Part 19

"Not at all," explained Mr. Moses. "The man no doubt knows the way of Ernest’s beat as well as Ernest himself do, and avoids him. They were saying yesterday that it might even be parson’s self; but of course that’s a rash and silly idea. His reverence is as much interested in it as anybody--especially since he found ’_The Lord loveth a cheerful giver_’ on his own back-garden door--the one that leadeth out into the lane. He holds that the man means well; all the same, he wants him catched and stopped."

"What could be done to him if they did lay hold on him?" asked Reuben Shillabeer.

"Why, there you beat me," answered Moses. "I’m sure I don’t know. The lord of the manor might talk to him; but I don’t think any law has been broken, whereas ’tis certain many people have been made to think about religion in consequence."

"My mother for one," asserted Mr. Snell. "She came across ’_After death the Judgment_’ ’pon a broken paling out Yennadon Down way, and it turned her faint on the instant and made her very unwell. But ’twas all to the good, as she herself declared two days afterwards. The man’s doing a very proper work, whoever the man is."

"With a pot of blacking and letters cut out of tin he does it," said Bartley Crocker. "It ought to be pretty easy to find him out. He must have been round here only a day or two ago. I see he’s been busy at the bottom of your paddock, ’Dumpling.’"

"Yes," admitted Mr. Shillabeer. "He knows a bit about everybody. ’_Swear not at all_’ he put up on my fence, down the bottom end of my cabbage plot. That ought to be a lesson to us in this bar, for, try as I will, the crooked words slip out among you."

"I quite agree," said Mr. Snell. "I catched myself saying ’damn’ to a young dog only yesternight. And no fault of the dog."

"If we was all as careful as you, no great harm would come to the parish," answered Charles Moses. "For my part, swearing never drew me. I found I could be righteously angry without it, and also forcible of speech."

"Some fall back upon it as natural as drink," asserted Bartley, "though ’tis certainly no sign of strength to put in swear words."

"Yet Sir Guy Flamank, his honourable self, be a great hand with them," argued Snell. "I’ve heard him in the hunting field use the most terrible parts of speech you can imagine--though not when ladies was out, I admit that."

"Take my good friend, David Bowden," said Bartley. "No man ever yet heard him use an oath. And yet, by all accounts, nobody gets his way quicker with smooth words."

Mr. Shillabeer nodded.

"Without a shade of unkindly feeling against the man, I could wish he wasn’t quite so own-self, all the same," he said. "That wrapped up heart and soul in work and money-making, that he haven’t eyes for anything else in the earth."

Mr. Crocker looked round about him.

"What you say is gospel truth, ’Dumpling.’ We’re all friends here, I believe--friends to ’em both. Therefore none will think it anything but kindness in us to be sorry about ’em."

"I met Margaret a while back," said Mr. Shillabeer. "My wife was terrible fond of her when she was a mere strip of a girl. We had some talk together, and--there ’twas. I’d give my whiskers to make ’em go along a thought happier; and yet when you say the word, she’ll have nought of it and tell you there never was a happier, luckier creature."

"In a way that’s true," declared Bartley, "but in another way ’tis false. What did you say to her, Reuben?"

"To be plain," answered Mr. Shillabeer, guiltily, "I was full of rather gloomy thoughts along of it being the death-day of the wife. And I said, in my darkness, that self-slaughter might not be all bad, if a man had outlived his value. And she reproved me--yes, she said the word in season."

"You oughtn’t to think of such things, Shillabeer," declared Mr. Moses.

"I know it, Charles; yet thoughts will come over the mind unbidden. But leave that."

"As to David, he’s easier to talk sense to than you might think," added Crocker. "I risked it once, and he took it in a very manly spirit that made me respect him more than ever. But I doubt he’s forgotten it all long ago. Why for don’t you try, Moses? You’re a light among us and carry the weight of the church on your shoulders. Catch the man coming out one Sunday and go a bit of the way back-along with him, and some of us will take Madge and Rhoda out of earshot."

"No," answered the shoemaker. "Don’t ask me to attempt any such a thing. You can’t alter it, and they can’t alter it. ’Tis in them: they’re built so. Just a pinch of salt makes or mars a stew, and just a pinch of character makes or mars a home. If we even knew exactly what ’twas, we couldn’t alter it. You can’t pull out a bit of human nature, like a hollow tooth. Just an over-seasoning of pepper in a man, or a pinch of softness in a woman, may spoil all. It takes terrible little to wreck a home, and I’ve known large tragedies rise up out of nought but a taste."

"That’s true," declared Bartley. "A man with a failing, or a fancy, as wouldn’t count against him in one woman’s eyes, may come to eternal smash on it if he happens to wed with another woman. ’Tis the little twists of character that lead to the biggest troubles, as the acorn breeds the oak."

Mr. Shillabeer obliged with an instance.

"I knowed a very good Christian girl who was a moderate drinker and never dreamed of taking a thimble too much afore she married. And she never would have done so afterwards, but for the bad luck of her husband being a furious teetotaller. I’ve seed that man talk about drink till you’d think he was blind drunk himself! And so he was--drunk with rage at the thought of there being such a thing as drink in the universe. And what come of it? She took to drink, that woman did, driven to it, you might say, out of sheer spite; and the man catched his only son market merry at ten years old; and he dashed him to the earth in his righteous indignation and broke the poor child’s arm in two places."

"’Tis just the sort of thing that happens every day," declared Charles Moses, mournfully. "But, please God, with the Bowden pair, they are both too sensible to drift apart. ’Tis a terrible sad thing to see husband and wife lost, as it were--each feeling along alone, trying to find the man or the woman they loved and married, and not finding ’em. For why? Because each have gone back to themselves, and put off all that hoodwinking toggery they was hidden in during the courting time. We talk about being disguised in drink, Reuben Shillabeer, but we ought to talk about being disguised in love also. There’s nought makes a man act further from his true self than wanting to win a woman."

"’Tis supposed to bring out the best of us; but I’m with you there; I don’t know that it does," said Bartley.

Mr. Snell stared.

"For my part, though you might say such a man as me hasn’t the right to lift his voice afore such a learned person like you, Mr. Moses, yet I do believe in love. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’ve felt it more than here and there--back and forward, like rheumatism, according to the state of the blood and the season of the year; but when it comes, it makes me more valiant without a doubt; and that’s to the good."

Mr. Crocker looked at his rival. Then he opened his mouth to speak; and then he shut it again and kept silence.

Elsewhere Mattacott, Maunder, and William Screech debated a great matter. They argued now as to whether Mr. Shillabeer should hear the secret, and the policeman advised against it.

"An honest and an upright man, outside prize-fighting," he said; "but in this you can’t expect him to take sides. We are all his customers--Bart Stanbury just as much as Mattacott here; therefore I say, ’keep the thing from him.’"

"And from everybody," added Mattacott. "If it get’s out, all’s marred. The fewer hear of it, the better; and I hope you won’t tell your wife, Billy."

Mr. Screech laughed.

"That shows how little you know of the world, Timothy. Why, ’twas my wife had the brilliant thought! She knowed Mattacott wanted for to marry Jane West, and I told her how another man was after Jane also, and that she couldn’t decide between ’em. Then says Dorcas--quick as a needle, that woman--’Jane believes in all that rummage about Crazywell. So what Mattacott have got to do is to plan to get her that way come next Christmas Eve; and he’ve got to lie hid; and when he sees her, he’ve got to shout out the name of t’other chap; and Jane will think ’tis the spirits; and she’ll fancy t’other chap is bound to die afore the year’s out; so he’ll be no good to her whether she likes him or not. Then, of course, she’ll take Mattacott.’ Those were her very words, as near as I can call ’em home. And when did you hear a cleverer thing?"

"’Tis terrible clever," confessed Mattacott. "But Jane West wouldn’t never go up past the pool alone on Christmas Eve for a hundred pounds; so us must plan somehow for somebody to go along with her. ’Tis a very tricky business to be drawn into a plot."

"All be fair in love," said Mr. Maunder; "else, of course, I couldn’t countenance any such a plan. But the matter is outside the law and therefore I’m not called to take any steps--especially as I very much want to see Mattacott get the woman. He’s the wrong side of forty now, and ’tis more than time he was suited, if it is to be."

Mr. Mattacott looked across jealously at the innocent Bart Stanbury.

"He’s too young for her even if she’d have him," he said. "’Tis his sandy hair and his blue, silly eyes have made her think twice about him."

"Keep to business," interrupted Billy Screech. "Now it’s agreed we get the girl to Crazywell come Christmas Eve next; and that’s nearly two months off, so we’ve got plenty of time to cabal against Bart. The first question is, who shall take her to Crazywell on the day?"

They all frowned over this problem; then Screech solved it brilliantly.

"Why, Bart hisself, to be sure! What better could happen? He hears his doom come up out of the water; and of course, even if they was tokened, he’d have to release her after that. Any man would have to do it."

They applauded and Mattacott was especially enthusiastic. But the policeman acknowledged a doubt.

"It don’t strike you as too terrible a thing?" he asked. "For my part, as a tender man, though guardian of law and order, I can’t think we should let the fellow hear his own fate. He might believe it and go mad. Stranger things have happened."

"Have no fear: he won’t believe it," said Mr. Screech. "’Tis her that will believe it, and ’tis her that we want to believe it."

"A fine stroke certainly--to make Bart hear it himself," admitted Maunder; "that is, if I’ve got your word for it the man won’t be hurt in his mind by such an adventure."

"That’s settled then; and now there’s the great question of who does the spirit," continued Screech. "Of course, ’tis Mattacott’s job--not mine; yet I must point out that his voice is not well suited to the deed."

"I wouldn’t do it for anything," said Mattacott. "I’m nought at a pinch; and if ’twas thrust upon me to do it, fifty to one but I should go and lose my head and very like shout out the wrong name, or some such foolishness."

"’Tis true," said Maunder. "With all your good gifts, Timothy, you’re the very man to make a mess of this. Besides, your voice will surely betray you."

"I ax this here chap to do it," said Mattacott, turning to Screech himself. "Maunder, no doubt, would do it for me, as my lifelong friend; but he’s a government servant and his time is not his own. Therefore I ax Billy; and, if it goes right, I’ll pay him down a crown; and if it don’t go right, I’ll pay half-a-crown; and who can say fairer?"

"So far so good then," summed up Billy; "and I’m bound to say I think you’re right. I can put a hollow sound into my voice and bring it up from my boots, in a way that would make any girl go goose-flesh if she heard me after dark on a common week-day, not to name Christmas Eve at Crazywell. Leave that to me when the time cometh. Now the next thing is, what shall I say?"

"Nought but the man’s name," advised Ernest Maunder; "the less you say the awfuller ’twill be."

"Just ’Bart Stanbury! Bart Stanbury!’ twice," whispered Mattacott. "You’ll be snug hid in a fuzz bush, of course; and once you mark that she’s heard you, you can slip off home as quick as need be to prove ’twasn’t you, if anything comes to be said about it after."

Billy nodded.

"Just so; but I mustn’t say ’Bart’ Stanbury," he explained. "You see the man’s christening name is ’Bartholomew,’ and the spirit wouldn’t know as we called him ’Bart’ for shortness. The full name must be spoken, and that I shall do. So there ’twill be, and Jane West will believe that the man’s booked for death afore another year be out."

Mr. Mattacott showed a little emotion on Stanbury’s account, but Billy overruled his qualms. The matter was allowed to drop and a diversion threw the two groups together and turned conversation into a former topic.

Ellas Bowden came in, cold and rosy, out of the night.

"Evening, souls!" he said. "On my way up-along and thought I’d give the pony five minutes and myself a drop out of the special bottle. What’s the best news?"

"’Tis for you to tell us what’s the latest, master," said Bartley.

"The latest," answered Mr. Bowden, "is this: that pious blade with his blacking brush and his Bible have been up over! Ess fay; Nap and Wellington runned in with the news after daylight. There’s no gates up my way except my own; but he’d fastened ’pon that, and there it was. I heard a dog bark last night, but ’twas dark as pitch and no good looking out the window."

"And what might he have chosen for you?" asked Ernest Maunder.

"The solemn words, ’_Jesus wept_,’" answered Elias. "A drop more water to this, Shillabeer, if you please. Yes, he’d writ those deep words there. Can’t say exactly why he put them in particular; but they drive the love of the Lord into the mind and make a man religious, no doubt. Not that I’m ever anything else, when you come to the bottom of me, I hope."

"The thought that the Redeemer of mankind shed tears is a very sad thought, however," declared Mr. Moses. "And yet not all sad, if I make my meaning clear, because it brings Him nearer to us on the human side; and the nearer, the better."

"Very well put, Charles," said Reuben Shillabeer. "The nearer the better, I’m sure."

"Upon the rocks in the warrens too--so the boys tell me," continued the master of Ditsworthy. "The busy man have set up a good text or two here and there. I doubt he’ll take to writing ’em life-size upon the tors next."

"That’s a great idea, now!" declared Shillabeer. "Then everybody passing by could catch the Word. In fact, none could miss it if the letters was big enough."

"For that matter, if I may say so," argued Mr. Moses, "the tors be the word of God a’ready, and nought out of the Bible could make ’em grander than they be. Not that this curious man thinks so. Without a doubt he’d write great Bible news across the moon’s self, if he could only find a ladder long enough to reach her; and a brush big enough for the work."

*CHAPTER II*

*A PESSIMIST*

Three days before Christmas and an hour before dusk, Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, called at Coombeshead Farm, and Constance Stanbury opened the door for him.

"I’m that finger-cold," he said, "that I thought as I might make so free as to drop in and warm myself a bit afore going back."

"And welcome. Come in; come in. My husband will be home in a few minutes, so you’ll have a bit of male company. We women be that chuckle-headed."

"No, no! Won’t hear you run yourself down," said the ’Dumpling,’ gallantly. "There’s no better company in these parts than your company, and very few women be in it for sense alongside of you."

"Tea or cider?" she asked.

"A drop of tea, if ’tis making. And I’ll leave a bird, if you’ll please to accept it. The plovers are on the Moor very plenty. A hard winter’s in store."

"Each be harder than the last nowadays," she answered. "And thank you, I’m sure. A plover’s pretty eating, but too good for the likes of us."

"Don’t you say that. You’m like me--take yourself too humble; but ’tis a mistake. People in the world always pull us a peg lower than our own conceit of ourselves. So we should screw up a peg higher--to be ready for ’em. How’s Margaret? You’ll never hear no two opinions about her--such an angel as she be."

"Yes," admitted Constance; "and I’m much feared that she’s got more in common with the angels than us could wish. ’Tis coming over me worse and worse; and over her, too, poor lamb."

"What ever do you mean?" he asked. Then he walked to the fire, removed his right gaiter and rubbed his huge leg where the strap had pressed too hardly upon it.

"My Madge is not like every girl you meet," said Mrs. Stanbury.

"Wish there was more of the same pattern."

"And I’m terrible jealous for her--I’ll fight the world for her, like a hen with one chick; because her vartues are her own, and her faults she got from me."

"Faults!--who ever heard tell of her faults?"

"I take no credit in her beautiful goodness," continued the mother. "But I take shame in her softness. Too soft and gentle and yielding she is for this world, and the people in it. And, as her parent, I’m savage--savage as a wild cat, down in my secret heart--when I see people don’t understand. ’Tis me they ought to blame, not she."

Mr. Shillabeer stared. His fingers were spread and a saucer of tea smoked upon them.

"You do amaze me; but I’ll make bold to say you’m all wrong for once. ’Tis her softness that people take joy in. Always wanting to do for others--always putting herself on one side."

"A few may see her goodness," admitted Mrs. Stanbury; "but what’s the use of that if them nearest to her can’t see? Her own husband haven’t got no patience with her now and again; and, mind you, I don’t blame him--such a common-sense, hard man as him. And Rhoda the same. ’Tis their natures to take a practical stand."

"Don’t be downcast," urged the publican. "Drink a dish of your own tea and look on the bright side. ’Tis rather odd I should say that, seeing I’ve never been known to look on the bright side myself since my wife died. David’s a very good chap, and nobody thinks higher of him than me; but he’s just an everyday man--wise and businesslike and honest. There’s nought in him would make Margaret a beautifuller character than she is. Us don’t want for her to be hard and business-like, I’m sure."

"’Tis what her husband wants is the thing, not what we want," explained Mrs. Stanbury.

"If he wants finer than she, he wants better bread than is made with wheat," declared the old prize-fighter; "and if he can’t see the shining vartue and wonder of that woman’s heart, he must be blind as well as busy."

"All very well; but Margaret’s to blame too," declared the other.

"Never--nowhere. ’Tis always your way to give everybody best but your own."

"To say ’blame’ is too strong a word, perhaps; but you must think how ’tis from her husband’s point of view. No children. Oh, Shillabeer, ’tis a dreadful thing! Just that might have made all right, and just that won’t happen. Nought worse could have fallen out--nought worse than that. A very terrible misfortune every way. To Ditsworthy I know they take an awful serious view of it. Naturally they would do so. And when I see that mother of a quiverful coming, I wish I could sink into the earth! Her eye brims over with reproaches, though never a word she says."

"This is all silly nonsense you’m talking," declared Mr. Shillabeer, strapping up his gaiter again. "Never did I hear such foolishness. Good Lord, han’t there enough childer in the world? Take comfort, I beg of you."

Bartholomew Stanbury entered at this moment and was glad to see the publican.

"Heard your fowling-piece banging away up over," he said, "and hoped as you might perhaps drop in ’pon the road back. Well, here’s Christmas again, and like to be a soft one after all. The weather’s changing."

"A busy Christmas in the village," said Reuben; "but nothing out of the common offering to happen, I believe."

"Don’t you be too sure of that, ’Dumpling.’ What would you say to another fight?"

"No, no, Stanbury. No more fighting. You mean your son Bart and that chap Mattacott. They be galled against each other without a doubt, along of a she; but fight--no. Mattacott’s ten year older than your boy. Bart couldn’t hit a man whose hair be turning grey."

"That’s what I said. Still, they long to be at each other."

"They’ll have to settle their difference some other way. No more fighting if I can prevent it. You mustn’t suppose I’m what I was--far from it. I look at life quite different now. All’s vanity, as the Preacher saith. I may give up ’The Corner House’ afore the world’s much older, neighbour."

"Good Lord! what’s come to you?" exclaimed the farmer.

"What come to Bendigo," said Mr. Shillabeer solemnly. "I’ve had the Light, Stanbury. Make no mistake: when the Light does come it shows up everything in a manner very different to what we’ve seen it before."

"Well," said Bartholomew, "don’t let it turn you out of ’The Corner House.’ Beer have got to be sold, and there’s nothing in the Law and the Prophets against keeping an inn and giving good money’s worth, same as you’ve always been famed to do."

But Shillabeer doubted. Having drunk another cup of tea, he rose, wished the Stanburys a Merry Christmas in a mournful voice, and disappeared. Constance shook her head when he was gone and declared that a great change began to creep over the old man.

"Mark me, he’s breaking up," she said. "He’s casting away all his old opinions and growing more and more religious-minded and low-spirited. Nought would surprise me. I’ve seen it happen before. He’ll be a teetotaller yet, and then he’ll go melancholy mad so like as not."

Her husband protested.

"Such a one you are for looking on the cloudy side! There’s too much good sense in the man for any such thing as teetotalism to overtake him. A moderate drinker always, and won’t serve anybody beyond the twinkling eye stage. Why, he’ve made bitter enemies by withholding liquor where any other man wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Where’s Margaret to? She was coming over, wasn’t she?"

"Yes," said his wife. "But ’tis nearly dark. She’ll have changed her mind or been hindered."

Half an hour later Bart arrived, and he was able to explain his sister’s absence.

"She’s took ill," he said. "I met Rhoda back by Lowery. Madge have a cold on the chest--nought to name, but enough to keep her in against this fog. I’m feared they won’t be able to go up to Ditsworthy for Christmas now, unless she mends very quick."

At his first word Mrs. Stanbury began to be busy. Under the lofty mantelshelf before the fire there hung a row of little linen bags, and in them were various simples culled through vanished spring and summer. They contained elder-flowers, marjoram, thyme, sorrel, and calamint. She selected ingredients and took them to the table.

"Us must see to this afore she gets worse," declared Constance; and soon she was preparing a decoction of herbs.

Her son had further news.

"They’m saying to Sheepstor that Bartley Crocker’s off," he announced with his mouth full.

"Off where?" asked Mr. Stanbury.

"To foreign parts. ’Twas always thought he might go when his mother died. They do say he’s cruel sweet on Rhoda Bowden, but I don’t think she’s of the same mind."

"I’ve heard Madge say that she would much like it to fall out," declared Mrs. Stanbury; "but, for my part, Rhoda don’t look to be seeking a husband. She’s different to her kind, and I don’t see her either wife or mother."