into a run and was gone, the puppy scampering behindher. 

As the days grew longer and the weather milder, Taffy and his fatherworked late into the evenings; sometimes, if the job needed to befinished, by the light of a couple of candles. 

One evening, about nine o'clock, the boy as he planed a bench pausedsuddenly. "What's that?"

They listened. The door stood open, and after a second or two theyheard the sound of feet tiptoeing away up the path outside. 

"Spies, perhaps, " said his father. "If so, let them go in peace. "

But he was not altogether easy. There had been strange doings up atthe Bryanite Chapel of late. He still visited a few of hisparishioners regularly--hill farmers and their wives for the mostpart, who did not happen to be tenants of Squire Moyle, and on whomhis visits therefore could bring no harm; and one or two had hintedof strange doings, now that the Bryanites had hold of the old Squire. They themselves had been up--just to look; they confessed itshamefacedly, much in the style of men who have been drinkingovernight. Without pressing them and showing himself curious, theVicar could get at no particulars. But as the summer grew he felt amoral sultriness, as it were, growing with it. The people were offtheir balance, restless; and behind their behaviour he had a sense, now of something electric, menacing, now of a hand holding it incheck. Slowly in those days the conviction deepened in him that hewas an alien on this coast, that between him and the hearts of therace he ministered to there stretched an impalpable, impenetrableveil. And all this while the faces he passed on the road, thoughshy, were kindlier than they had been in the days before hisself-confidence left him--it seemed not so long ago. 

On a Saturday night early in May, the footsteps were heard again, andthis time in the porch itself. While Mr. Raymond and Taffy listenedthe big latch went up with a creak, and a dark figure slipped intothe church. 

"Who is there?" challenged Mr. Raymond from the chancel where hestood peering out of the small circle of light. 

"A friend. Pass, friend, and all's well!" answered a squeaky voice. "Bless you, I've sarved in the militia before now. "

It was Jacky Pascoe, with his coat-collar turned up high about hisears. 

"What do you want?" Mr. Raymond demanded sharply. 

"A job. "

"We can pay for no work here. "

"Wait till thee'rt asked, Parson, dear. I've been spying in upon 'eethese nights past. Pretty carpenters you be! T'other night, as Iwas a-peeping, the Lord said to me, 'Arise, go, and for goodness'sake show them chaps how to do it fitty. ' 'Dear Lord, ' I said, 'Thou knowest I be a Bryanite. ' The Lord said to me, 'None of yourback answers! Go and do as I tell 'ee. ' So here I be. "

Mr. Raymond hesitated. "Squire Moyle is your friend, I hear, and thefriend of your chapel. What will he say if he discovers that you arehelping us?"

Jacky scratched his head. "I reckon the Lord must have thought o'that, too. Suppose you put me to work in the vestry? There's onlyone window looks in on the vestry: you can block that up with acurtain, and there I'll be like a weevil in a biscuit. "

When this screen was fixed, the little Bryanite looked round andrubbed his hands. "Now I'll tell 'ee a prabble, " he said--"aprabble about this candle I'm holding. When God Almighty said'_let there be light_, ' He gave every man a candle--to some folks, same as you, long sixes perhaps and best wax; to others, a farthingdip. But they all helps to light up; and the beauty of it is, Parson"--he laid a hand on Mr. Raymond's cuff--"there isn't one of'em burns a ha'porth the worse for every candle that's lit from en. Now sit down, you and the boy, and I'll larn 'ee how to join a board. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

VOICES FROM THE SEA. 

Before winter and the long nights came around again, Taffy had becomequite a clever carpenter. From the first his quickness fairlyastonished the Bryanite, who at the best was but a journeyman andsoon owned himself beaten. 

"I doubt, " said he, "if you'll ever make so good a man as yourfather; but you can't help making a better workman. " He added, withhis eyes on the boy's face, "There's one thing in which you mightcopy en. He hasn't much of a gift: _but he lays it 'pon the altar_. "

By this time Taffy had resumed his lessons. Every day he carried abook or two in his satchel with his dinner, and read or translatedaloud while his father worked. Two hours were allowed for this inthe morning, and again two in the afternoon. Sometimes a day wouldbe set apart during which they talked nothing but Latin. Difficulties in the text of their authors they postponed until theevening, and worked them out at home, after supper, with the help ofgrammar and dictionary. 

The boy was not unhappy, on the whole; though for weeks together helonged for sight of George Vyell, who seemed to have vanished intospace, or into that limbo where his childhood lay like a toy in alumber room. Taffy seldom turned the key of that room. The storieshe imagined now were not about fairies or heroes, but about himself. He wanted to be a great man and astonish the world. Just how theworld was to be astonished he did not clearly see; but the triumph, in whatever shape it came, was to involve a new gown for his mother, and for his father a whole library of books. 

Mr. Raymond never went back to his books now, except to help Taffy. The Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews was laid aside. "Some day!" he told Humility. The Sunday congregation had dwindledto a very few, mostly farm people; Squire Moyle having threatened toexpel any tenant of his who dared to set foot within the church. 

In the autumn two things happened which set Taffy wondering. 

During the first three years at Nannizabuloe, old Mrs. Venning hadregularly been carried downstairs to dine with the family. The sea-air (she said) had put new life into her. But now she seldommoved from her room, and Taffy seldom saw her except at night, when--after the old childish custom--he knocked at her door to wish herpleasant dreams and pull up the weights of the tall clock which stoodby her bed's head. 

One night he asked carelessly, "What do you want with the clock?Lying here you don't need to know the time; and its ticking must keepyou awake. "

"So it does, child; but bless you, I like it. "

"Like being kept awake?"

"Dear, yes! I have enough of rest and quiet up here. You mind thelitany I used to say over to you?--Parson Kempthorne taught it to usgirls when I was in service with him; 'twas made up, he said, byanother old Devonshire parson, years and years ago--"

 "'When I lie within my bed Sick in heart and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house do sigh and weep--'"

"That's it. You wouldn't think how quiet it is up here all day. But at night, when you're in bed and sleeping, all the house beginsto talk; little creakings of furniture, you know, and the wind in thechimney and sometimes the rain in the gutter, running--it's all talkto me. Mostly it's quite sociable, too; but sometimes, in rainyweather, the tune changes and then it's like some poor soul in bedand sobbing to itself. That's when the verse comes in:"

 "'When the house do sigh and weep And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet my eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!'"

"And then the clock's ticking is a wonderful comfort. _Tick-tack, tick-tack!_ and I think of you stretched asleep and happy and growingup to be a man, and the minutes running and trickling away to mydeliverance--"

"Granny!"

"My dear, I'm as well off as most; but that isn't saying I shan't beglad to go and take the pain in my joints to a better land. Before we came here, in militia-time, I used to lie and listen forthe buglers, but now I've only the clock. No more bugles for me, Ireckon, till I hear them blown across Jordan. "

Taffy remembered how he too had lain and listened to the bugles; andwith that he saw his childhood, as it were a small round globe setwithin a far larger one and wrapped around with other folks'thoughts. He kissed his grandmother and went away wondering; and ashe lay down that night it still seemed wonderful to him that sheshould have heard those bugles, and more wonderful, that night afternight for years she should have been thinking of him while he slept, and he never have guessed it. 

One morning, some three weeks later, he and his father were puttingon their oil-skins before starting to work--for it had been blowinghard through the night and the gale was breaking up in floods ofrain--when they heard a voice hallooing in the distance. Humility heard it too and turned swiftly to Taffy. "Run upstairs, dear. I expect it's someone sent from Tresedder farm; and if so, he'll want to see your father alone. "

Mr. Raymond frowned. "No, " he said; "the time is past for that. "

A fist hammered on the door. Mr. Raymond threw it open. 

"Brigantine--on the sands! Half a mile this side of thelight-house!" Taffy saw across his father's shoulder a gleam ofyellow oilskins and a flapping sou'-wester hat. The panting voicebelonged to Sam Udy--son of old Bill Udy--a labourer at Tresedder. 

"I'll go at once, " said Mr. Raymond. "Run you for the coast-guard!"

The oilskins went by the window; the side gate clashed to. 

"Is it a wreck?" cried Taffy. "May I go with you?"

"Yes, there may be a message to run with. "

From the edge of the towans, where the ground dipped steeply to thelong beach, they saw the wreck, about a mile up the coast, and aswell as they could judge a hundred or a hundred and twenty yards out. She lay almost on her beam ends, with the waves sweeping high acrossher starboard quarter and never less than six ranks of ugly breakersbetween her and dry land. A score of watchers--in the distance theylooked like emmets--were gathered by the edge of the surf. But thecoast-guard had not arrived yet. 

"The tide is ebbing, and the rocket may reach. Can you see anyoneaboard?"

Taffy spied through his hands, but could see no one. His father setoff running, and he followed, half-blinded by the rain, nowfloundering in loose sand, now tripping in a rabbit hole. They hadcovered three-fourths of the distance when Mr. Raymond pulled up andwaved his hat as the coast-guard carriage swept into view over aridge to the right and came plunging across the main valley of thetowans. It passed them close--the horses fetlock-deep in sand, withheads down and heaving, smoking shoulders; the coast-guardsmen withkeen strong faces like heroes'--and the boy longed to copy his fatherand send a cheer after them as they went galloping by. But somethingrose in his throat. 

He ran after the carriage, and reached the shore just as the firstrocket shot singing out towards the wreck. By this time at least ahundred miners had gathered, and between their legs he caught aglimpse of two figures stretched at length on the wet sand. He hadnever looked on a dead body before. The faces of these were hiddenby the crowd; and he hung about the fringe of it dreading, and yetcourting, a sight of them. 

The first rocket was swept down to leeward of the wreck. The chiefofficer judged his second beautifully, and the line fell clean acrossthe vessel and all but amidships. A figure started up from the leeof the deckhouse, and springing into the main shrouds, grasped it andmade it fast. The beach being too low for them to work the cradleclear above the breakers, the coast-guardsmen carried the shore endof the line up the shelving cliff and fixed it. Within ten minutesthe cradle was run out, and within twenty the first man came swingingshoreward. 

Four men were brought ashore alive, the captain last. The rest ofthe crew of six lay on the sands with Mr. Raymond kneeling besidethem. He had covered their faces, and now gave the order to liftthem into the carriage. Taffy noticed that he was obeyed withoutdemur or question. And there flashed on his memory a grey morning, not unlike this one, when he had missed his father at breakfast:"He had been called away suddenly, " Humility explained, "and therewould be no lessons that day, " and she kept the boy indoors all themorning and busy with a netting-stitch he had been bothering her toteach him. 

"Father, " he asked as they followed the cart, "does this oftenhappen?"

"Your mother hasn't thought it well for you to see these sights. "

"Then it _has_ happened, often?"

"I have buried seventeen, " said Mr. Raymond. 

That afternoon he showed Taffy their graves. "I know the names ofall but two. The bodies have marks about them--tattooed, you know--and that helps. And I write to their relatives or friends andrestore whatever small property may be found on them. I have oftenwished to put up some gravestone, or a wooden cross at least, withtheir names. "

He went to his chest in the vestry and took out a book--a cheapaccount book, ruled for figures. Taffy turned over the pages. 

 Nov. 3rd, 187-. Brig "James and Maria": J. D. , fair-haired, height 5 ft. 8 in. , marked on chest with initials and cross swords, tattooed, also anchor and coil of rope on right fore-arm: large brown mole on right shoulder-blade. Striped flannel drawers: otherwise naked: no property of any kind. 

 Ditto. Grown man, age 40 or thereabouts: dark; iron grey beard: lovers' knot tattooed on right forearm, with initials R. L. , E. W. , in the loops: clad in flannel shirt, guernsey, trousers (blue sea-cloth), socks (heather-mixture), all unmarked. Silver chain in pocket, with Freemason's token: a half-crown, a florin, and fourpence--

And so on. On the opposite page were entered the full names anddetails afterwards discovered, with notes of the Vicar'scorrespondence, and position of the grave. 

"They ought to have gravestones, " said Mr. Raymond. "But as it is, Ican only get about thirty shillings for the funeral from the countyrate. The balance has come out of my pocket--from two to threepounds for each. From the beginning the Squire refused to help tobury sailors. He took the ground that it wasn't a local claim. "

"Hullo!" said Taffy, for as he turned the leaves his eye fell on thisentry:--

 Jan 30th, 187-. S. S. "Rifleman" (all hands). Cargo, China clay: W. P. , age about eighteen, fair skin, reddish hair, short and curled, height 5ft. 10 and 3/4 in. Initials tattooed on chest under a three-masted ship and semicircle of seven stars; clad in flannel singlet and trousers (cloth): singlet marked with same initials in red cotton: pockets empty--

"But he was in the Navy!" cried Taffy, with his finger on the entry. 

"Which one? Yes, he was in the Navy. You'll see it on the oppositepage. He deserted, poor boy, in Cork Harbour, and shipped on board atramp steamer as donkey-man. She loaded at Fowey and was wrecked onthe voyage back. William Pellow he was called: his mother lives butten miles up the coast: she never heard of it until six weeks after. "

"But we--I, I mean--knew him. He was one of the sailor boys onJoby's van. You remember their helping us with the luggage at_Indian Queens'?_ He showed me his tattoo marks that day. "

And again he saw his childhood as it were set about with an enchantedhedge, across which many voices would have called to him, and somefrom near, but all had hung muted and arrested. 

The inquest on the two drowned sailors was held next day at the_Fifteen Balls_, down in Innis village. Later in the afternoon, thefour survivors walked up to the church, headed by the Captain. 

"We've been hearing, " said the Captain, "of your difficulties, sir:likewise your kindness to other poor seafaring chaps. We'd haveliked to make ye a small offering for your church, but sixteenshillings is all we can raise between us. So we come to say that ifyou can put us on to a job, why we're staying over the funeral, and aday's work or more after that won't hurt us one way or another. "

Mr. Raymond led them to the chancel and pointed out a new beam, onwhich he and Jacky Pascoe had been working a week past, and overwhich they had been cudgelling their brains how to get it lifted andfixed in place. 

"I can send to one of the miners and borrow a couple of ladders. "

"Ladders? Lord love ye, sir, and begging your pardon, we don't wantladders. With a sling, Bill, hey?--and a couple of tackles. You leave it to we, sir. "

He went off to turn over the gear salved from his vessel, and earlynext forenoon had the apparatus rigged up and ready. He was obligedto leave it at this point, having been summoned across to Falmouth toreport to his agents. His last words, before starting were addressedto his crew. "I reckon you can fix it now, boys. There's only onething more, and don't you forget it: Hats off; and any man that wantsto spit must go outside. "

That afternoon Taffy learnt for the first time what could be donewith a few ropes and pulleys. The seamen seemed to spin ropes out ofthemselves like spiders. By three o'clock the beam was hoisted andfixed; and they broke off their work to attend their shipmates'funeral. After the funeral they fell to again, though more silently, and before nightfall the beam shone with a new coat of varnish. 

They left early next morning, after a good deal of handshaking, andTaffy looked after them wistfully as they turned to wave their capsand trudged away over the rise towards the cross-roads. Away to theleft in the wintry sunshine a speck of scarlet caught his eye againstthe blue-grey of the towans. He watched it as it came slowly towardshim, and his heart leapt--yet not quite as he had expected it toleap. 

For it was George Vyell. George had lately been promoted to "pink"and made a gallant figure on his strapping grey hunter. For thefirst time Taffy felt ashamed of his working-suit, and would haveslipped back to the church. But George had seen him, and pulled up. 

"Hullo!" said he. 

"Hullo!" said Taffy; and, absurdly enough, could find no more to say. 

"How are you getting on?"

"Oh, I'm all right. " There was another pause. "How's Honoria?"

"Oh, she's all right. I'm riding over there now: they meet atTredinnis to-day. " He tapped his boot with his hunting crop. 

"Don't you have any lessons now?" asked Taffy, after a while. 

"Dear me, yes; I've got a tutor. He's no good at it. But what madeyou ask?"

Really Taffy could not tell. He had asked merely for the sake ofsaying something. George pulled out a gold watch. 

"I must be getting on. Well, good-bye!"

"Good-bye!"

And that was all. 

CHAPTER XV. 

TAFFY'S APPRENTICESHIP. 

They could manage the carpentering now. And Jacky Pascoe, who, inaddition to his other trades, was something of a glazier, had takenthe damaged east window in hand. For six months it had remainedboarded up, darkening the chancel. Mr. Raymond removed the boardsand fixed them up again on the outside, and the Bryanite workedbehind them night after night. He could only be spied upon throughtwo lancet windows at the west end of the church, and these theycurtained. 

But what continually bothered them was their ignorance of iron-work. Staples, rivets, hinges were for ever wanted. At length, oneevening, toward the end of March, the Bryanite laid down his tools. 

"Tell 'ee what 'tis, Parson. You must send the boy to someonethat'll teach en smithy-work. There's no sense in this coldhammering. "

"Wheelwright Hocken holds his shop and cottage from the Squire. "

"Why not put the boy to Mendarva the Smith, over to Benny Beneath?He's a first-rate workman. "

"That is more than six miles away. "

"No matter for that. There's Joll's Farm close by; Farmer Joll wouldboard and lodge en for nine shillings a week, and glad of the chance;and he could come home for Sundays. "

Mr. Raymond, as soon as he reached home, sat down and wrote a letterto Mendarva the Smith and another to Farmer Joll. Within a week thebargains were struck, and it was settled that Taffy should go atonce. 

"I may be calling before long, to look you up, " said the Bryanite, "but mind you do no more than nod when you see me. "

Joll's Farm lay somewhere near Carwithiel, across the moor whereTaffy had gone fishing with George and Honoria. On the Mondaymorning when he stepped through the white front gate, with his bag onhis shoulder, and paused for a good look at the building, it seemedto him a very comfortable farmstead, and vastly superior to thetumble-down farms around Nannizabuloe. The flagged path, which ledup to the front door between great bunches of purple honesty, wasswept as clean as a dairy. 

A dark-haired maid opened the door and led him to the great kitchenat the back. Hams wrapped in paper hung from the rafters, andstrings of onions. The pans over the fire-place were bright asmirrors, and through the open window he heard the voices of childrenat play as well as the clacking of poultry in the town-place. 

"I'll go and tell the mistress, " said the maid; but she paused at thedoor. "I suppose you don't remember me, now?"

"No, " said Taffy truthfully. 

"My name's Lizzie Pezzack. You was with the young lady, that day, when she bought my doll. I mind you quite well. But I put my hairup last Easter, and that makes a difference. "

"Why, you were only a child!"

"I was seventeen last week. And--I say, do you know the Bryanite, over to St. Ann's--Preacher Jacky Pascoe?"

He nodded, remembering the caution given him. 

"I got salvation off him. Master and mis'-ess they've got salvationtoo; but they take it very quiet. They're very fond of one another;if you please one, you'll please 'em both. They let me walk over toprayer-meetin' once a week. But I don't go by Mendarva's shop--that's where you work--though 'tis the shortest way; because there'sa woman buried in the road there, with a stake through her, and I'ma terrible coward for ghosts. "

She paused as if expecting him to say something; but Taffy wasstaring at a "neck" of corn, elaborately plaited, which hung abovethe mantel-shelf. And just then Mrs. Joll entered the kitchen. 

Taffy--without any reason--had expected to see a middle-agedhousewife. But Mrs. Joll was hardly over thirty; a shapely woman, with a plain, pleasant face and auburn hair, the wealth of which sheconcealed by wearing it drawn straight back from the forehead andplaited in the severest coil behind. She shook hands. 

"You'll like a drink of milk before I show you your room?"

Taffy was grateful for the milk. While he drank it, the voices ofthe children outside rose suddenly to shouts of laughter. 

"That will be their father come home, " said Mrs. Joll, and going tothe side door called to him. "John, put the children down!Mr. Raymond's son is here. "

Mr. Joll, who had been galloping round the farmyard with a small girlof three on his back, and a boy of six tugging at his coat-tails, pulled up, and wiped his good-natured face. 

"Kindly welcome, " said he, coming forward and shaking hands, whilethe two children stared at Taffy. 

After a minute the boy said, "My name's Bob. Come and play horses, too. "

Farmer Joll looked at Taffy with a shyness that was comic. "Shall we?"

"Mr. Raymond will be tired enough already, " his wife suggested. 

"Not a bit, " declared Taffy; and hoisting Bob on his back, he set offfuriously prancing after the farmer. 

By dinner-time he and the family were fast friends, and after dinnerthe farmer took him off to be introduced to Mendarva the Smith. 

Mendarva's forge stood on a triangle of turf beside the high-road, where a cart-track branched off to descend to Joll's Farm in thevalley. And Mendarva was a dark giant of a man with a beard likethose you see on the statues of Nineveh. On Sundays he parted hisbeard carefully and tied the ends with little bows of scarlet ribbon;but on week days it curled at will over his mighty chest. He had oneassistant whom he called "the Dane"; a red-haired youth as tall ashimself and straighter from the waist down. Mendarva's knees hadcome together with years of poising and swinging his great hammer. 

"He's little, but he'll grow, " said he, after eyeing Taffy up anddown. "Dane, come fore and tell me if we'll make a workman of en. "

The Dane stepped forward and passed his hands over the boy'sshoulders and down his ribs. "He's slight, but he'll fill out. Good pair o' shoulders. Give's hold o' your hand, my son. "

Taffy obeyed; not very well liking to be handled thus like a prizebullock. 

"Hand like a lady's. Tidy wrist, though. He'll do, master. "

So Taffy was passed, given a leathern apron, and set to his firsttask of keeping the forge-fire raked and the bellows going, while thehammers took up the music he was to listen to for a year to come. 

This music kept the day merry; and beyond the window along thebright high-road there was usually something worth seeing--farm-carts, jowters' carts, the doctor and his gig, pedlars andJohnny-fortnights, the miller's waggons from the valley-bottom belowJoll's Farm, and on Tuesdays and Fridays the market-van going andreturning. Mendarva knew or speculated upon everybody, and with halfthe passers-by broke off work and gave the time of day, leaning onhis hammer. But down at the farm all was strangely quiet, in spiteof the children's voices; and at night the quietness positively kepthim awake, listening to the pur-r of the pigeons in their coteagainst the house-wall, thinking of his grandmother awake at home andharkening to the _tick-tack_ of her tall clock. Often when he awoketo the early summer daybreak and saw through his attic-window thegrey shadows of the sheep still and long on the slope above thefarmstead, his ear was wanting something, asking for something; forthe murmur of the sea never reached this inland valley. And he wouldlie and long for the chirruping of the two children in the next roomand the drawing of bolts and clatter of milk-pails below stairs. 

He had plenty to eat, and that plenty simple and good, and cleanlinen to sleep between. The kitchen was his except on Saturdaynights, when Mrs. Joll and Lizzie tubbed the children there, and thenhe would carry his books off to the best parlour or stroll around thefarm with Mr. Joll and discuss the stock. There were no loose railsin Mr. Joll's gates, no farm implements lying out in the weather torust. Mr. Joll worked early and late, and his shoulders had atell-tale stoop--for he was a man in the prime of life, perhaps somefive years older than his wife. 

One Saturday evening he unburdened his heart to Taffy. It happenedat the end of the hay-harvest, and the two were leaning over a gatediscussing the yet unthatched rick. 

"What I say is, " declared the farmer quite in-consequently, "a manmust be able to lay his troubles 'pon the Lord. I don't mean hiswork, but his troubles; and go home and shut the door and be happywith his wife and children. Now, I tell you that for months--iss, years--after Bob was born I kept plaguing myself in the fields, thinking that some harm might have happened to the child. Why, Iused to make an excuse and creep home, and then if I see'd a blindpulled down you wouldn't think how my heart'd go thump; and I'd standwi' my head on the door-hapse an' say, 'If so be the Lord havetook'n, I must go and comfort Susan--not my will, but Thine, Lord--but, Lord, don't 'ee be cruel this time!' And then find the cheeldright as ninepence and the blind only pulled down to keep the sun offthe carpet. After a while my wife guessed what was wrong--I used tomake up such poor twiddling pretences. She said, 'Look here, theLord and me'll see after Bob; and if you can't keep to your own workwithout poking your nose into ours, then I married for worse and notfor better. ' Then it came upon me that by leaving the Lord to lookafter my job I'd been treating Him like a farm labourer. It's thethings you can't help he looks after--not the work. "

A few evenings later there came a knock at the door, and Lizzie, whowent to open it, returned with the Bryanite skipping behind her. 

"Blessings be upon this here house!" he cried, cutting a sort ofdouble shuffle on the threshold. He shook hands with the farmer andhis wife, and nodded toward Taffy. "So you've got Parson Raymond'sboy here!"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Joll; and turned to Taffy. "He've come to pray abit: perhaps you would rather be in the parlour?"

Taffy asked to be allowed to stay; and presently Mr. Pascoe had themall down on their knees. He began by invoking God's protection onthe household; but his prayer soon ceased to be a prayer. It brokeinto ejaculations of praise--"Friends, I be too happy to ask foranything--Glory, glory! The blood! The precious blood!O deliverance! O streams of redemption running!" The farmer and hiswife began to chime in--"Hallelujah!" "Glory!" and Lizzie Pezzack tosob. Taffy, kneeling before a kitchen chair, peeped between hispalms, and saw her shoulders heaving. 

The Bryanite sprang to his feet, overturning the settle with a crash. "Tid'n no use. I must skip! Who'll dance wi' me?"

He held out his hands to Mrs. Joll. She took them, and skipped onceshamefacedly. Lizzie, with flaming cheeks, pushed her aside. "Leave me try, mis'ess; I shall die if I don't. " She caught thepreacher's hands, and the two leapt about the kitchen. "I can dancehigher than mis'ess!" Farmer Joll looked on with a dazed face. "Hallelujah!" "Amen!" he said at intervals, quite mechanically. The pair stood under the bacon rack and began to whirl likedervishes--hands clasped, toes together, bodies leaning back andalmost rigid. They whirled until Taffy's brain whirled with them. 

With a louder sob Lizzie let go her hold and tottered back into achair, laughing hysterically. The Bryanite leaned against the table, panting. 

There was a long pause. Mrs. Joll took a napkin from the dresser andfell to fanning the girl's face, then to slapping it briskly. "Get up and lay the table, " she commanded; "the preacher'll stay tosupper. "

"Thank 'ee, ma'am, I don't care if I do, " said he; and ten minuteslater they were all seated at supper and discussing the fall in wheatin the most matter-of-fact voices. Only their faces twitched now andagain. 

"I hear you had the preacher down to Joll's last night, " saidMendarva the Smith. "What'st think of en?"

"I can't make him out, " was Taffy's colourless but truthful answer. 

"He's a bellows of a man. I do hear he's heating up th' old SquireMoyle's soul to knack an angel out of en. He'll find that a job anda half. You mark my words, there'll be Dover over in your parish oneo' these days. "

During work-hours Mendarva bestowed most of his talk on Taffy. The Dane seldom opened his lips except to join in the anvil chorus--

 "Here goes one-- Sing, sing, Johnny! Here goes two-- Sing, Johnny, sing! Whack'n till he's red, Whack'n till he's dead, And whop! goes the widow with A brand new ring!"

And when the boy took a hammer and joined in he fell silent. Taffy soon observed that a singular friendship knit these two men, who were both unmarried. Mendarva had been a famous wrestler in hisday, and his great ambition now was to train the other to win theCounty belt. Often after work the pair would try a hitch together onthe triangle of turf, with Taffy for stickler, Mendarva illustratingand explaining, the Dane nodding seriously whenever he understood, but never answering a word. Afterwards the boy recalled these boutsvery vividly--the clear evening sky, the shoulders of the two big menshining against the level sun as they gripped and swayed, their longshadows on the grass under which (as he remembered) the poorself-murdered woman lay buried. 

He thought of her at night, sometimes, as he worked alone at theforge; for Mendarva allowed him the keys and use of the smithyovertime, in consideration of a small payment for coal. And then heblew his fire and hammered, with a couple of candles on the bench anda Homer between them; and beat the long hexameters into his memory. The incongruity of it never struck him. He was going to be a greatman, and somehow this was going to be the way. These scraps ofiron--these tools of his forging--were to grow into the arms andshield of Achilles. In its own time would come the magic moment, theshield find its true circumference and swing to the balance of hisarm, proof and complete. 

 en d etithei thotamoio mega stheuos okeanoio antuga pad pumatev sakeos puka poietoi. . . 

CHAPTER XVI. 

LIZZIE AND HONORIA. 

His apprenticeship lasted a year and six months, and all this whilehe lived with the Jolls, walking home every Sunday morning andreturning every Sunday night, rain or shine. He carried his deftnessof hand into his new trade, and it was Mendarva who begged andobtained an extension of the time agreed on, "Rather than lose theboy I'll tache en for love. " So Taffy stayed on for another sixmonths. He was now in his seventeenth year--a boy no longer. One evening, as he blew up his smithy fire, the glow of it fell onthe form of a woman standing just outside the window and watchinghim. He had no silly fears of ghosts: but the thought of the buriedwoman flashed across his mind and he dropped his pincers with aclatter. 

"'Tis only me, " said the woman. "You needn't to be afeard. " And hesaw it was the girl Lizzie. 

She stepped inside the forge and seated herself on the Dane's anvil. 

"I was walking back from prayer-meeting, " she said. "'Tis nigherthis way, but I don't ever dare to come. Might, I dessay, if I'dsomebody to see me home. "

"Ghosts?" asked Taffy, picking up the pincers and thrusting the barback into the hot cinders. 

"I dunno: I gets frightened o' the very shadows on the roadsometimes. I suppose, now, you never walks out that way?"

"Which way?"

"Why, towards where your home is. That's the way I comes. "

"No, I don't. " Taffy blew at the cinders until they glowed again. "It's only on Sundays I go over there. "

"That's a pity, " said Lizzie candidly. "I'm kept in, Sundayevenings, to look after the children while farmer and mis'ess goes toChapel. That's the agreement I came 'pon. "

Taffy nodded. 

"It would be nice now, wouldn't it--" She broke off, clasping herknees and staring at the blaze. 

"What would be nice?"

Lizzie laughed confusedly. "Aw, you make me say't. I can't abearany of the young men up to the Chapel. If me and you--"

Taffy ceased blowing. The fire died down, and in the darkness hecould hear her breathing hard. 

"They're so rough, " she went on, "and t'other night I met youngSquire Vyell riding along the road, and he stopped me and wanted tokiss me. "

"George Vyell? Surely he didn't?" Taffy blew up the fire again. 

"Iss he did. I don't see why not, neither. "

"Why he shouldn't kiss you?"

"Why he shouldn't want to. "

Taffy frowned, carried the white hot bar to his anvil, and began tohammer. He despised girls, as a rule, and their ways. DecidedlyLizzie annoyed him; and yet as he worked he could not help glancingat her now and then, as she sat and watched him. By-and-by he sawthat her eyes were full of tears. 

"What's the matter?" he asked abruptly. 

"I--I can't walk home alone. I'm afeard!" He tossed his hammeraside, raked out the fire, and reached his coat off its peg. As heswung round in the darkness to put it on, he blundered against Lizzieor Lizzie blundered against him. She clutched at him nervously. 

"Clumsy! can't you see the doorway?" She passed out, and hefollowed and locked the door. As they crossed the turf to thehigh-road, she slipped her arm into his. "I feel safe, that way. Let it stay, co!" After a few paces, she added, "You're differentfrom the others--that's why I like you. "

"How?"

"I dunno; but you _be_ diff'rent. You don't think about girls, forone thing. "

Taffy did not answer. He felt angry, ashamed, uncomfortable. He didnot turn once to look at her face, dimly visible by the light of theyoung moon--the hunter's moon--now sinking over the slope of thehill. Thick dust--too thick for the heavy dew to lay--covered thecart-track down to the farm, muffling their footsteps. Lizzie pausedby the gate. 

"Best go in separate, " she said; paused again and whispered, "You mayif you like. "

"May do what?"

"What--what young Squire Vyell wanted. "

They were face to face now. She held up her lips, and as she did sothey parted in an amorous little laugh. The moonlight was on herface. Taffy bent swiftly and kissed her. 

"Oh, you hurt!" With another little laugh she slipped up the gardenpath and into the house. 

Ten minutes later Taffy followed, hating himself. 

For the next fortnight he avoided her; and then, late one evening shecame again. He was prepared for this, and had locked the door of thesmithy and let down the shutter while, he worked. She tapped uponthe outside of the shutter with her knuckles. 

"Let me in!"

"Can't you leave me alone?" he answered pettishly. "I want to work, and you interrupt. "

"I don't want no love-making--I don't indeed. I'll sit quiet as amouse. But I'm afeard, out here. "

"Nonsense!"

"I'm afeard o' the ghost. There's something comin'--let me in, co-o!"

Taffy unlocked the door and held it half opened while he listened. 

"Yes, there's somebody coming, on horseback. Now, look here--it's noghost, and I can't have you about here with people passing. I--I don't want you here at all; so make haste and slip away home, that's a good girl. "

Lizzie glided like a shadow into the dark lane as the trample ofhoofs drew close, and the rider pulled up beside the door. 

"You're working late, I see. Is it too late to make a shoe forAide-de-camp here?"

It was Honoria. She dismounted and stood at the doorway, holding herhorse's bridle. 

"No, " said Taffy: "that is, if you don't mind the waiting. "

With his leathern apron he wiped the Dane's anvil for a seat, whileshe hitched up Aide-de-camp and stepped into the glow of theforge-fire. 

"The hounds took us three miles beyond Carwithiel: and there, just asthey lost, Aide-de-camp cast his off-hind shoe. I didn't find it outat first, and now I've had to walk him all the way back. Are youalone here?"

"Yes. "

"Who was that I saw leaving as I came up?"

"You saw someone?"

"Yes. " She nodded, looking him straight in the face. "It looked likea woman. Who was she?"

"That was Lizzie Pezzack, the girl who sold you her doll, once. She's a servant down at the farm where I lodge. "

Honoria said no more for the moment, but seated herself on the Dane'sanvil, while Taffy chose a bar of iron and stepped out to examineAide-de-camp's hoof. He returned and in silence began to blow up thefire. 

"I dare say you were astonished to see me, " she remarked at length. 

"Yes. "

"I'm still forbidden to speak to you. The last time I did it, grandfather beat me. "

"The old brute!" Taffy nipped the hot iron savagely in his pincers. 

"I wonder if he'll do it again. Somehow I don't think he will. "

Taffy looked at her. She had drawn herself up, and was smiling. In her close-fitting habit she seemed very slight, yet tall, and awoman grown. He took the bar to the anvil and began to beat it flat. His teeth were shut, and with every blow he said to himself "Brute!"

"That's beautiful, " Honoria went on. "I stopped Mendarva the otherday, and he told me wonders about you. He says he tried you with ahard-boiled egg, and you swung the hammer and chipped the shell allround without bruising the white a bit. Is that true?"

Taffy nodded. 

"And your learning--the Latin and Greek, I mean; do you still go onwith it?"

He nodded again, towards a volume of Euripides that lay open on theworkbench. 

"And the stories you used to tell George and me; do you go on tellingthem to yourself?"

He was obliged to confess that he never did. She sat for a whilewatching the sparks as they flew. Then she said, "I should like tohear you tell one again. That one about Aslog and Orm, who ran awayby night across the ice-fields and took a boat and came to an islandwith a house on it, and found a table spread and the fire lit, but noinhabitants anywhere--You remember? It began 'Once upon a time, notfar from the city of Drontheim, there lived a rich man--'"

Taffy considered a moment and began "Once upon a time, not far fromthe city of Drontheim--" He paused, eyed the horse-shoe coolingbetween the pincers, and shook his head. It was no use. Apollo hadbeen too long in service with Admetus, and the tale would not come. 

"At any rate, " Honoria persisted, "you can tell me something out ofyour books: something you have just been reading. "

So he began to tell her the story of Ion, and managed well enough indescribing the boy and how he ministered before the shrine at Delphi, sweeping the temple and scaring the birds away from the precincts:but when he came to the plot of the play and, looking up, caughtHonoria's eyes, it suddenly occurred to him that all the rest of thestory was a sensual one, and he could not tell it to her. He blushed, faltered, and finally broke down. 

"But it was beautiful, " said she, "so far as it went: and it's justwhat I wanted. I shall remember that boy Ion now, whenever I thinkof you helping your father in the church at home. If the rest of thestory is not nice, I don't want to hear it. " How had she guessed?It was delicious, at any rate, to know that she thought of him; andTaffy felt how delicious it was, while he fitted and hammered theshoe on Aide-de-camp's hoof, she standing by with a candle in eitherhand, the flame scarcely quivering in the windless night. 

When all was done, she raised a foot for him to give her a mount. "Good-night!" she called, shaking the reins. Half a minute laterTaffy stood by the door of the forge, listening to the echoes ofAide-de-camp's canter, and the palm of his hand tingled where herfoot had rested. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SQUIRE'S WEIRD. 

He took leave of Mendarva and the Jolls just before Christmas. The smith was unaffectedly sorry to lose him. "But, " said he, "theDane will be entered for the championship next summer, so I s'pose Imust look forward to that. "

Every one in the Joll household gave him a small present on hisleaving. Lizzie's was a New Testament, with her name on the flyleaf, and under it, "Converted April 19, 187-. " Taffy did not want thegift, but took it rather than hurt her feelings. 

Farmer Joll said, "Well, wish 'ee well! Been pretty comfiable, Ihope. Now you'm goin', I don't mind telling 'ee I didn't like yourcoming a bit. But now 'tis wunnerful to me you've been wi' us lessthan two year'; we've made such friends. "

At home Taffy bought a small forge and set it up in the church at thewest end of the north aisle. Mr. Raymond, under his direction, hadbeen purchasing the necessary tools for some months past, and now themain expense was the cost of coal, which pinched them a little. But they managed to keep the fire alight, and the work went forwardbriskly. Save that he still forbade the parish to lend them theleast help, the old Squire had ceased to interfere. 

Mr. Raymond's hair was greyer, and Taffy might have observed--but didnot--how readily towards the close of a day's laborious carpentry hewould drop work and turn to Dindorf's _Poetae Scenici Graeci_, through which they were reading their way. On Sundays thecongregation rarely numbered a dozen. It seemed that, as the end ofthe Vicar's task drew nearer, so the prospect of filling the churchreceded and became more shadowy. And if his was a queer plight, Jacky Pascoe's was queerer. The Bryanite continued to come by nightand help, but at rarer intervals. He was discomforted in mind, asanyone could see, and at length he took Mr. Raymond aside and madeconfession. 

"I must go away; that's what 'tis. My burden is too great for me tobear. "

"Why, " said Mr. Raymond, who had grown surprisingly tolerant duringthe last twelve months, "what cause have you, of all men, to feeldejected? You can set the folk here on fire like flax. " He sighed. 

"That's azactly the reason--I can set 'em afire with a breath, but Ican't hold 'em under. I make 'em too strong for me--_and I'mafeard_. Parson, dear, it's the gospel truth; for two years I've abeen strivin' agen myself, wrastlin' upon my knees, and all to holdthis parish in. " He mopped his face. "'Tis like fightin' withbeasts at Ephesus, " he said. 

"Do you want to hold them in?"

"I do, and I don't. I've got to try, anyway. Sometimes I tellmysel' 'tis putting a hand to the plough and turning back; and then Ireckon I'll go on. But when the time comes I can't. I'm afeard, Itell 'ee. " He paused. "I've laid it before the Lord, but He don'tseem to help. There's two voices inside o' me. 'Tis a terribleresponsibility. "

"But the people: what are you afraid of their doing?"

"I don't know. You don't know what a runaway hoss will do, butyou're afeared all the same. " He sank his voice. "There'swantonness, for one thing--six love-children born in the parish thisyear, and more coming. They do say that Vashti Clemow destroyed herchild. And Old Man Johns--him they found dead on the rocks under theIsland--he didn't go there by accident. 'Twas a calm day, too. "

As often as not Taffy worked late and blew his forge-fire alone inthe church, the tap of his hammer making hollow music in the desolateaisles. He was working thus one windy night in February, when thedoor rattled open and in walked a totally unexpected visitor--SirHarry Vyell. 

"Good evening! I was riding by and saw your light in the windowsdancing up and down. I thought I would hitch up the mare and drop infor a chat. But go on with your work. "

Taffy wondered what had brought him so far from his home at that timeof night, but asked no questions. And Sir Harry placed a hassock onone of the belfry steps, and taking his seat, watched for a while insilence. He wore his long riding-boots and an overcoat with thecollar turned up about a neckcloth less nattily folded than usual. 

"I wish, " he said at length, "that my boy George was clever like you. You were great friends once--you remember Plymouth, hey? But I daresay you've not seen much of each other lately. "

Taffy shook his head. 

"George is a bit wild. Oxford might have done something for him;made a man of him, I mean. But he wouldn't go. I believe in wildoats to a certain extent. I have told him from the first he mustlook after himself and decide for himself. That's my theory. It makes a youngster self-reliant. He goes and comes as he likes. If he comes home late from hunting I ask no questions; I don't waitdinner. Don't you agree with me?"

"I don't know, " Taffy answered, wondering why he should be consulted. 

"Self-reliance is what a man wants. "

"Couldn't he have learnt that at school?"

Sir Harry fidgeted with the riding-crop in his hands. "Well, yousee, he's an only son--I dare say it was selfish of me. You don'tmind my talking about George?"

Taffy laughed. "I like it. But--"

Sir Harry laughed too, in an embarrassed way. "But you don't supposeI rode over from Carwithiel for that? Well, well! The fact is--onegets foolish as one grows old--George went out hunting this morning, and didn't turn up for dinner. I kept to my rule and dined alone. Nine o'clock came; half-past; no George. At ten Hoskins locked up asusual, and off I went to bed. But I couldn't sleep. After a whileit struck me that he might be sleeping here over at Tredinnis; thatis, if no accident had happened. No sleep for me until I made sure;so I jumped out, dressed, slipped down to the stables, saddled themare and rode over. I left the mare by Tredinnis great gates andcrept down to Moyle's stables like a housebreaker, looked in throughthe window, and sure enough there was George's grey in the loose boxto the right. So George is sleeping there, and I'm easy in my mind. No doubt you think me an old fool?"

But Taffy was not thinking anything of the sort. 

"I couldn't wish better than that. You understand?"

"Not quite. "

"He lost his mother early. He wants a woman to look after him, andfor him to think about. If he and Honoria would only make up amatch. . . . And Carwithiel would be quite a different house. "

Taffy hesitated, with a hand on the forge-bellows. 

"I dare say it's news to you, what I'm telling. But it has been inmy mind this long while. Why don't you blow up the fire? I bet MissHonoria has thought of it too: girls are deep. She has a head on hershoulders. I'll warrant she sends half a dozen of my servantspacking within a week. As it is, they rob me to a stair. I know it, and I haven't the pluck to interfere. "

"What does the old Squire say?" Taffy managed to ask. 

"It has never come to _saying_ anything. But I believe he thinks ofit, too, when he happens to think of anything but his soul. He'll bepleased; everyone will be pleased. The properties touch, you see. "

"I see. "

"To tell you the truth, he's failing fast. This religion of his is asymptom: all of his family have taken to it in the end. If he hadn'tthe constitution of a horse, he'd have been converted ten yearsbefore this. What puzzles me is, he's so quiet. You mark my words"--Sir Harry rose, buttoned his coat and shook his riding-cropprophetically--"he's brewing up for something. There'll be the devilof a flare-up before he has done. "

It came with the Midsummer bonfires. At nine o'clock on St. John'sEve, Mr. Raymond read prayers in the church. It was his rule tocelebrate thus the vigils of all saints in the English calendar andsome few Cornish saints besides; and he regularly announced theseservices on the preceding Sundays: but no parishioner dreamed ofattending them. 

To-night, as usual, he and Taffy had prayed alone: and the lad wasstanding after service at the church door, with his surplice on hisarm (for he always wore a surplice and read the lessons on thesevigils), when the flame of the first bonfire shot up from theheadland over Innis village. 

Almost on the moment, a flame answered it from the point where thelighthouse stood; and, within ten minutes, the horizon of the towanswas cressetted with these beacon-fires: surely (thought Taffy) withmany more than usual. And he remembered that Jacky Pascoe had thrownout a hint of a great revival to be held on Baal-fire Night (as hecalled it). 

The night was sultry and all but windless. For once the tormentedsands had rest. The flame of the bonfires shone yellow--orange-yellow--and steady. He could see the dark figures of men andwomen, passing between him and the nearest, on the high wastrel infront of Tredinnis great gates. Their voices reached him in aconfused murmur, broken now and then by a child's scream of delight. And yet a hush seemed to hang over sea and land: an expectant hush. For weeks the sky had not rained. Day after day, a dull indigo bluepossessed it, deepening with night into duller purple, as if thewhole heavens were gathering into one big thundercloud, which menacedbut never broke. And in the hush of those nights a listener couldalmost fancy he heard, between whiles, the rabbits stirring uneasilyin their burrows. 

By-and-by the bonfire on the wastrel appeared to be giving out sparksof light which blazed independently; yet without decreasing its ownvolume of flame. The sparks came dancing, nearer and larger: thevoices grew more distinct. The revellers had kindled torches andwere advancing in procession to visit other bonfires. The torches, too, were supposed to bless the fields they passed across. Smallblessing had they ever brought to the barren towans. 

The procession rose and sank as it came over the uneven ridges like afiery snake; topped the nearest ridge and came pouring down past thechurchyard wall. At its head danced Lizzie Pezzack, shrieking like acreature possessed, her hair loose and streaming while she whirledher torch. Taffy knew these torches; bundles of canvas steeped intar and fastened in the middle to a stout stick or piece of chain. Lizzie's was fastened to a chain; and as he watched her uplifted armswinging the blazing mass he found time to wonder how she escapedsetting her hair on fire. Other torch-bearers tossed their arms andshouted as they passed. The smoke was suffocating, and across thepatch of quiet graveyard the heat smote on Taffy's face. But in thecrowd he saw two figures clearly--Jacky Pascoe and Squire Moyle; andthe Bryanite's face was agitated and white in the infernal glare. He had given an arm to the Squire, who was clearly the centre of theprocession and tottered forward with jaws working and cavernous eyes. 

"He's saved!" a voice shouted. 

Others took up the cry. "Saved!" "The Squire's saved!""Saved to-night--saved to glory!"

The Squire paused, still leaning on the Bryanite's arm. While theprocession swayed around him, he gazed across the gate as a man whohad lost his bearings. No glint of torchlight reached his cavernouseyes; but the sight of Mr. Raymond's surpliced figure standing behindTaff's shoulder in the full glare seemed to rouse him. He lifted afist and shook it slowly. 

"Com'st along, sir!" urged the Bryanite. But the Squire stoodirresolute, muttering to himself. 

"Com'st along, sir!"

"Lev' me be, I tell 'ee!" He laid both hands on the gate and spokeacross it to Mr. Raymond, his head nodding while his voice rose. 

"D'ee hear what they say? I'm saved. I'm the Squire of this parish, and I'm goin' to Heaven. I make no account of you and your church. Old Satan's the fellow I'm after, and I'm going to have him out o'this parish to-night or my name's not Squire Moyle. "

"That's of it, Squire!" "Hunt 'en!" "Out with 'en!"

He turned on the crowd. 

"Hunt 'en? Iss fay I will! Come along, boys--back to Tredinnis!No, no"--this to the Bryanite--"we'll go back. I'll show 'ee sport--we'll hunt th' old Divvle by scent and view to-night. I'm SquireMoyle, ain't I? And I've a pack o' hounds, ha'n't I? Back, boys--back, I tell 'ee!"

Lizzie Pezzack swung her torch. "Back--back to Tredinnis!" Thecrowd took up the cry, "Back to Tredinnis!" The old man shook offthe Bryanite's hand, and as the procession wheeled and reformeditself confusedly, rushed to the head of it, waving his hat--

"Back!--Back to Tredinnis!"

"God help them!" said Mr. Raymond; and taking Taffy by the arm, drewhim back into the church. 

The shouting died away up the road. For three-quarters of an hourfather and son worked in silence. The reddened sky shed its glowgently through the clear glass windows, suffusing the shadows beneaththe arched roof. And in the silence the lad wondered what washappening up at Tredinnis. 

Jim the Whip took oath afterward that it was no fault of his. He hadsuspected three of the hounds for a day or two--Chorister, White Boy, and Bellman--and had separated them from the pack. That very eveninghe had done the same with Rifler, who was chewing at the straw in aqueer fashion and seemed quarrelsome. He had said nothing to theSquire, whose temper had been ugly for a week past. He had hoped itwas a false alarm--had thought it better to wait, and so on. 

The Squire went down to the kennels with a lantern, Jim shiveringbehind him. They had their horses saddled outside and ready, and thecrowd was waiting along the drive and up by the great gates. The Squire saw at a glance that two couples were missing, and in twoseconds had their names on his tongue. He was like a madman. He shouted to Jim to open the doors. "Better not, maister!" pleadedJim. The old man cursed, smote him across the neck with the butt-endof his whip, and unlocked the doors himself. Jim, though halfstunned, staggered forward to prevent him, and took another blow, which felled him. He dropped across the threshold of Chorister'skennel; the doors of all opened outwards, and the weight of his bodykept this one shut. But he saw the other three hounds run out, sawthe Squire turn with a ghastly face, drop the lantern, and run for itas White Boy snapped at his boot. Jim heard the crash of the lanternand the snap of teeth, and with that he fainted off in the darkness. He had cut his forehead against the bars of the big kennel, and whenhe came to himself one of the hounds was licking his face through thegrating. 

Men told for years after how the old Squire came galloping up thedrive that night, hoof to belly, his chin almost on mare Nonsuch'sneck, his face like a man's who hears hell cracking behind him, andof the three dusky hounds which followed (the tale said) withclapping jaws and eyes like coach-lamps. 

Down in the quiet church Taffy heard the outcry, and, laying down hisplane, looked up and saw that his father had heard it too. Mr. Raymond's mild eyes, shining through his spectacles, asked asplainly as words: "What was _that?_"

"Listen!"

For a minute--two minutes--they heard nothing more. Then out of thesilence broke a rapid, muffled beat of hoofs, and Mr. Raymondclutched Taffy's arm as a yell--a cry not human, or if human, insane--ripped the night as you might rip linen, and fetched them totheir feet. Taffy gained the porch first; and just at that moment ablack shadow heaved itself on the churchyard wall and came hurlingover with a thud--a clatter of dropping stones--then a groan. 

Before they could grasp what was happening the old Squire hadextricated himself from the fallen mare, and came staggering acrossthe graves. 

"Hide me!--"

He came with both arms outstretched, his face turned sideways. Behind him, from the far side of the wall, came sounds--horribleshuffling sounds--and in the dusk they saw the head of one of thehounds above the coping and his forepaws clinging as he strained toheave himself over. 

"Off! Keep 'en off!"

They caught him by both hands, dragged him within, and slammed thedoor. 

"Hide me! Hi--!"

The word ended with a thud as he pitched headlong on the slatepavement. Through the barred door the scream of the mare Nonesuchanswered it. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE BARRIERS FALL. 

There were marks of teeth on his right boot, but no marks at all onhis body. Fright--or fright following on that evening's frenzy--hadkilled him. 

He was buried three days later, and Mr. Raymond read the service. No rain had fallen, and the blood of the three hounds still stainedthe gravel dividing the grave from the porch, where the crowd hadshot them down. 

For a while his death made small difference to the family at theParsonage. They had fought his enmity and proved it not formidablefor brave hearts. But they had scarcely realised their success, andwondered why his death did not affect them more. 

About this time Taffy began to carry out a scheme which he and hisfather had often discussed, but hitherto had found no leisure for--the setting up of wooden crosses on the graves of the drownedsailormen. They had wished for slate, but good slate was expensiveand hard to come by, and Taffy had no skill in stone-cutting. Since wood it must be, he resolved to put his best work into it. The names, etc. , should be engraved, not painted merely. Some of thepew-fronts in the church had panels elaborately carved in flat andshallow relief--fine Jacobean designs, all of them. He took carefulrubbings of their traceries, and set to work to copy them on the faceof his crosses. 

One afternoon, some three weeks after the Squire's funeral, hehappened to return to the house for a tracing which he had forgotten, and found Honoria seated in the kitchen and talking with his fatherand mother. She was dressed in black, of course, and either this orthe solemnity of her visit gave her quite a grown-up look. But, tobe sure, she was mistress of Tredinnis now, and a child no longer. 

Taffy guessed the meaning of her visit at once. And no doubt thisact of formal reconciliation between Tredinnis House and theParsonage had cost her some nervousness. As Taffy entered hisparents stood up and seemed just as awkward as their visitor. "Another time, perhaps, " he heard his father say. Honoria rosealmost at once, and would not stay to drink tea, though Humilitypressed her. 

"I suppose, " said Taffy next day, looking up from his Virgil, "I suppose Miss Honoria wants to make friends now and help on therestoration?"

Mr. Raymond, who was on his knees fastening a loose hinge in apew-door, took a screw from between his lips. 

"Yes, she proposed that. "

"It must be splendid for you, dad!"

"I don't quite see, " answered Mr. Raymond, with his head well insidethe pew. 

Taffy stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and took a turn up anddown the aisle. 

"Why, " said he, coming to a halt, "it means that you have won. It's victory, dad, and _I_ call it glorious!" His lip trembled. He wanted to put a hand on his father's shoulder; but his abominableshyness stood between. 

"We won long ago, my boy. " And Mr. Raymond wheeled round on hisknees, pushed up his spectacles, and quoted the famous lines, verysolemnly and slowly:

 "'And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!'"

"I see, " Taffy nodded. "And--I say, that's jolly. Who wrote it?"

"A man I used to see in the streets of Oxford and always turned tostare after: a man with big ugly shaped feet and the face of a god--ayoung tormented god. Those were days when young men's thoughtstormented them. Taffy, " he asked abruptly, "should you like to go toOxford?"

"Don't, father!" The boy bit his lip to keep back the tears. "Talk of something else--something cheerful. It has been a splendidfight, just splendid! And now it's over I'm almost sorry. "

"What is over?"

"Well, I suppose--now that Honoria wants to help--we can hire workmenand have the whole job finished in a month, or two at farthest: andyou--"

Mr. Raymond stood up, and leaning against a bench-end, examined thethread of the screw between his fingers. 

"That is one way of looking at it, no doubt, " he said slowly; "and Ihope God will forgive me if I have put my own pride before Hisservice. But a man desires to leave some completed work behind him--something to which people may point and say, '_he_ did it. 'There was my book, now: for years I thought that was to be my work. But God thought otherwise and (to correct my pride, perhaps) chosethis task instead. To set a small forsaken country church in orderand make it worthy of His presence--that is not the mission I shouldhave chosen. But so be it: I have accepted it. Only, to let othersstep in at the last and finish even this--I say He must forgive me, but I cannot. "

"Your book--you can go back to it and finish it. "

"I have burnt it. "

"Dad!"

"I burned it. I had to. It was a temptation to me, and until Ilifted it from the grate and the flakes crumbled in my hands thesurrender was not complete. "

Taffy felt a sudden gush of pity. And as he pitied suddenly heunderstood his father. 

"It had to be complete?"

"Either the book or the surrender. My boy"--and in his voice thereechoed the aspiration and the despair of the true scholar, who abhorsimperfection and incompleteness in a world where nothing is eitherperfect or complete; "it is different with you. I borrowed you, soto say, for the time. Without you I must have failed; but this wasnever your work. For myself, I have learnt my lessons; but, pleaseGod, you shall be my Solomon and be granted a temple to build. "

Taffy had lost his shyness now. He laid a hand on his father'ssleeve. 

"We will go on then. "

"Yes, we will go on. "

"And Jacky? Where has he been? I haven't seen him since the Squiredied. "

Mr. Raymond searched in his coat-pocket and handed over a crumpledletter. It ran:--

 "Dear friend, --this is to say that you will not see me no more. The dear Lord tells me that I have made a cauch of it. He don't say how, all He says is go and do better somewheres else. 

 "Seems to me a terrable thing to think _Religion_ can be bad for any man. It have done me such powars of good. The late Moyle esq he was like a dirty pan all the milk turned sour no matter what. Dear friend I pored Praise into him and it come out Prayer and all for him self. But the dear Lord says I was to blame as much as Moyle esq so must do better next time but feel terrable timid. 

 "My respects to Masr Taffy. Dear friend I done my best I come like _Nicodemus_ by night. Seeming to me when Christians fall out tis over what they pray for. When they _praise God_ forget diffnses and I cant think where the quaraling comes in and so no more at present from

 "Yours respffly

 "J. Pascoe. "

After supper that night, in the Parsonage kitchen Humility keptrising from her chair, and laying her needlework aside to re-arrangethe pans and kettles on the hearth. This restlessness was so unusualthat Taffy, seated in the ingle with a book on his knee, had halfraised his head to twit her when he felt a hand laid softly on hishair, and looked up into his mother's eyes. 

"Taffy, should you like to go to Oxford?"

"Don't, mother!"

"But you can. " The tears in her eyes answered his at once. She turned to his father. "Tell him!"

"Yes, my boy, you can go, " said Mr. Raymond; "that is, if you can wina scholarship. Your mother and I have been talking it over. "

"But--" Taffy began, and could get no further. 

"We have money enough--with care, " said Mr. Raymond. 

But the boy's eyes were on his mother. Her cheeks, usually so pale, were flushed; but she turned her face away and walked slowly back toher chair. "The lace-work, " he heard her say: "I have been saving--from the beginning--"

"For this?" He followed and took her hand. With the other shecovered her eyes; but nodded. 

"O mother--mother!" He knelt and let his brow drop on her lap. She ceased to weep; her palms rested on his bowed head, but now andthen her body shook. And but for the ticking of the tall clock therewas silence in the room. 

It was wonderful; and the wonder of it grew when they recoveredthemselves and fell to discussing their plans. In spite of hisidolatry, Mr. Raymond could not help remembering certain slightswhich he, a poor miller's son, had undergone at Christ Church. He had chosen Magdalen, which Taffy knew to be the most beautiful ofall the colleges; and the news that his name had been entered on thecollege books for years past gave him a delicious shock. It was nowJuly. He would matriculate in the October term, and in January enterfor a demyship. But (the marvels followed so fast on each other'sheels) there would be an examination held in ten days' time--actuallyin ten days' time--a "certificate" examination, Mr. Raymond calledit--which would excuse the boy not only the ordinary Matriculationtest, but Responsions too. And, in short, Taffy was to pack his boxand go. 

"But the subjects?"

"You have been reading them and the prescribed books for four monthspast. And I have had sets of the old papers by me for a guide. Your mathematics are shaky--but I think you should do well enough. "

It was now Humility's turn, and the discussion plunged among shirtsand collars. Never had evening been so happy; and whether theytalked of mathematics or of collars, Taffy could not help observinghow from time to time his father's and mother's eyes would meet andsay, as plainly as words, "We have done rightly. " "Yes, we have donerightly. "

And the wonder of it remained next morning, when he awoke to achanged world and took down his books with a new purpose. Already his box had been carried into old Mrs. Venning's room, andhis mother and grandmother were busy, the one packing and repacking, the other making a new and important suggestion every minute. 

He was to go up alone, and to lodge in Trinity College, where an oldfriend of Mr. Raymond's, a resident fellow just then abroad andspending his Long Vacation in the Tyrol, had placed his own room atthe boy's service. 

To see Oxford--to be lodging in college! He had to hug his mother inthe midst of her packing. 

"You will be going by the Great Western, " she said. "You won't beseeing Honiton on your way. "

When the great morning came, Mr. Raymond travelled with him in thevan to Truro, to see him off. Humility went upstairs to her mother'sroom, and the two women prayed together--

 "They also serve who only stand and wait. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

OXFORD. 

 "Know you her secret none can utter? Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?"

"Eight o'clock, sir!"

Taffy heard the voice speaking above a noise which his dreamsconfused with the rattle of yesterday's journey. He was still in thetrain, rushing through the rich levels of Somersetshire. He saw thebroad horizon, the cattle at pasture, the bridges and flagged poolsflying past the window--and sat up rubbing his eyes. Blenkiron, thescout, stood between him and the morning sunshine emptying a can ofwater into the tub beside his bed. 

Blenkiron wore a white waistcoat and a tie of orange and blue, thecolours of the College Servants' Cricket Club. These were signs ofthe Long Vacation. For the rest his presence would have become anarchdeacon; and he guided Taffy's choice of a breakfast with an airwhich suggested the hand of iron beneath the glove of velvet. 

"And begging your pardon, sir, but will you be lunching in?"

Taffy would consult Mr. Blenkiron's convenience. 

"The fact is, sir, we've arranged to play Teddy `All this afternoonat Cowley, and the drag starts at one-thirty sharp. "

"Then I'll get my lunch out of college, " said Taffy, wondering whoTeddy Hall might be. 

"I thank you, sir. I had, indeed, took the liberty of telling themanciple that you was not a gentleman to give more trouble than youcould 'elp. Fried sole, pot of tea, toast, pot of blackberry jam, commons of bread--" Mr. Blenkiron disappeared. 

Taffy sprang out of bed and ran to the open window in the next room. The gardens lay below him--smooth turf flanked with a border of gayflowers, flanked on the other side with yews, and beyond the yewswith an avenue of limes, and beyond these with tall elms. A straightgravelled walk divided the turf. At the end of it two yews ofmagnificent spread guarded a great iron gate. Beyond these thechimneys and battlements of Wadham College stood grey against thepale eastern sky, and over them the larks were singing. 

So this was Oxford; more beautiful than all his dreams! And sincehis examination would not begin until to-morrow, he had a whole longday to make acquaintance with her. Half a dozen times he, had tointerrupt his dressing to run and gaze out of the window, skippingback when he heard Blenkiron's tread on the staircase. And atbreakfast again he must jump up and examine the door. Yes, there wasa second door outside--a heavy _oak_-just as his father haddescribed. What stories had he heard about these oaks! He washandling this one almost idolatrously when Blenkiron appearedsuddenly at the head of the stairs. Blenkiron was good enough toexplain at some length how the door worked, while Taffy, who did notneed his instruction in the least, blushed to the roots of his hair. 

For, indeed, it was like first love, this adoration of Oxford;shamefast, shy of its own raptures; so shy, indeed, that when he puton his hat and walked out into the streets he could not pluck upcourage to ask his way. Some of the colleges he recognised from hisfather's description; of one or two he discovered the names bypeeping through their gateways and reading the notices pinned up bythe porters' lodges, for it never occurred to him that he was free tostep inside and ramble through the quadrangles. He wondered wherethe river lay, and where Magdalen, and where Christ Church. He passed along the Turl and down Brasenose Lane; and at the foot ofit, beyond the great chestnut-tree leaning over Exeter wall, thevision of noble square, the dome of the Radcliffe, and St. Mary'sspire caught his breath and held him gasping. His feet took him bythe gate of Brasenose and across the High. On the farther pavementhe halted, round-eyed, held at gaze by the beauty of the Virgin'sporch, with the creeper drooping like a veil over its twistedpillars. 

High up, white pigeons wheeled round the spire or fluttered fromniche to niche, and a queer fancy took him that they were the soulsof the carved saints up there, talking to one another above thecity's traffic. At length he withdrew his eyes, and reading the name"Oriel Street" on an angle of the wall above him, passed down anarrow by-lane in search of further wonders. 

The clocks were striking three when, after regaining the High andlunching at a pastrycook's, Taffy turned down into St. Aldates andrecognised Tom Tower ahead of him. The great gates were closed. Through the open wicket he had a glimpse of green turf and an idlefountain; and while he peered in, a jolly-looking porter stepped outof the lodge for a breath of air and nodded in the friendliestmanner. 

"You can walk through if you want to. Were you looking for anyone?"

"No, " said Taffy, and explained proudly, "My father used to be atChrist Church. "

The porter seemed interested. "What name?" he asked. 

"Raymond. "

"That must have been before my time. I suppose you'll be wanting tosee the Cathedral. That's the door--right opposite. "

Taffy thanked him and walked across the great empty quadrangle. Within the Cathedral the organ was sounding and pausing, and fromtime to time a boy's voice broke in upon the music like a flute, thepure treble rising to the roof as though it were the very voice ofthe building, and every pillar sustained its petition, "_Lord havemercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law!_"Neither organist nor chorister was visible, and Taffy tiptoed alongthe aisles in dread of disturbing them. For the moment this voiceadoring in the noble building expressed to him the completest, themost perfect thing in life. All his own boyish handiwork, remember, under his father's eye had been guided toward the worship of God. 

". . . _And incline our hearts to keep this law_. " The musicceased. He heard the organist speaking, up in the loft; criticising, no doubt: and it reminded him somehow of the small sounds of home andhis mother moving about her housework in the hush between breakfastand noon. 

He stepped out into the sunlight again, and wandering through archwayand cloister found himself at length beyond the college walls and atthe junction of two avenues of elms, between the trunks of whichshone the acres of a noble meadow, level and green. The avenues ranat a right angle, east and south; the one old, with trees ofmagnificent girth, the other new and interset with poplars. 

Taffy stood irresolute. One of these avenues, he felt sure, mustlead to the river; but which?

Two old gentlemen stepped out from the wicket of the MeadowBuildings, and passed him, talking together. The taller--a leanman, with a stoop--was clearly a clergyman. The other wore cap andgown, and Taffy remarked, as he went by, that his cap was of velvet;and also that he walked with his arms crossed just above the wrists, his right hand clutching his left cuff, and his left hand his rightcuff, his elbows hugged close to his sides. 

After a few paces the clergyman paused, said something to hiscompanion, and the two turned back towards the boy. 

"Were you wanting to know your way?"

"I was looking for the river, " Taffy answered. He was thinking thathe had never in his life seen a face so full of goodness. 

"Then this is your first visit to Oxford? Suppose, now, you comewith us? and we will take you by the river and tell you the names ofthe barges. There is not much else to see, I'm afraid, in Vacationtime. "

He glanced at his companion in the velvet cap, who drew down anextraordinary bushy pair of eyebrows (yet he, too, had a beautifulface) and seemed to come out of a dream. 

"So much the better, boy, if you come up to Oxford to worship falsegods. "

Taffy was taken aback. 

"Eight false gods in little blue caps, seated in a trough and tuggingat eight poles; and all to discover if they can get from Putney toMortlake sooner than eight others in little blue caps of a lightershade. What do they _do_ at Mortlake when they get there in such ahurry? Eh, boy?"

"I--I'm sure I don't know, " stammered Taffy. 

The clergyman broke out laughing, and turned to him. "Are you goingto tell us your name?"

"Raymond, sir. My father used to be at Christ Church. "

"What? Are you Sam Raymond's son?"

"You knew my father?"

"A very little. I was his senior by a year or two. But I knowsomething about him. " He turned to the other. "Let me introduce theson of a man after your own heart--of a man fighting for God in thewilds, and building an altar there with his own hands and by the lampof sacrifice. "

"But how do you know all this?" cried Taffy. 

"Oh, " the old clergyman smiled, "we are not so ignorant up here asyou suppose. "

They walked by the river bank, and there Taffy saw the college bargesand was told the name of each. Also he saw a racing eight go by: itbelonged to the Vacation Rowing Club. From the barges they turnedaside and followed the windings of the Cherwell. The clergyman didmost of the talking; but now and then the old gentleman in the velvetcap interposed a question about the church at home, its architecture, the materials it was built of, and so forth; or about Taffy's ownwork, his carpentry, his apprenticeship with Mendarva the Smith. And to all these questions the boy found himself replying with anease which astonished him. 

Suddenly the old clergyman said, "There is your College!"

And unperceived by Taffy a pair of kindly eyes watched his own asthey met the first vision of that lovely tower rising above the treesand (so like a thing of life it seemed) lifting its pinnaclesexultantly into the blue heaven. 

"Well?"

All three had come to a halt. The boy turned, blushing furiously. 

"This is the best of all, sir. "

"Boy, " said old Velvet-cap, "do you know the meaning of'edification'? There stands your lesson for four years to come, ifyou can learn it in that time. Do you think it easy? Come and seehow it has been learnt by men who have spent their lives face to facewith it. "

They crossed the street by Magdalen bridge, and passed under Pugin'sgateway, by the Chapel door and into the famous cloisters. All wasquiet here; so quiet that even the voices of the sparrows chatteringin the ivy seemed but a part of the silence. The shadow of the greattower fell across the grass. 

"This is how one generation read the lesson. Come and see howanother, and a later, read it. "

A narrow passage led them out of gloom into sudden sunlight; and thesunlight spread itself on fair grass-plots and gravelled walks, flower-beds and the pale yellow facade of a block of buildings in theclassical style, stately and elegant, with a colonnade which onlyneeded a few promenading figures in laced coats and tie-wigs tocomplete the agreeable picture. 

"What do you make of that?"

As a matter of fact Taffy's thoughts had run back to the theatre atPlymouth with its sudden changes of scenery. And he stood for amoment while he collected them. 

"It's different: I mean, " he added, feeling that this was intolerablylame, "it means something different; I cannot tell what. "

"It means the difference between godly fear and civil ease, between ahouse of prayer and one of no prayer. It spells the moral changewhich came over this University when religion, the spring and sourceof collegiate life, was discarded. The cloisters behind you werebuilt for men who walked with God. "

"But why, " objected Taffy, plucking up courage, "couldn't they dothat in the sunlight?"

Velvet-cap opened his mouth. The boy felt he was going to bedenounced; when a merry laugh from the old clergyman averted thestorm. 

"Be content, " he said to his companion; "we are Gothic enough inOxford nowadays. And the lad is right too. There was hope even foreighteenth-century Magdalen while its buildings looked on sunlightand on that tower. You and the rest of us lay too much stress onprayer. The lesson of that tower (with all deference to your amazingdiscernment and equally amazing whims) is not prayer, but praise. And when all men unite to worship God, it'll be praise, not prayer, that brings them together. 

 "'Praise is devotion fit for noble minds, The differing world's agreeing sacrifice. '"

"Oh, if you're going to fling quotations from a tapster's son at myhead. . . . Let me see . . . How does it go on? . . . Where--something or other--different faiths--

 "'Where Heaven divided faiths united finds. . . . '"

And in a moment the pair were in hot pursuit after the quotation, tripping each other up like two schoolboys at a game. Taffy neverforgot the final stanza, the last line of which they recoveredexactly in the middle of the street, Velvet-cap standing between twotram-lines, right in the path of an advancing car, while hedeclaimed--

 "'By penitence when we ourselves forsake, 'Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven; In praise--'"

(The gesture was magnificent)

 "'In praise we nobly give what God may take, And are without a beggar's blush forgiven. '

"--Confound these trams!"

The old clergyman shook hands with Taffy in some haste. "And whenyou reach home give my respects to your father. Stay, you don't knowmy name. Here is my card, or you'll forget it. "

"Mine, too, " said Velvet-cap. 

Taffy stood staring after them as they walked off down the lane whichskirts the Botanical Gardens. The names on the two cards were famousones, as even he knew. He walked back toward Trinity a proud andhappy boy. Half-way up Queen's Lane, finding himself between blankwalls, with nobody in sight, he even skipped. 

CHAPTER XX. 

TAFFY GIVES A PROMISE. 

The postman halted by the foot-bridge and blew his horn. The soundsent the rabbits scampering into their burrows; and just as theybegan to pop out again, Taffy came charging across the slope. Whereupon they drew back their noses in disgust, and to avoid thesand scattered by his toes. 

The postman held up a blue envelope and waved it. "Here, 'tis come, at last!"

"It may not be good news, " said Taffy, clutching it, and then turningit over in his hand. 

"Well, that's true. And till you open it, it won't be any news atall. "

"I wanted mother to be first to know. "

"Oh, very well--only, as you say, it mightn't be good news. "

"If it's bad news, I want to be alone. But why should they troubleto write?"

"True again. I s'pose now you're sure it _is_ from them?"

"I can tell by the seal. "

"Take it home, then, " said the postman. "Only if you think 'tis forthe sake of a twiddling sixteen shilling a week that I traipse allthese miles every day--"

Taffy fingered the seal. "If you would really like to know--"

"Don't 'ee mention it. Not on any account. " He waved his handmagnanimously and trudged off toward Tredinnis. 

Taffy waited until he disappeared behind the first sand-hill, andbroke the seal. A slip of parchment lay inside the envelope. 

"_This is to certify_--"

He had passed! He pulled off his cap and waved it round his head. And once more the rabbits popped back into their burrows. 

Toot--toot--toot!--It was that diabolical postman. He had fetched acircuit round the sand-hill, and was peeping round the north side ofit and grinning as he blew his horn. 

Taffy set off running, and never stopped until he reached theParsonage and burst into the kitchen. "Mother--It's all right!I've passed!"

Somebody was knocking at the door. Taffy jumped up from his knees, and Humility made the lap of her apron smooth. 

"May I come in?" asked Honoria, and pushed the door open. She stepped into the middle of the kitchen and dropped Taffy anelaborate courtesy. 

A thousand congratulations, sir!"

"Why, how did you know?"

"Well, I met the postman; and I looked in through the window beforeknocking. "

Taffy bit his lip. "People seem to be taking a deal of interest inus all of a sudden, " he said to his mother. 

Humility looked distressed, uncomfortable. Honoria ignored the snub. "I am starting for Carwithiel to-day, " she said, "for a week's visit, and thought I would look in--after hearing what the postman told me--and pay my compliments. "

She talked for a minute or two on matters of no importance, askedafter old Mrs. Venning's health, and left, turning at the door andgiving Humility a cheerful little nod. 

"Taffy, you ought not to have spoken so. " Humility's eyes weretearful. 

Taffy's conscience was already accusing him. He snatched up his capand ran out. 

"Miss Honoria!"

She did not turn. 

"Miss Honoria--I am sorry!" He overtook her, but she turned her faceaway. "Forgive me!"

She halted, and after a moment looked him in the eyes. He saw thenthat she had been crying. 

"The first time I came to see you he whipped me, " she said slowly. 

"I am sorry; indeed I am. "

"Taffy--"

"Miss Honoria. "

"I said--Taffy. "

"Honoria, then. "

"Do you know what it is to feel lonely here?"

Taffy remembered the afternoons when he had roamed the sand-hillslonging for George's company. "Why, yes, " said he; "it used to bealways lonely. "

"I think we have been the loneliest children in the whole world--youand I and George--only George didn't feel it the same way. And nowit's coming to an end with you. You are going up to Oxford, and soonyou will have heaps of friends. Can you not understand? Supposethere were two prisoners, alone in the same prison, but shut indifferent cells, and one heard that the other's release had come. He would feel--would he not?--that now he was going to be lonelierthan ever. And yet he might be glad of the other's liberty, and ifthe chance were given, might be the happier for shaking hands withthe other and wishing him joy. "

Taffy had never heard her speak at all like this. 

"But you are going to Carwithiel, and George is famous company. "

"I am going over to Carwithiel because I hate Tredinnis. I hateevery stone of it, and will sell the place as soon as ever I come ofage. And George is the best fellow in the world. Some day I shallmarry him (oh, it is all arranged!), and we shall live at Carwithieland be quite happy; for I like him, and he likes people to be happy. And we shall talk of you. Being out of the world ourselves, we shalltalk of you, and the great things you are going to do, and the greatthings you are doing. We shall say to each other, 'It's all verywell for the world to be proud of him, but we have the best right, for we grew up with him and know the stories he used to tell us; andwhen the time came for his going, it was we who waved from thedoor--"

"Honoria--"

"But there is one thing you haven't told, and you shall now, if youcare to--about your examination and what you did at Oxford. "

So he sat down beside her on a sand-hill and told her: about the longlow-ceiled room in the quadrangle of the Bodleian, the old marbleswhich lined the walls, the examiner at the blue baize table, and thelittle deal tables (all scribbled over with names and dates andverses and ribald remarks) at which the candidates wrote; also of the_viva voce_ examination in the antechamber of the Convocation House, He told it all as if it were the great event he honestly felt it tobe. 

"And the others, " said she, "those who were writing around you, andthe examiner--how did you feel towards them?"

Taffy stared at her. "I don't know that I thought much about them. "

"Didn't you feel as if it was a battle and you wanted to beat themall?"

He broke out laughing. "Why, the examiner was an old man, as dry asa stick! And I hardly remember what the others were like--exceptone, a white-headed boy with a pimply face. I couldn't help noticinghim, because whenever I looked up there he was at the next table, staring at me and chewing a quill. "

"I can't understand, " she confessed. "Often and often I have triedto think myself a man--a man with ambition. And to me that hasalways meant fighting. I see myself a man, and the people between meand the prize have all to be knocked down or pushed out of the way. But you don't even see them--all you see is a pimply-faced boysucking a quill. Taffy--"

"Yes?"

"I wish you would write to me when you get to Oxford. Write regularly. Tell me all you do. "

"You will like to hear?"

"Of course I shall. So will George. But it's not only that. You have such an easy way of going forward; you take it for grantedyou're going to be a great man--"

"I don't. "

"Yes, you do. You think it just lies with yourself, and it isnobody's business to interfere with you. You don't even notice thosewho are on the same path. Now a woman would notice every one, andfind out all about them. "

"Who said I wanted to be a great man?"

"Don't be silly, that's a good boy! There's your father coming outof the church porch, and you haven't told him yet. Run to him, butpromise first. "

"What?"

"That you will write. "

"I promise. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

HONORIA'S LETTERS. 

1. 

 "CARWITHIEL, Oct. 25, 18--. "

 "MY DEAR TAFFY, --Your letter was full of news, and I read it over twice: once to myself, and again after dinner to George and Sir Harry. We pictured you dining in the college hall. Thanks to your description, it was not very difficult: the long tables, the silver tankards, the dark panels and the dark pictures above, and the dons on the dais, aloof and very sedate. It reminded me of Ivanhoe--I don't know why; and no doubt if ever I see Magdalen, it will not be like my fancy in the least. But that's how I see it; and you at a table near the bottom of the hall, like the youthful squire in the story-books--the one, you know, who sits at the feast below the salt until he is recognised and forced to step up and take his seat with honour at the high table. I began to explain all this to George, but found that he had dropped asleep in his chair. He was tired out after a long day with the pheasants. "

 "I shall stay here for a week or two yet, perhaps. You know how I hate Tredinnis. On my way over, I called at the Parsonage and saw your mother. She was writing that very day, she said, and promised to send my remembrances, which I hope duly reached you. The Vicar was away at the church, of course. There is great talk of the Bishop coming in February, when all will be ready. George sends his love; I saw him for a few minutes at breakfast this morning, before he started for another day with the pheasants. "

 "Your friend, " "HONORIA. "

2. 

 "CARWITHIEL, Nov. 19, 18--. "

 "MY DEAR TAFFY, --Still here, you see! I am slipping this into a parcel containing a fire-screen which I have worked with my very own hands; and I trust you will be able to recognise the shield upon it and the Magdalen lilies. I send it, first, as a birthday present; and I chose the shield--well, I dare say that going in for a demy-ship is a matter-of-fact affair to you, who have grown so exceedingly matter-of-fact; but to me it seems a tremendous adventure; and so I chose a shield--for I suppose the dons would frown if you wore a cockade in your college cap. I return to Tredinnis to-morrow; so your news, whatever it is, must be addressed to me there. But it is safe to be good news. "

 "Your friend, " "HONORIA. "

3. 

 "TREDINNIS, Nov. 27, 18--. "

 "MOST HONOURED SCHOLAR, --Behold me, an hour ago, a great lady, seated in lonely grandeur at the head of my own ancestral table. This is the first time I have used the dining-room; usually I take all my meals in the morning-room, at a small table beside the fire. But to-night I had the great table spread and the plate spread out, and wore my best gown, and solemnly took my grandfather's chair and glowered at the ghost of a small girl shivering at the far end of the long white cloth. When I had enough of this (which was pretty soon) I ordered up some champagne and drank to the health of Theophilus John Raymond, Demy of Magdalen College, Oxford. I graciously poured out a second glass for the small ghost at the other end of the table; and it gave her the courage to confess that she, too, in a timid way, had taken an interest in you for years, and hoped you were going to be a great man. Having thus discovered a bond between us, we grew very friendly; and we talked a great deal about you afterwards in the drawing-room, where I lost her for a few minutes and found her hiding in the great mirror over the fire-place--a habit of hers. "

 "It is time for me to practise ceremony, for it seems that George and I are to be married some time in the spring. For my part I think my lord would be content to wait longer; for so long as he is happy and sees others cheerful he is not one to hurry or worry. But Sir Harry is the impatient one: and has begun to talk of his decease. He doesn't believe in it a bit, and at times when he composes his features and attempts to be lugubrious I have to take up a book and hide my smiles. But he is clever enough to see that it worries George. "

 "I saw both your father and mother this morning. Mr. Raymond has been kept to the house by a chill; nothing serious: but he is fretting to be out again and at work in that draughty church. He will accept no help; and the mistress of Tredinnis has no right to press it on him. I shall never understand men and how they fight. I supposed that the war lay between him and my grandfather. But it seems he was fighting an idea all the while; for here is my grandfather beaten and dead and gone; and still the Vicar will give no quarter. If you had not assured me that your demy-ship means eighty pounds a year, I could believe that men fight for shadows only. Your mother and grandmother are both well. . . . "

It was a raw December afternoon--within a week of the end of term--and Taffy had returned from skating in Christ Church meadow, when hefound a telegram lying on his table. There was just time to see theDean, to pack, and to snatch a meal in hall, before rattling off tohis train. At Didcot he had the best part of an hour to wait for thenight-mail westward. 

 "_Your father dangerously ill. Come at once_. "

There was no signature. Yet Taffy knew who had ridden to the officewith that telegram. The flying dark held visions of her, and theexpress throbbed westward to the beat of Aide-de-camp's gallop. Nor was he surprised at all to find her on the platform at TruroStation. The Tredinnis phaeton was waiting outside. 

He seemed to her but a boy after all, as he stepped out of the trainin the chill dawn: a wan-faced boy, and sorely in need of comfort. 

"You must be brave, " said she, gathering up the reins as he climbedto the seat beside her. 

Surely yes; he had been telling himself this very thing all night. The groom hoisted in his portmanteau, and with a slam of the doorthey were off. The cold air sang past Taffy's ears. It put vigourinto him, and his courage rose as he faced his shattered prospects, shattered dreams. He must be strong now for his mother's sake; a manto work and be leant upon. 

And so it was that whereas Honoria had found him a boy, Humilityfound him a man. As her arms went about him in her grief, she felthis body, that it was taller, broader; and knew in the midst of hertears that this was not the child she had parted from seven shortweeks ago, but a man to act and give orders and be relied upon. 

"He called for you . . . Many times, " was all she could say. 

For Taffy had come too late. Mr. Raymond was dead. He hadaggravated a slight chill by going back to his work too soon, and thebitter draughts of the church had cut him down within sight of hisgoal. A year before he might have been less impatient. The chillstruck into his lungs. On December 1st he had taken to his bed, andhe never rallied. 

"He called for me?"

"Many times. "

They went up the stairs together and stood beside the bed. Thethought uppermost in Taffy's mind was--"He called for me. He wantedme. He was my father and I never knew him. "

But Humility in her sorrow groped amid such questions as these, "What has happened? Who am I? Am I she who yesterday had a husbandand a child? To-day my husband is gone and my child is no longer thesame child. "

In her room old Mrs. Venning remembered the first days of her ownwidowhood, and life seemed to her a very short affair, after all. 

Honoria saw Taffy beside the grave. It was no season for out-of-doorflowers, and she had rifled her hothouses for a wreath. The exoticsshivered in the north-westerly wind; they looked meaningless, impertinent, in the gusty churchyard. Humility, before the coffinleft the house, had brought the dead man's old blue working-blouse, and spread it for a pall. No flowers grew in the Parsonage garden;but pressed in her Bible lay a very little bunch, gathered, yearsago, in the meadows by Honiton. This she divided and, unseen byanyone, pinned the half upon the breast of the patched garment. 

On the evening after the funeral and for the next day or two she wasstrangely quiet, and seemed to be waiting for Taffy to make somesign. Dearly as mother and son loved one another, they had to findtheir new positions, each toward each. Now Taffy had known nothingof his parents' income. He assumed that it was little enough, andthat he must now leave Oxford and work to support the household. He knew some Latin and Greek; but without a degree he had littlechance of teaching what he knew. He was a fair carpenter, and a morethan passable smith. . . . He revolved many schemes, but chieflyfound himself wondering what it would cost to enter an architect'soffice. 

"I suppose, " said he, "father left no will?"

"Oh yes, he did, " said Humility, and produced it: a single sheet offoolscap signed on her wedding day. It gave her all her husband'sproperty absolutely--whatever it might be. 

"Well, " said Taffy, "I'm glad. I suppose there's enough for you torent a small cottage, while I look about for work?"

"Who talks about your finding work? You will go back to Oxford, ofcourse. "

"Oh, shall I?" said Taffy, taken aback. 

"Certainly; it was your father's wish. "

"But the money?"

"With your scholarship there's enough to keep you there for the fouryears. After that, no doubt, you will be earning a good income. "

"But--" He remembered what had been said about the lace-money, andcould not help wondering. 

"Taffy, " said his mother, touching his hand, "leave all this to meuntil your degree is taken. You have a race to run and must notstart unprepared. If you could have seen _his_ joy when the newscame of the demy-ship!"

Taffy kissed her and went up to his room. He found his books laidout on the little table there. 

4. 

 "TREDINNIS, February 13, 18--. "

 "MY DEAR TAFFY, --I have a valentine for you, if you care to accept it; but I don't suppose you will, and indeed I hope in my heart that you will not. But I must offer it. Your father's living is vacant, and my trustees (that is to say, Sir Harry; for the other, a second cousin of mine who lives in London, never interferes) can put in someone as a stop-gap, thus allowing me to present you to it when the time comes, if you have any thought of Holy Orders. You will understand exactly why I offer it; and also, I hope, you will know that I think it wholly unworthy of you. But turn it over in your mind and give me your answer. "

 "George and I are to be married at the end of April. May is an unlucky month. It shall be a week--even a fortnight--earlier, if that fits in with your vacation, and you care to come. See how obliging I am! I yield to you what I have refused to Sir Harry. We shall try to persuade the Bishop to come and open the church on the same day. "

 "Always your friend, " "HONORIA. "

5. 

 "TREDINNIS, February 21. 18--. "

 "My Dear Taffy, --No, I am not offended in the least; but very glad. I do not think you are fitted for the priesthood; but my doubts have nothing to do with your doubts, which I don't understand, though you tried to explain them so carefully. You will come through _them_, I expect. I don't know that I have any reasons that could be put on paper: only, somehow, I cannot _see_ you in a black coat and clerical hat. "

 "You complain that I never write about George. You don't deserve to hear, since you refuse to come to our wedding. But would _you_ talk, if you happened to be in love? There, I have told you more than ever I told George, whose conceit has to be kept down. Let this console you. "

 "Our new parson, when he comes, is to lodge down in Innis Village. Your mother--but no doubt she has told you--stays in the Parsonage while she pleases. She and your grandmother are both well. I see her every day: I have so much to learn, and she is so wise. Her beautiful eyes--but oh, Taffy, it must be terrible to be a widow! She smiles and is always cheerful; but the _look_ in them! How can I describe it? When I find her alone with her lace-work, or sometimes (but it is not often) with her hands in her lap, she seems to come out of her silence with an effort, as others withdraw themselves from talk. I wonder if she does talk in those silences of hers. Another thing, it is only a few weeks now since she put on a widow's cap, and yet I cannot remember her--can scarcely picture her--without it. I am sure that if I happened to call one day when she had laid it aside, I should begin to talk quite as if we were strangers. "

 "Believe me, yours sincerely, " "HONORIA. "

But the wedding, after all, did not take place until the beginning ofOctober, a week before the close of the Long Vacation; and Taffy, after all, was present. The postponement had been enforced by manydelays in building and furnishing the new wing at Carwithiel; for SirHarry insisted that the young couple must live under one roof withhim, and Honoria (as we know) hated the very stones of Tredinnis. 

The Bishop came to spend a week in the neighbourhood; the first threedays as Honoria's guest. On the Saturday he consecrated the work ofrestoration in the church, and in the afternoon held a confirmationservice. Taffy and Honoria knelt together to receive his blessing. It was the girl's wish. The shadow of her responsibility to God andman lay heavy on her during the few months before her marriage: andTaffy, already weary and dispirited with his early doubtings, suffered her mood of exaltation to overcome him like a wave and sweephim back to rest for a while on the still waters of faith. Together they listened while the Bishop discoursed on the deadVicar's labours with fluency and feeling; with so much feeling, indeed, that Taffy could not help wondering why his father had beenleft to fight the battle alone. 

On the Sunday and Monday two near parishes claimed the Bishop. On the Tuesday he sent his luggage over to Carwithiel, whither he wasto follow after the wedding service, to spend a day or two with SirHarry. It had been Honoria's wish that George should choose Taffyfor his best man; but George had already invited one of his sportingfriends, a young Squire Philpotts from the eastern side of the Duchy;and as the date fell at the beginning of the hunting season, heinsisted on a "pink" wedding. Honoria consulted the Bishop byletter. "Did he approve of a 'pink' wedding so soon after thebride's confirmation?" The Bishop saw no harm in it. 

So a "pink" wedding it was, and the scarlet coats made a lively patchof colour in the gray churchyard: but it gave Taffy a feeling that hewas left out in the cold. He escorted his mother to the church, andleft her for a few minutes in the Vicarage pew. The bridegroom andhis friends were gathered in a showy cluster by the chancel step, butthe bride had not arrived, and he stepped out to help in marshallingthe crowd of miners and mine-girls, fishermen, and mothers withunruly children--a hundred or so in all, lining the path orstraggling among the graves. 

Close by the gate he came on a girl who stood alone. 

"Hullo, Lizzie--you here?"

"Why not?" she asked, looking at him sullenly. 

"Oh, no reason at all. "

"There might ha' been a reason, " said she, speaking low andhurriedly. "You might ha' saved me from this, Mr. Raymond; and hertoo; one time, you might. "

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" He looked up. The Tredinniscarriage and pair of grays came over the knoll at a smart trot, anddrew up before the gate. 

"Matter?" Lizzie echoed with a short laugh. "Oh, nuthin'. I'm goin' to lay the curse on her, that's all. "

"You shall not!" There was no time to lose. 

Honoria's trustee--the second cousin from London, a tall, clean-shaven man with a shiny bald head, and a shiny hat in hishand--had stepped out and was helping the bride to alight. What Lizzie meant Taffy could not tell; but there must be no scene. He caught her hand. "Mind--I say you shall not!" he whispered. 

"Lemme go--you're creamin' my fingers. "

"Be quiet then. "

At that moment Honoria passed up the path. Her wedding gown almostbrushed him as he stood wringing Lizzie's hand. She did not appearto see him; but he saw her face beneath the bridal veil, and it washard and white. 

"The proud toad!" said Lizzie. "I'm no better'n dirt, I suppose, though from the start she wasn' above robbin' me. Aw, she's sly . .. Mr. Raymond, I'll curse her as she comes out, see if I don't!"

"And I swear you shall not, " said Taffy. The scent of Honoria'sorange-blossom seemed to cling about them as they stood. 

Lizzie looked at him vindictively. "You wanted her yourself, _I_know. You weren't good enough, neither. Let go my fingers!"

"Go home, now. See, the people have all gone in. "

"Go'st way in too, then, and leave me here to wait for her. "

Taffy shut his teeth, let go her hand, and taking her by theshoulders, swung her round face toward the gate. 

"March!" he commanded, and she moved off whimpering. Once she lookedback. "March!" he repeated, and followed her down the road as onefollows and threatens a mutinous dog. 

The scene by the church gate had puzzled Honoria, and in her firstletter (written from Italy) she came straight to the point, as hercustom was:

 "I hope there is nothing between you and that girl who used to be at Joll's. I say nothing about our hopes for you, but you have your own career to look to; and as I know you are too honourable to flatter an ignorant girl when you mean nothing, so I trust you are too wise to be caught by a foolish fancy. Forgive a staid matron (of one week's standing) for writing so plainly, but what I saw made me uneasy--without cause, no doubt. Your future, remember, is not yours only. And now I shall trust you, and never come back to this subject. "

 "We are like children abroad, George's French is wonderful, but not so wonderful as his Italian. When he goes to take a ticket he first of all shouts the name of the station he wishes to arrive at (for some reason he believes all foreigners to be deaf), then he begins counting down francs one by one, very slowly, watching the clerk's face. When the clerk's face tells him he has doled out enough, he shouts 'Hold hard!' and clutches the ticket. It takes time; but all the people here are friends with him at once--especially the children, whom he punches in the ribs and tells to 'buck up. ' Their mothers nod and smile and openly admire him; and I--well, I am happy and want everyone else to be happy. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

MEN AS TOWERS. 

It was May morning, and Taffy made one of the group gathered on theroof of Magdalen Tower. In the groves below and across the rivermeadows all the birds were singing together. Beyond the glimmeringsuburbs, St. Clement's and Cowley St. John, over the dark rise byBullingdon Green, the waning moon seemed to stand still and wait, poised on her nether horn. Below her the morning sky waited, cleanand virginal, letting her veil of mist slip lower and lower until itrested in folds upon Shotover. While it dropped a shaft of lighttore through it and smote flashing on the vane high above Taffy'shead, turning the dark side of the turrets to purple and castinglilac shadows on the surplices of the choir. For a moment the wholedewy shadow of the tower trembled on the western sky, and melted andwas gone as a flood of gold broke on the eastward-turned faces. The clock below struck five and ceased. There was a sudden baring ofheads; a hush; and gently, borne aloft on boys' voices, clear andstrong, rose the first notes of the hymn--

 "Te Deum Patrem colimus, Te laudibus prosequimur, Qui corpus cibo reficis, Coelesti mentem gratia. "

In the pauses Taffy heard, faint and far below, the noise of cowhornsblown by the street boys gathered at the foot of the tower and beyondthe bridge. Close beside him a small urchin of a chorister wassinging away with the face of an ecstatic seraph; whence that ecstasyarose the urchin would have been puzzled to tell. There flashed intoTaffy's brain the vision of the whole earth lauding and adoring--sun-worshippers and Christians, priests and small children; nationafter nation prostrating itself and arising to join the chant--"the differing world's agreeing sacrifice. " Yes, it was Praise thatmade men brothers; Praise, the creature's first and last act ofhomage to his Creator; Praise that made him kin with the angels. Praise had lifted this tower; had expressed itself in its soaringpinnacles; and he for the moment was incorporate with the tower andpart of its builder's purpose. "Lord, make men as towers!"--heremembered his father's prayer in the field by Tewkesbury, and atlast he understood. "All towers carry a lamp of some kind"--why, ofcourse they did. He looked about him. The small chorister's facewas glowing--

 "Triune Deus, hominum Salutis auctor optime, Immensum hoc mysterium Ovante lingua canimus!"

Silence--and then with a shout the tunable bells broke forth, rockingthe tower. Someone seized Taffy's college cap and sent it spinningover the battlements. Caps? For a second or two they darkened thesky like a flock of birds. A few gowns followed, expanding as theydropped, like clumsy parachutes. The company--all but a few severedons and their friends--tumbled laughing down the ladder, down thewinding stair, and out into sunshine. The world was pagan after all. 

At breakfast Taffy found a letter on his table, addressed in hismother's hand. As a rule she wrote twice a week, and this was notone of the usual days for hearing from her. But nothing was too goodto happen that morning. He snatched up the letter and broke theseal. 

"My dearest boy, " it ran, "I want you home at once to consult withme. Something has happened (forgive me, dear, for not preparing you;but the blow fell on me yesterday so suddenly)--something which makesit doubtful, and more than doubtful, that you can continue at Oxford. And something else _they say_ has happened which I will never believein unless I hear it from my boy's lips. I have this comfort, at anyrate, that he will never tell me a falsehood. This is a matter whichcannot be explained by letter, and cannot wait until the end of term. Come home quickly, dear; for until you are here I can have no peaceof mind. "

So once again Taffy travelled homewards by the night mail. 

"Mother, it's a lie!"

Taffy's face was hot, but he looked straight into his mother's eyes. She too was rosy-red: being ever a shamefast woman. And to speak ofthese things to her own boy--

"Thank God!" she murmured, and her fingers gripped the arms of herchair. 

"It's a lie! Where is the girl?"

"She is in the workhouse, I believe. I don't know who spread it, orhow many have heard. But Honoria believes it. "

"Honoria! She cannot--" He came to a sudden halt. "But, mother, even supposing Honoria believes it, I don't see--"

He was looking straight at her. Her eyes sank. Light began to breakin on him. 

"Mother!"

Humility did not look up. 

"Mother! Don't tell me that she--that Honoria--"

"She made us promise--your father and me. . . . God knows it did nomore than repay what your father had suffered. . . . Your future waseverything to us. . . . "

"And I have been maintained at Oxford by her money, " he said, pausingin his bitterness on every word. 

"Not by that only, Taffy! There was your scholarship . . . And itwas true about my savings on the lace-work. . . . "

But he brushed her feeble explanations away with a little gesture ofimpatience. "Oh why, mother?--Oh why?"

She heard him groan and stretched out her arms. 

"Taffy, forgive me--forgive us! We did wrongly, I see--I see it asplain now as you. But we did it for your sake. "

"You should have told me. I was not a child. Yes, yes, you shouldhave told me. "

Yes; there lay the truth. They had treated him as a child when hewas no longer a child. They had swathed him round with love, forgetting that boys grow and demand to see with their own eyes andwalk on their own feet. To every mother of sons there comes sooneror later the sharp lesson which came to Humility that morning; andfew can find any defence but that which Humility stammered, sittingin her chair and gazing piteously up at the tall youth confrontingher: "I did it for your sake. " Be pitiful, oh accusing sons, in thathour! For, terrible as your case may be against them, your mothersare speaking the simple truth. 

Taffy took her hand. "The money must be paid back, every penny ofit. "

"Yes, dear. "

"How much?"

Humility kept a small account-book in the work-box beside her. She opened the pages, but, seeing his outstretched hand, gave itobediently to Taffy, who took it to the window. 

"Almost two hundred pounds. " He knit his brows and began to drum withhis fingers on the window-pane. "And we must put the interest atfive per cent. . . . With my first in Moderations I might find somepost as an usher in a small school. . . . There's an agency whichputs you in the way of such things: I must look up the address. . . . We will leave this house, of course. "

"Must we?"

"Why of course we must. We are living here by _her_ favour. A cottage will do--only it must have four rooms, because ofgrandmother. . . . I will step over and talk with Mendarva. He may be able to give me a job. It will keep me going, at any rate, until I hear from the agency. "

"You forget that I have over forty pounds a year--or, rather, motherhas. The capital came from the sale of her farm, years ago. "

"Did it?" said Taffy grimly. "You forget that I have never beentold. Well, that's good, so far as it goes. But now I'll step overand see Mendarva. If only I could catch this cowardly lie somewhereon my way!"

He kissed his mother, caught up his cap, and flung out of the house. The sea breeze came humming across the sandhills. He opened hislungs to it, and it was wine to his blood; he felt strong enough toslay dragons. "But who could the liar be? Not Lizzie herself, surely! Not--"

He pulled up short in a hollow of the towans. 

"Not--George?"

Treachery is a hideous thing; and to youth so incomprehensiblyhideous that it darkens the sun. Yet every trusting man must bebetrayed. That was one of the lessons of Christ's life on earth. It is the last and severest test; it kills many, morally, and no manwho has once met and looked it in the face departs the same man, though he may be a stronger one. 

"_Not George?_"

Taffy stood there so still that the rabbits crept out and, catchingsight of him, paused in the mouths of their burrows. When at lengthhe moved on it was to take, not the path which wound inland toMendarva's, but the one which led straight over the higher moors toCarwithiel. 

It was between one and two o'clock when he reached the house andasked to see Mr. And Mrs. George Vyell, They were not at home, thefootman said; had left for Falmouth the evening before to join somefriends on a yachting cruise. Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed, lunching at that moment; but would no doubt be pleased to see Mr. Raymond. 

Sir Harry had finished his lunch, and sat sipping his claret andtossing scraps of biscuits to the dogs. 

"Hullo, Raymond!--thought you were in Oxford. Sit down, my boy;delighted to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for Mr. Raymond. The cutlets are cold, I'm afraid; but I can recommend the coldsaddle, and the ham--it's a York ham. Go to the sideboard and foragefor yourself. I wanted company. My boy and Honoria are at Falmouthyachting, and have left me alone. What, you won't eat? A glass ofclaret, then, at any rate. "

"To tell the truth, Sir Harry, " Taffy began awkwardly. "I've come ona disagreeable business. "

Sir Harry's face fell. He hated disagreeable business. He flipped apiece of biscuit at his spaniel's nose and sat back, crossing hislegs. 

"Won't it keep?"

"To me it's important. "

"Oh, fire away then: only help yourself to the claret first. "

"A girl--Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona--has had a childborn--"

"Stop a moment. Do I know her?--Ah, to be sure--daughter of oldPezzack, the light-keeper--a brown-coloured girl with her hair overher eyes. Well, I'm not surprised. Wants money, I suppose?Who's the father?"

"I don't know. "

"Well, but--damn it all!--somebody knows. " Sir Harry reached for thebottle and refilled his glass. 

"The one thing I know is that Honoria--Mrs. George, I mean--has heardabout it, and suspects me. "

Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced at him over the rim. "That's the devil. Does she, now?" He sipped. "She hasn't beenherself for a day or two--this explains it. I thought it was changeof air she wanted. She's in the deuce of a rage, you bet. "

"She is, " said Taffy grimly. 

"There's no prude like your young married woman. But it'll blowover, my boy. My advice to you is to keep out of the way for awhile. "

"But--but it's a lie!" broke in the indignant Taffy. "As far as I amconcerned there's not a grain of truth in it!"

"Oh--I beg your pardon, I'm sure. " Here Honoria's terrier (the onewhich George had bought for her at Plymouth) interrupted by beggingfor a biscuit, and Sir Harry balanced one carefully on its nose. "On trust--good dog! What does the girl say herself?"

"I don't know. I've not seen her. "

"Then, my dear fellow--it's awkward, I admit--but I'm dashed if I seewhat you expect me to do. " The baronet pulled out a handkerchief andbegan flicking the crumbs off his knees. 

Taffy watched him for a minute in silence. He was asking himself whyhe had come. Well, he had come in a hot fit of indignation, meaningto face Honoria and force her to take back the insult of hersuspicion. But after all--suppose George were at the bottom of it?Clearly Sir Henry knew nothing, and in any case could not be asked toexpose his own son. And Honoria? Let be that she would neverbelieve--that he had no proof, no evidence even--this were a prettyway of beginning to discharge his debt to her! The terrier thrust acold muzzle against his hand. The room was very still. Sir Harrypoured out another glassful and held out the decanter. "Come, youmust drink; I insist!"

Taffy looked up. "Thank you, I will. "

He could now and with a clear conscience. In those quiet moments hehad taken the great resolution. The debt should be paid back, andwith interest; not at five per cent. , but at a rate beyond thecreditor's power of reckoning. For the interest to be guarded forher should be her continued belief in the man she loved. Yes, _but if George were innocent?_ Why, then the sacrifice would beidle; that was all. 

He swallowed the wine, and stood up. 

"Must you be going? I wanted a chat with you about Oxford, " grumbledSir Harry; but noting the lad's face, how white and drawn it was, herelented, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't take it tooseriously, my boy. It'll blow over--it'll blow over. Honoria likesyou, I know. We'll see what the trollop says: and if I get a chanceof putting in a good word, you may depend on me. "

He walked with Taffy to the door--good, easy man--and waved a handfrom the porch. On the whole, he was rather glad than not to see hisyoung friend's back. 

From his smithy window Mendarva spied Taffy coming along the road, and stepped out on the green to shake hands with him. 

"Pleased to see your face, my son! You'll excuse my not asking 'eeinside; but the fact is"--he jerked his thumb towards the smithy--"we've a-got our troubles in there. "

It came on our youth with something of a shock that the world hadroom for any trouble beside his own. 

"'Tis the Dane. He went over to Truro yesterday to the wrastlin', an' got thrawed. I tell'n there's no call to be shamed. 'Twas Lukethe Wendron fella did it--in the treble play--inside lock backward, and as pretty a chip as ever I see. " Mendarva began to illustrate itwith foot and ankle, but checked himself, and glanced nervously overhis shoulder. "Isn' lookin', I hope? He's in a terrible pore aboutit. Won't trust hissel' to spake, and don't want to see nobody. But, as I tell'n, there's no call to be shamed; the fella took thebelt in the las' round, and turned his man over like a tab. He's aproper angletwitch, that Wendron fella. Stank 'pon en both ends, andhe'll rise up in the middle and look at 'ee. There was no one apatch on en but the Dane; and I'll back the Dane next time theyclinch. 'Tis a nuisance, though, to have'n like this--with a big jobcoming on, too, over to the light-house. "

Taffy looked steadily at the smith. "What's doing at thelight-house?"

"Ha'n't 'ee heerd?" Mendarva began a long tale, the sum of which wasthat the light-house had begun of late to show signs of age, to rockat times in an ominous manner. The Trinity House surveyor had beendown and reported, and Mendarva had the contract for some immediaterepairs. "But 'tis patching an old kettle, my son. The foundationsbe clamped down to the rock, and the clamps have worked loose. The whole thing'll have to come down in the end; you mark my words. "

"But, these repairs?" Taffy interrupted: "You'll be wanting hands. "

"Why, o' course. "

"And a foreman--a clerk of the works--"

While Mendarva was telling his tale, over a hill two miles to thewestward a small donkey-cart crawled for a minute against thesky-line and disappeared beyond the ridge which hid the towans. An old man trudged at the donkey's head; and a young woman sat in thecart with a bundle in her arms. 

The old man trudged along so deep in thought that when the donkeywithout rhyme or reason came to a halt, half-way down the hill, hetoo halted, and stood pulling a wisp of grey side-whiskers. 

"Look here, " he said. "You ent goin' to tell? That's your las'word, is it?"

The young woman looked down on the bundle and nodded her head. 

"There, that'll do. If you weant, you weant; I've tek'n 'ee back, an' us must fit and make the best o't. The cheeld'll never be goodfor much--born lame like that. But 'twas to be, I s'pose. "

Lizzie sat dumb, but hugged the bundle closer. 

"'Tis like a judgment. If your mother'd been spared, 'twudn' havehappened. But 'twas to be, I s'pose. The Lord's ways be pastfindin' out. "

He woke up and struck the donkey across the rump. 

"Gwan you! Gee up! What d'ee mean by stoppin' like that?"

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE SERVICE OF THE LAMP. 

The Chief Engineer of the Trinity House was a man of few words. He and Taffy had spent the afternoon clambering about the rocks belowthe light-house, peering into its foundations. Here and there, whereweed coated the rocks and made foothold slippery, he took the handwhich Taffy held out. Now and then he paused for a pinch of snuff. The round of inspection finished, he took an extraordinarily longpinch. 

"What's _your_ opinion?" he asked, cocking his head on one side andexamining the young man much as he had examined the light-house. "You have one, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; but of course it doesn't count for much. "

"I asked for it. "

"Well, then, I think, sir, we have wasted a year's work; and if we goon tinkering we shall waste more. "

"Pull it down and rebuild, you say?"

"Yes, sir; but not on the same rock. "

"Why?"

"This rock was ill-chosen. You see, sir, just here a ridge of elvancrops up through the slate; the rock, out yonder, is good elvan, andthat is why the sea has made an island of it, wearing away the softerstuff inshore. The mischief here lies in the rock, not in thelight-house. "

"The sea has weakened our base?"

"Partly: but the light-house has done more. In a strong gale thefoundations begin to work, and in the chafing the rock gets the worstof it. "

"What about concrete?"

"You might fill up the sockets with concrete; but I doubt, sir, ifthe case would hold for any time. The rock is a mere shell inplaces, especially on the north-western side. "

"H'm. You were at Oxford for a time, were you not?"

"Yes, sir, " Taffy answered, wondering. 

"I've heard about you. Where do you live?"

Taffy pointed to the last of a line of three whitewashed cottagesbehind the light-house. 

"Alone?"

"No, sir; with my mother and my grandmother. She is an invalid. "

"I wonder if your mother would be kind enough to offer me a cup oftea?"

In the small kitchen, on the walls of which, and even on the dresser, Taffy's books fought for room with Humility's plates and tin-ware, the Chief Engineer proved to be a most courteous old gentleman. Towards Humility he bore himself with an antique politeness whichflattered her considerably. And when he praised her tea she almostforgave him for his detestable habit of snuff-taking. 

He had heard something (it appeared) from the President of Taffy'scollege, and also from--(he named Taffy's old friend in the velvetcollege-cap). In later days Taffy maintained not only that every manmust try to stand alone, but that he ought to try the harder becauseof its impossibility; for in fact it was impossible to escape frommen's helpfulness. And though his work was done in lonely placeswhere in the end fame came out to seek him, he remained the same boywho, waking in the dark, had heard the bugles speaking comfort. 

As a matter of fact his college had generously offered him a chancewhich would have cost him nothing or next to nothing, of continuingto read for his degree. But he had chosen his line, and againstHumility's entreaties he stuck to it. The Chief Engineer took aceremonious leave. He had to drive back to his hotel, and Taffyescorted him to his carriage. 

"I shall run over again to-morrow, " he said at parting; "and we'llhave a look at that island rock. " He was driven off, secretly alittle puzzled. 

Well, it puzzled Taffy at times why he should be working here withMendarva's men for twenty shillings a week (it had been eighteen, tobegin with) when he might be reading for his degree and a fellowship. Yet in his heart he knew the reason. _That_ would be building, afterall, on the foundations which Honoria had laid. 

Pride had helped chance to bring him here, to the very spot whereLizzie Pezzack lived. He met her daily, and several times a day. She, and his mother and grandmother, were all the women-folk in thehamlet--if three cottages deserve that name. In the first cottageLizzie lived with her father, who was chief light-houseman, and hercrippled child; two under-keepers, unmarried men, managed together inthe second; and this accident allowed Taffy to rent the third fromthe Brethren of the Trinity House and live close to his daily work. Unless brought by business, no one visited that windy peninsula; noone passed within sight of it; no tree grew upon it or could be seenfrom it. At daybreak Taffy's workmen came trudging along the trackwhere the short turf and gentians grew between the wheel-ruts; and inthe evening went trudging back, the level sun flashing on their emptydinner-cans. The eight souls left behind had one common gospel--Cleanliness. Very little dust found its way thither; but the salt, spray-laden air kept them constantly polishing window-panes andbrass-work. To wash, to scour, to polish, grew into the oneabsorbing business of life. They had no gossip; even in their owndwellings they spoke but little; their speech shrank and dwindledaway in the continuous roar of the sea. But from morning to night, mechanically, they washed and scoured and polished. Paper was notwhiter than the deal table and dresser which Humility scrubbed dailywith soap and water, and once a week with lemon-juice as well. Never was cleaner linen to sight and smell than that which she peggedout by the furze-brake on the ridge. All the life of the smallcolony, though lonely, grew wholesome as it was simple of purpose incottages thus sweetened and kept sweet by limewash and the salt wind. 

And through it moved the forlorn figure of Lizzie Pezzack's child. Somehow Lizzie had taught the boy to walk, with the help of a crutch, as early as most children; but the wind made cruel sport with hisfirst efforts in the open, knocking the crutch from under him atevery third step, and laying him flat. The child had pluck, however;and when autumn came round again, could face a fairly stiff breeze. 

It was about this time that word came of the Trinity Board'sintention to replace the old lighthouse with one upon the outer rock. For the Chief Engineer had visited it and decided that Taffy wasright. To be sure no mention was made of Taffy in his report; butthe great man took the first opportunity to offer him the post offoreman of the works, so there was certainly nothing to be grumbledat. The work did not actually start until the following spring; forthe rock, to receive the foundations, had to be bored some feet belowhigh-water level, and this could only be attempted on calm days orwhen a southerly wind blew from the high land well over the workmen'sheads, leaving the inshore water smooth. On such days Taffy, lookingup from his work, would catch sight of a small figure on thecliff-top leaning aslant to the wind and watching. 

For the child was adventurous and took no account of his lameness. Perhaps if he thought of it at all, having no chance to comparehimself with other children, he accepted his lameness as a conditionof childhood--something he would grow out of. His mother could notkeep him indoors; he fidgeted continually. But he would sit or standquiet by the hour on the cliff-top watching the men as they drilledand fixed the dynamite, and waiting for the bang of it. Best of all, however, were the days when his grandfather allowed him inside thelight-house, to clamber about the staircase and ladders, to watch theoiling and trimming of the great lantern, and the ships moving slowlyon the horizon. He asked a thousand questions about them. 

"I think, " said he one day before he was three years old, "that myfather is in one of those ships. "

"Bless the child!" exclaimed old Pezzack. "Who says you have afather?"

"_Everybody_ has a father. Dicky Tregenza has one; they both workdown at the rock. I asked Dicky, and he told me. "

"Told 'ee what?"

"That everybody has a father. I asked him if mine was out in one ofthose ships, and he said very likely. I asked mother, too, but shewas washing-up and wouldn't listen. "

Old Pezzack regarded the child grimly. "'Twas to be, I s'pose, " hemuttered. 

Lizzie Pezzack had never set foot inside the Raymonds' cottage. Humility, gentle soul as she was, could on some points be asunchristian as other women. As time went on it seemed that not asoul beside herself and Taffy knew of Honoria's suspicion. She evendoubted, and Taffy doubted too, if Lizzie herself knew such anaccusation had been made. Certainly never by word or look had Lizziehinted at it. Yet Humility could not find it in her heart toforgive her. "She may be innocent, " was the thought; "but throughher came the injury to my son. " Taffy by this time had no doubt atall. It was George who poisoned Honoria's ear; George's shame andHonoria's pride would explain why the whisper had never gonefurther; and nothing else would explain. 

Did his mother guess this? He believed so at times, but they neverspoke of it. 

The lame child was often in the Raymonds' kitchen. Lizzie did notforbid or resent this. And he liked Humility, and would talk to herat length while he nibbled one of her dripping-cakes. "People don'ttell the truth, " he observed sagely on one of these occasions. (He pronounced it "troof, " by the way. ) "_I_ know why we live here. It's because we're near the sea. My father's on the sea somewherelooking for us, and grandfather lights the lamp every night to tellhim where we are. One night he'll see it and bring his ship in andtake us all off together. "

"Who told you all this?"

"Nobody. People won't tell me nothing (nofing). I has to make itout in my head. "

At times, when his small limbs grew weary (though he neveracknowledged this) he would stretch himself on the short turf of theheadland and lie staring up at the white gulls. No one ever camenear enough to surprise the look which then crept over the child'sface. But Taffy, passing him at a distance, remembered another smallboy, and shivered to remember and compare--

 "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "

--But how when the boy is a cripple?

One afternoon he was stooping to inspect an obstinate piece of boringwhen the man at his elbow said:

"Hullo! edn' that young Joey Pezzack in diffities up there? Blest ifthe cheeld won't break his neck wan of these days!"

Taffy caught up a coil of rope, sprang into a boat, and pushed acrossto land. "Don't move!" he shouted. At the foot of the cliff hepicked up Joey's crutch and ran at full speed up the path worn by theworkmen. This led him round to the verge ten feet above the ledgewhere the child clung white and silent. He looped the rope in arunning noose and lowered it. 

"Slip this under your arms. Can you manage, or shall I come down?I'll come if you're hurt. "

"I've twisted my foot. It's all right, now you're come, " said thelittle man bravely; and slid the rope round himself in the mostbusiness-like way. 

"The grass was slipper--" he began, as soon as his feet touched firmearth: and with that he broke down and fell to sobbing in Taffy'sarms. 

Taffy carried him--a featherweight--to the cottage where Lizzie stoodby her table washing up. She saw them at the gate and came runningout. 

"It's all right. He slipped--out on the cliff. Nothing more than ascratch or two, and perhaps a sprained ankle. "

He watched while she set Joey in a chair and began to pull off hisstockings. He had never seen the child's foot naked. She turnedsuddenly, caught him looking, and pulled the stocking back over thedeformity. 

"Have you heard?" she asked. 

"What?"

"_She_ has a boy! Ah!" she laughed harshly, "I thought that wouldhurt you. Well, you _have_ been a silly!"

"I don't think I understand. "

"You don't think you understand!" she mimicked. "And you're not fondof her, eh? Never were fond of her, eh? You silly--to let him takeher, and never tell!"

"Tell?"

She faced him, hardening her gaze. "Yes, tell--" She nodded slowly;while Joey, unobserved by either, looked up with wide, round eyes. 

"Men don't fight like that. " The words were out before it struck himthat one man had, almost certainly, fought like that. Her face, however, told him nothing. She could not know. "_You_ have nevertold, " he added. 

"Because--" she began, but could not tell him the whole truth. And yet what he said was true. "Because you would not let me, " shemuttered. 

"In the churchyard, you mean--on her wedding day?"

"Before that. "

"But before that I never guessed. "

"All the same I knew what you were. You wouldn' have let me. It came to the same thing. And if I had told--Oh, you make it hardfor me!" she wailed. 

He stared at her, understanding this only--that somehow he couldcontrol her will. 

"I will never let you tell, " he said gravely. 

"I hate her!"

"You shall not tell. "

"Listen"--she drew close and touched his arm. "He never cared forher; it's not his way to care. She cares for him now, I dessay--notas she might have cared for _you_--but she's his wife, and some womenare like that. There's her pride, any way. Suppose--suppose he cameback to me?"

"If I caught him--" Taffy began: but the poor child, who for twominutes had been twisting his face heroically, interrupted with awail:

"Oh, mother! my foot--it hurts so!"

CHAPTER XXIV. 

FACE TO FACE. 

The first winter had interrupted all work upon the rock; but Taffyand his men had used the calm days of the following spring and summerto such purpose that before the end of July the foundations began toshow above high-water neaps, and in September he was able to reportthat the building could be pushed forward in any ordinary weather. The workmen were carried to and from the mainland by a wire hawserand cradle, and the rising breastwork of masonry protected them fromthe beat of the sea. Progress was slow, for each separate stone hadto be dovetailed above, below, and on all sides with the blocksadjoining it, besides being cemented; and care to be taken that nosalt mingled with the fresh water, or found its way into the jointsof the building. Taffy studied the barometer hour by hour, and kepta constant look-out to windward against sudden gales. 

On November 16th the men had finished their dinner, and sat smokingunder the lee of the wall, when Taffy, with his pocket-aneroid in hishand, gave the order to snug down and man the cradle for shore. They stared. The morning had been a halcyon one; and the northerlybreeze, which had sprung up with the turn of the tide and wasfreshening, carried no cloud across the sky. Two vessels, abrigantine and a three-masted schooner, were merrily reachingdown-channel before it, the brigantine leading; at two miles'distance they could see distinctly the white foam running from herbluff bows, and her forward deck from bulwark to bulwark as sheheeled to it. 

One or two grumbled. Half a day's work meant half a day's pay tothem. It was all very well for the Cap'n, who drew his by the week. 

"Come, look alive!" Taffy called sharply. He pinned his faith tothe barometer, and as he shut it in its case he glanced at thebrigantine and saw that her crew were busy with the braces, flattening the forward canvas. "See there, boys. There'll be a galefrom the west'ard before night. "

For a minute the brigantine seemed to have run into a calm. The schooner, half a mile behind her, came reaching along steadily. 

"That there two-master's got a fool for a skipper, " grumbled a voice. But almost at the moment the wind took her right aback--or would havedone so had the crew not been preparing for it. Her stern swungslowly around into view, and within two minutes she was fetching awayfrom them on the port tack, her sails hauled closer and closer as shewent. Already the schooner was preparing to follow suit. 

"Snug down, boys! We must be out of this in half an hour. "

And sure enough, by the time Taffy gained the cliff by the oldlight-house, the sky had darkened, and a stiff breeze from thenorth-west, crossing the tide, was beginning to work up a nasty seaaround the rock and lop it from time to time over the masonry and theplatforms where half an hour before his men had been standing. The two vessels had disappeared in the weather; and as Taffy staredin their direction a spit of rain--the first--took him viciously inthe face. 

He turned his back to it and hurried homeward. As he passed thelight-house door old Pezzack called out to him:

"Hi! wait a bit! Would 'ee mind seein' Joey home? I dunno what hismother sent him over here for, not I. He'll get hisself leakin'. "

Joey came hobbling out, and put his right hand in Taffy's with thefist doubled. 

"What's that in your hand?"

Joey looked up shyly. "You won't tell?"

"Not if it's a secret. "

The child opened his palm and disclosed a bright half-crown piece. 

"Where on earth did you get that?"

"The soldier gave it to me. "

"The soldier? nonsense! What tale are you making up?"

"Well, he had a red coat, so he _must_ be a soldier. He gave it tome, and told me to be a good boy and run off and play. "

Taffy came to a halt. "Is he here--up at the cottages?"

"How funnily you say that! No, he's just rode away. I watched himfrom the light-house windows. He can't be gone far yet. "

"Look here, Joey--can you run?"

"Yes, if you hold my hand; only you mustn't go too fast. Oh, you'rehurting!"

Taffy took the child in his arms, and with the wind at his back wentup the hill with long stride. "There he is!" cried Joey as theygained the ridge; and he pointed; and Taffy, looking along the ridge, saw a speck of scarlet moving against the lead-coloured moors--half amile away perhaps, or a little more. He sat the child down, for thecottages were close by. "Run home, sonny. I'm going to have a lookat the soldier, too. "

The first bad squall broke on the headland just as Taffy started torun. It was as if a bag of water had burst right overhead, andwithin a quarter of a minute he was drenched to the skin. So fiercely it went howling inland along the ridge that he halfexpected to see the horse urged into a gallop before it. But therider, now standing high for a moment against the sky-line, wentplodding on. For a while horse and man disappeared over the rise;but Taffy guessed that on hitting the cross-path beyond it they wouldstrike away to the left and descend toward Langona Creek; and hebegan to slant his course to the left in anticipation. The tide, heknew, would be running in strong; and with this wind behind it hehoped--and caught himself praying--that it would be high enough tocover the wooden foot-bridge and make the ford impassable; and if so, the horseman would be delayed and forced to head back and fetch acircuit farther up the valley. 

By this time the squalls were coming fast on each other's heels, andthe strength of them flung him forward at each stride. He had losthis hat, and the rain poured down his back and squished in his boots. But all he felt was the hate in his heart. It had gathered therelittle by little for three years and a half, pent up, fed by hissilent thoughts as a reservoir by small mountain streams; and with sotranquil a surface that at times--poor youth!--he had honestlybelieved it reflected God's calm, had been proud of his magnanimity, and said "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespassagainst us. " Now as he ran he prayed to the same God to delay thetraitor at the ford. 

Dusk was falling when George, yet unaware of pursuit, turned down thesunken lane which ended beside the ford. And by the shore, when thesmall waves lapped against his mare's fore-feet, he heard Taffy'sshout for the first time and turned in his saddle. Even so it was asecond or two before he recognised the figure which came plungingdown the low cliff on his left, avoiding a fall only by wild clutchesat the swaying elder boughs. 

"Hello!" he shouted cheerfully. "Looks nasty, doesn't it?"

Taffy came down the beach, near enough to see that the mare's legswere plastered with mud, and to look up into his enemy's face. 

"Get down, " he panted. 

"Hey?"

"Get down, I tell you. Come off your horse and put up your fists!"

"What the devil is the matter? Hello! . . . Keep off, I tell you!Are you mad?"

"Come off and fight. "

"By God, I'll break your head in if you don't let go. . . . Youidiot!"--as the mare plunged and tore the stirrup-leather fromTaffy's grip--"She'll brain you, if you fool round her heels likethat!"

"Come off, then. "

"Very well. " George backed a little, swung himself out of the saddleand faced him on the beach. "Now perhaps you'll explain. "

"You've come from the headland?"

"Well?"

"From Lizzie Pezzack's. "

"Well, and what then?"

"Only this, that so sure as you've a wife at home, if you come to theheadland again I'll kill you; and if you're a man, you'll put up yourfists now. "

"Oh, that's it? May I ask what you have to do with my wife, or withLizzie Pezzack?"

"Whose child is Lizzie's?"

"Not yours, is it?"

"You said so once; you told your wife so; liar that you were. "

"Very good, my gentleman. You shall have what you want. Woa, mare!"He led her up the beach and sought for a branch to tie his reins to. The mare hung back, terrified by the swishing of the whipped boughsand the roar of the gale overhead: her hoofs, as George dragged herforward, scuffled with the loose-lying stones on the beach. After aminute he desisted and turned on Taffy again. 

"Look here; before we have this out there's one thing I'd like toknow. When you were at Oxford, was Honoria maintaining you there?"

"If you must know--yes. "

"And when--when this happened, she stopped the supplies?"

"Yes. "

"Well, then, I didn't know it. She never told me. "

"She never told _me_. "

"You don't say--"

"I do. I never knew it until too late. "

"Well, now, I'm going to fight you. I don't swallow being called aliar. But I tell you this first, that I'm damned sorry. I neverguessed that it injured your prospects. "

At another time, in another mood, Taffy might have remembered thatGeorge was George, and heir to Sir Harry's nature. As it was, theapology threw oil on the flame. 

"You cur! Do you think it was _that?_ And _you_ are Honoria'shusband!" He advanced with an ugly laugh. "For the last time, put upyour fists. "

They had been standing within two yards of each other; and even so, shouted at the pitch of their voices to make themselves heard abovethe gale. As Taffy took a step forward George lifted his whip. His left hand held the bridle on which the reluctant mare wasdragging, and the action was merely instinctive, to guard againstsudden attack. 

But as he did so his face and uplifted arm were suddenly paintedclear against the darkness. The mare plunged more wildly than ever. Taffy dropped his hands and swung round. Behind him, the blackcontour of the hill, the whole sky welled up a pale blue light whichgathered brightness while he stared. The very stones on the beach athis feet shone separate and distinct. 

"What is it?" George gasped. 

"A ship on the rocks! Quick, man! Will the mare reach to Innis?"

"She'll have to. " George wheeled her round. She was fagged out withtwo long gallops after hounds that day, but for the moment sheerterror made her lively enough. 

"Ride, then! Call up the coast-guard. By the flare she must besomewhere off the creek here. Ride!"

A clatter of hoofs answered him as the mare pounded up the lane. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WRECK OF THE "SAMARITAN. "

Taffy stood for a moment listening. He judged the wreck to besomewhere on the near side of the light-house, between it and themouth of the creek; that was, if she had already struck. If not, thegale and the set of the tide together would be sweeping her eastward, perhaps right across the mouth of the creek. And if he coulddiscover this his course would be to run back, intercept thecoast-guard, and send him around by the upper bridge. 

He waited for a second signal to guide him--a flare or a rocket: butnone came. The beach lay in the lew of the weather, deep in thehills' hollow and trebly land-locked by the windings of the creek, but above him the sky kept its screaming as though the bare ridges ofthe headland were being shelled by artillery. 

He resolved to keep along the lower slopes and search his way down tothe creek's mouth, when he would have sight of any signal shown alongthe coast for a mile or two to the east and north-east. The nightwas now as black as a wolf's throat, but he knew every path andfence. So he scrambled up the low cliff and began to run, followingthe line of stunted oaks and tamarisks which fenced it, and on theridges--where the blown hail took him in the face--crouching andscuttling like a crab sideways, moving his legs only from the kneesdown. 

In this way he had covered half a mile and more when his right footplunged in a rabbit hole and he was pitched headlong into thetamarisks below. Their boughs bent under his weight, but they weretough, and he caught at them, and just saved himself from rollingover into the black water. He picked himself up and began to rub histwisted ankle. And at that instant, in a lull between two gusts, hisear caught the sound of splashing, yet a sound so unlike the lappingof the driven tide that he peered over and down between the tamariskboughs. 

"Hullo there!"

"Hullo!" a voice answered. "Is that someone alive? Here, mate--forChrist's sake!"

"Hold on! Whereabouts are you?"

"Down in this here cruel water. " The words ended in a shudderingcough. 

"Right--hold on for a moment!" Taffy's ankle pained him, but thewrench was not serious. The cliff shelved easily. He slid down, clutching at the tamarisk boughs which whipped his face. "Where areyou? I can't see. "

"Here!" The voice was not a dozen yards away. 

"Swimming?"

"No--I've got a water-breaker--can't hold on much longer. "

"I believe you can touch bottom there. "

"Hey? I can't hear. "

"Try to touch bottom. It's firm sand hereabouts. "

"So I can. " The splashing and coughing came nearer, came close. Taffy stretched out a hand. A hand, icy-cold, fumbled and gripped itin the darkness. 

"Christ! Where's a place to lie down?"

"Here, on this rock. " They peered at each other, but could not see. The man's teeth chattered close to Taffy's ear. 

"Warm my hands, mate--there's a good chap. " He lay on the rock andpanted. Taffy took his hands and began to rub them briskly. 

"Where's the ship?"

"Where's the ship?" He seemed to turn over the question in his mind, and then stretched himself with a sigh. "How the hell should Iknow?"

"What's her name?" Taffy had to ask the question twice. 

"The _Samaritan_, of Newport, brigantine. Coals she carried. Ha'n't you such a thing as a match? It seems funny to me, talkin'here like this, and me not knowin' you from Adam. "

He panted between the words, and when he had finished lay back andpanted again. 

"Hurt?" asked Taffy after a while. 

The man sat up and began to feel his limbs, quite as though theybelonged to some other body. "No, I reckon not. "

"Then we'd best be starting. The tide's rising. My house is justabove here. "

He led the way along the slippery foreshore until he found what hesought, a foot-track slanting up the cliff. Here he gave the sailora hand and they mounted together. On the grass slope above they metthe gale and were forced to drop on their hands and knees and crawl, Taffy leading and shouting instructions, the sailor answering eachwith "Ay, ay, mate!" to show that he understood. 

But about half-way up these answers ceased, and Taffy, looking roundand calling, found himself alone. He groped his way back for twentyyards, and found the man stretched on his face and moaning. 

"I can't . . . I can't! My poor brother! I can't!"

Taffy knelt beside him on the soaking turf. "Your brother? Had youa brother on board?"

The man bowed his face again upon the turf. Taffy, upright on bothknees, heard him sobbing like a child in the roaring darkness. 

"Come, " he coaxed, and putting out a hand, touched his wet hair. "Come. " They crept forward again, but still as he followed thesailor cried for his drowned brother, up the long slope to the ridgeof the headland, where, with the light-house and warm cottage windowsin view, all speech and hearing were drowned by stinging hail and theblown grit of the causeway. 

Humility opened the door to them. 

"Taffy! Where have you been?"

"There has been a wreck. "

"Yes, yes--the coast-guard is down by the light-house. The men theresaw her before she struck. They kept signalling till it fell dark. They had sent off before that. "

She drew back, shrinking against the dresser as the lamplight fell onthe stranger. Taffy turned and stared too. The man's face wasrunning with blood; and looking at his own hands he saw that theyalso were scarlet. 

He helped the poor wretch to a chair. 

"Bandages: can you manage?" She nodded, and stepped to a cupboard. The sailor began to wail again like an infant. 

"See--above the temple here: the cut isn't serious. " Taffy took downa lantern and lit it. The candle shone red through the smears hisfingers left on the horn panes. "I must go and help, if you canmanage. "

"I can manage, " she answered quietly. 

He strode out, and closing the door behind him with an effort, facedthe gale again. Down in the lee of the light-house the lamps of thecoast-guard carriage gleamed foggily through the rain. The men werethere discussing, George among them. He had just galloped up. 

The Chief Officer went off to question the survivor, while the restbegan their search. They searched all that night; they burned flaresand shouted; their torches dotted the cliffs. After an hour theChief Officer returned. He could make nothing of the sailor, who hadfallen silly from exhaustion or the blow on his head; but he dividedhis men into three parties, and they began to hunt moresystematically. Taffy was told off to help the westernmost gang andsearch the rocks below the light-house. Once or twice he and hiscomrades paused in their work, hearing, as they thought, a cry forhelp. But when they listened, it was only one of the other partieshailing. 

The gale began to abate soon after midnight, and before dawn hadblown itself out. Day came, filtered slowly through the wrack of itto the south-east; and soon they heard a whistle blown, and there onthe cliff above them was George Vyell on horseback, in his red coat, with an arm thrown out and pointing eastward. He turned and gallopedoff in that direction. 

They scrambled up and followed. To their astonishment, afterfollowing the cliffs for a few hundred yards, he headed inland, downand across the very slope up which Taffy had crawled with the sailor. 

They lost sight of his red coat among the ridges. Two or three--Taffy amongst them--ran along the upper ground for a better view. 

"Well, this beats all!" panted the foremost. 

Below them George came into view again, heading now at full gallopfor a group of men gathered by the shore of the creek, a goodhalf-mile from its mouth. And beyond--midway across the sandy bedwhere the river wound--lay the hull of a vessel, high and dry; herdeck, naked of wheelhouse and hatches, canted toward them as if tocover from the morning the long wounds ripped by her uprooted masts. 

The men beside him shouted and ran on, but Taffy stood still. It wasmonstrous--a thing inconceivable--that the seas should have lifted avessel of three hundred tons and carried her half a mile up thatshallow creek. Yet there she lay. A horrible thought seized him. Could she have been there last night when he had drawn the sailorashore? And had he left four or five others to drown close by, inthe darkness? No, the tide at that hour had scarcely passedhalf-flood. He thanked God for that. 

Well, there she lay, high and dry, with plenty to attend to her. It was time for him to discover the damage done to the light-houseplant and machinery, perhaps to the building itself. In half an hourthe workmen would be arriving. 

He walked slowly back to the house, and found Humility preparingbreakfast. 

"Where is he?" Taffy asked, meaning the sailor. "In bed?"

"Didn't you meet him? He went out five minutes ago--I couldn't keephim--to look for his brother, he said. "

Taffy drank a cupful of tea, took up a crust, and made for the door. 

"Go to bed, dear, " his mother pleaded. "You must be worn out. "

"I must see how the works have stood it. "

On the whole, they had stood it well. The gale, indeed, had tornaway the wire table and cage, and thus cut off for the time allaccess to the outer rock; for while the sea ran at its present heightthe scramble out along the ridge could not be attempted even at lowwater. But from the cliff he could see the worst. The waves hadwashed over the building, tearing off the temporary covers, andchurning all within. Planks, scaffolding--everything floatable-hadgone, and strewed the rock with matchwood; and--a marvel to see-oneof his two heaviest winches had been lifted from inside, hurled cleanover the wall, and lay collapsed in the wreckage of its cast-ironframe. But, so far as he could see, the dovetailed masonry stoodintact. A voice hailed him. 

"What a night! What a night!"

It was old Pezzack, aloft on the gallery of the light-house in hisyellow oilers, already polishing the lantern panes. 

Taffy's workmen came straggling and gathered about him. They discussed the damage together but without addressing Taffy;until a little pock-marked fellow, the wag of the gang, nudged a mateslily and said aloud--

"By God, Bill, we _can_ build a bit--you and me and the boss!"

All the men laughed; and Taffy laughed too, blushing. Yes; this hadbeen in his mind. He had measured his work against the sea in itsfury, and the sea had not beaten him. 

A cry broke in upon their laughter. It came from the base of thecliff to the right: a cry so insistent that they ran toward it in abody. 

Far below them, on the edge of a great boulder which rose from thebroken water and seemed to overhang it, stood the rescued sailor. Hewas pointing. 

Taffy was the first to reach him!

"It's my brother! It's my brother Sam!"

Taffy flung himself full length on the rock and peered over. A tangle of ore-weed awash rose and fell about its base; and fromunder this, as the frothy waves drew back, he saw a man's ankleprotruding, and a foot still wearing a shoe. 

"It's my brother!" wailed the sailor again. "I can swear to the shoeof en!"

CHAPTER XXVI. 

SALVAGE. 

One of the masons lowered himself into the pool, and thrusting an armbeneath the ore-weed, began to grope. 

"He's pinned here. The rock's right on top of him. "

Taffy examined the rock. It weighed fifteen tons if an ounce; butthere were fresh and deep scratches upon it. He pointed these out tothe men, who looked and felt them with their hands and stared at thesubsiding waves, trying to bring their minds to the measure of thespent gale. 

"Here, I must get out of this!" said the man in the pool, as a smallwave dashed in and sent its spray over his bowed shoulders. 

"You ban't going to leave en?" wailed the sailor. "You ban't goingto leave my brother Sam?"

He was a small, fussy man, with red whiskers; and even his sorrowgave him little dignity. The men were tender with him. 

"Nothing to be done till the tide goes back. "

"But you won't leave en? Say you won't leave en! He've a wife andthree children. He was a saved man, sir, a very religious man; notlike me, sir. He was highly respected in the neighbourhood ofSt. Austell. I shouldn't wonder if the newspapers had a wordabout en . . . " The tears were running down his face. 

"We must wait for the tide, " said Taffy gently, and tried to lead himaway, but he would not go. So they left him to watch and wait whilethey returned to their work. 

Before noon they recovered and fixed the broken wire cable. The ironcradle had disappeared, but to rig up a sling and carry out anendless line was no difficult job, and when this was done Taffycrossed over to the island rock and began to inspect damages. His working gear had suffered heavily, two of his windlasses weredisabled, scaffolding, platforms, hods, and loose planks hadvanished; a few small tools only remained, mixed together in a mashof puddled lime. But the masonry stood unhurt, all except a few feetof the upper course on the seaward side, where the gale, giving thecement no time to set, had shaken the dove-tailed stones in theirsockets--a matter easily repaired. 

Shortly before three a shout recalled them to the mainland. The tidewas drawing towards low water, and three of the men set to work atonce to open a channel and drain off the pool about the base of thebig rock. While this was doing, half a dozen splashed in with ironbars and pickaxes; the rest rigged two stout ropes with tackles, andhauled. The stone did not budge. For more than an hour they prisedand levered and strained. And all the while the sailor ran to andfro, snatching up now a pick and now a crowbar, now lending a hand tohaul, and again breaking off to lament aloud. 

The tide turned, the winter dark came down, and at half-past fourTaffy gave the word to desist. They had to hold back the sailor, orhe would have jumped in and drowned beside his brother. 

Taffy slept little that night, though he needed sleep. The salvingof this body had become almost a personal dispute between the sea andhim. The gale had shattered two of his windlasses; but two remained, and by one o'clock next day he had both slung over to the mainlandand fixed beside the rock. The news spreading inland fetched two orthree score onlookers before ebb of tide--miners for the most part, whose help could be counted on. The men of the coast-guard had leftthe wreck, to bear a hand if needed. George had come too. And happening to glance upwards while he directed his men, Taffy sawa carriage with two horses drawn up on the grassy edge of the cliff:a groom at the horses' heads and in the carriage a figure seated, silhouetted there high against the clear blue heaven. Well herecognised, even at that distance, the poise of her head, though foralmost four years he had never set eyes on her, --nor had wished to. 

He knew that her eyes were on him now. He felt like a general on theeve of an engagement. By the almanac the tide would not turn until4. 35. At four, perhaps, they could begin; but even at four thewinter twilight would be on them, and he had taken care to providetorches and distribute them among the crowd. His own men were makingthe most of the daylight left, drilling holes for dear life in theupper surface of the boulder, and fixing the Lewis-wedges and rings. They looked to him for every order, and he gave it in a clear, ringing voice which he knew must carry to the cliff top. He did notlook at George. 

He felt sure in his own mind that the wedges and rings would hold;but to make doubly sure he gave orders to loop an extra chain underthe jutting base of the boulder. The mason who fixed it, standingwaist-high in water as the tide ebbed, called for a rope and hitchedit round the ankle of the dead man. The dead man's brother jumpeddown beside him and grasped the slack of it. 

At a signal from Taffy the crowd began to light their torches. He looked at his watch, at the tide, and gave the word to man thewindlasses. Then with a glance towards the cliff he started theworking chant--"_Ayee-ho, Ayee-ho!_" The two gangs--twenty men toeach windlass--took it up with one voice, and to the deep intonedchant the chains tautened, shuddered for a moment, and began to lift. 

"_Ayee-ho!_"

Silently, irresistibly, the chain drew the rock from its bed. To Taffy it seemed an endless time, to the crowd but a few momentsbefore the brute mass swung clear. A few thrust their torches downtowards the pit where the sailor knelt. Taffy did not look, but gavethe word to pass down the coffin which had been brought in readiness. A clergyman--his father's successor, but a stranger to him--climbeddown after it: and he stood in the quiet crowd watching thelight-house above and the lamps which the groom had lit in Honoria'scarriage, and listening to the bated voices of the few at theirdreadful task below. 

It was five o'clock and past before the word came up to lower thetackle and draw the coffin up. The Vicar clambered out to wait it, and when it came, borrowed a lantern and headed the bearers. The crowd fell in behind. 

"I am the resurrection and the life. . . . "

They began to shuffle forwards and up the difficult track; butpresently came to a halt with one accord, the Vicar ceasing in themiddle of a sentence. 

Out of the night, over the hidden sea, came the sound of men's voiceslifted, thrilling the darkness thrice: the sound of three Britishcheers. 

Whose were the voices? They never knew. A few had noticed astwilight fell a brig in the offing, standing inshore as she tackeddown channel. She, no doubt, as they worked in their circle oftorchlight, had sailed in close before going about, her crewsgathered forward, her master perhaps watching through his night-glasshad guessed the act, saluted it, and passed on her way unknown to herown destiny. 

They strained their eyes. A man beside Taffy declared he could seesomething--the faint glow of a binnacle lamp as she stood away. Taffy could see nothing. The voice ahead began to speak again. The Vicar, pausing now and again to make sure of his path, wasreading from a page which he held close to his lantern. 

 "Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off. 

 "Thou shalt not see a fierce people, a people of a deeper speech than thou canst perceive; of a stammering tongue that thou canst not understand. 

 "But there the glorious Lord will be unto us a place of broad rivers and streams; wherein shall go no galley with oars, neither shall gallant ship pass thereby. 

 "For the Lord is our judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our king; he will save us. 

 "Thy tacklings are loosed; they could not well strengthen their mast, they could not spread the sail; then is the prey of a great spoil divided; the lame take the prey. "

Here the Vicar turned back a page, and his voice rang higher:

 "Behold a king shall reign in righteousness, and princes shall rule in judgment. 

 "And a man shall be as an hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. 

 "And the eyes of them that see shall not be dim, and the ears of them that hear shall hearken. "

Now Taffy walked behind, thinking his own thoughts; for the cheers ofthose invisible sailors had done more than thrill his heart. A finger, as it were, had come out of the night and touched hisbrain, unsealing the wells and letting in light upon things undreamtof. Through the bright confusion of this sudden vision the Vicar'ssentences sounded and fell on his ears unheeded. And yet while theyfaded that happened which froze and bit each separate word into hismemory, to lose distinctness only when death should interfere, stopthe active brain, and wipe the slate. 

For while the procession halted and broke up its formation for amoment on the brow of the cliff, a woman came running into thetorchlight. 

"Is my Joey there? Where's he _to_, anybody? Hev anyone seen myJoey?"

It was Lizzie Pezzack, panting and bareheaded, with a scared face. 

"He's lame--you'd know en. Have 'ee got en there? He's wanderedoff!"

"Hush up, woman, " said a bearer. "Don't keep such a pore!"

"The cheeld's right enough somewheres, " said another. "'Tis a man'sbody we've got. Stand out of the way, for shame!"

But Lizzie, who as a rule shrank away from men and kept herselfhidden, pressed nearer, turning her tragical face upon each in turn. Her eyes met George's, but she appealed to him as to the others. 

"He's wandered off. Oh, say you've seen en, somebody!"

Catching sight of Taffy, she ran and gripped him by the arm. 

"_You'll_ help! It's my Joey. Help me find en!"

He turned half about, and almost before he knew what he sought hiseyes met George's. George stepped quietly to his side. 

"Let me get my mare, " said George, and walked away toward thelight-house railing where he had tethered her. 

"We'll find the child. Our work's done here, Mr. Saul!"Taffy turned to the Chief Officer. "Spare us a man or two and someflares. "

"I'll come myself, " said the Chief Officer. "Go you back, my dear, and we'll fetch home your cheeld as right as ninepence. Hi, Rawlings, take a couple of men and scatter along the cliffs thereto the right. Lame, you say? He can't have gone far. "

Taffy, with the Chief Officer and a couple of volunteers, moved offto the left, and in less than a minute George caught them up, onhorseback. 

"I say, " he asked, walking his mare close alongside of Taffy, "youdon't think this serious, eh?"

"I don't know. Joey wasn't in the crowd, or I should have noticedhim. He's daring beyond his strength. " He pulled a whistle from hispocket, blew it twice, and listened. This had been his signal whenfiring a charge; he had often blown it to warn the child to creepaway into shelter. 

There was no answer. 

"Mr. Vyell had best trot along the upper slope, " the Chief Officersuggested, "while we search down by the creek. "

"Wait a moment, " Taffy answered. "Let's try the wreck first. "

"But the tide's running. He'd never go there. "

"He's a queer child. I know him better than you. "

They ran downhill toward the creek, calling as they went, but gettingno answer. 

"But the wreck!" exclaimed the Chief Officer. "It's out of reason!"

"Hi! What was that?"

"Oh, my good Lord, " groaned one of the volunteers, "it's the crake, master! It's Langona crake calling the drowned!"

"Hush, you fool! Listen--I thought as much! Light a flare. Mr. Saul--he's out there calling!"

The first match spluttered and went out. They drew close around theChief Officer while he struck the second to keep off the wind, and inthose few moments the child's wail reached them distinctly across thedarkness. 

The flame leaped up and shone, and they drew back a pace, shadingtheir eyes from it and peering into the steel-blue landscape whichsprang on them out of the night. They had halted a few yards onlyfrom the cliff, and the flare cast the shadow of its breast-highfence of tamarisks forward and almost half-way across the creek, andthere on the sands, a little beyond the edge of this shadow, stoodthe child. 

They could even see his white face. He stood on an island of sandaround which the tide swirled in silence, cutting him off from theshore, cutting him off from the wreck behind. 

He did not cry any more, but stood with his crutch planted by theedge of the widening stream, and looked toward them. 

And Taffy looked at George. 

"I know, " said George quietly, and gathered up his reins. "Stand aside, please. "

As they drew aside, not understanding, he called to his mare. One living creature, at any rate, could still trust all to GeorgeVyell. She hurtled past them and rose at the tamarisk-hedge blindly. Followed silence--a long silence; then a thud on the beach below anda scuffle of stones; silence again, and then the cracking of twigs asTaffy plunged after, through the tamarisks, and slithered down thecliff. 

The light died down as his feet touched the flat slippery stones;died down, and was renewed again and showed up horse and rider scarcetwenty yards ahead, labouring forward, the mare sinking fetlock deepat every plunge. 

At his fourth stride Taffy's feet, too, began to sink, but at everystride he gained something. The riding may be superb, but thirteenstone is thirteen stone. Taffy weighed less than eleven. 

He caught up with George on the very edge of the water. "Make herswim it!" he panted. "Her feet mustn't touch here. " George grunted. A moment later all three were in the water, the tide swirling themsideways, sweeping Taffy against the mare. His right hand touchedher flank at every stroke. 

The tide swept them upwards--upwards for fifteen yards at least, though the channel measured less than eight feet. The child, who hadbeen standing opposite the point where they took the water, hobbledwildly along shore. The light on the cliff behind sank and roseagain. 

"The crutch, " Taffy gasped. The child obeyed, laying it flat on thebrink and pushing it toward them. Taffy gripped it with his lefthand, and with his right found the mare's bridle. George was bendingforward. 

"No--not that way! You can't get back! The wreck, man!--it'sfirmer--"

But George reached out his hand and dragged the child towards him andon to his saddle-bow. "Mine, " he said quietly, and twitched therein. The brave mare snorted, jerked the bridle from Taffy's hand, and headed back for the shore she had left. 

Rider, horse, and child seemed to fall away from him into the night. He scrambled out, and snatching the crutch ran along the brink, staring at their black shadows. By-and-by the shadows came to astandstill. He heard the mare panting, the creaking ofsaddle-leather came across the nine or ten feet of dark water. 

"It's no go, " said George's voice; then to the mare, "Sally, my dear, it's no go. " A moment later he asked more sharply:

"How far can you reach?"

Taffy stepped in until the waves ran by his knees. The sand held hisfeet, but beyond this he could not stand against the current. He reached forward holding the crutch at arm's length. 

"Can you catch hold?"

"All right. " Both knew that swimming would be useless now; they weretoo near the upper apex of the sand-bank. 

"The child first. Here, Joey, my son! reach out and catch hold foryour life. "

Taffy felt the child's grip on the crutch-head, and drawing itsteadily toward him hauled the poor child through. The light fromthe cliff sank and rose behind his scared face. 

"Got him?"

"Yes. " The sand was closing around Taffy's legs, but he managed toshift his footing a little. 

"Quick, then; the bank's breaking up. "

George was sinking, knee-deep and deeper. But his outstretchedfingers managed to reach and hook themselves around the crutch-head. 

"Steady, now . . . Must work you loose first. Get hold of the shaftif you can: the head isn't firm. Work your legs . . . That's it. "

George wrenched his left foot loose and planted it against the mare'sflank. Hitherto she had trusted her master. The thrust of his heeldrove home her sentence, and with scream after scream--the sandholding her past hope--she plunged and fought for her life. Still asshe screamed, George, silent and panting, thrust against her, thrustsavagely against the quivering body, once his pride for beauty andfleetness. 

"Pull!" he gasped, freeing his other foot with a wrench which leftits heavy riding-boot deep in the sucking mud; and catching a newgrip on the crutch-head, flung himself forward. 

Taffy felt the sudden weight and pulled--and while he pulled felt ina moment no grip, no weight at all. Between two hateful screams aface slid by him, out of reach, silent, with parted lips; and as itslipped away he fell back staggering, grasping the useless, headlesscrutch. 

The mare went on screaming. He turned his back on her, and catchingJoey by the hand dragged him away across the melting island. At thesixth step the child, hauled off his crippled foot, swung blunderingacross his legs. He paused, lifted him in his arms and plungedforward again. 

The flares on the cliff were growing in number. They cast longshadows before him. On the far side of the island the tide flowedswift and steady--a stream about fourteen yards wide--cutting himfrom the farther sand-bank on which, not fifty yards above, lay thewreck. He whispered to Joey, and plunged into it straight, turningas the water swept him off his legs, and giving his back to it, hishands slipped under the child's armpits, his feet thrusting againstthe tide in slow, rhythmical strokes. 

The child after the first gasp lay still, his head obediently thrownback on Taffy's breast. The mare had ceased to scream. The waterrippled in the ears as each leg-thrust drove them little by littleacross the current. 

If George had but listened! It was so easy, after all. Thesand-bank still slid past them, but less rapidly. They were close toit now, and had only to lie still and be drifted against the leaningstanchions of the wreck. Taffy flung an arm about one and checkedhis way quietly, as a man brings a boat alongside a quay. He hoistedJoey first upon the stanchion, then up the tilted deck to the gap ofthe main hatchway. Within this, with their feet on the steps andtheir chests leaning on the side panel of the companion, they restedand took breath. 

"Cold, sonny?"

The child burst into tears. 

Taffy dragged off his own coat and wrapped him in it. The small bodycrept close, sobbing, against his side. 

Across, on the shore, voices were calling, blue eyes moving. A pairof yellow lights came towards these, travelling swiftly upon thehillside. Taffy guessed what they were. 

The yellow lights moved more slowly. They joined the blue ones, andhalted. Taffy listened. But the voices were still now; he heardnothing but the hiss of the black water, across which those two lampssought and questioned him like eyes. 

"God help her!"

He bowed his face on his arms. A little while, and the sands wouldbe covered, the boats would put off; a little while. . . . Crouchingfrom those eyes he prayed God to lengthen it. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

HONORIA. 

She was sitting there rigid, cold as a statue, when the rescuersbrought them ashore and helped them up the slope. A small crowdsurrounded the carriage. In the rays of their moving lanterns herface altered nothing to all their furtive glances of sympathyopposing the same white mask. Some one said, "There's only two, then!" Another, with a nudge and a nod at the carriage, told him tohold his peace. She heard. Her lips hardened. 

Lizzie Pezzack had rushed down to the shore to meet the boat. She was bringing her child along with a fond, wild babble of tendernames and sobs and cries of thankfulness. In pauses, choked andovercome, she caught him to her, felt his limbs, pressed his wet faceagainst her neck and bosom. Taffy, supported by strong arms andhurried in her wake, had a hideous sense of being paraded in hertriumph. The men around him who had raised a faint cheer sank theirvoices as they neared the carriage; but the woman went forward, jubilant and ruthless, flaunting her joy as it were a flag blown inher eyes and blindfolding them to the grief she insulted. 

"Stay!"

It was Honoria's voice, cold, incisive, not to be disobeyed. He hadprayed in vain. The procession halted; Lizzie checked her babble andstood staring, with an arm about Joey's neck. 

"Let me see the child. "

Lizzie stared, broke into a silly, triumphant laugh, and thrust thechild forward against the carriage step. The poor waif, drenched, dazed, tottering without his crutch, caught at the plated handle forsupport. Honoria gazed down on him with eyes which took slow andpitiless account of the deformed little body, the shrunken, punylimbs. 

"Thank you. So--this--is what my husband died for. Drive on, please. "

Her eyes, as she lifted them to give the order, rested for a momenton Taffy--with how much scorn he cared not, could he have leapt andintercepted Lizzie's retort. 

"And why not? A son's a son--curse you!--though he was your man!"

It seemed she did not hear; or hearing, did not understand. Her eyeshardened their fire on Taffy, and he, lapped in their scorn, thankedGod she had not understood. 

"Drive on, please. "

The coachman lowered his whip. The horses moved forward at a slowwalk; the carriage rolled silently away into the darkness. She hadnot understood. Taffy glanced at the faces about him. 

"Ah, poor lady!" said someone. But no one had understood. 

They found George's body next morning on the sands a little below thefoot-bridge. He lay there in the morning sunshine as though asleep, with an arm flung above his head and on his face the easy smile forwhich men and women had liked him throughout his careless life. 

The inquest was held next day, in the library at Carwithiel. Sir Harry insisted on being present, and sat beside the coroner. During Taffy's examination his lips were pursed up as thoughwhistling a silent tune. Once or twice he nodded his head. 

Taffy gave his evidence discreetly. The child had been lost; hadbeen found in a perilous position. He and deceased had gone togetherto the rescue. On reaching the child, deceased--against advice--hadattempted to return across the sands and had fallen intodifficulties. In these his first thought had been for the child, whom he had passed to witness to drag out of danger. When it came todeceased's turn the crutch, on which all depended, had parted in two, and he had been swept away by the tide. 

At the conclusion of the story Sir Harry took snuff and nodded twice. Taffy wondered how much he knew. The jury, under the coroner'sdirection, brought in a verdict of "death by misadventure, " and addeda word or two in praise of the dead man's gallantry. The coronercomplimented Taffy warmly and promised to refer the case to the RoyalHumane Society for public recognition. The jury nodded, and one ortwo said "Hear, hear!" Taffy hoped fervently he would do nothing ofthe sort. 

The funeral took place on the fourth day, at nine o'clock in themorning. Such--in the day I write of--was the custom of the country. Friends who lived at a distance rose and shaved by candle-light, anddaybreak found them horsed and well on their way to the house ofmourning, their errand announced by the long black streamers tiedabout their hats. The sad business over and done with, these guestsreturned to the house, where until noon a mighty breakfast lasted andall were welcome. Their black habiliments and lowered voices alonemarked the difference between it and a hunting-breakfast. 

And indeed this morning Squire Willyams, who had taken over thehounds after Squire Moyle's death, had given secret orders to hishuntsmen; and the pack was waiting at Three-barrow Turnpike, a coupleof miles inland from Carwithiel. At half-past ten the mournersdrained their glasses, shook the crumbs off their riding-breeches, and took leave; and after halting outside Carwithiel gates to unpinand pocket their hat-bands, headed for the meet with one accord. 

A few minutes before noon Squire Willyams, seated on his grey by theedge of Three-barrow Brake, and listening to every sound within thecovert, happened to glance an eye across the valley, and let out alow whistle. 

"Well!" said one of a near group of horsemen catching sight of therider pricking toward them down the farther slope, "I knew en forunbeliever; but this beats all!"

"And his awnly son not three hours under the mould! Brought up inFrance as a youngster he was, and this I s'pose is what comes ofreading Voltaire. My lord for manners, and no more heart than awormed nut--that's Sir Harry, and always was. "

Squire Willyams slewed himself round in his saddle. He spoke quietlyat fifteen yards' distance, but each word reached the group ofhorsemen as clear as a bell. 

"Rablin, " he said, "as a damned fool oblige me during the next fewminutes by keeping your mouth shut. "

With this he resumed his old attitude and his business of watchingthe covert side; removing his eyes for a moment to nod as Sir Harryrode up and passed on to join the group behind him. 

He had scarcely done so when deep in the undergrowth of blackthorn ahound challenged. 

"Spendigo for a fiver!--and well found, by the tune of it, " cried SirHarry. "See that patch of grey wall, Rablin--there, in a line beyondthe Master's elbow? I lay you an even guinea that's where mygentleman comes over. "

But honest reprobation mottled the face of Mr. Rablin, squireen; andas an honest man he spoke out. Let it go to his credit, because as arule he was a snob and inclined to cringe. 

"I did not expect"--he cleared his throat--"to see you out to-day, Sir Harry. "

Sir Harry winced, and turned on them all a grey, woeful face. 

"That's it, " he said. "I can't bide home. I can't bide home. "

Honoria bided home with her child and mourned for the dead. As a clever woman--far cleverer than her husband--she had seen hisfaults while he lived; yet had liked him enough to forgive withoutdifficulty. But now these faults faded, and by degrees memory rearedan altar to him as a man little short of divine. At the worst he hadbeen amiable. A kinder husband never lived. She reproached herselfbitterly with the half-heartedness of her response to his love; tohis love while it dwelt beside her, unvarying in cheerful kindness. For (it was the truth, alas! and a worm that gnawed continually)passionate love she had never rendered him. She had been content;but how poor a thing was contentment! She had never divined hisworth, had never given her worship. And all the while he had been ahero, and in the end had died as a hero. Ah, for one chance toredeem the wrong! for one moment to bow herself at his feet andacknowledge her blindness! Her prayer was ancient as widowhood, andHeaven, folding away the irreparable time, returned its first andlast and only solace--a dream for the groping arms; waking anddarkness, and an empty pillow for her tears. 

From the first her child had been dear to her; dearer (so her memoryaccused her now) than his father; more demonstratively beloved, atany rate. But in those miserable months she grew to love him with adouble strength. He bore George's name, and was (as Sir Harryproclaimed) a very miniature of George; repeated his shapeliness oflimb, his firm shoulders, his long lean thighs--the thighs of a bornhorseman; learned to walk, and lo! within a week walked with hisfather's gait; had smiles for the whole of his small world, and forhis mother a memory in each. 

And yet--this was the strange part of it; a mystery she could notexplain because she dared not even acknowledge it--though she lovedhim for being like his father, she regarded the likeness with agrowing dread; nay, caught herself correcting him stealthily when hedeveloped some trivial trait which she, and she alone, recognised aspart of his father's legacy. It was what in the old days she wouldhave called "contradictions, " but there it was, and she could nothelp it; the nearer George in her memory approached to faultlessness, the more obstinately her instinct fought against her child'simitation of him; and yet, because the child was obstinatelyGeorge's, she loved him with a double love. 

There came a day when he told her a childish falsehood. She did notwhip him, but stood him in front of her and began to reason with himand explain the wickedness of an untruth. By-and-by she broke off inthe midst of a sentence, appalled by the shrillness of her own voice. From argument she had passed to furious scolding. And the littlefellow quailed before her, his contrition beaten down under the stormof words that whistled about his ears without meaning, his smallfaculties disabled before this spectacle of wrath. Her fingers wereclosing and unclosing. They wanted a riding-switch; they wanted togrip this small body they had served and fondled, and to cut out--what? The lie? Honoria hated a lie. But while she paused andshook, a light flashed, and her eyes were open and saw--that it wasnot the lie. 

She turned and ran, ran upstairs to her own room, flung herself onher knees beside the bed, dragged a locket from her bosom and fell tokissing George's portrait, passionately crying it for pardon. She was wicked, base; while he lived she had misprised him; and thiswas her abiding punishment, that not even repentance could purge herheart of dishonouring thoughts, that her love for him now could neverbe stainless though washed with daily tears. "'_He that is unjust, let him be unjust still_. ' _Must_ that be true, Father of allmercies? I misjudged him, and it is too late for atonement. But Irepent and am afflicted. Though the dead know nothing--though it cannever reach or avail him--give me back the power to be just!"

Late that afternoon Honoria passed an hour piously in turning overthe dead man's wardrobe, shaking out and brushing the treasuredgarments and folding them, against moth and dust, in fresh tissuepaper. It was a morbid task, perhaps, but it kept George's imageconstantly before her, and this was what her remorseful mooddemanded. Her nerves were unstrung and her limbs languid after therecent tempest. By-and-by she locked the doors of the wardrobe, andpassing into her own bedroom, flung herself on a couch with a bundleof papers--old bills, soiled and folded memoranda, sportingparagraphs cut from the newspapers--scraps found in his pocketsmonths ago and religiously tied by her with a silken ribbon. They were mementoes of a sort, and George had written few letterswhile wooing--not half a dozen first and last. 

Two or three receipted bills lay together in the middle of thepacket--one a saddler's, a second a nurseryman's for pot-plants (keptfor the sake of its queer spelling), a third the reckoning for anhotel luncheon. She was running over them carelessly when the dateat the head of this last one caught her eye. "August 3rd "--it fixedher attention because it happened to be the day before her birthday. 

August 3rd--such and such a year--the August before his death; andthe hotel a well-known one in Plymouth--the hotel, in fact, at whichhe had usually put up. . . . Without a prompting of suspicion sheturned back and ran her eye over the bill. A steak, a pint ofclaret, vegetables, cheese, and attendance--never was a more innocentbill. 

Suddenly her attention stiffened on the date. George was in Plymouththe day before her birthday. But no; as it happened, George had beenin Truro on that day. She remembered, because he had brought her adiamond pendant, having written beforehand to the Truro jeweller toget a dozen down from London to choose from. Yes, she remembered itclearly, and how he had described his day in Truro. And the nextmorning--her birthday morning--he had produced the pendant, wrappedin silver paper. He had thrown away the case; it was ugly, and hewould get her another. . . . 

But the bill? She had stayed once or twice at this hotel withGeorge, and recognised the handwriting. The bookkeeper, incompliment perhaps to a customer of standing, had written "GeorgeVyell, Esq. " in full on the bill-head, a formality omitted as a rulein luncheon-reckonings. And if this scrap of paper told the truth--why, _then George had lied!_

But why? Ah, if he had done this thing nothing else mattered, neither the how nor the why! If George had lied? . . . And thependant--had that been bought in Plymouth and not (as he hadasserted) in Truro? He had thrown away the case. Jewellers printtheir names inside such cases. The pendant was a handsome one. Perhaps his cheque-book would tell. 

She arose, stepped half-way to the door, but came back and flungherself again upon the couch. No; she could not . . . This was thesecond time to-day . . . She could not face the torture again. 

Yet . . . If George _had_ lied!

She sat up; sat up with both hands pressed to her ears to shut out asudden voice clamouring through them--

"_And why not? A son's a son--curse you!--though he was your man!_"

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A L'OUTRANCE. 

Lizzie Pezzack had put Joey to bed and was smoothing his coverletwhen she heard someone knocking. She passed out into the front roomand opened to the visitor. 

On the doorstep stood a lady in deep black--Honoria. Beyond thegarden wall the lamps of her carriage blazed in the late twilight. The turf had muffled the sound of wheels, but now the jingle ofshaken bits came loud through the open door. 

"Ah!" said Lizzie, drawing her breath back through her teeth. 

"I must speak to you, please. May I come in? I have aquestion . . . "

Lizzie turned her back, struck a match, and lit a candle. "What question?" she asked with her back turned, her eyes on theflame as it sank, warming the tallow, and grew bright again. 

"It's . . . It's a question, " Honoria began weakly; then shut thedoor behind her and advanced into the room. "Turn round and look atme. Ah, you hate me, I know!"

"Yes, " Lizzie assented slowly, "I hate you. "

"But you must answer me. You see, it isn't for me alone . . . It's not a question of our hating, in a way . . . It concerns others. . . . "

"Yes?"

"But it's cowardly of me to put it so, because it concerns me too. You don't know--"

"Maybe I do. "

"But if you did--" Honoria broke off and then plunged forwarddesperately. "That child of yours--his father--alone here--byourselves. . . . Think before you refuse!"

Lizzie set down the candle and eyed her. 

"And _you_, " she answered at length, dragging out each word--"_you_ can come here and ask me that question?"

For a moment silence fell between them, and each could hear theother's breathing. Then Honoria drew herself up and faced herhonestly, casting out both hands. 

"Yes; I _had_ to. "

"_You!_ a lady!"

"Ah, but be honest with me! Lady or not, what has that to do withit? We are two women--that's where it all started, and we're kept tothat. "

Lizzie bent her brows. "Yes, you are right, " she admitted. 

"And, " Honoria pursued eagerly, "if I come here to sue you for thetruth--it is you who force me. "

"I?"

"By what you said that night, when George--when my husband--wasdrowned; when you cursed me. 'A son's a son, ' you said, 'though hewas your man. '"

"Did I say that?" Lizzie seemed to muse over the words. "You havesuffered?" she asked. 

"Yes, I have suffered. "

"Ah, if I thought so! . .. But you have not. You are a hypocrite, Mrs. Vyell; and you are trying to cheat me now. You come here not toend _that_ suffering, but to force a word from me that'll put joy andhope into you; that you'll go home hugging to your heart. Oh, I knowyou!"

"You do not. "

"I do; because I know myself. From a child I've been dirt to yourpride, an item to your money. For years I've lived a shamed woman. But one thing I bought with it--one little thing. Think the pricehigh for it--I dessay it is; but I bought and paid for it--and oftenwhen I turn it over in my mind I don't count the price too dear. "

"I don't understand. "

"You may, if you try. What I bought was the power over you, my proudlady. While I keep tight lips I have you at the end of a chain. You come here to-night to break it; one little word and you'll befree and glad. But no, and no, and no! You may guess till you'retired--you may be sure in your heart; but it's all no good withoutthat little word you'll never get from me. "

"You _shall_ speak!"

Lizzie shrugged her shoulders and picked up the candle. 

"Simme, " she said, "you'd best go back to your carriage and horses. My li'l boy's in the next room, tryin' to sleep; and 'tisn' fit heheard much of this. "

She passed resolutely into the bedroom, leaving her visitor todarkness. But Honoria, desperate now, pushed after her, scarcelyknowing what she did or meant to do. 

"You _shall_ speak!"

The house-door opened and light footsteps came running through theouter room. It was little George, and he pulled at her skirts. 

"Mummy, the horses are taking cold!"

But Honoria still advanced. "You _shall_ speak!"

Joey, catching sight of her from the bed, screamed and hid his face. To him she was a thing of horror. From the night when, thrustbeneath her eyes, he had cowered by her carriage-step, she hadhaunted his worst dreams. And now, black-robed and terrible of face, she had come to lay hands on him and carry him straight to hell. 

"Mother! Take her away! take her away!"

His screams rang through the room. "Hush, dear!" cried Lizzie, running to him; and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

But the child, far too terrified to know whose hand it was, flunghimself from her with a wilder scream than any; flung himself all butfree of the bed-clothes. As Lizzie caught and tried to hold him thethin night-shirt ripped in her fingers, laying bare the small backfrom shoulder to buttock. 

They were woman to woman now; cast back into savagery and blindlygroping for its primitive weapons. Honoria crossed the floor notknowing what she meant to do, or might do. Lizzie sprang to defenceagainst she knew not what. But when her enemy advanced, towering, with a healthy boy dragging at her skirts, she did the one thing shecould--turned with a swift cry back upon her own crippled child andcaught at the bed-clothes to cover and hide his naked deformity. 

While she crouched and shielded him, silence fell on the room. She had half expected Honoria to strike her; but no blow came, norany sound. By-and-by she looked up. Honoria had come to astandstill, with rigid eyes. They were fastened on the bed. Then Lizzie understood. 

She had covered the child's legs from sight; but not his back--northe brown mole on it--the large brown mole, ringed like Saturn, setobliquely between the shoulder-blades. 

She rose from the bed slowly. Honoria turned on little George with agesture as if to fling off his velvet jacket. But Lizzie stamped herfoot. 

"No, " she commanded hoarsely; "let be. Mine is a cripple. "

"So it is true. . . . " Honoria desisted; but her eyes were wide andstill fixed on the bed. 

"Yes, it is true. You have all the luck. Mine is a cripple. "

Still Honoria stared. Lizzie gulped down something in her throat;but her voice, when she found it again, was still hoarse andstrained. 

"And now--go! You have learnt what you came for. You have won, because you stop at nothing. But go, before I try to kill you forthe joy in your heart!"

"Joy?" Honoria put out a hand toward the bed's foot, to steadyherself. It was her turn to be weak. 

"Yes--joy. " Lizzie stepped between her and the door, pointed afinger at her, and held it pointing. "In your heart you are gladalready. Wait, and in a moment I shall see it in your eyes--glad, glad! Yes, your man was worthless, and you are glad. But oh!You bitter fool!"

"Let me go, please. "

"Listen a bit; no hurry now. Plenty of time to be glad 'twas onlyyour husband, not the man of your heart. Look at me, and answer--I don't count for much now, do I? Not much to hate in me, now youknow the name of my child's father, and that 'tisn' Taffy Raymond!"

"Let me go. " But seeing that Lizzie would not, she stopped andkissed her boy. "Run out to the carriage, dear, and say I'll becoming in a minute or two. " Little George clung to her wistfully, but her tone meant obedience. Lizzie stepped aside to let him passout. 

"Now, " said Honoria, "the next room is best, I think. Lead me there, and I will listen. "

"You may go if you like. "

"No; I will listen. Between us two there is--there is--"

"_That_. " Lizzie nodded towards the child huddling low in the bed. 

"That, and much more. We cannot stop at the point you've reached. Besides, I have a question to ask. "

Lizzie passed before her into the front room, lit two candles anddrew down the blind. 

"Ask it, " she said. 

"How did you know that I believed the other--Mr. Raymond--to be--"She came to a halt. 

"I guessed. "

"What? From the beginning?"

"No; it was after a long while. And then, all of a sudden, somethingseemed to make me clever. "

"Did you know that, believing it, I had done him a great wrong--injured his life beyond repair?"

"I knew something had happened: that he'd given up being a gentlemanand taken to builder's work. I thought maybe you were at the bottomof it. Who was it told you lies about en?"

"Must I answer that?"

"No; no need. George Vyell was a nice fellow; but he was a liar. Couldn't help it, I b'lieve. But a dirty trick like that--well, well!"

Honoria stared at her, confounded. "You never loved my husband?"

And Lizzie laughed--actually laughed; she was so weary. "No morethan you did, my dear. Perhaps a little less. Eh, what two fools weare here, fending off the truth! Fools from the start--and now, simme, playing foolish to the end; ay, when all's said and nakedatween us. Lev' us quit talkin' of George Vyell. We knawed GeorgeVyell, you and me too; and here we be, left to rear children by en. But the man we hated over wasn' George Vyell. "

"Yet if--as you say--you loved him--the other one--why, when you sawhis life ruined and guessed the lie that ruined it--when a word couldhave righted him--if you loved him--"

"Why didn't I speak? Ladies are most dull, somehow; or else youdon't try to see. Or else--Wasn't he near me, passing my door iveryday? Oh, I'm ignorant and selfish. But hadn't I got him near?And wouldn't that word have lost him, sent him God knows where--to_you_ perhaps? You--you'd had your chance, and squandered it like afool. I never had no chance. I courted en, but he wouldn' look atme. He'd have come to your whistle--once. Nothing to hinder butyour money. And from what I can see and guess, you piled up thatmoney in his face like a hedge. Oh, I could pity you, now!--for nowyou'll never have en. "

"God pity us both!" said Honoria, going; but she turned at the door. "And after our marriage you took no more thought of my--of George?"The question was an afterthought; she never thought to see it stab asit did. But Lizzie caught at the table edge, held to it swaying overa gulf of hysterics, and answered between a sob and a passing bitterlaugh. 

"At the last--just to try en. No harm done, as it happened. You needn' mind. He was worthless anyway. "

Honoria stepped back, took her by the elbow as she swayed, and seatedher in a chair; and so stood regarding her as a doctor might apatient. After a while she said--

"I think you will do me injustice, but you must believe as you like. I am not glad. I am very far from glad or happy. I doubt if I shallever be happy again. But I do not hate you as I did. "

She went out, closing the door softly. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE SHIP OF STARS. 

Taffy guessed nothing of these passions in conflict, these weakagonies. He went about his daily work, a man grown, thinking his ownthoughts; and these thoughts were of many things; but they held noroom for the problem which meant everything in life to Honoria andLizzie--yes, and to Humility, though it haunted her in lessdisturbing shape. Humility pondered it quietly with a mind withdrawnwhile her hands moved before her on the lace pillow; and ponderingit, she resigned the solution to time. But it filled her thoughtsconstantly, none the less. 

One noon Taffy returned from the light-house for his dinner to find aregistered postal packet lying on the table. He glanced up and methis mother's gaze; but let the thing lie while he ate his meal, andhaving done, picked it up and carried it away with him unopened. 

On the cliff-side, in a solitary place, he broke the seal. He guessed well enough what the packet contained: the silver medalprocured for him by the too officious coroner. And the coroner, finding him obstinate against a public presentation, had forwardedthe medal with an effusive letter. Taffy frowned over its openingsentences, and without reading farther crumpled the paper into atight ball. He turned to examine the medal, holding it betweenfinger and thumb; or rather, his eyes examined it while his brain ranback along the tangled procession of hopes and blunders, wrongs andtrials and lessons hardly learnt, of which this mocking piece ofsilver symbolised the end and the reward. In that minute he sawHonoria and George, himself and Lizzie Pezzack as figures travellingon a road that stretched back to childhood; saw behind them theanxious eyes of his parents, Sir Harry's debonair smile, the sinisterface of old Squire Moyle, malevolent yet terribly afraid; saw thatthe moving figures could not control their steps, that the watchingfaces were impotent to warn; saw finally beside the road other waysbranching to left and right, and down these undestined and neglectedavenues the ghosts of ambitions unattempted, lives not lived, allthat might have been. 

Well, here was the end of it, this ironical piece of silver. . . . With sudden anger he flung it from him; sent it spinning far out overthe waters. And the sea, his old sworn enemy, took the votiveoffering. He watched it drop--drop; saw the tiny splash as itdisappeared. 

And with that he shut a door and turned a key. He had other thoughtsto occupy him--great thoughts. The light-house was all but built. The Chief Engineer had paid a surprise visit, praised his work, andtalked about another sea light soon to be raised on the North WelshCoast; used words that indeed hinted, not obscurely, at promotion. And Taffy's blood tingled at the prospect. But, out of workinghours, his thoughts were not of light-houses. He bought maps andcharts. On Sundays he took far walks along the coast, starting atdaybreak, returning as a rule long after dark, mired and footsore, and at supper too weary to talk with his mother, whose eyes watchedhim always. 

It was a still autumn evening when Honoria came riding to visitHumility; the close of a golden day. Its gold lingered yet along thewest and fell on the whitewashed doorway where Humility sat with herlace-work. Behind, in the east, purple and dewy, climbed the domedshadow of the world. And over all lay that hush which the earth onlyknows when it rests in the few weeks after harvest. Out here, onbarren cliffs above the sea, folks troubled little about harvest. But even out here they felt and knew the hush. 

In sight of the whitewashed cottages Honoria slipped down from hersaddle, removed Aide-de-camp's bridle, and turned him loose tobrowse. With the bridle on her arm she walked forward alone. She came noiselessly on the turf, and with the click of the gate hershadow fell at Humility's feet. Humility looked up and saw herstanding against the sunset, in her dark habit. Even in that instantshe saw also that Honoria's face, though shaded, was more beautifulthan of old. "More dangerous" she told herself; and rose, knowingthat the problem was to be solved at last. 

"Good-evening!" she said, rising. "Oh yes--you must come inside, please; but you will have to forgive our untidiness. "

Honoria followed, wondering as of old at the beautiful manners whichdignified Humility's simplest words. 

"I heard that you were to go. "

"Yes; we have been packing for a week past. To North Wales it is--a forsaken spot, no better than this. But I suppose that's the sortof spot where light-houses are useful. "

The sun slanted in upon the packed trunks and dismantled walls; butit blazed also upon brass window-catches, fender-knobs, door-handles--all polished and flashing like mirrors. 

"I am come, " said Honoria, "now at the last--to ask your pardon. "

"At the last?" Humility seemed to muse, staring down at one of thetrunks; then went on as if speaking to herself. "Yes, yes, it hasbeen a long time. "

"A long injury--a long mistake; you must believe it was an honestmistake. "

"Yes, " said Humility gravely. "I never doubted you had been misled. God forbid I should ask or seek to know how. "

Honoria bowed her head. 

"And, " Humility pursued, "we had put ourselves in the wrong byaccepting help. One sees now it is always best to be independent;though at the time it seemed a fine prospect for him. The worst wasour not telling him. That was terribly unfair. As for the rest--well, after all, to know yourself guiltless is the great thing, is itnot? What others think doesn't matter in comparison with that. And then of course he knew that I, his mother, never believed thefalsehood--no, not for a moment. "

"But it spoiled his life?"

Now Humility had spoken, and still stood, with her eyes resting onthe trunk. Beneath its lid, she knew, and on top of Taffy's booksand other treasures, lay a parcel wrapped in tissue paper--a dogcollar with the inscription "_Honoria from Taffy_. " So, by liftingthe lid of her thoughts a little--a very little--more, she might havegiven Honoria a glimpse of something which her actual answer, truthful as it was, concealed. 

"No. I wouldn't say that. If it had spoilt his life--well, you havea child of your own and can understand. As it is, it hasstrengthened him, I think. He will make his mark--in a differentway. Just now he is only a foreman among masons; but he has a careeropening. Yes, I can forgive you at last. "

And, being Humility, she had spoken the truth. But being a woman, even in the act of pardon she could not forego a small thrust, and ingiving must withhold something. 

And Honoria, being a woman, divined that something was withheld. 

"And Taffy--your son--do you think that _he_--?"

"He never speaks, if he thinks of it. He will be here presently. You know--do you not? they are to light the great lantern on the newlighthouse to-night for the first time. The men have moved in, andhe is down with them making preparations. You have seen the noticesof the Trinity Board? They have been posted for months. Taffy is aseager over it as a boy; but he promised to be back before sunset todrink tea with me in honour of the event; and afterwards I was towalk down to the cliff with him to see. "

"Would you mind if I stayed?"

Humility considered before answering. "I had rather you stayed. He's like a boy over this business; but he's a man, after all. "

After this they fell into quite trivial talk, while Humility preparedthe tea things. 

"Your mother--Mrs. Venning--how does she face the journey?"

"You must see her, " said Humility, smiling, and led her into the roomwhere the old lady reclined in bed, with a flush on each waxen cheek. She had heard their voices. 

"Bless you"--she was quite cheerful--"I'm ready to go as far asthey'll carry me! All I ask is that in the next place they'll giveme a window where I can see the boy's lamp when he's built it. "

Humility brought in the table and tea-things, and set them out by theinvalid's bed. She went out into the kitchen to look to the kettle. In that pause Honoria found it difficult to meet Mrs. Venning's eyes;but the old lady was wise enough to leave grudges to others. It wasenough, in the time left to her, to accept what happened and leavethe responsibility to Providence. 

Honoria, replying but scarcely listening to her talk, heard afootfall at the outer door--Taffy's footfall; then the click of alatch and Humility's voice saying, "There's a visitor inside; come totake tea with you. "

"A visitor?" He was standing in the doorway. "_You?_" He blushed inhis surprise. 

Honoria rose. "If I may, " she said, and wondered if she might holdout a hand. 

But he held out his, quite frankly, and laughed. "Why, of course. They will be lighting up in half an hour. We must make haste. "

Once or twice during tea he stole a glance from Honoria to hismother; and each time fondly believed that it passed undetected. Histalk was all about the light-house and the preparations there, and herattled on in the highest spirits. Two of the women knew, and thethird guessed, that this chatter was with him unwonted. 

At length he too seemed to be struck by this. "But what nonsense I'mtalking!" he protested, breaking off midway in a sentence andblushing again. "I can't help it, though. I'm feeling just as bigas the light-house to-night, with my head wound up and turning roundlike the lantern!"

"And your wit occulting, " suggested Honoria, in her old light manner. "What is it?--three flashes to the minute?"

He laughed and hurried them from the tea-table. Mrs. Venning badethem a merry good-bye as they took leave of her. 

"Come along, mother. "

But Humility had changed her mind. "No, " said she. "I'll wait inthe doorway. I can just see the lantern from the garden gate, youknow. You two can wait by the old light-house, and call to me whenthe time comes. "

She watched them from the doorway as they took the path toward thecliff, toward the last ray of sunset fading across the dusk of thesea. The evening was warm, and she sat bareheaded with her lace-workon her knee; but presently she put it down. 

"I must be taking to spectacles soon, " she said to herself. "My eyesare not what they used to be. "

Taffy and Honoria reached the old light-house and halted by itswhite-painted railing. Below them the new pillar stood up in fullview, young and defiant. A full tide lapped its base, feeling thiscomely and untried adversary as a wrestler shakes hands beforeengaging. And from its base the column, after a gentle inwardcurve--enough to give it a look of lissomeness and elastic strength--sprang upright straight and firm to the lantern, ringed with agallery and capped with a cupola of copper not yet greened by theweather; in outline as simple as a flower, in structure to theunderstanding eye almost as subtly organised, adapted and pieced intogrowth. 

"So that is your ambition now?" said Honoria, after gazing long. She added, "I do not wonder. "

"It does not stop there, I'm afraid. " There was a pause, as thoughher words had thrown him into a brown study. 

"Look!" she cried. "There is someone in the lantern--with a light inhis hand. He is lighting up!"

Taffy ran back a pace or two toward the cottage and shouted, wavinghis hand. In a moment Humility appeared at the gate and waved inanswer, while the strong light flashed seaward. They listened; butif she called, the waves at their feet drowned her voice. 

They turned and gazed at the light, counting, timing the flashes; twoshort flashes with but five seconds between, then darkness for twentyseconds, and after it a long steady stare. 

Abruptly he asked, "Would you care to cross over and see thelantern?"

"What, in the cradle?"

"I can work it easily. It's not dangerous in the least; a bitdaunting, perhaps. "

"But I'm not easily frightened, you know. Yes, I should like itgreatly. "

They descended the cliff to the cable. The iron cradle stood readyas Taffy had left it when he came ashore. She stepped in lightly, scarcely touching for a second the hand he put out to guide her. 

"Better sit low, " he advised; and she obeyed, disposing her skirts onthe floor caked with dry mud from the workmen's boots. He followedher, and launched the cradle over the deep twilight. 

A faint breeze--there had been none perceptible on the ridge--playedoff the face of the cliffs. The forward swing of the cradle, too, raised a slight draught of air. Honoria plucked off her hat and veiland let it fan her temples. 

Half-way across, she said, "Isn't it like this--in mid-air overrunning water--that the witches take their oaths?"

Taffy ceased pulling on the rope. "The witches? Yes, I remembersomething of the sort. "

"And a word spoken so is an oath and lasts for ever. Very well;answer me what I came to ask you to-night. "

"What is that?" But he knew. 

"That when--you know--when I tell you I was deceived . . . You willforgive. " Her voice was scarcely audible. 

"I forgive. "

"Ah, but freely? It is only a word I want; but it has to last melike an oath. "

"I forgive you freely. It was all a mistake. "

"And you have found other ambitions! And they satisfy you?"

He laughed and pulled at the rope again. "They ought to, " heanswered gaily, "they're big enough. Come and see. "

The seaward end of the cable was attached to a doorway thirty feetabove the base of the lighthouse. One of the under-keepers met themhere with a lantern. He stared when he caught sight of the secondfigure in the cradle, but touched his cap to the mistress ofCarwithiel. 

"Here's Mrs. Vyell, Trevarthen, come to do honour to our openingnight. "

"Proudly welcome, ma'am, " said Trevarthen. "You'll excuse the litterwe're in. This here's our cellar, but you'll find things moreship-shape upstairs. Mind your head, ma'am, with the archway--betterlet me lead the way perhaps. "

The archway was indeed low, and they were forced to crouch and almostcrawl up the first short flight of steps. But after this Honoria, following Trevarthen's lantern round and up the spiral way, found theroof heightening above her, and soon emerged into a gloomy chamberfitted with cupboards and water-tanks--the provision room. From thisa ladder led straight up through a man-hole in the ceiling to thelight-room store, set round with shining oil-tanks and stocked withpaint-pots, brushes, cans, signalling flags, coils of rope, bags ofcotton waste, tool-chests. . . . A second ladder brought them to thekitchen, and a third to the sleeping-room; and here the light of thelantern streamed down on their heads through the open man-hole abovethem. They heard, too, the roar of the ventilator, and the_ting-ting_, regular and sharp, of the small bell reporting that themachinery revolved. 

Above, in the blaze of the great lenses, old Pezzack and the secondunder-keeper welcomed them. The pair had been watching anddiscussing the light with true professional pride; and Taffy drew upat the head of the ladder and stared at it, and nodded his slowapprobation. The glare forced Honoria back against the glass wall, and she caught at its lattice for support. 

But she pulled herself together, ashamed of her weakness, and gladthat Taffy had not perceived it. 

"This satisfies you?" she whispered. 

He faced round on her with a slow smile. "No, " he said, "this light-house is useless. "

"Useless?"

"You remember the wreck--that wreck--the _Samaritan?_ She cameashore beneath here; right beneath our feet; by no fault orcarelessness. A light-house on a coast like this--a coast without aharbour--is a joke set in a death-trap, to make game of dying men. "

"But since the coast has no harbour--"

"I would build one. Look at this, " he pulled a pencil and paper fromhis pocket and rapidly sketched the outlines of the Bristol Channel. "What is that? A bag. Suppose a vessel taken in the mouth of it; abag with death along the narrowing sides and death waiting at theend--no deep-water harbour--no chance anywhere. And the tides!You know the rhyme--"

 "From Padstow Point to Lundy Light Is a watery grave by day or night. "

"Yes, there's Lundy"--he jotted down the position of the island--"Hit off the lee of Lundy, if you can, and drop hook, and pray God itholds!"

"But this harbour? What would it cost?"

"I dare say a million of money; perhaps more. But I work it out atless--at Porthquin, for instance, or Lundy itself, or even at St. Ives. "

"A million!" she laughed. "Now I see the boy I used to know--the boyof dreams. "

He turned on her gravely. She was exceedingly beautiful, standingthere in her black habit, bareheaded in the glare of the lenses, standing with head thrown back, with eyes challenging the past, and afaint glow on either cheek. But he had no eyes for her beauty. 

He opened his lips to speak. Yes, he could overwhelm her withstatistics and figures, all worked out; of shipping and disasters toshipping; of wealth and senseless waste of wealth. He could bury herbeneath evidence taken by Royal Commission and ParliamentaryCommittee, commissioners' reports, testimony of shipowners andcaptains; calculated tables of tides, sets of currents, prevailingwinds; results of surveys hydrographical; all the mass of facts hehad been accumulating and brooding over for eighteen long months. But the weight of it closed his lips, and when he opened them againit was to say, "Yes, that is my dream. "

At once he turned his talk upon the light revolving in their faces;began to explain the lenses and their working in short, directsentences. She heard his voice, but without following. 

Pezzack and the under-keeper had drawn apart to the opposite side ofthe cage and were talking together. The lantern hid them, but shecaught the murmur of their voices now and again. She was consciousof having let something slip--slip away from her for ever. If shecould but recall him, and hold him to his dream! But this man, talking in short sentences, each one so sharp and clear, was not theTaffy she had known or could ever know. 

In the blaze of the lenses suddenly she saw the truth. He and shehad changed places. She who had used to be so practical--_she_ wasthe dreamer now; had come thither following a dream, walking in adream. He, the dreaming boy, had become the practical man, firm, clear-sighted, direct of purpose; with a dream yet in his heart, buta dream of great action, a dream he hid from her, certainly a dreamin which she had neither part nor lot. And yet she had made him whathe was; not willingly, not by kindness, but by injustice. What shehad given he had taken; and was a stranger to her. 

Muffled wings and white breasts began to beat against the glass. A low-lying haze--a passing stratum of sea-fog--had wrapped thelight-house for a while, and these were the wings and breasts ofsea-birds attracted by the light. To her they were the ghosts ofdead thoughts--stifled thoughts--thoughts which had never come tobirth--trying to force their way into the ring of light encompassingand enwrapping her; trying desperately, but foiled by the transparentscreen. 

Still she heard his voice, level and masterful, sure of his subject. In the middle of one of his sentences a sharp thud sounded on thepane behind her, as sudden as the crack of a pebble and only a littleduller. 

"Ah, what is that?" she cried, and touched his arm. 

He thrust open one of the windows, stepped out upon the gallery, andreturned in less than a minute with a small dead bird in his hand. 

"A swallow, " he said. "They have been preparing to fly for days. Summer is done, with our work here. "

She shivered. "Let us go back, " she said. 

They descended the ladders. Trevarthen met them in the kitchen andwent before them with his lantern. In a minute they were in thecradle again and swinging toward the cliff. The wisp of sea-fog haddrifted past the light-house to leeward, and all was clear again. High over the cupola Cassiopeia leaned toward the pole, her breastflashing its eternal badge--the star-pointed W. Low in the north--asthe country tale went--tied to follow her emotions, externallyseparate, eternally true to the fixed star of her gaze, the Waggonertilted his wheels and drove them close and along and above the mistysea. 

Taffy, pulling on the rope, looked down upon Honoria's upturned faceand saw the glimmer of starlight in her eyes; but neither guessed herthoughts nor tried to. 

It was only when they stood together on the cliff-side that she brokethe silence. "Look, " she said, and pointed upward. "Does thatremind you of anything?"

He searched his memory. "No, " he confessed: "that is, if you meanCassiopeia up yonder. "

"Think!--the Ship of Stars. "

"The Ship of Stars?--Yes, I remember now. There was a young sailor--with a ship of stars tattooed on his chest. He was drowned on thisvery coast. "

"Was that a part of the story you were to tell me?"

"What story? I don't understand. "

"Don't you remember that day--the morning when we began lessonstogether? You explained the alphabet to me, and when we came to W--you said it was a ship--a ship of stars. There was a story about it, you said, and promised to tell me some day. "

He laughed. "What queer things you remember!"

"But what was the story?"

"I wonder! If I ever knew, I've forgotten. I dare say I hadsomething in my head. Now I think of it, I was always making up somefoolish tale or other, in those days. "

Yes; he had forgotten. "I have often tried to make up a story aboutthat ship, " she said gravely, "out of odds and ends of the storiesyou used to tell. I don't think I ever had the gift to inventanything on my own account. But at last, after a long while--"

"The story took shape? Tell it to me, please. "

She hesitated, and broke into a bitter little laugh. "No, " said she, "you never told me yours. " Again it came to her with a pang that heand she had changed places. He had taken her forthrightness and lefther, in exchange, his dreams. They were hers now, the gaily colouredchildish fancies, and she must take her way among them alone. Dreams only! but just as a while back he had started to confess hisdream and had broken down before her, so now in turn she knew thather tongue was held. 

Humility rose as they entered the kitchen together. A glance asHonoria held out her hand for good-bye told her all she needed toknow. 

"And you are leaving in a day or two?" Honoria asked. 

"Thursday next is the day fixed. "

"You are very brave. "

Again the two women's eyes met, and this time the younger understood. _Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge;thy people shall he my people, and thy God my God_--that which theMoabitess said for a woman's sake women are saying for men's sakes bythousands every day. 

Still holding her hand, Humility drew Honoria close. "God dealkindly with you, my dear, " she whispered, and kissed her. 

At the gate Honoria blew a whistle, and after a few secondsAide-de-camp came obediently out of the darkness to be bridled. This done, Taffy lent his hand and swung her into the saddle. 

"Good-night and good-bye!"

Taffy was the first to turn back from the gate. The beat ofAide-de-camp's hoofs reminded him of something--some music he hadonce heard; he could not remember where. 

Humility lingered a moment longer, and followed to prepare her son'ssupper. 

But Honoria, fleeing along the ridge, hugged one fierce thought inher defeat. The warm wind sang by her ears, the rhythm ofAide-de-camp's canter thudded upon her brain; but her heart criedback on them and louder than either--

"He is mine, mine, mine! He is mine, and always will be. He is lostto me, but I possess him. For what he is I have made him, and at mycost he is strong. "