Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

They promised to come and upon the appointed hour both turned up at the gamekeeper's cottage on Thurlow Down, where the woods end and the right of way gives to the high road. And there was John and his wife, Milly, and their daughter, Millicent, for she was called after her mother and always went by her full name to distinguish her. Meadows had married late in life and Milly was forty when he took her, and they never had but one child. A very lovely, shy, woodland sort of creature was Millicent Meadows, and though a good few had courted her, William Parsloe among 'em, none had won her, or tempted her far from her mother's apron-strings as yet. Dark and brown-eyed and lively she was, with a power of dreaming, and she neighboured kindlier among wild things than tame, and belonged to the woods you might say. She was a nervous maiden, however, and owing to her gift of make-believe, would people the forest with strange shadows bred of her own thoughts and fancies. So she better liked the sunshine than the moonlight and didn't travel abroad much after dark unless her father, or some other male, was along with her.

Another joined the tea-party--a very ancient man, once a woodman, and a crony of John's; and the keeper explained to the younger chaps why he'd asked Silas Belchamber to come to tea and meet 'em.

"Mr. Belchamber's the oldest servant on the property and a storehouse of fine tales, and when I told him the Hound had been seen, he was very wishful to see the man as had done so," explained Mr. Meadows. "You may say the smell of a saw-pit clings to Silas yet, for he moved and breathed in the dust of pine and larch for more'n half a century."

"And now I be waiting for the grey woodman to throw me myself," said Mr. Belchamber. "But I raised up as well as threw down, didn't I, John?"

"Thousands o' dozens of saplings with those hands you planted, and saw lift up to be trees," answered Meadows, "and scores of dozens of timber you've felled; and now, if you've took your tea, Silas, I'd have you tell these chaps the story of Weaver Knowles, because you'll do it better than what I can."

The old man sparked up a bit.

"For my part, knowing all I know, I never feared the Hound's Pool," he said, "though a wisht place in the dimpsey and after dark as we know. But when a lad I drew many a sizeable trout out of it--afore your time, John, when it weren't poaching to fish there as it be now. Not that I ever see the Hound; but I've known them that have, and if I don't grasp the truth of the tale, who should, for my grandfather acksually knowed the son of old Weaver Knowles, and he heard it from the man's own lips, and I heard it from grandfather when he was eighty-nine year old and I was ten."

"Then we shall have gospel truth for certain," said Harry Wade, with his eyes on Millicent Meadows.

"Oh, yes," answered Silas, "because my grandfather could call home the taking of Canada and many such like far-off things, so that shows you the sort of memory he'd gotten. But nowadays the learning of the past be flouted a good bit and what our fathers have told us don't carry no weight at all. Holy spells and ghostesses and--"

"You get on to Hound Pool, Silas," said John Meadows, "because Parsloe will have to go to his work in ten minutes."

"The solemn truth be easily told," declared Mr. Belchamber. "Back along in dim history there was a weaver by name of Knowles who lived to Dean Combe. Him and his son did very well together and he was a widower with no care but for his work. Old Weaver, he stuck to his yarn and was a silent and lonely fashion of man by all accounts. Work was his god, and 'twas said he sat at his loom eighteen hours out of every twenty-four. Then, coming home one evening, the man's son heard the loom was still and went in and found old Knowles fallen forward on the top of his work, dead. So they buried him at Buckfastleigh.

"Then young Knowles, coming home to his empty house after the funeral, suddenly heard the music of the loom and thought his ears had played him false. But the loom hummed on and he crept up over to see who was weaving. In a pretty good rage he was, no doubt, to think of such a thing; but then his blood turned from hot to cold very quick, I warn 'e, for there was his father sitting on the old seat and working weft through warp as suent and clever as if he was alive!

"Well, young Knowles he glared upon his dead parent and felt the hair rising on his niddick and the sweat running down his face; but he kept his nerve pretty clever and crept away and ran for all his might to the village and went to see Parson. They believed more in those days than what they do now, and Parson, whatever he may have thought, knew young Knowles for a truth-teller and obeyed his petition to come at once. But the good man stopped in the churchyard and gathered up a handful of sacred ground; and then he went along to the dead weaver's house.

"Sure enough the loom was a-working busy as ever; but it couldn't drown Parson's voice, for he preached from one of they old three-decker pulpits, like a ship o' war, and his noise, when the holy man was in full blast, would rise over a thunderstorm.

"'Knowles! Knowles!' he cried out; 'Come down this instant. This is no place for you!'

"And then, hollow as the wind in a winter hedge, the ghost made answer.

"'I will obey so soon as I have worked out my quill, your reverence,' replied the spirit of Weaver Knowles, and Parson didn't raise no objection to that, but bade the dead man's son kneel down; and he done so; and the priest also knelt and lifted his voice in prayer for five minutes.

"Then the loom stopped and old Knowles came forth and glided downstairs; and not a step creaked under him, for young Knowles specially noted that wonder when he told my grandfather the adventure.

"At sight of Old Weaver, Parson took his churchyard dust and boldly threw it in the face of the vision, and afore you could cross your heart the shadow had turned into a gert black dog--so dark as night. The poor beast whimpered and yowled something cruel, but Parson was short and stern with it, well knowing you can't have half measures with spirits, no more than you can with living men if you will to conquer 'em. So he takes a high line with the weaver, as one to be obeyed.

"'Follow me, Knowles,' he said to the creature. 'Follow me in the name of the Father, Son, and Ghost'; which the forlorn dog did do willy-nilly; and he led it down the Burn, to Hound's Pool, and there bade it halt. Then the man of God took a nutshell--just a filbert with a hole in it bored by a squirrel--and he gave it boldly into the dog's mouth.

"'Henceforth,' he said, 'you shall labour here to empty the pool, using nought but this nutshell to do so; and when you have done your work, but no sooner, then you shall go back whence you came.'

"And the Hound will be on the job till the end of the world afore he gets peace, no doubt, and them with ears to hear, may oft listen to a sound in the water like the rattling of a loom to this day; but 'tis no more than that poor devil-dog of a Knowles at his endless task."

Millicent poured the old man another cup of tea and Parsloe went to work and Wade applauded the tale-teller.

"A very fine yarn, uncle," he said, "and I'm glad to know the rights of it; and if the Hound brings luck, I hope I'll see him."

"More would see him if faith was there," answered old Belchamber. "But where do you find faith in these days? For all I can see the childer taught in school don't believe in nothing on earth but themselves. In fact, you may say a bald head be a figure of scorn to 'em, same as it was in the prophet's time."

"Youth will run to youth, like water to the sea," said Harry Wade. "But a very fine tale, master, and I hope I may be the next to meet thicky ghost Hound I'm sure."

"You've had your luck, Mr. Wade, by all accounts," laughed Millicent, but the returned native was doubtful. They chatted and he told 'em some of his adventures and how, at the last gasp, prospecting along with two other men, they had found a bit of gold at last.

"Not any too much for three, however," said Harry; "but enough for a simple customer like me. They say lucky in life unlucky in love; but I much hope I haven't been too lucky in life to spoil my chance of a home-grown partner."

Mr. Belchamber departed then, because he was rather tired after his tale, but Harry stopped on, because Mrs. Meadow had took a liking to his talk and found he'd got a very civil way with old women. He'd listen to her and, as she loved to chatter, though she'd got nothing whatever to say, as so often happens with the great talkers, his attention pleased her and she asked him if he'd bide to supper. And Millicent liked him also, being drawn to the man by his account of great hardships and perils borne with bravery; for though Harry wasn't the hero of his own tales no more than his mates had been, yet he had gone through an amazing lot and done some bold and clever things. And the girl, being one of the timid sort, liked to hear of the courage of a man, as they will. Wade was an open speaker, and had no secrets from 'em. He confessed that he'd got a clear four hundred pounds a year out of his battle with life.

"Not much for what I endured," he said, "yet a lot more than many poor chaps, who went through worse. And now I'm in a mind to settle down and find a bit of work and stick to Dean Prior for evermore."

Mrs. Meadows laughed at her daughter when Harry was gone, for she had quick senses and was a good bit amused to see her shy girl open out and show interest in the man; but to chaff Millicent was always the way to shut her up, and she wouldn't let her mother poke fun at her.

"Now I'll never see him again," vowed Millicent, "and all along of you, mother, for I'd blush to the roots of my hair if he spoke to me any more while I knew your cruel sharp eye was on me."

However, see him again she did, because Wade had asked 'em all to come and drink tea long with him and witness the curiosities he'd fetched home from Australia; and though the girl made a hard try to escape the ordeal, her father bade her go along with him. Mrs. Meadows didn't go when the day came, because she weren't feeling very well; and out of her ailments sprang a surprising matter that shook 'em all to the roots.

Harry Wade lived in a little house all alone and did for himself very clever as old campaigners know how to do. He'd planned a very nice meal for 'em and laid out his treasures and was very sorry when John and his daughter explained the absence of Mrs. Meadows. And sorrier still he declared himself to be when they cut their visit a bit short, because for the need to get home pretty quick to the suffering woman.

He was engaged for the most part with Millicent's father that visit, though he pressed food of his own cooking upon her and tried to make her chatter a bit. But he got little out of her, for she weren't a talker at best, and she couldn't forget her mother had laughed at her for being so interested in the man, and so she was shyer than usual.

But though she said nought, she liked to hear her father praise Harry as they went home along, for John thought well upon him.

"He's a man who have got a regular mind despite his dangerous past," said the old chap. "You might think such a venturesome way of life would make him reckless and lawless; but far from it. His experience have made him see the high value of law and order."

"He's brave as a lion seemingly," ventured Millicent, and her father allowed it was so.

"An undaunted man," he admitted, "and his gifts will run to waste now, because, unless you're in the police, or else a gamekeeper, there's little call for courage."

Mrs. Meadows was a lot worse when they came home and they got her to bed and put a hot brick in flannel to her feet; but she'd had the like attacks before and John weren't feared for her till the dead of night; and then she went off her head and he touched her and found she was living fire. So he had to call up his girl and explain that, for all he could tell, death might be knocking at the door.

Such things we say, little knowing we be prophets; but in truth a fearful peril threatened the Meadows folk that night, though 'twas Millicent and not her mother was like to be in highest danger.

"'Tis doctor," said John, "and I can't leave her, for she may die in my arms, so you must go; and best to run as never you run before. Go straight through Dean Wood and don't draw breath till you've got to the man."

She was up and rayed in less than no time and away quick-footed through the forest; and so swift had been her actions that she hoped to cheat her own fear of the darkness and get through Dean Woods afore she had time to quail. But you can't hoodwink Nature that way, and not long afore the trees had swallowed her up Millicent felt nameless dread pulling at her heart and all her senses tingling with terror. She kept her mind on her mother, however, and sped on with her face set before her, though a thousand instincts cried to her to look behind for the nameless things that might be following after.

'Twas a frosty night with a winter moon high in the sky, and Millicent, who knew the Woodman's Path blindfold, much wished it had been darker, for the moonlight was strong enough to show queer faces in every tree-hole and turn the shadows from the trees into monsters upon her path at every yard. She prayed as she went along.

"My duty--my duty," she said. "God help me to do my duty and save mother!"

Then she knew she was coming close to the Hound's Pool and hesitated for fear, and wondered if she might track into the woods and escape the ordeal. But that wasn't possible without a lot of time wasted, and so she lifted up another petition to her Maker and went on. She'd travelled a mile by now and there was another mile to go. And then she came alongside the Pool and held her hands to her breast and kept her eyes away from the water, where it spread death-still with the moon looking up very peaceful out of it. But a moment later and poor Millicent got the fearfullest shock of her life, for right ahead, suddenly without a sound of warning, stark and huge with the moonlight on his great open mouth, appeared the Hound. From nowhere he'd come, but there he stood within ten yards of her, barring the way. And she heard him growl and saw him come forward to meet her.

One scream she gave, though not so loud as a screech owl, and then she tottered, swayed, and lost her senses. If she'd fallen to the left no harm had overtook her; but to the right she fell and dropped unconscious, face forward into Dean Burn.

The waters ran shallow there, above the Pool, yet, shallow or deep, she dropped with her head under the river and knew it not.

Many a day passed afore the mystery of her escape from death got to Millicent's ears; but for the moment all she could mind was that presently her senses returned to her and she found herself with her back against a tree and her face and bosom wet with water. Slowly her wits worked and she looked around, but found herself a hundred yards away from the Pool. Then she called home what had befallen her and rose to her feet; and presently her blood flowed again and she felt she was safe and the peril over-got. 'Twas clear the Hound had done her no hurt and she felt only puzzled to know why for she was so wet and why, when she went fainty beside the Pool, she'd come to again a hundred yards away from it. But that great mystery she put by for another time and thanked God for saving her and cleared the woods and sped to doctor with her bad news.

And he rose up and let her in and, hearing the case was grave, soon prepared to start. And while he dressed, Millicent made shift to dry herself by the heat of a dying fire. Then he put his horse in the trap and very quick they drove away up to the gamekeeper's house. But no word of her amazing adventure did the woman let drop in doctor's ear; and the strange thing was that peace had come upon her now and fear was departed from her heart.

Milly Meadows had got the influenza very bad and, guessing what he'd find, the physician had brought his cautcheries along with him, so he ministered a soothing drug and directed her treatment and spoke hopeful words about it. He was up again next day and found all going very orderly, and foretold that, if the mischief could be kept out of Milly's lungs, she'd recover in due course. So the mind of her husband and her daughter grew at peace when Milly's body cooled down; and then the girl told her father of what had befell her by Hound's Pool, and he was terrible interested and full of wonder.

In fact, naught would do but they went there together the morning after, and there--in the chill light of a January day, Millicent pointed out where she stood when the vision come to her and presently the very tree under which she had returned to life.

But John, being skilled in all woodland craft, took a pretty close look round and soon smelled out signs and wonders hid from common sight. He'd been much pleased with the tale at first, for though sorrowful that his girl had suffered so much, he hadn't got enough mind himself to measure the agony she'd been through; and, whether or no, since the Hound brought good luck, he counted on some bright outcome for Millicent presently, if it was only that her mother should be saved alive. But when he got to his woodcraft, John Meadows weren't so pleased by any means, because he found another story told. Where the girl had fainted and dropped in the water on seeing the Hound was clear to mark; but more than that John discovered, for all round about was the slot of a big dog with a great pad and claws; and, as if that weren't enough, the keeper found something else also.

He stared then and stood back and scratched the hair on his nape.

"Beggar my shoes!" said John. "This weren't no devil-dog, but a living creature! The Hound be a spirit and don't leave no mark where he runs; but the dog that made these tracks weighs a hundred and fifty pound if he weighs an ounce; and look you here. What be this?"

Well, Millicent looked and there weren't no shadow of doubt as to what her father had found, for pressed in the mire and gravel at river edge was the prints of a tidy large boot.

William Parsloe came along at the moment; but he knew nought, though he put two and two together very clever.

"'Tis like this," he said; "you ran into the poachers, Millicent, though what the blackguards was up to with a hugeous dog I couldn't tell you. And now I'll lay my life that what I saw back along was the same creature and he whipped away and warned his masters."

"But me?" asked the girl. "Why for if I fainted and fell into the river, didn't I drown there for you or father to find next day?"

"Yes," added John. "How came that to be, Bill?"

"I see it so clear as need be," explained Parsloe, who had a quick mind. "You fell in the water and the dog gave tongue. The blackguards came along and, not wishful to add murder to their crimes, haled you out. Then they carried you away from the water, loosened your neckerchief and finding you alive, left you to recover."

"Dear God!" said Millicent, shivering all down her spine, "d'you mean to tell me an unknown poaching man carried me in his arms a hundred yards, William?"

"I mean that," answered Parsloe, "and if we had the chap's boot, we should know who 'twas."

So they parted, and John he went home very angry indeed at such triumphant malefactors, and though Millicent tried her bestest to be angry also, such is the weakness of human nature that she couldn't work up no great flood of rage. And when she was alone in her bed that night, for it was her father's turn to watch over her mother, she felt that unknown sinner's arms around her again and his wicked hands at her neckerchief, and couldn't help wondering what it would have been like if she'd come to and found herself in that awful position.

Then Milly Meadows recovered and John, along with William Parsloe, Harry Wade, and a few more stout men, plotted a plot for the poachers and combed the plantations on a secret night in a way as they'd never done afore; but they failed and had Dean Woods all to themselves, though the very next night there was another slaughter and a lot of birds lost.

And a bit after the pheasant season finished, John Meadows heard that the master reckoned 'twas time his head-keeper made a dignified retirement and let a younger man--William Parsloe in fact--take his place.

But while John felt sorry for himself in this matter, yet was far too sane and common-sensible to resent it, another wondrous thing fell out, and Harry Wade got in a rare sort of fix that promised more fret and strain than all his other adventures put together. For, along of one thing and another, though the true details never reached but two ears, he was up against a new and tremendous experience and from being a heart-whole man with no great admiration on the women, he felt a wakening and a stir and knew 'twas love.

For Millicent Meadows he went through the usual torments, and his case weren't bettered by William Parsloe neither, because when he confessed to the man, who had got to be his friend, that Millicent was a piece very much out of the common, Bill told him that he weren't the first by many as had thought the same.

"But she's not for men," said Parsloe. "All sorts have offered, and good 'uns, including myself I may tell you in confidence; but the man ain't born to win Millicent Meadows."

However, Wade, he set to it, and after a lot of patient skirmishing he began to see faint signs of hope. He held in, however, so powerful as his nature would let him until the signs heartened the man for a dash at last, and 'twas by Hound's Pool on a May day with the bluebells beside the water, and the cherry blossom tasselling over their heads--that he told the girl she was the light of his spring and the breath of his life.

And she just put her hand in his'n and looked up in his face and took him without any fuss whatever.

Not for a week, however, till he felt safe in his promised state, did Harry ever open out his dark secrets to her; but then, for her ears only, out it came.

"You mind that fatal night?" he asked; and they were beside the Pool again, for she loved it now, because 'twas there he begged her to marry him.

"Ess fay and I do, but I don't hate the Pool no more--not after you told me you loved me there," said Millicent.

"'Twas I that saved you," he confessed. "At a loose end and for a bit of a lark--just sport, you understand, not wickedness--I done a bit of poaching and picked off a good few birds, I fear."

She looked at him round-eyed.

"You wretch!" she cried; but his arms were close about her, and she was powerless.

"Oh, yes. And my great dog it was as I kept hid on a chain by day. And when he frightened you into the water that night, I was behind him and had you out again and in my arms in half a second. And then I carried you away from the river, and when I held you in my arms I knew you'd be my wife or nobody would."

"Thank the watching Lord 'twas you!" she gasped.

"I waited till I see you come to and knew you'd be all right then; but I followed you, to see what you was up to, and didn't go home till I saw you drive away with the doctor. My dog was my joy till that night--a great mongrel I picked up when I was to Plymouth and kept close of a day. Clever as Satan at finding fallen birds in the dark, though unfortunately he didn't find 'em all. But after the happenings I took him back to Plymouth again on the quiet, and he won't frighten nobody no more."

Then 'twas her turn and she dressed him down properly and gave him all the law and the prophets, and made him promise on his oath that he'd never do no more crimes, or kill fur or feather that didn't belong by rights to him.

And he swore and kept his oath most steadfast.

"I've catched the finest creature as ever harboured in Dean Woods," he said, "and her word be my law for evermore."

But nobody else heard the truth that Wade was the unknown sinner, for Millicent felt as her father would have been cruel vexed about it.

They was wed in the summer and Wade found open-air work to his taste not a mile from their home. But often, good lovers still, they'll go to Hound's Pool for memory's sake and sit and hear Weaver Knowles working unseen about his task.

No. IX

THE PRICE OF MILLY BASSETT

Memory, as we old folk know, be the plaything of time, and when trouble comes and we wilt and reckon life's ended, the years roll unresting on, and the storm passes, and the dark breaks to grey again, and, may be, even the sun's self peeps forth once more. For our little wits ain't built to hold grief for ever, else the world would be a lunatic asylum and not the tolerable sane and patient place we mostly find it.

It was like that with my friend, Jonas Bird. When his wife died, and left him and three young childer, his light went out, and though no more than thirty-five years of age, he felt 'twas the end of the world. He comforted his cruel sufferings with the thought of a wonnerful tombstone to Sarah Bird, and there's no doubt that tombstones, though they can't make or mar the dead, have, time and again, softened the lot of the living. And you may say that poor Sarah's mark in the churchyard was the subject that first began to calm Jonas. But it did a lot more than that.

He was a sandy-headed man with old-fashioned whiskers, a long face like a horse, blue eyes and a wondering expression. In fact, life did astonish him a good bit, and being a simple soul, most things that happened were apt to puzzle him. A carpenter by trade, he did very well in that walk of life and had saved money. But he had long lived for one thing only, and that was Sarah, and when she dropped sudden and left him with two little boys and a girl babe, he was more puzzled than ever and went in a proper miz-maze of perplexity that such things could be.

Everybody liked Jonas, for he was a kindly and well-intending creature, and his wife had been such another, and a good few women rushed to the rescue when the blow fell. And his master, a childless man and very fond of Bird, offered to adopt one of his boys and take the lad off his hands. But Jonas clung to all three, because, as he truly said, they each had a good bit of their mother in 'em and he couldn't spare a pinch of Sarah. And his wife's first and dearest woman friend it was who came to the rescue at this season and stopped along with Jonas, for the children's sake and the dead woman's.

Milly Bassett, she was called, and she ministered to the orphaned children and talked sense to the widow man; and though an old maid here and there didn't think it a seemly thing for Milly to take up her life under Bird's roof, the understanding and intelligent sort thought no evil. For of such a creature as Milly Bassett no evil could be thought.

She was the finest-minded woman ever came out of Thorpe-Michael in my opinion, and she only had one idol and that was duty, and when Sarah, on her death-bed, prayed Milly to watch over Jonas and the family till the poor man recovered from his sorrows and wed again, then Milly promised to do so. And her promises were sacred in her eyes. And if any was mean enough to think ill of her for so doing, she'd have said such folk didn't know her and their opinions were no matter.

A flaxen woman--grey-eyed and generous built--was Milly. She lived with an old mother who was a laundress, and the old mother took it very ill when her daughter went to mind the dead woman's little ones; but, as Milly herself said, there was only one man who needed to be considered before she went to her holy task, and that was William White.

You see, Miss Bassett had long been tokened to William, and if he'd objected, it must have put her in a very awkward position with the promise to a dead woman pulling one way and her duty to a live lover pulling the other. But it happened that William White was a very good friend to Jonas, like everybody else, and he didn't see no good reason why for his sweetheart shouldn't lend a hand at such a sorrowful time.

Moreover, there was a bit of money in it, and Milly's William happened to be a man whose opinions and principles had never been known to stand between him and a shilling. So when Jonas insisted on paying Milly Bassett ten bob a week over and above her keep--all clear profit--William raised no objection whatever. He weren't a jealous man--quite the contrary--and his engagement to marry Milly weren't an affair of yesterday. In fact, at this time, they'd been contracted a good two years, and though the man felt quite willing to wed when ever Milly was minded to, she'd got her ideas and she'd made it clear from the very start that not until her intended could show her four pound a week would she take the step.

And William White, though a good horseman and a champion with the plough and well thought upon by Farmer Northway, could not yet rise to that figure, though he went in hope that it might happen. He'd tried round about on the farms to better his wages, for he was amazing fond of money, but up to the present nobody seemed to think William was worth more than three pound ten, or three pound with a cottage.

So Milly waited. She loved William in a temperate sort of way, though there was points in his character she didn't much hold with; but she'd given her word to wed him in fullness of time, and she was the sort never to part from her word for no man. They kept company calm and contented, with no emotions much to either side, though now-and-a-gain William would venture to say he thought she might bate her terms and take him for ten shillings less. But this she weren't prepared to do; and so it stood when Mrs. Bird died and Milly, who had worshipped the dead woman, came to take her place till time had worked on Jonas and he was able to look round for another. For that his Sarah had always wished he should do, well knowing the poor man couldn't carry on without a spouse.

Jonas was terrible obliged to Milly for coming, and to William for letting her do so, and he was the soul of goodness in the whole matter and made William free of his house and saved him the price of many a meal. In fact William rather exceeded reason in that matter and dropped in at supper-time too often for decency; but it was his sweetheart and not Jonas who opened his eyes to his manners and told him there was reason in all things.

They weren't none too mad in love, as Jonas found out in course of time. In fact Milly was temperate in all things and had never known to lose her nerve or temper; while as for William White, he'd got her promise and knew she was the faithful-unto-death sort and would wait till he could raise what she considered the proper income for a married woman to begin upon.

The widower soon found out the fashion of sense that belonged to Milly for, while still in his great grief, he began to talk of spending fifty pounds of capital on Sarah's grave, and she heard him and advised against.

"As to that," she said, "I knew your dear wife better'n anybody on earth but yourself, Jonas, and this I will say: if she thought you'd heaved up fifty pounds' worth of marble stone on her, she wouldn't lie quiet for an instant moment. You know that modesty was Sarah's passion, and she'd rather have a pink daisy on her pit and a blackbird pulling a worm out of the green grass than all the monuments in the stone-cutter's window."

He listened and she ran on:

"Her virtues be in our hearts, and it won't better it to print 'em in the churchyard; and if I was you and wanted to make heaven a brighter place for Sarah than it already is, I'd lift up a modest affair and put a bit of money away to goody for your little ones."

"I dare say that's a very clever thought," admitted Jonas.

"Yes, it is, then," went on Milly. "She didn't help you to be a saver for vain things like grave-stones that don't bring in no interest to nobody. And if it was the measurement of your sorrow, I'd say nothing, but 'tis well known remorse be at the foundation of half the fine monuments widow men put up to their partners, and you don't need to tell nobody in Thorpe-Michael what you thought of Sarah and how she was the light of your house, for we well know it."

"I won't do nothing skimpy, however," said Jonas.

"I'm sure you won't," she answered, "but in the matter of monuments 'tis a very good rule to wait till the grave be ready to carry 'em; and by that time the bereaved party have generally settled down to take a sensible view of the situation."

He nodded, and from that evening he began to see what a fine headpiece Milly had got to her. In fact she was a very entertaining woman and as time went on and his childer grew to love her, Jonas was a lot puzzled at the thoughts that began to move in his brain. He turned to work, which is a very present help in trouble, and he did overtime and laboured something tremendous at his bench. In fact, if he'd belonged to a Trades Union, Jonas would have heard of it to his discredit, for there's nothing the unions dread more than a man who loves work and does all he knows for the pride of it plus the extra money. But Jonas was on his own and independent to all but his conscience--and his master didn't see no sin in paying him what he was worth.

He'd always been a saver, and his wife had helped him in that respect, but now his money was no more than dust in the corners of his mind, for there weren't no eye to brighten when he told of a bit more put by and no tongue to applaud and tell him what a model sort of man he was. He found, however, as he came to know Milly Bassett better, that though his good fortune and prosperity was nothing to her, yet she could praise him for it. So, little by little, he gave her a peep into his affairs and found she was one of them rare people who can feel quite a bit of honest interest in their neighbour's good luck, with no after-clap of sourness, because their own ain't so bright.

'Twas natural the woman should contrast her horseman with Jonas and wish he'd got the same orderly sort of mind; but she had the wit to see that it takes all sorts to make a world, and while William liked money a lot better than earning it, Jonas liked the earning and didn't set no lustful store on the stuff itself.

Still money's a power, and there's no doubt 'twas the hidden power of his purse which presently tempted the carpenter to a most unheard of piece of work. Never a man less likely to do anything out of the common you might have thought, yet life worked on him and time and chance prompted until that everyday sort of chap was finally lifted up to an amazing deed.

Round about a year after his wife died, the thought came to him and gradually growed till it mastered him and led to a wonderful stroke. And it showed, if that wanted showing, that you never know what gifts be hid in anybody, or what the simplest man will rise to in the way of craft, given the soil to ripe his wits and the prompting to lift him up.

Jonas found himself more and more interested in the love affair of William and Milly, and having studied the situation in all its bearings and measured the characters of the man and woman and taken the subject also to the Throne of Grace, for he was a prayerful creature, he finally considered that it now lay in his power to make the first move, since that had to come from him. And the second move would have to be made by William White; and it all depended upon William whether there remained an opening left for Jonas, or whether the affair was closed. For he was a most honourable chap in all things and never one to best a neighbour even if opportunity offered.

Some men, for example, might have tried to tempt Milly Bassett away from William and hold out the attractions to be got with such a husband as Jonas; but no such thought ever darkened the carpenter's mind. He'd certainly got to a pitch when he dearly wanted Milly, for with his soul at rest and memory growing fainter, she seemed to reflect all the beauties of his late partner, along with several of her own; but Jonas well knew that she was tokened to William and would never leave him for another, but wait till time cured all. To tempt Milly was out of the question; yet he couldn't see no particular reason why he shouldn't tempt William, or at any rate inquire into William's attitude on the subject. And knowing the horseman exceeding well by now and perceiving that, strictly speaking, William couldn't be considered in the least worthy of such a wife as Milly, Jonas went his way and done his dashing deed.

On a day in early spring White was ploughing and Jonas Bird, who'd gone to Four Ways Farm to measure up for a new pigs' house, took care to come home along past the field where White was at work. And he knew that at noon William's horses would have their nose-bags and the ploughman would be sitting in the hedge eating his dinner. And there he was, in a famous lew hedge facing the sun, where the childer find the first white violets of the year.

So Jonas pitched beside the man and said they was well met.

"I've been wanting to meet you all alone this longful time," said Jonas; "and I'm very wishful to ask you a question, Bill. You mustn't think me impertinent nor nothing like that. You and me be very good friends and long may we remain so; but I've took careful note of your character, and you know me just so well, so you'll understand, please, I be asking in a very gentlemanly spirit and not for no vulgar curiosity nor nothing like that."

"My!" said William, "what a lot of talk, Jo! Spit it out. I'll answer any question you like to ask if I can so do."

"'Tis just this, then, and you go on with your meal," answered Jonas. "What's the thing you set highest in all the world?"

"Money," said William, and Jonas nodded.

"So I thought," he replied, "and if it had been any other thing, I'd have left it at that; but as I've got your own word, I may take it that money comes first."

"First and last and always," answered William. "And hell knows I don't get my share."

"Money comes first and Milly Bassett second--that would be a fair way to put it?" asked Jonas.

Well, White thought a minute before he replied. "When you say 'Milly,'" he began, "you touch a delicate subject, and I ain't none too sure if I didn't ought to tell you to shut your mouth. But still, I don't deny but that's about the size of it. Me and Milly have been tokened very near three years, and perfect love, Jo, on them terms may cast out fear and a lot else, but it don't get you no forwarder--quite the contrary. Love don't keep for ever, more than a leg of mutton will, and sometimes it comes across me it may go a bit stale, if not actually bad. I fear nought myself, of course, because Milly's a woman of her word and knows no changing; but that cuts both ways and, while she's so firm as a rock about my wages and in a manner of speaking puts money before love, then I sometimes wonder who could blame me for doing the same. We'm very good friends, and she'll be a damned fine wife, no doubt--when I get her; but, meantime, things run a little on the cool side and I can't pretend I feel so furious set in that quarter as I did three year agone. She ain't the only pebble on the beach, to say it kindly, though a most amazing wonder and well worth waiting for in reason. But there's others--not a few very comely creatures as would reckon me along with three ten a week quite good enough. I can't hide that from myself."

Well, this was meat and drink to Jonas, but he hid his heart for the present, though his great excitement made his voice run up till it broke and he had to begin again--a thing that happened to him sometimes.

"That being so," he said, "that being so, Bill, how would you feel if anybody was to say: 'Here's good money for changing your future career, if you ain't too addicted to Milly Bassett to take it?'"

"Money for her?" asked William.

"Money enough to turn your affections into another quarter and let her go free."

"God's truth, Jo! You've gone and loved her!" shouted William.

"No," answered the carpenter. "By this hand I have not, Bill. I'm not one to love any created woman as be tokened to another man and well you know it. To do so would be a wicked thing. But this I may tell you open and honest: if Milly were a free woman, then I should love her instanter."

"Dammy, Jo! You want to buy her!" said William.

But Jonas shook his head.

"I reverence the woman far, far too much to want any such thing," he said. "You can't buy and sell females in a Christian land; but this I'll say, if you can honestly feel that a good dollop of money would recompense you for losing Milly, things being as they are, then I'm your man. Of course if you feel money's dross before the thought of her, then I shall well understand and we won't touch the subject no more. And, in any case, never a breath must get to her ears else she'd leave my house like a whirlwind, and quite right to do so. But if you feel that you could make shift with another fine woman and might tear yourself away from Milly Bassett for a bit in the bank--_if_ you feel that, William, and only so, then we can go on talking."

William White laughed and ate a bit of pie that hung on his fork. Then he drank from his cider runlet. "What a world!" he said.

Jonas didn't answer and let his great thought sink into the man.

Presently William put a nice point. "Needless to ask if you've whispered any of this to her?"

"God's my judge, Bill."

"Well, there's one thing I'd put afore you, Jo. Suppose we can agree to a price, what happens if, when your turn comes to offer, she turns you down and we're both left?"

"A natural question, Bill, and I'd thought of it, for there's no vanity in me and it might very likely happen. And my understanding of that position is this: If she says 'No' to me, after you've given her her liberty, then I've made a bad investment and my feeling would be to cut a loss; but if on the other hand she says 'Yes,' then I'd go a bit higher."

"A sum down when I've chucked her, and a bit over if you get her."

"When you say a sum down, Bill, you'd better consider of it," explained Jonas. "A sum down there will certainly be; but if you saw your way to take the money by instalments, then you'd benefit considerable in the upshot, because, by instalments, I could pay a good bit more than I could in a lump."

"I see that," admitted the horseman. "Well, on the general questions, Jo, I may say that I'll do business. That far I'm prepared to go; but when it comes to figures, I'd very much like to hear your ideas. This is a bit out of my experience; but I warn you, you've got to pay money."

"I know that," answered Jonas. "I know that very well indeed. I can't pay half nor yet a quarter of what she'd be worth to me, for the reason a king's ransom wouldn't do it; but money I will pay. I'll pay you a hundred a year for four years, William."

"And interest while 'tis running?" asked the horseman.

"Yes," answered Jonas, "interest while 'tis running."

"That's if you don't get her?"

"No, Bill; that's if I do get her."

White considered. 'Twas very big money, of course, but he tried for a bit more.

"You must remember that when I throw her over I'm a disgraced man, Jo."

"I wouldn't say that. 'Twill be a shadow on your name for a minute, but such things fall out every day and be very quickly forgot. Milly's the only one that matters and I don't think you're the best partner in the world for her, else I'd never have touched the subject. But if you use your cleverness and put it to her that 'tis undignified for you both to go on waiting for ever, she'll very likely see it."

"She might, or again she mightn't."

"She would," declared Jonas. "I ain't watched you and her for a year for nothing. This ain't going to be the shattering wrench for her you might think, William."

White knew that very well, but dwelt on his own downfall, and loss. "Make it five hundred--win or lose," he said at last, "and I'll oblige you."

And Jonas Bird agreed instantly, for at the bottom of his heart he weren't feeling it no wildgoose chase for him; because, though a simple man in some ways, he didn't lack caution, and he'd unfolded his feelings pretty oft to Milly, speaking, of course, in general terms; and he well knew that she felt high respect for his character and opinions and good position.

Then William spoke.

"If you'd like it in writing, you can have it," he said, "but for my part I trust you, and I doubt not you trust me, and I'm inclined to think the less that be put down on paper about it, the better. 'Tis a deed of darkness, in a manner of speaking, and written documents have often brought disasters with 'em afterwards, so us had best to trust each other and sign nought." Jonas agreed to this most emphatic and then they parted.

But it weren't twenty-four hours later before the carpenter felt the deed was afoot, for he soon saw that Milly had got a weight on her mind. She said nought, however, till a week was past and then told Jonas, confidential, that she savoured something in the air.

"There's some people can smell rain," she said, "and others, if they go in a churchyard, know to a foot when they be walking over their own future graves; and though I'm not one to meet trouble half-way, it's borne in on me that I be going to face changes afore long."

"In what direction?" asked Jonas, cunning as a serpent. "God send you don't mean that William be going to get his rise and take you away?"

"I do not," she said. "Quite the contrary. I mean that William be going to change his mind about me."

"And would you call that meeting trouble exactly, or contrariwise?" asked Bird.

"Well," she answered. "Between you and me, I may say that I shall doubtless get over it; but I'm a good bit hurt, because it had got to be an understood thing and I little like changes. But there it is: the man's getting restless and be pruning his wings for flight if I know him."

"'Tis beyond belief that any living man should want to fly from you," declared Jonas. "I wouldn't come between lovers for a bag of gold; but in a case like this, feeling for you as I always have done since you kept your promise to Sarah with such amazing perfection--feeling that, if you say the word, I'll talk to William White as no man yet have talked to him."

"Do nothing," she said. "Let nature take its course with William; and if it takes him away from me, so be it. I can very well endure to part from the man and, so like as not, when I'm satisfied that things are so, I shall tell him I understand, and give him his freedom."

"Such largeness of mind I never heard tell about in a woman," answered Jonas.

And six weeks later William and Milly were cut loose, without any fuss on her part but to the undying amazement of Thorpe-Michael. And then Jonas paid his first instalment at dead of night and got a receipt for the same.