Part 7

'Do!' exclaimed Taverner; 'Oh, that is soon answered. I send at once to Tavistock, Launceston, and Okehampton, and communicate with the proper authorities and have him arrested. There are magistrates, and constables, and laws, and prisons in England, for the detention and chastisement of thieves and burglars.'

Oliver moaned. 'I cannot bear the disgrace. I shall drown myself.'

'What will that avail?' sneered Langford. 'Will it save my thousand pounds? Will it save Charles from transportation? It is a pity that there is no more hanging for robbery, or Wellon's mound would be handy, and the old gibbet beam in my barn would serve once more.'

The words were cruel. Honor's teeth clenched and her hands closed convulsively.

Then Oliver Luxmore withdrew his hands from his face, dragged himself towards Langford, and threw himself on the ground at his feet.

'Have pity on him, on me, on us all. The shame will kill us, brand us. It will kill me, it will stain my name, my children, for ever.'

'Get up,' said Langford, roughly. 'I'm not to be moved by men's tears.'

But Oliver was deaf; his great absorbing agony momentarily gave dignity to his feeble pitiful character, to him even crouching on the slate floor.

'Spare us the dishonour,' he pleaded. 'I cannot bear it; this one thing I cannot. Luxmore--thief--convict!' He passed his hand over his brow and raised his eyes; they were blank. 'Luxmore, of Coombe Park--Luxmore! Take care!' his voice became shrill. 'Dishonour I cannot bear. Take care lest you drive me desperate. Rather let us all die, I, Honor, Kate, and the little ones, and end the name, than that it should live on stained.' He tried to rise, but his knees shook and gave way under him.

'You may sell all I have. Take the van, everything. We cannot find you a thousand pounds. We will all work as slaves--only--spare us the dishonour! spare us this!'

Kate came up and cast herself at her father's side and raised her streaming eyes.

'Well,' said Taverner, turning to Honor, 'do you alone not join? Are you too proud?'

'Mr. Langford,' she answered, with emotion, 'you are too hard. I pray to God, who is merciful.'

'You are proud! You are proud!' he said, scowling. 'You, Oliver Luxmore! you, Kate! do not kneel to me. Go, turn to her. The fate of Charles, the honour of your name, your happiness, that of your children, rest with her--with her!'

He looked at her.

She did not speak; she understood his meaning. A pang as of a sword went through her soul. She raised her clenched hands and put them to her mouth, and pressed the knuckles against her teeth. In the agony of that moment she was near screaming.

'There!' said Langford, pointing to her. 'Look how haughty she is. But she must bend. Entreat her, or command her, as you will. With her the issue lies. I will wait till to-morrow at ten, and take no steps for the capture of Charles. If before that hour I have yes, it is well. I pay a thousand pounds for that yes. I shall be content. If not, then--' he did not finish the sentence; he went out at the door.

Then only did Honor give way. She saw as it were a cloud of blue smoke rising round her. She held out her hands, grasping, but catching nothing, and fell on the floor insensible.

*CHAPTER XXX.*

*YES!*

Honor could not rest in her bed that night. Oliver Luxmore in the adjoining room groaned and sighed, he was sleepless. Kate, who shared her bed, was awake and tossed from side to side. Poor Kate knew that the disgrace would separate her from Sam. She was too generous to urge her sister to make the costly sacrifice. Oliver felt that words would be unavailing, the matter must be left to Honor; his best advocate was in her own conscience. The resolution one way or the other must be come to by Honor unresisted, unswayed. She lay still in her bed, but Kate knew she did not sleep. She lay with her hands clasped as in prayer on her heaving bosom. Her eyes were on the little latticed window, and on a moth dancing dreamily up and down the panes, a large black moth that made the little diamonds of glass click at the stroke of its wings. Her hair over her brow was curled with the heat of her brain, the light short hair that would not be brushed back and lie with the copper-gold strands. Great drops rolled off her forehead upon the pillow. Afterwards, Kate felt that the cover was wet, and thought it was with Honor's tears, but she was not crying. Her eyes were dry and burning, but the moisture poured off her brow. Her feet were like ice. She might have been dead, she lay so still. Kate hardly heard her breathe. She held her breath and listened once, as she feared Honor was in a swoon. She did not speak to her sister. An indefinable consciousness that Honor must not be disturbed, must be left alone, restrained her. Once she stole her hand under the bedclothes round her sister, and laid it on her heart. Then she knew for certain what a raging storm was awake in that still, hardly breathing form.

That touch, unattended by word, was more than Honor could bear. She said nothing, but stole from bed, and put on some of her clothes. Kate watched her through her half-closed lids, and dared not speak or otherwise interfere. Honor went softly, barefooted down the stairs, that creaked beneath her tread. Her father heard the step. He knew whose it was. He also would not interfere. It was best for all--for Kate, for Charles, for himself, for Joe, and Pattie, and Willie, and Martha, and Charity, and little Temperance--that Honor should be wholly undisturbed.

The girl unfastened the back door, took up the little bench, cast a potato-sack over her head, and went forth, shutting the door gently behind her.

She carried the seat under the hedge in the paddock, where she had watched with Larry, and placed herself on it, then rested her elbow on her knee, and her head in her hand. Her feet were bare, dipped in the dewy grass; a seeded dandelion, stirred by them, shed its ripe down over them. She thrust the sack from her head. She could not endure the weight and the heat, and laid it across her shoulders; from them it slipped unheeded. Her arms were bare from the elbow. The cold night wind stroked the arm that stayed up her scorched brain. She had prayed that God would guide her, and the guidance had led into a way of sorrows. 'It is expedient that one man should die for the people,' those words of the High Priest recurred to Honor, and she thought how that He to whom they referred had accepted the decision. She would have died--died! O how willingly, how eagerly!--for the dear ones under the thatched roof; she would have leaped into fire, not for all, but for any one of them, for little Temperance, for dear Charity, for Martha, for Willie, for darling Pattie, for good, true Joe, for Kate, for her father of course--yes, even for Charles--but this that was demanded of her was worse than a brief spasm of pain in fire; it was a lifelong martyrdom, a sacrifice infinitely more dreadful than of life. The thrushes were singing. There was no night in the midst of June, and the birds did without sleep, or slept in the glare of midday. The only night was within the girl's soul. There was no singing or piping there, but the groaning of a crushed spirit.

She started. She was touched. She put out her hand and sighed. The horse that Langford had let them have was in the paddock; it had become much attached to Honor, and the beast had come over to her, unperceived, and was resting his head on her shoulder and rubbing it against her ear and cheek. She stroked the nose of the beast with her left hand without altering her position, mechanically, and without much diversion of her thoughts. When poor Diamond was dying in the gravel pit, Honor had sat by him and caressed him; now Diamond's successor had come to comfort Honor, as best he could, when her girlhood was dying in anguish, passing into a womanhood of sorrow.

Chink! chink! chink! a finch was perched on the topmost twig of an alder that swayed under its light weight in the wind, repeating its monotonous cry, chink! chink! chink!

The cold about Honor's feet became stronger, the dew looked whiter, as if it were passing into frost, the breath of the horse was as steam. High, far aloft, in the dusky sky some large bird was winging its way from sea to sea, from the Atlantic boisterous barren coast about Bude, to the summer, luxuriant bays of the Channel. What bird it was Honor could not tell. She would not have seen it but that the winking of its wings as they caught the light from the north attracted her attention. Strange as it may seem, though engrossed in her own sorrows, she watched the flap of the wings till they passed beyond range of vision.

Not a cloud was in the sky. The stars were but dimly seen in the silvery haze of summer twilight. One glowworm in the hedge opposite her shone brighter than any star, for it shone out of darkness deeper than the depths of heaven.

One long leaf near Honor was as if it had been varnished, wet with dew, and as the dew gathered on it, it stooped and the moisture ran to the lanceate end, bowing it further, and forming a clear drop; then the drop fell, and the leaf with a dancing rebound recovered its first position. Honor's eye rested on the leaf; as the dew formed on it, and bent it down, so were tears forming on her soul and bowing it. The leaf shook off the drop; would her spirit ever recover?

What wondrous sounds are heard at night! How mysterious, how undiscoverable in origin! It seemed to Honor less still in the meadow, under the thorn hedge, than in the cottage. Insect life was stirring all about; the spiders were spinning, moths flitting, leaves rustling, birds piping, the wind playing among the thorns; the field mice were running, and the night birds watching for them on wing.

All was cool, all but Honor's head. Whatever sounds were heard were pleasant, whatever movement was soothing. Through all the intricate life that stirred there ran a breath of peace--only not over the heaving soul of Honor.

Poor Larry! Honor's thoughts were less of herself than of others. She was sure to the ground of her heart that he loved her. She knew, without riddling out the why and how, that she could have made him happy and good at once. There was sterling gold in him; the fire would purge away the dross. As in the cocoon there is an outer shell of worthless web which must be torn away before the golden thread is discovered, so was it with him; the outer husk of vanity and idleness and inconsiderateness was coming away, and now all that was needed was a tender hand to find and take hold of the end of the thread and spin off the precious fibre. Another hand, rough and heedless, might break and confuse and ruin it.

But, though she knew she could have made Larry's life right and orderly, yet she would not undertake to do so unless she saw the other lives committed to her trust cared for and safe.

Above all, high as the highest star, in her pure soul shone the duty imposed on her by her mother. If she could not combine her duty to the dear ones under the brown thatch with the charge of Larry's destiny, she would not undertake the latter.

And now, most horrible gall to her womanly mind, came the knowledge that she--she whom Larry loved and looked up to--she, she who loved the careless lad, even she must step in between him and his uncle's property, that she was chosen by old Langford as the weapon of his revenge on the Nanspians.

The Langford estate must descend to Larry should his uncle die childless, and she----

Her breath came in a gasp. She tore up the cold dockleaves and pressed them to her brow to cool the burning there, to take the sting out of her nettled brain.

There was no rest for Honor anywhere, in the meadow or in her bed--no rest for her evermore.

She rose and went back to the house, but when she reached the door, true to her regular habits, remembered that she had left the sack and the bench in the field, and went back, fetched them, and put each in its proper place. Nothing was ever left littering about by Honor. If she had been dying and had seen a chip on the floor, she would have striven to rise and remove it.

In the morning the carrier and his two eldest daughters looked haggard and pale.

The children seemed aware of trouble. Joe was attentive and helped to quiet and amuse the youngest, and watched his father, but especially Honor, to read what was menaced in their faces. He had not been at home when Langford came, and his sister Pattie could give him but the vaguest idea of what had occurred. All she knew was that it was a trouble connected with Charles, who had run away. The carrier had to be ready early to start for Tavistock market. Honor and Kate prepared breakfast for him and the children, without a word passing between them on what was uppermost in their minds. As they were eating, the Ashbury postboy passed down the lane and called at the steps.

The carrier went out.

'A letter for you.'

Oliver took and paid for it, then brought it in and opened it slowly with shaking fingers. He, Honor, Kate knew that it must have reference to their trouble. It was in the handwriting of Charles; it bore the Plymouth postmark. The carrier spread it on his plate; he did not read it aloud because Joe and the other children were present; but Honor and Kate stood behind him and read over his shoulder without uttering a word.

This was the letter:--

'Dear Father,--I take my pen in hand, hopping this finds you has it leafs me, with a bad running at the noaz, and a shockin corf, gripes orful in my innerds, and hakes all over me. I dersay you've eard what I gone and done, don't judge me harshly, I couldn't do otherwise, and I'm not so bad to blame as you may suppose. I didn't intend delibberat to do 't, but I did it off-hand so to speke. Wot's dun can't be undun. It's no use crying over spilt milk. Wot can't be kured must be undured. That's wot Mrs. Veale would say, and her's a bad un. I ketched a cold with getting wet running away, but I shall be all rite soon, please God when I'm away on the i seez. I'm goin to Ameri'kay which is the place to which the flour of the British aristokracy go when its ockerd or embarassing at ome. As it is ockerd and embarassing to me, I'm orf, and I hope with the Almighty's aid to do well in the new whirld, wheer I intend to found a new Coom Park, to which I shall invite you all to come, when I can drive you about in a carridge and pare. I want to know how it is with Larry, whether he be alive or dead. I came away in such aste I couldn't stay to know, but I'm very desiring to know. Don't rite to me by my proper name, there may be disagreeables in my wereabout being knone, so direct to Mr. Charles, poast resteny, Plymouth.--From your loving sun,

'CHARLES LUXMORE.' of Coom Park, Esquire.

P.S.--Doan't say nothink to nobody of were I be, wotever you do, and kiss the kids for me. Poast anser at Tavistock or Lanson.

Oliver Luxmore refolded the letter, and put it away in his pocket without a word. Neither Honor nor Kate spoke or looked at each other. It was too clear to all that Charles was guilty. The last doubt of his guilt disappeared.

Oliver went about the horse and van. Honor did not fail to observe the change effected in him by one night. He seemed older by ten years--to have tumbled down the decline of life, and been shaken by the fall. His clothes did not appear to fit him, his walk was unsteady, his hand shook, his eye wandered, his hair had a greyer tinge, and was lank and moist. Joe ran to help in the harnessing of the horse. His father was trying to force on the collar without turning it. He put on the saddle wrong, and fastened the wrong buckles. The boy corrected his father's errors. Then the man brought the van into the lane, and stood with his hand to his forehead.

'I've forgotten 'em all,' he said. 'Whatever were the commissions I don't know.' The whip was shaking in his hand as a withy by a waterbrook. 'I shouldn't wonder if I never came back,' he said, then looked up the steps at Honor. It was the first time he had met her eye since Taverner Langford had left the house. 'I shan't know what is to be till I come home,' he muttered. 'The cuckoo-clock has just called seven, and it is three hours to ten. I think my heart will die within me at Tavistock. I shan't be home till night. However I shall bear it and remember my commissions I do not know. Joe shall come with me. I can't think. I can't drive. I can do nothing.'

Then Honor came down the steps with her scarlet cloak about her shoulders, and her red stockings on her feet, slowly, looking deadly pale, and with dark rings about her eyes.

'Where are you going?' asked the carrier, 'not coming with me to Tavistock?'

She shook her head.

'Are you--are you going to--to Langford?' he asked. 'To say what?'--he held his breath.

'Yes!'

*CHAPTER XXXI.*

*THE NEW MISTRESS.*

'Halloo! where be you off to, Red Spider?' asked Farmer Nanspian, who was on Broadbury, when he saw Honor Luxmore in her scarlet cloak coming over the down. 'Stay, stay!' he said, and put his hand to her chin to raise her face. 'You never come Chimsworthy road--leastways, you haven't yet.--Where be you going to now?'

'To Langford, sir.'

'To Langford, eh?' his face clouded. 'I didn't think you was on good terms with Mr. Langford. Take care--take care! I won't have he sloke away this Red Spider from Chimsworthy.' Then he nodded, smiled, and went on. He little knew, he had no suspicion, that what he hinted at was really menaced.

Honor went on to the old, lonely house, and asked to speak to Mr. Langford. She was shown into his parlour. Taverner was about the farm. She had some minutes to wait, and nerve herself for the interview, before he arrived.

'Well,' said he when he came in, 'you are in good time. You have brought me the answer.'

'Yes,' she replied, looking down.

'Do I take that Yes as a reply to this question or to that I made yesterday?'

'To both.'

'There's not another woman in all England to whom I'd have behaved as I have to you.'

'I hope not, sir!'

'I mean,' said Langford, knitting his brows, and reddening, 'I mean, I would not have foregone a thousand pounds for any other. I would not have spared the man who had robbed me for any other woman's sake.'

'I have come here,' she said, 'myself, instead of sending a message, because I wished to speak with you in private.'

'There is no one here to overhear you. I have stopped up the keyhole; Mrs. Veale listened, she can catch nothing now.'

'Mr. Langford, I was told by my father that you had promised to do something for my brother and sisters.'

'Oh, do not be afraid--I will do something for them.'

'I want you to grant me one request, the only one I will ever make of you. Promise me some small yearly sum assured to my father, I do not ask for much. When I am in the house, I can manage, but it is hard work for me to do so. When I am gone, Kate will find it hard, and she may not remain long there; she is a pretty girl, and has her admirers, she is sure to marry soon--then what will become of my father and the little ones? I do not ask you to take them in here. That would not be reasonable--except so far as they can work for you, and be of use to you--Joe will be a valuable servant, and Pattie is growing up to be neat and active and thoughtful.'

'How many more?' asked Langford.

'That is all,' replied Honor quietly. 'If I ask you to do anything for these two it is only because they will be worth more than you will pay them. But I ask for my father. It will be a loss to him, my leaving the house. He will not be happy. Kate is very good, but she does not understand thrift, and she is light-hearted. Promise me a small sum every year for my father and the little ones to relieve them from the pinch of poverty, and to give them ease and happiness.'

'How many have you?'

'There are Joe, and Pattie, Willie, Martha, Charity, and Temperance. If I might bring Temperance with me I should be very thankful; she is but three, and will miss me.'

'In the Proverbs of Solomon we are told that the horseleech hath three daughters, which cry Give, give, give! Here are more, some seven, all wanting to suck blood. If I marry you, I don't marry the family.'

Honor was silent, for a moment, recovering herself; his rudeness hurt her, angered her.

'I make a request. I will ask nothing more.'

She looked up at him, and rested her eyes on his face. He had been observing her; how pale she was--how worn; and it annoyed him: it seemed to him that it had cost her much to resolve to take him; and this was not flattering to his pride.

'I cannot grant it,' he said. 'It is not reasonable. I am not going to be eaten out of house and home by a parcel of ravenous schoolchildren. I want you, I do not want all your tail of brothers and sisters, and, worst of all, your helpless father. I know very well what will happen. I shall be thrown to them like an old horse to Squire Impey's pack--to have my flesh torn off, and my bones even crunched up. I cut this away in the beginning; I will not have it.'

'I ask only for a small sum of money for my father. The van barely sustains him. The family is so large. I will not bring any of the children here, except little Temperance, who is very, very dear to my heart.'

'No, I will have none of them.'

'I may not have Temperance?'

'No, I said, none of them. Give an inch, and an ell is taken. Put in the little finger and the fist follows.'

'Then you will grant me an allowance for my father?'

He laughed. 'A thousand pounds is what you have cost me. When that thousand pounds is made up, or repaid, then we will talk about an allowance. Not till then--no, no! I may pay too dear for my bargain. A thousand pounds is ample.'

'That is your last word?'

'My last.'

Then Honor, looking steadily at him, said: 'Mr. Langford, it is true that you lose money by me; but I lose what is infinitely more precious by you. I lose my whole life's happiness. When my mother was dying, I promised her to be a mother to her darlings. Now I am put in this terrible position, that, to save them from a great disgrace and an indelible stain, I must leave them. I have spent the whole night thinking out what was right for me to do. If I remain with them, it is with a shame over our whole family. If I go, I save them from that, but they lose my care. One way or other there is something gone. It cannot be other. I have made my choice. I will come to you; but I have strings from my heart to little Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and Willie, and Pattie, and Joe, and Kate, and father. If they are unhappy, uncomfortable, I shall suffer in my soul. If ill comes to them, I shall be in pain. If the little ones grow up neglected, untidy, untruthful, my heart and my head will ache night and day. If my father is uncared for, the distress of knowing it will be on me ever. I shall be drawn by a hundred nerves to my own dear ones, and not be able to do anything for them. You cannot understand me. You must believe me when I say that the loss to me is ten thousand times greater than the loss of a thousand pounds to you. My happiness is in the well-being and well-bringing up of my brothers and sisters. You take all that away from me. Did you ever hear the tale of the widower who married again, and his new wife neglected the children by the dead wife?--One night the father came to the nursery door, and saw the dead woman rocking and soothing the babes. She had come from her grave. The crying had drawn her. She could not sleep because they called her. I do not know that I can bear it, to be separated from my brothers and sisters--I cannot say--if they suffered or were neglected--I fancy nothing could withhold me from going to them.'