Chapter VIII: The Loan

Dartmoor has been chosen by Nature for a theatre of worship and of work--a hypæthral temple, wherein she ministers before the throne of the sun, nurtures life, ripens her harvest, and buries her uncounted dead. Each year springtime breaks the bud joyfully and lifts the little lark into the blue; each year the summer builds and the autumn gleans; each year, when the sun's lamp is lowered, when the curtain of cloud is drawn, sleep and death pass by together along the winter silences. Thus the punctual rite and round are accomplished century after century, and, at each year's end, arise immemorial threnodies of many waters and fierce winds. Rivers roar a requiem; and their inevitable dirge is neither joyful nor mournful, but only glorious. The singers also are mortal; the wind and the wave are creatures, even as the perishing heath, crumbling stone, and falling foliage; they too rise and set, triumph and expire; they too are a part of the only miracle of the universe: the miracle of matter made manifest in pomp and wonder, in beauty and mystery, where Nature rolls her endless frieze along the entablature of Time.

Beneath December sunlight Dartmoor stretched in sleep--a sleep that lay hidden under death. Rack and ruin of many fair things were scattered upon the bosom of the wilderness, and all pursued their appointed way to dissolution. The conventional idea of man's mind was reversed, as usual, by this wide natural process; for death lay exposed league upon league under the operation of air and light, frost, and water; while life was buried and invisibly received back its proper payment for the year's work accomplished. But mortality so exhibited revealed nothing unseemly or sad, for much beauty belonged to it. The land rose stark to its tors, and the shattered summits of the range rolling south-west from Great Links, towered dark against the low slant of the winter sun. Some fleeting mist, like a vapour of silver, swept around the highest turrets and shone very dazzling by contrast with the gloomy northern faces of the hills; while far below, huddled, as it were, beneath the reach of the horizontal light, there hung a leaden and visible heaviness of air. On the shoulders of the Moor drowsed pallid sunshine, but little warmth was yielded thereby. Dartmoor soaked up this illumination like a sponge, and did not waken at its tepid touch. The wilderness slept at noon; and in its sleep it frowned. Over all spread the mighty, mottled patchwork of the hour--the immeasurable, ancient, outworn habit flung down by Nature when she disrobed for sleep. The summer green had vanished, the autumn fire was cold; where heath had wakened into amethyst, swart patches and tracts of darkness now scattered upon the livid pelt of dead grass, like the ebony pattern on the coat of a leopard. But while the ling was sad-coloured and sombre, the heather had taken a cheerful green. Under humid sunshine this huge design was apparent; then the west darkened and the pale gold of the sky became blurred by veils of rain. They swept up slowly and cast gloom over the light. The Moor colours all changed beneath their shadow and ran together. Only within stone's-throw from a man's eyes might detail and distinction still be marked. There persisted the shades and half shades of the dead, grey bloom-bells of the ling; there shone manifold minute, bright vegetation on scattered boulders; and there the wet brake-fern, that scattered these slopes with fallen filigree of deepest auburn, uttered its last expression of beauty.

Caught in the heavy rain, a man who walked upon the side of Great Links ran for the summit, and dived into a familiar cavern, where rocks fell together and made shelter. To his surprise the first wayfarer found a second already taking refuge against this sudden storm; and thus met Jarratt Weekes and Daniel Brendon on a day near Christmas.

This accident inspired the elder man. He had long contemplated certain propositions with regard to Daniel, and now opportunity was thrust upon him and he prepared to take advantage of it.

They tendered friendly welcomes, asked each for the other's good news, and together deplored the weather. There had been a wet, cold summer that denied the prophecy of spring, and many a moorman faced the approaching season with fear.

"Rain--rain--rain--curse the rain!" said Weekes. "Rain driving deep enough to drown the dead in their graves."

"There's not much to be said for this autumn's work, truly. We must hope for a good year coming. We shan't have such another for certain. Not that it matters so much to us, since we depend on beasts."

"'Twill mean buying a lot of hay, surely?"

"Not for us. We had a bit of luck. I saved a fortnight before my neighbours, and catched a spell of dry weather. They laughed to see me cutting so early. 'Let 'em laugh,' said Prout. 'They laugh best who laugh last.' And so it fell out."

"Most of the Lydford hay was ruined."

"And the corn on top. 'Twas beaten down, just too late for it to get up again. There'll be trouble this winter, I'm much afeared."

"There is trouble--everywhere already. And for my part I haven't got to look further than my own roof to find it."

"Very sorry to hear you say so, I'm sure. What was the end of that mine business? Somebody said they was going to try again; but that's to fling good money after bad, I should judge."

"Damn the mine: I've done with it anyhow. My wife had a hundred pound from her father when she came to me; and now 'tis gone in that swindle, along with another hundred of my own."

"They'm tricky things to put money in. I wonder you risked it."

"There wasn't no risk on paper. Their figures would have convinced any man. But they lied, and did it under the law, so that they be safe. I'm in a very tight place indeed, to be frank with you. I've got a few stiff bills to meet this quarter, and there's only two ways of doing it now. One is to sell out of a little investment or two that is paying well; and that's a cruel thing to do for a man with a wife and an expensive family. And t'other is to find a friend that'll prove a real friend, and raise a bit of money to tide over till spring."

"You ought to be able to do it."

"I can, no doubt; but I'm proud. 'Tisn't everybody I'd go to--even for a trifle like a hundred pound. I've got to show security, and nobody likes opening out their private affairs to other men. I'd thought about it, however, for it must be done. And it may astonish you to hear I'd nearly settled who I was going to."

Brendon nodded.

"You'll have no difficulty," he repeated.

"That's for you to say; for 'tis you I intended to ask."

"Me!"

"Why not? We all know you're a snug man nowadays. You ban't bringing Ruddyford into the front rank of Dartymoor farms for nothing. You're not doing all those big things down there, and taking in land, and doubling your sheep, and buying pedigree cattle and all the rest of it, for nothing. You're putting hundreds into Woodrow's pocket; and, as a sane man, I suppose you look to it that a bit sticks in your own."

"That's right enough, though it's the future rather than the present I think for."

"So we all do. It's the future that's troubling me. I've got a policy of life insurance to be paid next week, and it's got to be paid. The only question is how. There's that and fifty pounds for other things, besides ten I owe my mother. So the long and short is I want a hundred, and I shall be a good bit obliged to you if you'll lend it to me for six months."

Brendon did not answer immediately. Then he spoke.

"If ten or even fifteen--I've done a little this year, to tell you privately. I've helped my married sister to Plymouth, whose husband is very much under the weather, and I've gived Joe Tapson a trifle too. He's left us. I had to make a change. Then there's the monument to Mr. Friend. Altogether you've asked at a very awkward moment."

Jarratt sneered.

"It's always an awkward moment when a man asks a fellow-man to do him a kindness. And them as talk about the decent things they do--you'll find they don't do many as a rule. Ban't a habit, else they'd not think 'em worth naming."

Daniel's face hardened.

"Why d'you say that? Can't you see I had to give you a reason for refusing? And don't you know me well enough to know that I'd give the true reason or none? 'Twas out of consideration for your feelings I said so much. Ban't pleasant to beg, and ban't pleasant to refuse."

"I'm not begging. And you should not use the word. I'm wanting to raise a loan at proper interest--four per cent., if you like. That's not begging. That's offering anybody with any sense a good investment for money."

"I shouldn't want no interest at all. I'm in your debt to the extent of losing my temper and striking you years ago, and I've not forgot it; and I'd be glad to do you a service. I've always looked out for the chance."

"You needn't mention that. I remember very well. There's a white mark across the bridge of my nose, Brendon, that reminds me of what you did every time I look in the glass, and always will."

"You'll forget it before I do. But I can't lend you a hundred, nor yet fifty. I'll lend you--twenty the day after to-morrow. That's the very best I can offer."

"Useless. I want a hundred."

"Then I'm sorry, but I can't find it."

Weekes reflected. He was in a position considerably more straitened than he had confessed to Brendon. He had overreached himself from cupidity, and now stood in debt to several people, including his lawyer. In this last quarter Jarratt's relations were strained, and the man of business refused to wait longer. A natural darkness of disposition had increased as a result of these troubles. He had quarrelled with his mother, with his wife, and with his wife's father. He had lost his self-respect somewhat, and as that lessened he grew the riper for mischief. Now he became a little hot, and permitted himself to remember the secret past. At Brendon's refusal, events long gone by rose up in the other's mind, and he spoke.

"Better think twice. You never know who you are helping. This hundred, even if it pinched you a thought for the moment, might be a very good investment, though you don't get interest for it."

Brendon stared at him.

"Come out," he said. "The rain's done. Perhaps I shall understand a speech like that better in the open. And yet--how? To my ear that sounds a bit curious. Perhaps you'll explain it."

"No, I shan't--though I might, I dare say. 'Tis for you to decide. I want to be friends."

"Why not, I should like to know?"

"No reason at all--if you'll lend me the money."

"And I tell you I can't."

"You mean that you won't."

"Take it as you please, if you're such a fool."

"No fool me--not by long chalks. Perhaps the boot's on the other leg. Not that I threaten anything."

"'Threaten'! Good God A'mighty--who be you to threaten? Best be off--or I'll threaten--and do more than threaten!"

"Strange, such a trumpet of the Lord as you are, that you never can keep your temper five minutes together with me. And yet I'm civil enough. Your education's to blame, I suppose. Well, I only ask you if you'll lend me a hundred pounds, and I only say you won't regret it if you do; but may possibly regret it if you don't. That's all."

"If I could, I wouldn't--not now. You have said that I shall regret it if I don't. And I say 'Explain that, if you want to remain my friend.'"

"I certainly shan't explain that. Only remember that those who think they stand, had sometimes better be careful lest they fall. And, as to friendship, I'm quite indifferent. If you refuse this loan you're not my friend, of course. Friendship is as friendship does. This is my way. I'll wish you good-bye and a good investment for your savings."

"Better talk this out," said Brendon; but Jarratt Weekes was already on his way. He did not answer, and did not look back. Instead, he twirled his stick, whistled, and assumed a cheerful and careless air as he departed.

Brendon stood still a long time, in some concern at this unexpected incident. He puzzled himself to know what it might mean, retraced the course of his relations with Weekes during the last few years, and could see no light. It struck him that Sarah Jane might be able to find some explanation. Animosity clearly lurked in the man's temper; but on what foundation it rested Daniel could not imagine. The threat he dismissed without thought, as a futile utterance of disappointment.