Part 5

'Ah! and where'll he think himself, I wonder, when he opens his eyes and sees he is in the hands of one with black face and long ears, and tail and hairy body? I reckon he won't suppose he's in Abraham's bosom.'

'What'll he take you for either, in your black faces?' retorted Piper. 'Not angels of light, sure-ly.' Then old Crout hobbled up. He had followed far in the rear, as best he could with his lame leg and stick.

'What be the matter, now?' he asked. 'What, Larry Nanspian throwed? Some o' you lads run for a gate. Us mun' carry 'n home on that. There may be bones abroke, mussy knows.'

'I reckon we can't take 'n into Langford,' suggested Sam Voaden.

'Likely, eh?' sneered Piper. 'You Sam, get a gate for the lad. He must be carried home at once, and send for a doctor.'

He was obeyed; and in a few minutes a procession was formed, conveying Larry from the moor.

'He groaned as we lifted 'n,' said Sam Voaden.

'So he's got life in him yet.'

'His hand ain't cold, what I may call dead cold,' said another.

'You go for'ard, Piper,' said Tom Crout. 'that he mayn't see you and be frightened if he do open his eyes.'

Then the cattle-jobber walked first, holding the long cow's tail over his arm, lest those who followed should tread on it and be tripped up. Sam Voaden and three other young men raised the gate on their shoulders, and walked easily under it. Behind came the hounds, careful not to present their blackened faces to the opening eyes of their unconscious friend; and, lastly, Tom Crout mounted on the piebald. One of the boys had found the horn, and unable to resist the temptation to try his breath on it, blew a faint blast.

'Shut up, will you?' shouted Piper, turning. 'Who is that braying? You'll be making Larry fancy he hears the last trump, and he'll jump off the gate and hurt himself again.'

Larry Nanspian had not broken his neck nor fractured his skull. He was much bruised, strained, and his right arm and collar-bone were broken. His insensibility proceeded from concussion of the brain; but even this was not serious, for he gradually recovered his consciousness as he was being carried homewards. Too dazed at first to know where he was, what had happened, and how he came to be out and lying on a gate, he did not speak or stir. Indeed, he felt unwilling to make an effort, a sense of exhaustion overmastered him, and every movement caused him pain. He lay with his face to the night sky, watching the dark cloud, listening to the voices of his bearers, and picking with the fingers of his left hand at a mossy gate bar under him. At first he did not hear what words were passing about him, he was aware only of voices speaking: the first connected sentence he was able to follow was this:--

''Twould be a bad job if Larry were killed.'

'Bad job for him, yes,' was the reply.

'What do y' mean by that?' asked Sam Voaden. He recognised Sam's voice at once, and he felt the movement of Sam's shoulder tilting the fore end of the gate as he turned his head to ask the question.

'O, I mean naught but what everyone says. A bad job for any chap to die; but I don't reckon the loss would be great to Chimsworthy. Some chance, then, of the farm going to proper hands. Larry ain't much, and never will be, but for larks and big talk. I say that Chimsworthy is a disgrace to the parish; and what is more there is sure to be a smash there unless there comes an alteration. Alteration there would never be under Larry.'

'I've heard tell that the old man has borrowed a sight of money from Taverner Langford, and now he's bound to pay it off, and can't do it.'

'Not like to, the way he's gone on; sowing brag brings brambles.'

'You see,' said Voaden, 'they always reckoned on getting Langford, some day, when the old fellow died.'

'And what a mighty big fool Larry is to aggravate his uncle. Instead of keeping good terms with the old gentleman he goes out o' his road to offend him.'

'I say it's regular un-decent his being out to-night hunting the hare before his own uncle's door.'

'I say so, too. It weren't my place to say naught, but I thought it, and so did every proper chap.'

'It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'

'Does his father know what's he's been after?'

'No, of course not; old Nanspian would ha' taken a stick to his back, if he'd heard he was in for such things.'

'I know that however bad an uncle might use me, I'd never have nothing to do with a hare hunt that concerned him--no, nor an aunt neither.'

'Larry was always a sort of a giddy chap.'

'He's a bit o' a fool, or he wouldn't have come into this.'

'Maybe this will shake what little sense he has out of his head.'

'I'll tell y' what. If Larry had been in the army--he'd have turned out as great a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.'

'The girls have spoiled Larry, they make so much of him.'

'Make much of him! They like to make sport of him, but there's not one of them cares a farthing for him, not if they've any sense. They know fast enough what Chimsworthy and idleness are coming too. Why, there was Kate Luxmore. Everyone thought she and Larry were keeping company and would make a pair; but this evening, you saw, directly she had a chance of Sam, she shook him off, and quite right too.'

'Never mind me and Kate,' said Sam, turning his head again.

'But us do mind, and us think as Kate be a sensible maiden, and us thought her a fool before to take up wi' Larry Nanspian.'

This conversation was not pleasant for the young man laid on the gate to hear, and it took from him the desire to speak and allow his bearers to know he was awake, and had heard their criticism on his character and conduct. The judgment passed on him was not altogether just, but there was sufficient justice in it to humble him. Yes, he had acted most improperly in allowing himself to be drawn into taking part in the hare hunt. No--he was not, he could never have become such a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.

'Halt!' commanded Piper, and the convoy stood still.

'We can't go like this to Chimsworthy,' said the little cattle-jobber; 'it'll give the old man another stroke. Let us stop at the Luxmores' cottage, and wash our faces, and put off these things, and send on word that we're coming; the old fellow mustn't be dropt down on wi' bad news too sudden.'

'Right! Honor shall be sent on to break the news.'

Honor! Larry felt the blood mount to his brow. She had herself dissuaded him from having anything to do with this wretched affair which had ended so disastrously to himself, and when Kate advised him to keep away from it because Honor disapproved, he had sent her an insolent defiance. Now he was to be laid before her door, bruised and broken, because he had disobeyed her warning. He tried to lift himself to protest--but sank back. No--he thought--it serves me right.

The party descended the rough lane from Broadbury, and had to move more slowly and with greater precaution. The bearers had to look to their steps and talk less. Larry's thoughts turned to Honor. Now he had found out how true were her words. What she had said to him gently, was said now roughly, woundingly. She had but spoken to him the wholesome truth which was patent to everyone but himself, but she had spoken it so as to inflict no pain. She had tried to humble him, but with so pitiful a hand, that he could have kissed the hand, and asked it to continue its work. But he had not taken her advice, he had not learned her lesson, and he was now called to suffer the consequences. Those nights spent beside Honor under the clear night sky--how happy they had been! How her influence had fallen over him like dew, and he had felt that it was well with him to his heart's core. How utterly different she was from the other girls of Bratton. They flattered him. She rebuked him. They pressed their attentions on him. She shrank from his notice. He could recall all she had said. Her words stood out in his recollection like the stars in the night heavens--but he had not directed his course by them.

Now, as the young men carried him down the lane, he knew every tree he passed, and that he was nearing Honor, step by step. He desired to see her, yet feared her reproachful eye.

*CHAPTER XXVII.*

*AFTER SWEETNESS.*

Oliver Luxmire had returned home before Kate came from the dance, and had eaten his supper, and gone to bed. Her father had been a cause of distress to Honor of late. He said, indeed, no more about Taverner's suit, but he could not forget it, and he was continually grumbling over the difficulties of his position, his poverty, the hardships of his having to be a carrier, when he ought to be a gentleman, and might be a squire if certain persons would put out a little finger to help him to his rights.

His careless good humour had given place to peevish discontent. By nature he was kind and considerate, but his disappointment had, at least temporarily, embittered his mood. He threw out oblique reproaches which hurt Honor, for she felt that they were aimed at her. He complained that times were altered, children were without filial affection, they begrudged their parents the repose that was their due in the evening of their days. He was getting on in years, and was forced to slave for the support of a family, when his family--at least the elder of them--ought to be maintaining him. He wished that the Thrustle were as deep as the Tamar, and he would throw himself in and so end his sorrows. His children--his ungrateful children--must not be surprised if some day he did not return. There was no saying, on occasions, when a waterspout broke, the Thrustle was so full of water that a man might drown himself in it.

In vain did Honor attempt to turn his thoughts into pleasanter channels. He found a morbid pleasure in being absorbed in the contemplation of his sores. He became churlish towards Honor and refused to be cheered. She had fine speeches on her tongue, but he was a man who preferred deeds to words. A girl of words and not of deeds was like a garden full of weeds. When the weeds began to grow, like the heavens thick with snow, when the snow began to fall--and so on--and so on--he had forgotten the rest of the jingle.

Now for the first time, dimly, was Honor conscious of a moral resemblance between her father and Charles. What Charles had become, her father might become. The elements of character were in germ in him that had developed in the son. As likenesses in a family come out at unexpected moments, that had never before been noticed, so was it with the psychical features of these two. Honor saw Charles in her father, and the sight distressed her.

Oliver Luxmore did not venture to say out openly what he desired, but his hints, his insinuations, his grumblings, were significant; they pierced as barbed steel, they bruised as blows. Till recently, Oliver had recognised his daughter's moral superiority, and had submitted. Now his eye was jaundiced. He thought her steadfastness of purpose to be doggedness, her resistance to his wishes to be the result of self-will, and his respect for her faded.

Although Honor made no complaint, no defence, she suffered acutely. She had surrendered Larry because her duty tied her to the home that needed her. Was it necessary for her to make a farther sacrifice--a supreme sacrifice for the sake of her father? She had no faith in the verbal promises of Taverner Langford, to stand by and assist her brothers and sisters, but it was in her power to exact from him a written undertaking which he would be unable to shake off. Suppose she were to marry Langford--what then? Then--the dark cloud would lift and roll away. There would be no more struggle to make both ends meet, no more patching and darning of old clothes, no more limiting of the amount of bread dealt out to each child. Her father's temper would mend. He would recover his kindly humour, and play with the little ones, and joke with the neighbours, and be affectionate towards her. There would be no more need for him to travel with a waggon in all weathers to market, but he would spend his last years in comfort, cared for by his children, instead of exhausting himself for them.

However bright such a prospect might appear, Honor could not reconcile herself to it. Her feminine instincts revolted against the price she must pay to obtain it.

That evening Oliver Luxmore ate his supper in sulky silence, and went to bed without wishing Honor a good night. When Kate arrived, she found her sister in tears.

'Honor!' exclaimed the eager, lively girl, 'what is the matter? You have been crying--because you could not go to the dance.'

'No, dear Kate, not at all.'

'Honor! what is the meaning of this? Marianne Spry tells me she saw the silk kerchief you gave me before to-day.'

'Well, why not?'

'But, Honor, I do not understand. Mrs. Spry says that Larry bought it--bought it at Tavistock after he had killed the dog that worried our lambs--after he had got the guinea, and she believes he bought it with that money.'

'Well, Kate!' Honor stooped over her needlework.

'Well, Honor!'--Kate paused and looked hard at her. 'How is it that Larry bought it, and you had it in your chest? That is what I want to know.'

'Larry gave it me.'

'Oh--ho! He gave it you!'

'Yes, I sat up with him when he was watching for the lamb-killer; he is grateful for that trifling trouble I took.'

'But, Honor! Marianne Spry said that she and others chaffed Larry in the van about the kerchief he had bought for me--and it was _not_ for me.'

Honor said nothing; she worked very diligently with her fingers by the poor light of the tallow candle on the table. Kate stooped to get sight of her face, and saw that her cheek was red.

'Honor, dear! The kerchief was not for me. Why did you make me wear it?'

'Because, Kate--because you are the right person to wear his present.'

'I--why I?' asked Kate impetuously.

Honor looked up, looked steadfastly into her sister's eyes.

'Because Larry loves you, and you love him.'

'I can answer for myself that I do not,' Kate vehemently. 'And I don't fancy he is much in love with me. No, Honor, he was in a queer mood this evening, and what made him queer was that you were not in the barn, and had decked me out in the kerchief he gave you to wear. I could not make it out at the time, but now I see it all.' Then Kate laughed gaily. 'I don't suppose you care very much for him, he's a Merry Andrew and a scatterbrain, but I do believe he has a liking for you, Honor, and I believe there is no one in the world could make a fine good man of Larry but you.' Then the impulsive girl threw her arms round her sister. 'There!' she exclaimed, 'I'm glad you don't care for Larry, because he is not worthy of you--no, there's not a lad that is--except, maybe Samuel Voaden, and him I won't spare even to you.'

'Oh, Kate!'

So the sisters sat on, and the generous, warm-hearted Kate told all her secret to her sister.

When girls talk of the affairs of the heart, time flies with them. Their father and brothers and sisters were asleep, and they sat on late. Kate was happy to confide in her sister.

All at once Kate started, and held her finger to her ear.

'I hear something. Honor, what is it? I hope these hare-hunters be not coming this way.'

She had not told Honor Larry's message.

'I hear feet,' answered the elder. 'Do not go to the door, Kate. It is very late.'

The tramp of feet ceased, the two girls with beating hearts heard steps ascend to their door, then a rap at it. Honor went at once to open. Kate hung back. She suspected the hare-hunters, but was afraid of the black faces, and she could not understand the halt and summons.

'Don't y' be frightened, Honor,' said a voice through the door, 'us want y' out here a bit, if you don't mind.' Honor unbolted, and the blackfaced, white-eyed, long-eared, skin-clothed Piper stood before her, holding the black cow tail in his hand.

'Don't y' be scared. I'm only the hare. I won't touch a hair of your head.'

'What do you want, Mr. Piper?' asked Honor without trepidation.

'Well, it is this. There's been an accident, and Master Larry Nanspian hev fallen on his head off his horse and hurted himself bad.'

Honor began to tremble, and caught the door with one hand and the door-post with the other.

'Now do y' take it easy. He ain't dead, only hurt. Us don't want to go right on end carrying him into Chimsworthy, all of us dressed as we are. First place, it might frighten Master Nanspian, second place, he mightn't like the larks Larry has been on. So us thought if you would let us clean our faces, and take off our skins and other things, and cut the green coat off the back of Larry, here; and then, you'd be so good as run on to Chimsworthy and prepare the old gentleman, you'd be--well, you'd be yourself--I couldn't put it better.'

Honor had recovered her composure.

'I will do what you wish,' she said, and her voice was firm, though low.

'You see,' Piper went on. 'It's a bit ockerd like; I reckon the old man wouldn't be satisfied that Larry were mixed up in a hare-hunt that made game of Taverner Langford, his own wife's brother; and I don't say that Larry acted right in being in it. Howsomever, he has been, and is now the worse for it. Will you please to bring the candle and let us see how bad he be.'

Honor took the tin candlestick with the tallow dip, and descended the steps, holding it.

The four bearers set the gate upon the ground, and Honor held the candle aloft that the light might fall on Larry. But a soft wind was blowing, and it drove the flame on one side, making the long wick glow and then carrying it away in sparks.

'Mr. Piper, go into the cottage and ask my sister Kate to give you my scissors. I will remove the coat. Go all of you, either to the well a few steps down the lane, or into our kitchen, and wait. Kate will give you towel and soap. Leave me with Larry. I must deal very gently with him, and I had rather you were none of you by.'

'You're right,' said Piper. 'Us had better have white faces and get clear of horses and other gear before he sees us.'

'We must be quick,' said Sam Voaden. 'Larry must be got home as fast as may be.'

Then they ran, some to the well in the bank, some--Sam, of course--into the cottage, and left Honor for a moment or two beside the prostrate man, kneeling, holding the guttering candle with one hand, and screening the flame from the wind with the other.

Then Larry opened his eyes, and looked long and earnestly into her face. He said nothing. He did not stir a finger; but his eyes spoke.

'Larry!' she breathed. Her heart spoke in her voice, 'Larry, are you much hurt?'

He slightly moved his head.

'Much, Larry? where?'

'In my pride, Honor,' he answered.

She looked at him with surprise: at first hardly comprehending his meaning.

Then Kate came down the steps with the scissors.

'O Honor! How dreadful! I told him not to go! I told him you disapproved! And now he is punished. O Honor! is he badly injured? He is not killed?'

'No, Kate, he is not killed. How far hurt I cannot tell. Larry! you must let me move you. I may hurt you a little----'

'You cannot hurt me,' he said. 'I have hurt myself.'

'O Honor!' exclaimed Kate. 'If he can speak he is not so bad. Shall I help?'

'No, Kate,' answered Honor, 'go back to the cottage and give the young men what they want to clean their faces; those at the well also. I can manage Larry by myself.'

She stooped over him.

'Larry! you must let me raise you a little bit. Tell me truly, are any bones broken?'

'I do not know, Honor. I feel as if I could not move. I am full of pain, full in all my limbs, but most full in my heart.'

She began to cut up the seams of the sleeves.

'I cannot move my right arm,' he said. 'I suppose there is some breakage there.'

'Yes,' she said gravely, 'I can feel a bone is broken.'

'If that be all it does not matter,' he said more cheerfully, 'but I want to say to you, Honor, something whilst no one is by.'

'What is it?'

'I have done very wrong in many ways. I have been a fool, and I shall never be anything else unless you----'

'Never mind that now,' she hastily interrupted him. 'We must think only at present of your aching joints and broken bones.'

Then Oliver Luxmore's voice was heard calling, and asking what was the matter? Who were in the house? He had been roused from his sleep and was alarmed. Kate ran up the stairs to pacify him, and when he knew the circumstances he hastily dressed.

An altercation broke out at the well. There was not room for all to get at the water. One came running up with streaming face to Honor, 'Am I clean?' he asked. 'How is Larry? Not so bad hurt after all, is he?' Then he went up the steps into the cottage to consult his fellows as to the condition of his face, and to wipe it.

Honor removed the coat in pieces.

'Thank you,' said Larry. 'The candle is out?'

'Yes, the wind has made it out (extinguished it).'

'My left hand is sound. Come on that side.'

She did as he asked.

'And this,' he said, 'is the side where my heart is. Honor, I'm very sorry I did not follow your advice. I am sorry now for many things. I want you to forgive me.'

'I have nothing to forgive.'

'Lean over me. I want to whisper. I don't want the fellows to hear.'

She stooped with her face near his. Then he raised his uninjured arm, put it round her neck, and drew her cheek to his lips, and kissed her. 'Honor! dear Honor! I love no one! no one in the world but you! And I love you more than words can say.'

Did she kiss him? She did not know herself. A light, then a darkness, were before her eyes. What time passed then? A second or a century? She did not know. A sudden widening of the world to infinity, a loss of all limitations--time, space--an unconsciousness of distinction, joy, pain, day, night, a loss of identity--was it she herself, or another?

Then a wakening as from a trance, with tingling veins, and dazed eyes, and whirling brain, and fluttering heart, and voice uncontrolled, as from the cottage door, down the steps, and from the well, up the lane came simultaneously the rabble of boys and men.

'Well, how is he?' 'Have you got the coat off?' 'Can he speak?' 'Any bones broke?'

Honor could not answer the questions; she heard them, but had no voice wherewith to speak.

'Raise the gate again,' said Piper. 'Sam, are you ready? Why are you behind? We must get on.'

'Honor,' said Larry in a low voice, 'walk by the side of me. Hold my hand.'

'He is better,' said one of the young men; 'he can speak. He knows Honor.'

'Yes, he is better,' she said, 'but he has his right arm broken, and he is much shaken and bruised. Let me walk beside him, I can stay the gate and ease him as you carry him over the ruts and stones.' So she walked at his side with her hand in his. In a few minutes the party had arrived at the granite gates of Chimsworthy.

'Stay here,' ordered Piper. 'Now, Honor Luxmore, will you go on up the avenue and tell the old gentleman? Us'll come after with Master Larry in ten minutes.'

'I will go,' said Honor, disengaging her hand.

'How are you now?' asked Piper, coming up to the young man.

'Better,' he said, 'better than ever before.'

*CHAPTER XXVIII.*

*A FIRST STEP.*